“We need more magic—that’s what it all comes down to.” Warren fetches the coffee pot, tops everyone off. “You need to find the grimoire. That book contains the history of your magical lineage. Every experiment, every spell, every bit of craft your ancestors ever created. That’s where your true power lies, and therefore your best chance at powering up your magic and reinforcing the portal, rebuking the chaos demons, and forging new contracts between witches and demons that can protect everyone involved.”
He’s absolutely right, and his argument is sound. Still, it twists my gut to know it’sHell’sneeds we’re representing, not the needs of the human realm. Not the needs of the Bonnivarde witches. Not the needs ofthisBonnivarde witch.
“There’s also your sisters, love.” Oliver places a hand over hers, a gentle and platonic touch, a touch meant merely for encouragement, yet I recoil inside.Ishould be the one offering comfort. The one she looks to for a hand to hold, an supportive word, a kind smile.
But shehaslooked to me for those things. And I’ve shut her down every time.
What happened to you, Dr. Sutherland? Why don’t you like to be touched?
“You need to bring them into the fold,” Oliver continues. “I admire your courage, Lizzy. And from everything Merri’s told us, you’re doing great work. But the Bonnivarde witches are much stronger together. With your bond, your combined powers,andthe grimoire? With that kind of juice, yeah. Maybe there’s a shot.”
“The problem with the grimoire,” I say, feeling the need to remind everyone, “is that it’s been stolen. Likely by hunters, who’ve remained hidden in the wake of Evelyn’s death. We’ve got no leads, and?—”
“Actually, we might have one.” Miss Bonnivarde rubs her finger over her lip, thinking. Then, “I’m telling you. This Killroy guy is in on it somehow.” She briefs them on the situation with the lawyer. “I’m not saying he’s a hunter, or that he killed my mother, but he’s definitely working some kind of angle. He knows a lot more about her death than he’s letting on.”
“Why are you still so certain he’s involved?” I ask. “From everything you’ve said, your first and only encounter notwithstanding, he seems to be doing the job for which he was allegedly hired.”
“You mean aside from the fact that I had a vision of my mother about to get all stabby with the guy?”
“You don’t know if the vision was associated with his presence or merely an echo from an earlier time involving someone else entirely.”
She huffs. She shrugs. She looks everywhere but at me.
“Out with it, Miss Bonnivarde.”
“Fine. Okay. Don’t freak out, but?—”
I brace for freaking out.
“—there was another encounter.”
“What? When? Why haven’t you mentioned this?”
“Because it wasn’t directly with Killroy, and nothing really happened anyway. It’s just… The other day, my sister mentioned the gala again. Apparently Killroy’s been pushing hard to make sure the three of us are attending, which… why would he care? Just because he’s selling off some of my mother’s old stuff? Like, we don’t need to be there for that. Anyway, the way she was going on about it, I just got this… this weird feeling. So I called his office.”
“Youwhat?”
“I didn’t tell them who I was! I pretended like I was just a rando interested in gala tickets, and the assistant got all sputtery and suspicious, then informed me—in a super bitchy way—the gala was not open to the public and no further information was available. Then he hung up on me!”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Miss Bonnivarde, a curt assistant does not a witch-hunting conspiracy make.”
“I’m not calling it a conspiracy, but it was definitely suspicious. And now that we’re bringing up the grimoire again, and the hunters, and the whole thing… yeah.” She nods, as if to solidify the idea in her mind. “I think it’s worth investigating. The way he acted at my house that day… he was sniffing around, Dr. Sutherland. For more than just antiques. He didn’t like that I was onto him.”
“What do you propose, then? We just converge on his residence, tie him to a chair, and force a confession?”
Oliver laughs. “Come on, Merri. Evenyoucould devise a more creative torture session than that. A chair? Really? I say we get a red-hot fire poker, a bottle of vinegar, a feather, and?—”
“Therapy, Oliver,” I say. “I’m fairly certain our employee benefits plan covers it. Take advantage.”
“Ipropose,” says Miss Bonnivarde, giving Oliver a playful smack, “that you listen to my plan. It’s a real banger.”
I can tell by the way she’s grinning that another terrible idea is about to fling itself unceremoniously from her mouth. One in which I will doubtlessly find myself thoroughly ensnared.
Miss Bonnivarde’s will, I’ve learned through our time together, is a wrecking ball that can not be stopped.
“The gala is being held at his house in Braunhaven,” she says, which if I recall correctly is a small, exclusive hamlet about an hour’s drive north. “That much I gathered from my sisters.”
“And?” I press.
