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“Jack Malone. You know him?”
“Of course.” I’d arrested Jack a dozen times since I’d become sheriff. He had a little drinking problem.
“Advanced cirrhosis.”
I wasn’t surprised. “How did you get his case so quickly?”
His gaze slid to mine, then away.
“No one else wanted him,” I said. Jack was a mean drunk. I wasn’t surprised. “He doesn’t really like me.”
“I don’t think he likes anyone, but that won’t matter. He’s close to the end. I doubt he’ll even know we’re there.”
Jack’s sister—the only one who could stand him, and I’d never figured out why unless he’d been a much better boy than he was a man; it wouldn’t have been hard—let us in, nodded when Ian asked if we could sit with him, and disappeared.
I followed Ian into the room, and he sprinkled whatever he’d brought along in a brown paper sack in a circle around the bed as he chanted in Cherokee; then he placed a buzzard feather on Jack’s pillow and we sat in two folding chairs near the door.
“If the Raven Mocker goes near the bed, the spell should make it visible, and then—” He spread his hands.
We both stared at Jack. He appeared more peaceful now than I’d ever seen him before.
“Don’t the buzzard feathers have to be at the entrance of a home to work?”
“Just being near one should do it.”
I glanced at my watch. Four a.m. We didn’t have long until dawn. I had my doubts the Raven Mocker would show up here tonight, but one could always hope.
Since we couldn’t really talk or risk waking Jack—that was something neither one of us wanted—time passed slowly. The room was warm. I was tired. My head would dip toward my chest; then I’d jerk awake and stare bleary-eyed at Malone, who hadn’t moved but still breathed.
Ian took my hand. “You can sleep.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to be awakened by that unearthly shrieking. I’d have a heart attack myself.
Ian’s fingers clenched on mine so tightly my bones crunched. He stared upward as if he’d heard something; then his gaze lowered. He jibber-jabbered words in Cherokee I didn’t understand.
“Repeat that,” he ordered.
I did, mangling it so badly he said it again, his voice, his face, urgent. This time I got it right.
“What was that?” I asked.
“A charm of protection. Something’s coming.”
The air felt close, as if a storm approached. In the distance, I could have sworn I heard the call of a great black bird. Jack slept on undisturbed and I was glad. As much as I disliked him, I didn’t want him to die afraid.
Thunder rumbled from a clear sky. Both Ian and I came to our feet. He whispered in Cherokee, blinked once, and his eyes went eagle. His gaze swept the room.
“Nothing,” he muttered, and the shrieking began.
I slapped my hands over my ears. Ian flinched, the movement alien and birdlike. Through a slice in the curtain, lightning flashed. He crossed the room and threw back the drapes. Sparks flickered.
Slowly I lowered my hands and watched the sparks fall.
Chapter 28
The shrieking stopped; the sparks faded away, but we could see the house over which they’d tumbled. The roof still glittered as if the sky had rained diamonds, but not a flicker of flame rose toward the star-studded sky.
“Fitzhughs,” I said. “Ben and Nora. Young couple in their twenties. No children. Run the ice-cream shop on Center.” As far as I knew, neither one of them was sick, let alone dying.
