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The spell he’d sensed had obviously been performed on Rachel. The question was, why? Especially if she was already dead?
He pulled out his phone, took several pictures, then dialed Camille.
“Just about to call you, shapeshifter,” she said.
He moved around Rachel’s body, studying a slight scuff in the ash. It almost looked like a footprint. “Hasn’t Russell reported in yet?”
“No, and it’s worrying the hell out of me.”
“I’ll head right over and check it out, then. But I’ve found Rachel Grant.”
Camille sighed. “Dead, I take it from your tone.”
“Yeah, but only just. Some woman was still performing a spell on her as I came in.”
“What sort of spell?” Camille said, voice sharp. “Describe what you see.”
“Rachel’s on her back, the back of her head apparently caved in. Blood over the floor. Remains of a pentagram drawn in black soot. A black candle near Rachel’s feet, still burning.”
Camille sniffed. “That could be anything.”
“The magic had the feel of the dark path. The light was blue when I came in, but then turned a yellowish green, touched by red.”
“That end bit sounds like blood magic. A spell of summoning, perhaps?”
A prickle of unease stirred. He glanced around sharply. Though he’d heard no sound, he had the unsettling feeling that he was no longer alone in the house. He rose and moved back to the hall doorway. The shadows seemed to loom in on him, yet he couldn’t smell, nor see, anyone hiding within them.
Even so, he lowered his voice. “Would blood magic be powerful enough to rip psychic abilities from a body?”
“Yeah, but the victim would have to be alive to do it.”
“She might have been. I might have come in on the tail end of the spell.”
“Possible.” Camille hesitated. “Which address did you find her at?”
“The place in Carlton.”
“I’ll come over and have a look. It might be my best chance to figure out the exact spell being used.”
“The front door has a spell on it. You’ll have to counter it before I can open it.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t head off to find Russ until I arrive.”
He glanced at his watch. It was nearing six. Thank God it was raining. At least the clouds would temper the sunlight and give Russell more of a chance if he was stuck somewhere. “Hurry,” he said and hung up.
He shoved his phone in his pocket and stepped into the hall. Through the silence came a whisper of sound—a footstep, in one of the rooms upstairs.
Maybe the woman hadn’t left. Maybe she’d just relocated to a different room. But there was no smell of magic in the air, nothing beyond paint and a faint whiff of decay.
Frowning, he made his way up the stairs. Dawn’s light was beginning to filter in through the windows, filling the hall with gray shadows. He stopped on the landing, listening intently. Nothing moved, yet something was definitely up here. There was an odd sort of feel to the air—a tension, a sense of expectation. The smell of decay was stronger here, too. But it wasn’t the scent of age and mold so often found in old houses. It was the smell of death, of meat long gone rotten.
He edged forward. The odor seemed to be coming from the room two doors down—directly opposite the room from which he’d entered the house. At the doorway he stopped, listening again. Air stirred softly, the sound accompanied by the softest rattle. The stink had become so bad he could barely breathe. He wasn’t sure if it was related to whoever was standing in that room or not, and at this point, it didn’t really matter. Whoever—or whatever—was there was standing against the wall, close to the door, just like him. It left him with only one option.
He stripped off his long coat, placing it carefully on the floor, and dove through the doorway.
TEARS TRACKED DOWN KIRBY’S CHEEKS, AND A SOB caught in her throat. She knew Helen was dead, had seen her torn and bloodied remains with her own eyes—and yet here she was, smiling softly, gray eyes gentle and yet so full of mischief. Kirby wanted to reach out, to touch the untouchable—to hold her dead friend close and never let her go again. But she clenched her hands instead, frightened that even the slightest of movements would send this mist wraith scattering.
“You must stop her, Kirby.” Helen’s voice was as soft and as warm in death as it had been in life.
