In the Air Tonight (17 page)

He took a step in her direction and saw that one of the EMTs was doing just that—checking her pupils, asking her questions, in between barks from her still-furious best friend.

“Hello?” the chief called.

If Bobby weren’t careful he’d wind up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Did they have a hospital? He resisted the urge to rub his head again. One of the symptoms of a concussion, as he recalled, was slow thinking, along with inability to recall both what had happened right before the injury as well as after.

“She didn’t answer the door,” he blurted.

There. No problem remembering what had happened before the world went boom. All good.

“Probably a little hard for her to move,” Christiansen said. “Considering.”

The wind stirred, flinging ash everywhere and causing the tree ornaments to jingle.

“What’s up with her trees?” Bobby asked.

Both Christiansen and Johnson frowned. “You sure you’re all right?”

Bobby narrowed his gaze; it helped with the headache. “I’m fine.”

The chief jerked his head at the doc, and the latter moved in close enough to peer at Bobby’s pupils. “You know where you are?”

“Podunk.”

Christiansen lifted his eyebrows. “Not the time for ha-ha, Detective.”

The man was right. “New Bergin, Wisconsin. My name is Bobby Doucet. I am twenty-eight years old. I came to this house to talk to Mrs. Noita. Okay?”

The doctor stared at him for a few seconds, then stepped back and nodded to the chief.

“The trees?” Bobby repeated.

“Mrs. Noita was flaky,” Johnson said. “A bit hippie.”

“She looked pretty skinny to me.”

“Not big hips.” Christiansen gave the peace sign. “Hippie.”

“A lot of herbs,” Johnson continued. “Voodoo.”

Bobby glanced at the trees. “That’s not voodoo.” Voodoo, he knew.

“Whatever.” The chief’s lip curled. “She was a vegan.”

“Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

“Around here.” Johnson’s gaze went to a distant but still visible farm to the east. Cows peppered the landscape like black and white polka dots. “It’s damn close.”

“She practiced herbal medicine,” Christiansen put in, then lifted his hand. “Not a crime, I know. In truth, some of that works pretty good. No clue why.”

Bobby still wasn’t hearing why she’d decorated her trees. Maybe they didn’t know. Mostly, it didn’t matter.

“I broke the window on her back door,” Bobby continued. He seemed to be having a difficult time staying on point and finishing a thought—definitely mild to moderate concussion. “I called her name. She lifted her hand, and I saw she’d been branded.”

Johnson cursed. “You’re sure?”

Bobby nodded, glanced at Christiansen, who nodded too. At least he hadn’t imagined it.

“Did she say anything?” the chief asked.

“I asked her who had done it. Her answer was pretty much gibberish. Understandable, considering.”

“You wanna relate that gibberish, son? One never can tell what might be useful down the road.”

“She said,
‘Venatores Mali.’
” He spread his hands. “I don’t—”

“That isn’t gibberish,” Christiansen interrupted. “That’s Latin.”

“You speak Latin?” Johnson asked.

“No one
speaks
Latin. Dead language.”

Bobby’d never understood what that meant. How could a language be dead? But bringing that up would only be another pointless point.

“I’m a doctor. Latin is a daily pain in my behind.”

“What does it mean?” Bobby asked.

“
Venatores Mali
translates to ‘hunters of evil.’”

“Evil what?”

“Unfortunately,” Christiansen murmured, “we aren’t going to be able to ask her.”

Chapter 13

I managed to escape before anyone beyond Greg Gustafsson, emergency services, tried to question me. Greg offered me a ride to the clinic in town; I refused.

I had a few scrapes. I’d live. I just wanted to get out of there.

The scene was chaos. It wasn’t every day something blew up in New Bergin. That it had blown up after yet another murder …

Like I said, chaos.

I wouldn’t be able to escape questioning indefinitely, but for now I took the opportunity and ran with it.

Jenn was more hysterical than I’d ever seen her—hysteria gave her hives—and that was before a piece of Mrs. Noita fell out of a tree.

My father arrived on the scene right after Mrs. Noita’s arm. His gaze went to the house, before scanning the crowd. When it reached me, his lips tightened and he strode over.

I wanted to apologize; I always did. That incessant need to please and appease. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a huff, then ran his finger down my cheek. Not a caress, more of an indictment. His finger came away black. I had been a little close to the action.

“Not a scratch on me,” I said brightly. I did have a scratch, probably more than one, but I lifted my hand anyway. “I swear.”

He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t say so. Instead he lifted his chin to indicate Jenn. “What’s wrong with her?”

I’d always thought Jenn was making up the connection between hives and hysteria but apparently not. One look in her direction, and I steered her toward her car. “She needs calamine, Benadryl, Epsom salts—maybe all three.” I could probably do with some myself. “I’ll call you later.”

I tried to put Jenn in the passenger seat. That woke her up pretty fast. “Are you nuts?”

“She’s baaack,” I said as she tore free and got behind the wheel.

We reached my apartment a few minutes later. “Oh,” she said. “Forgot. You’re staying at your father’s.”

“No.” I laid my hand on hers. Her skin was like ice, or maybe mine was on fire. “I had an e-mail that my apartment was cleared for me to go back.”

“Is it safe?”

I knew there was another killer, but she didn’t, and considering her condition, I wasn’t going to tell her. She’d have hives on top of hives.

I’d be safer here than in the forest at my father’s. He wouldn’t be back for a while anyway. Almost everyone in town was at the scene, and there was a lot to see. But mostly I didn’t want Jenn staying with me. Because there
was
another killer, and I did not plan to allow Jenn anywhere near her. Him.

“It,” I said. In my book, murderers were definitely
it.

“What?”

“It’s safe.” I’d always been good at making my often random statements less random, and lately I was getting even better at it.

Bright red spots bloomed on Jenn’s cheeks; several bumps littered her neck and chest. I thought her lip might be starting to swell. “Are you gonna be okay?”

She flicked a glance into the rearview mirror. “I gotta go.”

“Jenn,” I started. Though I didn’t want her insisting on staying with me—too dangerous—I also didn’t want her alone if there was any chance her being alone was equally dangerous. What if her throat swelled up like a puffer fish and she couldn’t breathe?

“I need to down some pills before I look like Angelina Jolie. So either get out, or come along. Your choice, but make it fast.”

I hesitated, and she started to pull away. “Wait.” She’d had hives before; she had pills. My cursed presence was going to be more of a threat than bumps and splotches. There wasn’t a pill that could cure death by
Venatores Mali
.

“Call me,” I said. “I can always—” She took off with the door still open. I managed to shut it before she flattened a mailbox.

She raced down First Street far above the legal speed limit. What else was new? At least everyone was still at Mrs. Noita’s, so there was no one for her to run into or over, and no police presence to issue yet another ticket. She was getting close to losing her license.

Again.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Even though I’d only been gone a few days, the place smelled musty—closed in and old. I cracked a few windows.

At first I thought the scent of smoke was coming through those windows, and I nearly closed them. Then I got a glimpse of my hands, my clothes. That smell was coming from me.

I locked the doors—both outside and bathroom—then turned on the shower full blast, lost the clothes—I wasn’t even going to bother trying to wash them, they were toast—and stepped in. Dirty water swirled down the drain for quite a while. Eventually I pulled back the curtain, reached for a towel and managed—barely—not to scream when my hand went right through Henry.

I had the presence of mind to grab that towel as I whirled, pulling it tightly around me. “Get out!”

“We must talk.”

“I wanted to talk this morning and no you.”

“I had another … never mind.”

“Get out,” I repeated. I should have bought rosemary before I came home. Did I have some in a jar? Would it work? I hoped so.

“Raye, I’ve been with you since you were born.”

“Point?” I climbed out of the tub and strode into my room, pulling clothes out of the drawers, uncaring what they were just that they were.

“I’ve seen you naked.”

I fumbled, and half the clothes hit the floor. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“It means nothing to me.”

“It does to me. Get out.”

He sighed, turned his back. I figured it was the best I could hope for and got dressed. More slowly than I would have if I wasn’t required to hold on to the towel with one hand and yank on jeans and a T-shirt with the other, but I managed.

“Done.”

He faced me.

“What do you want?”

“All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe.”

“How are you going to do that when you can’t even come when I call you?”

“I am not a dog.”

“Speaking of … where’s Pru?”

“She’s not a dog either.”

“Nor a ghost.”

“I never said that she was.”

“You said she was your wife.”

“Aye. Always has been.”

“You married a wolf?”

“I know the world has come a long way since my passing, but one cannot yet marry a wolf.” He frowned. “Can they?”

I ignored that, walking out of my bedroom and into the living room. I obsessive-compulsively checked the lock on the door—one maniac had been one too many—then moved into the kitchen where I palmed the jar of rosemary, tucking it into my pocket, just in case.

“You’ve been dead over four hundred years.”

Henry stood near the window, keeping watch. “And yet it seems like only three hundred.”

“Ha,” I deadpanned. “You and Pru, who I assume was human at the time, were burned as witches.”

“Aye,” he agreed, still staring at the window. “I have always had an affinity for ghosts, my wife had one for animals. She could not only talk to them, but understand them too.”

“And they burned you for it?”

He turned. “Among other things.”

I opened my mouth to ask,
What other things,
and Henry waved a hand. “My past is not important except in how it shapes your present and your future.”

“What does any of it have to do with me? What do you have to do with me?”

Something flickered in his eyes—there and then gone—like a wisp of smoke. In fact, I smelled smoke. And I’d washed and rinsed twice. I sniffed my wrist. Wasn’t me. Which meant that lingering scent of smoke was him. I guess I’d always known that.

“I am here to protect you.”

And he had. I should be more grateful. “I appreciate that. I do.”

He lowered his head then faced the window again.

“Mrs. Noita said her attacker was a she. Then she told me he would burn us all.”

Henry’s shoulders tensed.

“Can you explain that?”

“Not yet.” He tore his gaze from whatever was out there—hopefully not her. Or even him. Or it. “You need to discover what you can about the
Venatores Mali
.”

“How?”

He pointed to my laptop. I resisted the urge to smack myself in the head and mutter,
Duh!

I jiggled my mouse, and the computer awoke. A few strokes of the keys and information poured onto the screen. I became immersed.

The backstory of the cult would have made a good HBO series. They’d have to sex it up—when didn’t they?—but the violence was there. Hell, it was everywhere.

The Tudors
had been a hit. I was surprised they hadn’t continued with the Stuarts. King James was a real hoot. Not only had he rewritten the Bible and gotten away with it, but he’d composed
Daemonologie,
a treatise detailing his beliefs on witchcraft.

After his ascension to the English throne in 1603, he expanded previous legislation on witchcraft, making the raising of, and communication with, spirits punishable by execution.

As most of the English had seen enough burning, hanging, and beheading during the reign of Bloody Queen Mary, they had no desire to see any more. Add to that the prevalent English belief that the Scots were a backward, superstitious race and James found himself unable to enforce those laws without appearing ignorant.

Not a fool by any means, His Majesty had commissioned a secret society, the
Venatores Mali,
to do his bidding. He’d put Roland McHugh at its helm.

According to his Wikipedia entry Roland had burned more witches than anyone in history. Of course Wikipedia was often wrong, but even if I cut the number in half, he was still a peach.

“Roland burned you and Pru?”

“Yes. He hated witches.”

“And here I thought he burned them for fun.”

“That too,” Henry said dryly. “At least he is dead.”

“So are you. Yet here you are.”

“And I’m not exactly sure why.” He flicked a hand at the computer. “Does it say anything about his ring?”

I clicked about a bit. While there were no drawings or photos of it, there was a bit of text about the brandings.

“McHugh used his ring to brand suspected witches before their burning. The mark would cleanse their souls, banish their demons, and purify them for their imminent entry to heaven.” I lifted my gaze from the laptop. “I guess he was just trying to help.”

“My soul was clean, and I’ve never met a demon. Except for McHugh.”

“Got that right.” I lost myself in the process of surfing, reading, and surfing some more. Once in a while, I read parts of what I found to Henry. I thought he listened, but it was hard to tell as he kept staring out the window. This must have gone on a few hours, because eventually when I looked up, Henry was gone.