In the Air Tonight (13 page)

“My Latin is … nonexistent.”

“Hunters of evil,” he translated.

“Evil what?”

“Witches.”

I laughed. “Right.”

“You are talking to a ghost yet you laugh at the concept of witches?”

I stopped laughing. “Isn’t the time for the persecution of religions past?” Except for Muslims, Jews … maybe he had a point.

“Though the burning of witches was couched in religion, it had nothing to do with God.”

Had to agree there.

“I wasn’t referring to the burners’ religion, but the burnees’.”

“I do not understand.”

“Wicca is a religion.”

“What is Wicca?”

“The religion of witchcraft.”

The wolf snorted again.

His gaze sharpened. “Are you of this religion?”

“Me? No.” I stifled a nervous giggle at the idea of telling my father I was Wiccan. His head might explode.

The discussion of fire reminded me of something. “The black-eyed ghost from the alley said, ‘He will burn us all.’”

The wolf snarled.

“Hush, Pru.”

“Your wolf is named Pru?”

“Prudence.”

I should probably find a wolf named Prudence amusing, but right now so little was.

“And your name?” It would be too weird, now that I knew her name was Prudence, to continue thinking of him as the Puritan. “Prudence and the Puritan”—sounded a little kinky.

Now
that
was amusing.

“Henry,” he said absently. “Who is
he
?” At my confused expression he continued, “He who will burn us all?”

“The maniac?” It was his turn to appear confused. “Big knife. Tried to kill me.”

“Ah. I don’t think he’ll be killing, or burning, any of us again.”

“Who’s
us
?”

“Witches.”

I glanced at the wolf, frowned. He had said
us,
but how could a wolf be a witch? For that matter, how could he? Not only was he a
he
—and wasn’t that a warlock?—but
they
were ghosts.

“You lost me,” I admitted.

“I am a witch; Pru is a witch.” He spread his hands. “Have I found you?”

“Not really. How can you burn?”

Prudence yipped. The sound, or perhaps my words, made the ghost appear even ghostlier.

“How do you think we became what we are?”

“You were burned as witches?”

His shudder was answer enough.

“When?”

“Sixteen twelve.”

“That explains the hat.”

Henry lifted his hand and touched the brim.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “You’re talking over four hundred years. Why me? Why now?”

“The hunters are back.” His lips tightened, and he stroked the wolf again, though I think this time more for his own comfort than hers. “For you.”

“Me?” I didn’t realize I’d spoken more loudly until he repeated, “Hush,” as he had to Pru. “I’m not a witch.”

“Then why did the hunter try to kill you?”

“He was crazy?”

Henry shook his head.

“I don’t know anything about witches or witchcraft. I haven’t studied. I don’t own a cat. No eye of newt.”

“Being a witch has nothing to do with any of that. You are born a witch; you die a witch.” He swept his hand down his black-clad form. “Even after you die, a witch you remain.”

“I can’t be.”

“You see me.”

I didn’t bother to answer what wasn’t a question. I was talking to him, obviously I saw him. Didn’t mean he was actually there.

“You see others.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Want has nothing to do with it.”

“Got that right.”

“You have innate supernatural abilities.”

“Plural?” I asked, and he nodded. “Hell.”

“Hell has nothing to do with it either. Abilities are from God.”

Considering how he’d died and when …

“I bet the witch hunters
loved
you.”

“They did not. Hence the burning.”

Sarcasm appeared lost on him. Had they had it back then?

“What else do you think I can do?” I asked.

“Move objects with your mind.”

“No way!”

“Thus far only when you are upset, frightened, or under some stress, but with practice…”

I remembered the phone flying off the table the first time I’d seen the maniac. I’d thought Henry had done it. I still kind of did.

“Seeing ghosts and flinging things doesn’t seem very witchy to me.”

“What does?”

“Broomsticks. Familiars.” I eyed the wolf. “Is she yours?”

“My familiar?” Pru growled as he laughed. “She’s my wife.”

“How—” I began, and Henry’s gaze flicked past me.

I spun. Bobby Doucet stood on the porch.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. Prudence and the Puritan were gone. Even if they’d been there, it wasn’t as if he could see them.

“Myself.” Only when I started for the house did I realize how cold I was. How long had I been out here?

“Okay.” His gaze remained fixed on the trees. “Because for a minute there I thought you were talking to the wolf.”

I stumbled, righting myself before I ate dirt. “I … uh…” I looked at the trees again, then back. “What?”

“The huge black wolf. Is it someone’s pet?”

“No.” He’d seen the wolf. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“If it isn’t a pet, then what were you doing anywhere near it?”

“Wait.” I held up my hand. “You saw a wolf?”

“Wasn’t hard. It was right there. Within biting distance of your…” He waved in my direction. “Everything.”

“What else did you see?”

“What else was there?”

Nothing that he should have seen. Including that wolf. That he had seen Pru and not Henry meant …

I wasn’t sure. She was real? Bobby was special? I was nuts? I needed Henry back.

“Raye?”

I tried to remember what he’d asked me.

What else was there?

“Nothing,” I said. I couldn’t exactly explain that I’d been talking to the ghost and not the wolf. But what was I going to say about the wolf?

I considered denying its existence. Telling him he’d been dreaming or imagining things, but I couldn’t. My lying had improved, but I’d never enjoyed it. And I liked him, which was going to be more trouble than he was probably worth. Although, after that kiss earlier, he might be worth just about anything.

Still, I couldn’t tell him he was crazy when he wasn’t. I’d been there, and it sucked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I blurted.

He tilted his head. “So you decided to take a walk on the wild side?”

“Yes. I mean … What?” I was so thrown by his seeing Pru, I couldn’t seem to focus, and I needed to. The more holes I dug, the harder it would be to avoid falling into one.

“You often stroll through the wilderness when you can’t sleep?”

“This isn’t the wilderness. This is my yard.”

He cast what I could only call a nervous glance at the trees. I guess, after he’d seen a huge, black wolf melt into them, I could understand that. If I’d thought Pru had been anything other than ethereal, I might have been more nervous myself.

“No wolves in New Orleans?” I asked.

“Depends on who you talk to.” He let out a short, sharp breath at my frown. “Wolves have been absent from Louisiana for about a century, but that doesn’t mean folks don’t see them. It’s New Orleans. During Mardi Gras people see dragons.”

“Like Oktoberfest.”

“I doubt it.”

“Lots of alcohol, tons of people, more weird shit than the cops can handle.”

“Okay, maybe it is like Oktoberfest,” he admitted. “You don’t seem concerned that there was a wolf on your property.”

“I don’t have any small animals to worry about.” At his blank expression I continued. “A wolf might run off with a cat or a yippy dog, maybe a lamb or a chicken or a new calf. But not a person.”

“You’ve seen wolves before?”

I’d seen Pru before. As I wasn’t sure how to phrase that, I went with a general statement that sounded like an answer. “There are wolves in Wisconsin. A lot of them.”

“They don’t usually come near people, unless they’re rabid.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about wolves for someone from a place that doesn’t have any.”

“I surf the Web a lot.” Which smelled like a statement that wasn’t an answer too. “Did that wolf seem wrong to you?”

More wrong than I could say, but I wasn’t going to. He was right. Lone wolves that hung around populated areas were usually rabid. If he called the Department of Natural Resources, they would come and shoot her, and that I couldn’t allow, even if I wasn’t quite certain that shooting Pru by usual methods would even draw blood.

“There was nothing wrong with her that I could see.”

“Her?”

“I can tell the difference between him and her.”

“You were close enough.”

“I was in the yard. She happened by. We startled each other. I spoke calmly and quietly.” I’d been a kindergarten teacher for years and I’d learned straight off that with wild beasts … sometimes it helps. “You came. She left. End of story.”

He stared at me a while. “I doubt that’s the end of the story.”

Unfortunately, so did I.

Chapter 10

Raye was lying about the wolf. But why?

“Why did you come out here?” she asked.

Bobby wasn’t sure. After talking to Sullivan, he should have gone to bed. But he’d been restless. Unable to sit, let alone lie down.

“I had to move and my room isn’t exactly huge. Not to mention that your father’s is right below mine and pacing probably wasn’t any better of an idea than—” He broke off. Probably best not to mention other ideas. He was the one who’d walked away from them.

This house, this town, those trees made him twitchy. He’d thought because everything here was so different from home. But, really, a lot of things were the same. For instance, that constant feeling that he wasn’t alone, even when he was, remained.

“Listen, Raye…” he began, moving closer, meaning to share at least a little of his past. Perhaps it was too soon, but she deserved to know how very fucked up he was before he lost his mind and kissed her again.

She held up a hand—to stop him from talking, or keep him from touching—he didn’t know, then scooted by him and disappeared inside.

Bobby stayed on the porch for a few moments longer, staring into the darkness, fingers on his gun. He doubted the wolf would come back. Until Raye had said she’d seen it too, he’d doubted the thing had been there in the first place. When he realized it had, that she’d been talking to it and not herself, he was both concerned and intrigued. But there was little about Raye Larsen that didn’t intrigue him.

She was different from anyone he’d ever known—both sweet and sexy, funny and serious, down to earth and a little mysterious. He was captivated as he hadn’t been since …

He rubbed a hand over his face.

Since he’d arrested Audrey. His first mistake in a litany of them.

The instant he’d felt that ridiculous pull he should have uncuffed Audrey Larue and let her go. Instead, he’d followed his cock and wound up sorry for it. What man didn’t?

Back then he’d still been on patrol. Audrey had been selling jewelry in Jackson Square. He’d arrested her for carrying concealed. In Louisiana, one could carry openly without a permit. However, as Audrey had pointed out—

“Tourists get hinky if they see a gun.”

When he’d asked why, then, she had one, her reply made sense too. “Too many hinky tourists.”

He’d had to take her in; there’d been a complaint. But the charge wasn’t serious. In a city like New Orleans where most crimes were, a concealed weapon on a street vendor just wasn’t. He advised her to get that permit. They got talking about how and the next thing he knew, he was driving her home.

Audrey had been stunning. Tall and built, with long red hair and ridiculously green eyes. Not a freckle on her face, but elsewhere … there’d been a lot of them. He’d found out just how many the very first night. He moved in a week later. Moved out a year after that.

The problem with Audrey was she lied. She was selling a lot more than jewelry in her stall. And what she was selling, she also smoked, shot, snorted, and swallowed.

Because of her, he’d developed a sixth sense for untruths. Sometimes he thought he could almost smell them, like a distant, raging fire. That sense had helped him become a detective. But it hadn’t helped him become a better father.

Because of him, his daughter had died.

Bobby went inside, fell on his bed, and watched the spindly shadows of tree branches play across the ceiling. He dozed on and off; however, thoughts of Audrey and their little girl had never made a good bedtime story. He finally gave up trying to sleep as dawn seeped into the sky. He checked his e-mail and found one from Dr. Christiansen asking both him and the chief to meet in his office first thing.

As Bobby had learned, first thing in New Bergin meant
Oh God thirty,
so he showered, shaved, and left before either of the Larsens stirred.

His breath streamed out as white as the frost sprinkling the grass. An October dawn in northern Wisconsin was freaking cold. Luckily his rental car had a fabulous invention called heated seats, something he’d never had a need for at home and therefore had not known existed. With a toasty backside, his shivering stopped before he reached the main road back to town.

He bought coffee at the Perk-o-Latte, three doors from the funeral home, and walked in the front door as the chief came in from the station. A nod was all they exchanged as they descended to the doctor’s lair.

“Whaddya got, Doc?” the chief asked.

The maniac lay on the table, all of the holes Bobby had put in him, as well as the ones Christiansen had, sewn or plugged. Bobby did not want to know with what.

The dead man was big enough that he could have doubled for Frankenstein’s monster. The jagged scars and the Cro Magnon brow only added to the image. Even lying there dead, he gave Bobby the creepies.

“Cause of death, bullet to the heart.” Christiansen glanced at Bobby. “Nice shot.”

“I do my best.” He’d learned long ago that if he needed to shoot, he’d better make it count or not bother at all. “Tell me something good.”