Page 108 of Crimson Moon Falling

“We’ll have to be careful. You don’t want to mess with a witch’s magic, especially one from the Old World.”

Gunnar nodded. “He gave me a key.”

“Okay. Let’s go then.”

The next morning dawned cold and foggy. Zaria’s cabin appeared through the trees, a wood and stone cottage with a covered porch and smoke-stained chimney. The trim and front door were painted a cheery robin-egg blue, but yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front door, stirring in the breeze.

We stood on the porch, and Gunnar stared at the front door. “I think you should knock, announce yourself, and unlock the door. The witch seemed to like you when we met her that first day.”

Ash shifted beside me. “I feel witch magic, but I don’t sense ill intent. Let me do it, just in case.”

I shook my head. “No, I think Gunner is right.” Cautiously, I walked up the front steps, announced myself, then unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The cottage smelled of fresh herbs, beeswax, and witch hazel.

Ash and Gunnar walked in right behind me. A sturdy leather couch and an antique wool rug sat in the main living area. Oak bookshelves lined the fireplace, and the bright, compact kitchen had white cabinets and black soapstone countertops. Fresh thyme and rosemary grew in small white pots on the kitchen windowsill, and a Portuguese cookbook lay open on the counter.

“Who’s been here?” I wondered as I pulled rubber gloves out of my pack.

Gunnar glanced around. “No clue. Obviously, her wards and the crime scene tape aren’t keeping everyone out. You check her bedrooms and bathrooms. I’ll check the living area and kitchen.”

I started in Zaria’s bedroom. A faded heirloom quilt covered her bed, and linen curtains hung over her window, letting in soft, muted light.

Her dresser held clothes and a few pieces of jewelry, but not much else. I looked through her closet next, feeling a vague sense of guilt about going through her personal things, even though she was dead. Her clothes were mostly practical and high-quality. She had two dresses, one a beautiful white silk sheath with delicate lace embellishments. Had Zaria been married in it? I finished and moved to her small office.

The desk was tucked beneath the window in the smaller room, holding a brass reading lamp and a thick, scented candle. A stack of handwritten notes sat in one corner, covered in Zaria’s beautiful handwriting. They included ingredient lists, a few journals, and notes in a language I didn’t recognize. A small jewelry box sat beside a stack of envelopes.

Inside, nestled on faded velvet next to a gold bracelet, was a simple gold band. My hand crept up, and my fingers curled around the ring I wore on a chain around my neck.

I unhooked it, pulled it off the chain that still held Parker’s tracker, and held the two rings side by side. They were identical, except for the size. The same width, the same dull sheen, the same tiny inscription inside the band I’d never fully deciphered.

My implant processed the visual data and compared the two rings. High probability of a match confirmed.

My mouth went dry. “Ash,” I called.

He came up the stairs. “What did you find?”

Turning to him, I held up the rings. “This one is mine, and I found this in her jewelry box.” He looked down at them.

“Where did you get yours?”

“My father, not long after my parents divorced.” The words felt thick in my throat. I pulled out a small plastic evidence bag and slid Zaria’s ring inside, then put my ring back on my chain and fastened it back around my neck.

Ash didn’t speak, but the air was heavy. I kept going through Zaria’s desk. An old address book was tucked in the back of the top drawer, and I flipped it open. The pages held a few names, addresses, and phone numbers in Zaria’s distinctive handwriting.

A few pages in, I stopped short.

J.B., P.O. Box 772, Estes Park, CO. My father’s initials and his old mailing address, from before he disappeared. The ink had faded to the color of old tea.

And right below it, in the same handwriting, was my old college address in blue ink, and my P.O. Box in Springdale. I quickly flipped through her address book and stopped short when I came to the R’s.

There it was. D. M. R. on Maple Street in Boulder, Colorado. Daniela Maria Reyes, my old landlord and friend, who was also a witch. Parker was the one who’d arranged my housing, and he’d known what Daniela was. But I’d never asked how he knew my old landlord in the first place.

My chest tightened. The implant sent a cold pulse through my system, trying to regulate the surge of emotions that threatened to swamp me. My hand shook as I traced the address.

When I finished checking upstairs, I walked downstairs. “Gunnar,” I called, my voice steadier than I felt.

He was in the living room. “You find anything?”

I held up the address book. “She has my father, my old landlord in college–who is also a witch–and me listed in her address book.” His green-tinted face went still, his eyes narrowing.