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Chapter Nineteen
Rowan
I’m flustered in a bad way when I get back to the house. Xander infuriates me. Wanting me to stay out of things, when my aunt’s killer is on the loose, and I’m possibly next? What kind of a pushover does he think I am?
And I care what he thinks of me. Even though I don’t want to. I can’t help myself, and that drives me crazy, too. I want to slap him in the face half the time. The other half I want to get naked and feel those rough hands over every inch of my body. I’ve never felt this kind of animal need for someone, and it scares the shit out of me.
Of course, there’s also the part about him being a murder suspect, according to the sheriff. Finding him trying to steal the files does not aid his case for innocence. But yet, for some reason, I still don’t think he’s the bad guy in this situation.
“Took you long enough,” Ven calls from the sitting room, where she’s having a glass of wine. “I was about to call the police!”
I wince. Oh, the irony. “Sorry.” I’m torn between whether to tell her or not. I don’t like keeping things from a friend, but I also don’t need someone else trying to stop me. Xander Cole is quite enough in that regard.
“There’s more wine,” she says. “If you want to join me.”
I certainly do deserve a glass after what I just went through. I run upstairs and put my purse away, taking the grimoire out of it and leaving it on my bed. Then I head down to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of rosé, and join Ven. We catch up on what happened in our respective days and sip our wine.
“We should try defensive spells again,” she says after we finish our glasses. “Now that you’ve tapped into your magic.”
I nod. “I think I’m ready this time.”
We practice for the next hour, and I use the spell the grimoire had shown me while Ven sends blasts of magic toward me. Then we switch and I try my hand at creating an attack. That’s quite a bit harder and requires a lot more energy. We wrap up with Ven showing me a couple different variations on a demon vanquishing spell.
And a week ago I was snapping pics of rich families in L.A.
After that, I’m utterly exhausted, so I head upstairs. When I reach my room I see the grimoire, and despite how tired I am, I’m too curious not to look through the investigative file. I sprawl out on the bed, trying to keep the curious cats away, and start flipping through the pages. My chest is tight looking at the photos.
I’m on the fifth page of the report when something catches my eye.
It’s a photo of Sybil’s torso. I’d known it was going to be difficult, but this…it takes every bit of my willpower not to look away.
There’s some kind of mark cut into her skin. It seems like a rune, an ancient one. Like something you might see on the History Channel when they dig up artifacts in the desert. My eyes run over it again and again. What does it mean?
With a sigh, I realize I’m going to have to fess up to Ven. She can help me identify it. But in the morning. I’m far too exhausted to get another lecture tonight.
When I wake up in the morning, however, Ven is already at the yoga studio. I’d forgotten she led a sunrise practice on certain days. After getting coffee and cutting up some strawberries for breakfast, I sit out on the veranda with the grimoire and look over everything again with fresh eyes.
I don’t feel comfortable asking Maria about the strange mark because then I’d have to admit to an attorney that I broke into the police station. It sort of seems that might not thrill her. But there is someone else who may know. It kills me to even think about it.
Xander.
Of course, according to the sheriff, he’s a suspect. Despite my feelings on the matter, it’s not a smart idea to ask for his help. After thirty minutes of internal debate, however, I realize I don’t have many options. Ven is working a double at the coffee shop after yoga, and I don’t have the luxury of wasting a day while there’s a witch hunter on the loose.
How exactly I’ll find Xander, though, I’m not sure. Unsurprisingly, a quick Google search reveals nothing. He doesn’t really strike me as an Instagrammer. After several more minutes of indecision, I call Maria. She answers on the second ring.
“Rowan. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay. Hoping you can help me with something.”
“Yes, of course.”
I pause a moment. “You don’t happen to know Xander Cole, do you?”
There’s a very long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, she says, “You don’t want to get mixed up with that man, Rowan. He is not a friend to the coven.”
Maria has always been warm and welcoming, but the cold edge in her voice now makes me shiver.
“Okay, duly noted,” I say. “Thanks.”
I hang up the phone, my heart hammering in my chest. What exactly is Xander’s deal with the witches? I knew he didn’t like us, but I hadn’t known the feeling was quite mutual.
Us. I’ll be an official member of the coven tomorrow night. I’ll also be saying goodbye to the woman who raised me. I slump down in my chair and place my face in my hands.
After indulging in a pity party for several minutes, I pull myself together. I may have run into a dead end with deciphering the strange symbol, but it doesn’t mean I can’t continue to look for clues. If I visit the crime scenes, perhaps my magic can reveal something the police couldn’t find. It makes sense. After all, I’ve been able to sense different energies: the witches, the horned beast, Xander in his dragon form. Maybe traces of something magical had been left behind that can shed some light on all this.
I run upstairs and change into a pair of jeans, boots, and a blue tank top. I check the grimoire again, looking at the copied pages of the police files to determine the location of the first murder. Sybil’s murder. My hands tremble as they move over the pages. I shouldn’t have to investigate my own aunt’s death. The world just really isn’t right sometimes.
But Stonecroft women have fire in their souls. That’s what Sybil always used to tell me when I was a little girl. I can do this. Because I have to. To find justice, and to put an end to this sicko’s plan, whatever that may be exactly.
I take in a steadying breath, get in the car, and head to the first crime scene.
