Page 69 of That Ain’t Witchcraft

“Do you really think it’s going to work?”

There were so many possible variables that trying too hard to think about them made my head spin. If we could get Mary out of whatever void the crossroads had cast her into. If we could convince Leonard he wanted to watch our backs, or at least didn’t want to keep trying to kill us while we were dealing with something unspeakable and awful. If we could get James to the crossroads without anyone getting more than lightly stabbed. If, if, if. There were too many “ifs” and not enough definite objectives.

Alex would have told me this was a terrible plan. Uncle Mike would have insisted I needed so much more backup that it was better to just wait until he could get here from Chicago. Even Verity would have looked at this idea and written it off as flimsy and half-cocked. But it was what we had, and time was running out; if I didn’t want to add “mystically compelled shut-in” to the list of ways in which I took after my grandfather, we needed to move.

“I have no idea,” I said.

There was a pause. “I thought you’d lie,” said Sam.

“Yeah, well, if this doesn’t work, I don’t want you telling everyone how I lied to you right before the crossroads decided to make my head explode.” I squeezed his hand, eyes still closed. “I love you a lot, you know. I’m not going to be sorry about that, no matter what happens next. I got the chance to meet you, and that would never have happened without everything else. I’m grateful.”

“I’m not,” said Sam. “I’m pissed. I would never have missed you if I hadn’t met you. I could have been too ignorant to know that I wasn’t really happy up until the day I died.”

“Would that have been enough?”

“Maybe,” he said, and pulled his hand out of mine so he could put his arms around me, and he held me. Not for long; not for nearly long enough. But he held me, and I held him, and for a few more minutes, we were okay. We were together. We were going to win.

For a few more minutes, we were both liars, and that was all I wanted in the world.

Eighteen

“A parent’s greatest fear is the idea of burying their children. Everything else is a distant second, and worth forgetting in the face of that unbearable loss.”

–Evelyn Baker

Burial Grounds, about to do something very, very foolish

WE’D ALL AGREED, AFTER I managed to lure Sam out of the bedroom and back to the table, that speaking to Leonard was best done in a public place, since he was less likely to whip out a crossbow and start shooting people—aka, me—for ideological reasons when there were witnesses. I enjoyed not being shot. Any time I felt like I was in danger of forgetting how much I liked not being shot, all I had to do was move my arm and I remembered.

I did not like the feeling of impending panic that had been hovering over me since the moment I stepped outside the wards. My chest was tight, my jaw was tighter, and I had to keep fighting not to hyperventilate. I was going to need therapy when all this was over. Panic attacks whenever I went outside were not on my list of “useful souvenirs.”

But that would have to wait. I was tucked into the deepest, darkest corner of Burial Grounds with a coffee mug in my hand and my eyes on the window. I hadn’t been subtle about my approach: Cylia had dropped me two blocks from the shop and I’d taken my time walking to the door, waving to passing cars along the way, pretending everything was fine. Bethany couldn’t snatch me off the street without being seen, which sort of went against the whole idea of being secretive, and if Leonard had me under any kind of surveillance, there was no way he could have missed me making the trip. All I had to do now was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I was starting to think my time would have been better spent staying safe at the house and helping James figure out what sort of summoning ritual would work for a crossroads ghost who’d been punted into some sort of spectral jail by her employers when the door swung open and Leonard Cunningham stepped cautiously inside. He was tense, looking from side to side like he expected to be attacked at any moment.

A hot jet of satisfaction scorched through me, forcing me to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning in a decidedly unfriendly manner. He was scared? Good. He had reason to be scared, starting with the fact that he was only still alive because I needed him that way. His death would summon way too much of the Covenant down on our heads, and that was one complication too many for an already complicated situation.

His scan failed to find any likely attackers and he approached the counter, ordering a mug of something and waiting for its delivery before collecting it and making his way down the length of the café to my table. He stopped just shy of the available chair.

“I’m assuming this was an invitation,” he said.

I pushed the chair a little farther out with my toe. “You’re not wrong.”

He settled warily, cup held between us like a highly inadequate shield. I gave it a disdainful look. Leonard shrugged.

“I have little means with which to defend myself in public without violating the traditions to which I am sworn,” he said. “Allow me the small comfort of knowing I could douse you in scalding liquid if you gave me sufficient cause.”

“After the McDonalds lawsuit, coffee shops don’t keep their water all that hot,” I said.

Leonard looked at me blankly.

I sighed. “What, do you not have greedy corporations and medical bills in England? Look it up. Yes, I’m here to talk, and no, you shouldn’t need to throw hot coffee on me. I’m here under the flag of truce.” I picked up a napkin and waved it back and forth. “Behold the flag. How whitely it waves.”

“You are a very strange woman,” he said, pursing his lips. “How you passed initial screening, I may never know.”