Page 36 of The Devil Knows Her Name

I was up to my knees in bullshit here, and Rachel’s willingness to entertain me was fraying. “Squirrels don’t go in the basement.”

“Not squirrels, necessarily, but rats, moles, voles, they all dig and chew. Besides, I’d hate for you to have to call me back for another issue when I could nip it in the bud now.”

She didn’t want me back in her house either, so she gave a heavy sigh and motioned me to follow her to the back of the house. “Be quick, please,” she repeated.

The basement door was a narrow thing that had been painted so many times it didn’t quite fit in the frame. It shrieked as Rachel opened it, and a cold draft of air wafted up. I hesitated ever so briefly; I didn’t want to take the carrier down into the basement’s cool, damp air, but I didn’t trust Rachel enough to leave it up here. Then the hex bag gave a pulse like it was trying to eat its way out of my satchel, and I careened down the stairs.

“I’ll be back up in just a minute,” I called over my shoulder, my voice shaking.

The basement was barely tall enough for me to stand, as dim and cobwebbed as my own cellar but sealed in concrete. There was nothing down here—no foosball table, no boxes, no gardening supplies, not even laundry machines. For a moment I spun around frantically, clutching the carrier to my chest as if I could block the draft, but there was nowhere to bury the bag, and nothing I could hide it beneath.

Finally, my eyes lit on the water heater. It was bolted to the floor, but one of the corner brackets had rusted and bent, the thick screw gaping inches above the concrete. I set the carrier down and swung the satchel off my back; the heater was hot to the touch but not scalding, and I was able to set my shoulder against it and get another inch of space.

The door at the top of the stair screamed open again, and there was a heavy footfall on the top step. I reached into the satchel and flung the hex bag beneath the heater, my fingertips briefly sizzling black at the tips, and straightened up, pretending to inspect the water lines.

Zeke descended the stairs, stooping at the shoulders to avoid scraping his head on the ceiling. “Miss Wynne,” he said. “What a surprise.”

I left off my pretend inspection and flashed what I hoped was a confident smile. “Yes, well, I thought I’d take care of your squirrel problem.”

He glanced at the carrier; he was standing a few feet away, and he could so easily kick it, step on it. “I believe I took care of the squirrels myself.”

“Well, I’ve saved you the trouble of having to root out the unpleasant smell that would’ve cropped up a week or so from now.”

“Aha. And what are you doing down here?”

He stepped closer, his stony eyes glinting in the faint light of the basement’s leaded glass window. There were no tears in those eyes, no tremble of rage, and there was a concrete wall at my back instead of the pond, but for a moment I was back on the banks in the fading light, my blouse being ripped from my hands.

“Just wanted to make sure there was no further rodent damage,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Your wife let me down.”

“Yes, well, my wife doesn’t run this house.”

We stared at each other coldly. My hands had unconsciously clenched into fists, and the bite wound was throbbing beneath my makeshift bandage.

“I was just leaving anyway,” I said. “I’ll grab my carrier and get out of your way.”

He wheeled around with surprising swiftness and picked up the carrier, and my heart rose in my throat. I lurched toward him, hand outstretched, but he ignored me, lifting it to eye level.

“I don’t see any squirrels in here—only garbage.”

He let it fall.

I leaped forward. The carrier rattled into my arms; I nearly lost the back end and had to catch it again on the top of my thigh. When I finally had it securely in my grasp, my held breath exuded in a thin, tremulous stream.

“Sorry about that,” Zeke said. “Slipped out of my grasp.”

I raised my head and met his gaze squarely. “That’s all right. I’m sure, being a pastor, you don’t get the opportunity to work with your hands too much. Dexterity is one of those things that starts to go quick when you’re not practicing it.”

His brow gathered like a thundercloud. “Is that so?”

“That’s what they tell me. At any rate, I don’t see any other rodent damage down here, so I’ll be on my way.”

There was a long, uncomfortable moment when he didn’t move, and instinctively I reached for the magic and found nothing. I found myself wishing for something real at hand—a knife, or a pipe, or even a stone. When he finally moved, it was so little that I had to turn sideways to get past him to the stairs.

“Wait, Miss Wynne—you forgot something.”

I swallowed hard as he bent down and retrieved the empty satchel; from where I was standing, the loose bolt on the water heater looked so obvious it might as well have been rendered in neon. But if he noticed, he didn’t show it, instead picking up the bag by the bottom corner so that anything inside would’ve fallen out. When nothing did, he looked vaguely disappointed.

“Your—empty bag?”