Page 73 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

The last name on the list, Nicholas Medina, did not have a birth certificate within the last forty-five years, but he had possessed a deed to 78 Neal Street five years ago. A property dispute was a weak motive for murder, let alone one that had been quiet for five years. Still, she printed that too.

Saga looked at her list, having knocked it down to only three persons of interest. Though, she doubted that any of them were casting violent hexes, based on what she’d found.

Was that it? That couldn’t be it. She couldn’t go back to Avery with nothing. Saga sat back, frustrated. She scratched behind Riddle’s ears, partly to soothe him and partly for her own benefit. “There must be someone Blake didn’t know about or was afraid to…” Curious, Saga leaned forward and typed in “Blake Hingley.”

There was more than one Blake Hingley born within the last forty years, but Avery had described him well enough for Saga to pinpoint the correct one by his date of birth.

He had a birth certificate on file, which was no surprise. His eighteenth birthday had fallen on May 3. Then there was an article in the London Times from the same week and year as his birth.

Saga might have ignored it. An article involving a Blake Hingley the same year the Blake Hingley was born was unlikely to be connected. But a chill ran through her as she read the title.

UCL Professor’s Death Ruled an Accident

“Hey.” Saga gently nudged Riddle. “Look at this.”

The cat glared at her through partially open eyes, so Saga read aloud:

The death of UCL English Professor John Hingley has been ruled accidental, according to a medical examiner’s report released yesterday.

The body of the thirty-two-year-old man was found early Saturday afternoon in his Islington home, collapsed in front of a broken bathroom mirror, by his wife, Elizabeth. Initially suspecting foul play, officials cleared Elizabeth as she was returning home from the hospital following the difficult birth of their newborn son just three days prior. Reportedly Hingley was meant to pick up his wife, but after she was unable to reach him, she phoned her mother in Tottenham.

John Hingley sustained severe cranial damage from multiple impacts into the mirror glass. Official cause of death was ruled blunt force trauma brought on by a drug-induced psychosis. Scotland Yard has refused to comment on the substance used.

John Hingley is survived by his wife, Elizabeth; his newborn son, Blake; his mother, Geraldine; and his father, Victor.

Riddle was up and staring at the screen with her. They read it again together.

There was no mention of eye-gouging, but the appearance of self-bludgeoning due to a mind-altering substance felt too similar to be mere coincidence. Or at least it was a lead worth looking into. UCL was Luna’s school, after all.

Saga navigated back to Luna’s articles and reviewed the Psychic News piece again. It was dated a year ago. It was still possible Luna had written the article herself, but was it about Blake and his father? Might Blake have written it? It was so glowing.

“Oh Goddess… He really worshipped her…” Saga gnawed at her lip, her nails clicking against the computer mouse in thought. This was it. Or if not it, it had to be something at least. She folded her arms and addressed the familiar on her lap. “If you put all your faith in someone because you thought they had reconnected you to your dead father, only to find out they were a fraud and any information they gave you was because they knew who he was before he died… Would that make you angry?”

Riddle growled.

“Murder motive angry?”

The cat pressed his paw to the print button on the keyboard.

34Sigil magic primarily relies upon intention. Unlike runes, there are no specific sigils attached to specific meanings. As the symbol is being drawn, it is imbued with meaning by the caster.

Because of their versatility, it is common to find sigils hidden among the graffiti of a city.

Chapter 18 Avery

Avery could count on one hand the number of times in her two hundred waking years that she had felt something akin to what mortals referred to as a hangover. After Iona’s vengeance thrall had worn off, after waking from the Nightmare Curse, and now, after bending the rules of her geas.

All of these hangovers had been magically induced, and none of them had been preceded by the sort of raucous partying that often went hand in hand with one made by alcohol. Though, admittedly, the one with Iona had come close. Somewhere in the depths of Avery’s half-drunk memories, sloshing between rage and taking the Erlking’s life, were fervent whispers between kisses and bite marks.

“He is a god, what am I to a god?” Avery had protested.

Iona’s voice in her ear, her hands beneath her shirt, her nails down her back. “The force that will tip the scales back into balance. A life for a life.” Her caresses laced with delirium.

Where did an iele get a blade capable of slaying one of the Aos Sí? Had Avery truly been so blinded by her quest for blood that she hadn’t asked? Or had she never wanted to know? Those were questions for people who would live to see the world without Winter’s Mad Ruler. Avery had never assumed she’d be among them.

What sort of devil’s bargain had Iona made in order to elevate Avery to a Godslayer? And to what end? Had Avery been an instrument for someone else’s revenge?

These were the thoughts that cycled in and out of focus as she trudged the fifteen-minute walk from Highgate Cemetery to Archway station. How had she even gotten there? When had she arrived?