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“I know, and I’ve tried ringing the morgue—”
“It’s close to ten. There’s not going to be anyone there at this hour—this isn’t Melbourne, you know.”
“I’m not a damn fool,” he snapped. “There’s been another skinning, has there not? I thought there was a chance someone was there to receive the body.”
“You’re right—sorry.”
He grunted. “Anyway, working on the presumption that he’s not a zombie, we have something else going on. I need to get over to Chester’s, and I need you to drive me there.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I’ve a shattered right arm and can’t drive.”
“No, I meant why me specifically? Why not just grab a cab?”
“Because instinct is saying I may need a second set of eyes and ears familiar with magic, which means you’re it, I’m afraid,” he said. “And yes, before you say it, I’m well aware you’re underpowered, but you have a link with the wild magic of this place, and that may yet come in handy.”
My pulse rate leapt several notches. “You don’t think whatever is happening has something to do with the wild magic, do you?”
“Anything is possible at this stage,” he growled. “Especially when we’re dealing with a powerful wellspring that’s been left unprotected for far too long. How soon can you get here?”
“Ten minutes?”
“I’ll be waiting out the front.”
He hung up. I downed the rest of my coffee in several gulps that nigh burned my throat and thrust to my feet. Belle came out of the reading room with the backpack. “It’s still stocked and ready to go.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed my purse, dug out the keys to Aiden’s truck, and tossed them to her. “Do you want to move the truck so I can get the wagon out?”
She nodded. Five minutes later, I was pulling to a halt outside the short-term rental Ashworth was using while he waited for the council to make a decision on a full-time reservation witch. It was a basic two up, two down building, with both ground floor apartments having big picture windows and their own front doors. The top floor apartments were reached by stairs at the rear of the premises, and had the additional benefit of wide balconies that enjoyed good views over Castle Rock—a fact I knew because Belle and I had inspected one of them before we’d decided to buy the café and live there.
“Chester’s staying in a boutique hotel over in Rayburn Springs,” he said, as he climbed in. “I think it’s called The Randley—it’s just up from the Motor Inn there.”
“Why there? Castle Rock has more than one upmarket boutique hotel if that’s his style.”
“He’s a heretic hunter and they tend to take lots of precautions, lassie. He’s not even staying there under his own name.”
I took off while he battled to get his seat belt on. I would have offered to help but he’d undoubtedly tell me he wasn’t an invalid and to concentrate on the goddamn road.
It took us just on thirty minutes to get down to Rayburn Springs. As the Motor Inn came into sight, I slowed down and said, “Which side is it on, left or right?”
“It’s just up ahead, on the left. You have to park in the side street.”
I caught sight of a sign three quarters hidden by a graceful old willow tree and turned into the street just beyond it. Ashworth was clambering out of the car before I’d turned the engine off. I cursed, grabbed the backpack, and hurried after him.
The Randley was a sprawling—and very beautiful—old Victorian building surrounded on two sides by a cream picket fence over which a vivid red-leafed hedge hung. The wrought-iron gate situated on the corner of the two streets creaked as Ashworth thrust it open, and a light came on, highlighting the path up to the front door.
As Ashworth strode toward it, energy stirred through the night. His, not Chester’s or anyone else’s. I had no idea what type of spell he was creating, but it gathered in a tight ball around the fingers of his left hand. I studied the pulsing patterns, seeing some familiarities in the structure of the threads. It was a glamor of some kind of—but not one designed to conceal. It was, I suspected, instead meant to deceive.
“Press the doorbell,” he ordered.
I did so. Inside, the strains of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” rang out and I couldn’t help but smile. As musical doorbells went, it was certainly better than some of the ones I’d heard over the years. For several seconds, nothing happened, and then the sound of footsteps could be heard. The door eventually opened, revealing a man who was short and thin, with a long gray ponytail and round, hippy-style reading glasses perched at the end of his large nose. “I’m sorry, but we’re—”
The rest of his words died as Ashworth’s spell settled around his shoulders. Ashworth raised his hand, palm up, and then said in a rather stern voice, “Is Raymond Chester staying here?”
“Yes, he is.” The thin man’s gaze darted between the two of us. “What is this about, officers? Has there been some kind of trouble?”
It was interesting that he saw us as police, not rangers, if only because it suggested he hadn’t been living in the reservation long. A deceiving spell generally worked with whatever vision the recipient was most likely to accept.
