Waking the Witch
Page 66

“You haven’t been feeling well?”
“A bit nauseated.” I glanced over. “And no, it isn’t morning sickness. Somehow I doubt I’m a suitable candidate for the next immaculate conception.”
“I was feeling a little off myself first thing, and it’s definitely not morning sickness for me. Could be the flu. Any other symptoms?”
I told him about the headaches and the spellcasting.
“You’re having trouble casting spells?”
“Just a few misfires. It’s nothing.”
“You should have told me. If I’m watching your back, I need to know that your spells are on the fritz.”
“Let’s just get to the motel and talk to Jesse about the photos. Avoid the potholes if you can.”
He pulled back onto the road.
“Maybe whoever gave Jesse those photos did the doctoring himself,” I said. “He wanted Jesse to investigate Claire’s death, so he Photoshopped the others. I keep going back to that witch theory. If Ginny and Brandi’s deaths weren’t connected to Claire’s, then that makes even more sense. Claire could be a witch. She’s killed. Two weeks later, I’m being stalked and Tiffany—who we know is a witch—is killed.”
Adam didn’t say anything. When I looked over, he was staring straight ahead.
“What?” I said.
“I just keep ...” An angry shake of his head. “About the witch thing. It’s tweaking a memory, and it’s driving me crazy because I can’t figure it out. I’m going to check a few more things in the database, then I may have to break down and call Dad.”
 
THE FIRST ORDER of business at the motel was to talk to Jesse and get specifics on where he got the crime-scene photos. When we pulled in, though, the parking spot in front of his room was still empty.
“Shit,” I said. “I gave him the file.” I walked to Jesse’s door. “Time for a little B&E. Not like he hasn’t done the same to me ...” I murmured an unlock spell under my breath, then grabbed the handle and—
The knob didn’t turn. I tried again. Then tried harder.
Adam shouldered me aside and used the lock-pick gun. The door opened.
We went in. As Adam retrieved the folder, I closed and relocked the door, then started to cast.
“Savannah,” Adam sighed.
“It’s bugging me, okay?”
I cast the spell. The door stayed locked. I focused harder and cast a fourth time and felt a whisper of relief as I heard that familiar click. The door opened.
I held out my hand and cast a light ball. When nothing happened, a weird sensation like panic settled into the pit of my stomach. As I started to cast again, my fingers trembled. I stopped and made a fist.
“Savannah ...” Adam said. “You aren’t feeling well. We’ll deal with it.”
“Just give me a sec, okay?”
I concentrated and cast. The light ball shimmered, then went out. Another cast. It returned and stayed. Weak, but steady. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Adam reached out, as if he was going to put his arms around me, but stopped short.
“No need to keep your distance,” I muttered. “Apparently, I’m not that dangerous today.”
“Apparently you’re sick today.”
“I need my spells.”
“They help, but you don’t need them. Not as much as you think you do.”
“Let’s get back and check out that file.”
“Changing the subject and completely ignoring the point I’m making.”
I shook my head and grabbed the file.
 
I LEAFED THROUGH the file. The crime-scene photos—and other pages—weren’t there. I read the rest, looking for anything that disagreed with Paula’s story. Nothing did. Good. As I read, Adam searched his database.
“Fuck,” he said. I jumped, papers sliding to the floor. By the time I’d gathered them back up, he was on his feet, still holding his laptop, reading it as he paced, mouth set, forehead furrowed.
“Found something, I take it.”
“Witch-hunters,” he said.
“Ah, an old and noble profession, a mere step down from that most esteemed position: Grand Inquisitor. Hate to break it to you, but the witch-hunts ended a few hundred years ago.”
“Not for some people.” He turned his laptop around to show me. “These ones date back even further than the Inquisition. Very rare. Very elusive. Young women who are trained from birth.”
“To hunt witches?” I shook my head. “If such a thing existed, I think I’d know about it.”
“Did I mention the rare and elusive part? They usually kill in a way that looks like suicide or natural death, which is what was tweaking my memory. I was searching on the Bible verse, though, and they don’t usually leave such an obvious sign.”
I bent to read the screen, then tapped the database title. “It’s filed under myths and legends. Meaning it’s bullshit. Mysterious trained assassins secretly killing witches?” I shook my head. “Just the kind of bogeyman a Coven—or sorcerers—would create to turn us into the cowering mice they want us to be.”
“Okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. First, the Inquisition. Then the witch-hunts. Then centuries of quaking in the dark, too damn scared to cast a light ball, terrorized by our own kind. Nobody does this to werewolves or vampires or half-demons. Why witches?”
“Um, because no one believes in werewolves or vampires or half-demons.” Adam put the laptop aside. “You’re preaching to the guy who’s heard the same sermon from Paige for the last twenty years. Witches get a bum deal. Always have. Personally, I’d blame sorcerers, but considering you’re a sorcerer, too ...”
“Blame male sorcerers. Or maybe just males in general. Inquisitors, judges, hangmen ... they were all male.”
“Are your spells still on the fritz? Or should I slink from the room while I still can?”
“I’m kidding. You know that. There are just as many bitches out there as bastards. Equal opportunity asshole-ism.”
I plunked onto the bed, picked up his laptop, and read the entry.
According to the myth, witch-hunters had begun as an actual supernatural race. The Benandanti. I’d heard of them. A small race of Italian demon-hunters, not witch-hunters, although they’d been known to go after any supernaturals who used their power for evil. They were extinct now. No one seemed to know why. According to this legend, though, they’d been wiped out and replaced by witch-hunters.