Page 91 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Spite & Spellwork

“The methods of death,” argued Saga.

“Are similar,” said Avery. “But not identical.”

“He slammed his head against a mirror repeatedly until he died,” protested Saga.

Avery slid a photo of the body toward her. “But what’s missing?”

The crime scene photos were not the most revealing. Even the smallest of head wounds bled aggressively, and John likely surpassed small head wound after the first impact. It was disquieting but largely made it difficult to make out the details. The crimson had made rivers down his face, falling off his brow to his cheeks… Her stomach lurched. “He still has his eyes.” Did that mean they weren’t connected?

“The crimes may still be connected. I find it particularly damning the man used a mirror as his chosen weapon. It implies he was looking at it when he was targeted, which gives further credence to the theory that our murder method may require the victim to make eye contact. Perhaps in seeing through a reflection, it weakened the magic.” Avery raked her hands through her hair, the tendrils of moonlight curling around her fingers as she did. “But these are theories, and Gideon will want solid evidence if it means unsealing a file.”

“What’s the risk of unsealing the file?” Saga asked.

“That depends who it is protecting. A file is sealed to keep the identities of all involved parties secret, as well as any details of the case away from public view.” Avery’s gaze dragged from the photographs on the floor to the photographs of the crime scenes on the wall. “Was it sealed to prevent what is happening now?”

“If so, why didn’t it work?”

Avery gathered the photos and moved to the wall, methodically tacking them up with the others. There was an exactness and force with each pin. Her eyes were focused beyond the wall, processing something Saga couldn’t see, and so Saga knew better than to interrupt her. Sure enough, Avery inhaled sharply and turned toward Saga. “Because it only seals it for people on the record.”

Saga chewed on this information. “So, if there had been a witness who wanted to remain anonymous…?”

“Precisely. Someone who contributed to the investigation but was not part of the trial. If they don’t give a name, they aren’t on record, their memories remain unchanged, and, in theory, they would be able to share what they know.”

Saga’s eyes drifted to the wall and the photos of bodies, then Luna’s ransacked condo, the holes in Theresa’s yard, and finally the few knocked-over items in John’s home. The murderer wanted these victims to suffer. “Or maybe someone who thought our first murder was in need of reprisal.”

“She wouldn’t be involved in something like this,” Avery dismissed. “Not directly, anyway.”

Saga let a silence fall between them for a moment, wondering if Avery was aware of how quickly she had come to Iona’s defense—or that Saga hadn’t actually mentioned her at all. Was that out of fear of the iele or fear of something happening to her? Still, the elephant was in the room now; she might as well address it. “How does it work?” Saga asked. “What Iona does.”

“You don’t want her help.”

“I’m not asking for it,” Saga insisted. “I want to understand why other people do.”

Avery stepped away from the board and produced a pipe and small box from her desk drawer. With the reverence of ritual, she filled it, lit the bowl, and took a slow and thoughtful puff.

With the familiar scent of pipe tobacco, memories of Saga’s grandfather in his chair swam through her mind, and for a moment, she was a child again, listening to him read to her in his great chair while she laid on the carpet. She caught strong notes of orange and vanilla amid the campfire-like scent. It occurred to her that while she had never seen Avery smoke before, this must have been the source of the fragrance she’d come to associate with her, like an old-fashioned made with a heavily peated scotch.

Avery tapped her lower lip with the bit of the pipe, took a long and thoughtful pull, and expelled in a series of smoke rings before she was finally ready to speak. “Iele derive their power by fulfilling a purpose, that purpose being setting someone’s scales aright. It is not what they literally feed on, but you might say it nourishes their magic. By entering into a deal with an iele, you are given a clear path to resetting those scales. A path, mind you, and certainly not the only path. The result may not be how you imagined or even what you desired.” She gave a sardonic smile and made a cheers motion with her pipe. “The thing to remember with iele is that while the nature of balance may be rooted in the concept of fairness and justice, righting an imbalance is not—one might even go so far to say that often ‘righting’ the imbalance sits in a place of cruelty and violence.”

“An eye for an eye isn’t justice,” Saga protested.

“Iele are not creatures of justice,” said Avery. “While they prey on those in need of it, while the service they provide may even be mistaken for it, they cannot give you justice. Only revenge.”

Saga looked at her friend in the light of the afternoon, the sun casting rays through the silver-white hair that took on an opalescent quality when the light passed through it. She was contemplating something far off, her gaze soft and unfocused on the twisting smoke. “Do you regret the deal you made?”

Avery took another pull of orange and vanilla. “It is complicated.” The phrase had been used so often as a way to dodge further inquiry, Saga was certain that Avery would just leave it at that, but she continued. “The Erlking had to perish. I could not have accomplished what I did without…” Her mouth twisted. She was bumping against her geas again. “But on the days where the cost of that bargain begins to weigh on me, I do wonder… Might there have been another way? Would my original plan have worked better?” There was a deep pause—not long, but something that felt like Avery was reaching into a very well-guarded part of herself. “Perhaps it would have ended the same, but I might still have the violin.”

“What violin?” She whispered the question, hoping that if she were gentle about her inquiry, Avery would not flee the vulnerable nature of it.

“It was a gift from the Irregulars. Devilishly expensive. They’d pooled their funds and managed all manner of side favors for the craftsman to purchase it.”

“I didn’t know you played.”

“You live long enough, you pick up a few things.” Avery shrugged. “We lived next door to a luthier, my mother and me. For a small time she would do his mending, and he would on occasion give me lessons on the slower days. Back then, mind, it was a different sort of instrument. After my mother died, however, it was one of the few pleasures I was allowed in the palace. So I kept up the skill, evolving it with the instrument over the years. Generally the king and queen found the sound pleasing and thus did not discourage it. I liked the control it required, and the concentration. It gave me a very freeing feeling. When I left the palace, I left that instrument behind, but when I met the Irregulars, they replaced it.” Her mouth pinched to one side before smoothing out into a weak smile. “You’ll understand, I imagine, why it became my most prized possession.”

Saga did understand that. What she was still puzzling on was how Avery’s deal with Iona ended in a loss of the instrument. “What happened to it?”

“The courage to end the Erlking was granted and paid for by the fulfillment of my vengeance,” said Avery. “But the means to do it also demanded a cost.”