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“How is a beacon different to a locator?”
“It’s not as obvious and has more chance of escaping the notice of a wary witch or sorcerer.”
The first thing any sorcerer worth his salt would probably do was smash the charm and thereby destroy any magic attached to it, but Ashworth was as aware of that as I was. And I guessed a small hope was better than no hope.
I slipped the coin over my neck, tucked it under my shirt, and then slowly cut through the trees, my eyes on the stone wall and the smell of blood thickening in my nostrils.
I followed the wall around to the left, found the entrance, and stepped inside. In the middle of the main circle was a second one, though it was only about a foot in height and probably would have contained the main cooking and heating fire for the old hut. In the middle of that ring lay the source of the blood—a rabbit.
Its throat had been cut and its blood had been trailed over the top of the stones and across the neat row of papers that lay within the circle.
I didn’t have to get any closer to see what those papers were. In the bright beams of all four flashlights, it was pretty obvious.
They were photos of our sorcerer’s targets.
Photos of my family.
Chapter Five
I forced my feet closer. The rabbit’s blood gleamed in the multiple beams of light, an indication that it was definitely a recent kill. It also meant that Ashworth was right—the sorcerer had known where I was.
But had he known the ghost would lead me here? Was she somehow in servitude to the man? There was no sense of evil emanating from her, but maybe that was because she inherently wasn’t. Maybe she was being forced to do his bidding, though surely if that was the case, I’d be getting some sense of distress or fear through our brief interactions. That I wasn’t suggested she might be a “free” agent—but if she was, then how was she connected to these kills? Because I had a feeling she was, even if I didn’t know how.
I stopped a few feet away from the old firepit and studied the photos within it. There were six in all—the same number of people he’d killed the first time. The decapitated woman I’d found this morning was the first in line and her image bore a bloody cross. The next in line was a woman I didn’t recognize, though she did have the family features. The third was my brother, the fourth my mother, the fifth my father, and the final me. As Belle had suggested, I was his dessert—his final treat in his quest for revenge.
Under the photos, held in place by the dead rabbit’s front paws, was a message that looked to be written in blood; Revenge will taste as sweet as your bloodline.
Belle stopped beside me. “Well, I guess this confirms our thoughts on who it is and why he’s here.”
“Yes.” I flicked off my flashlight and shoved my hands in my pockets, more to conceal the sudden bout of trembling than because they were cold. “Why announce his plans like this, though? It gives us a chance to protect everyone.”
“Could be he loves a challenge.” Ashworth walked around the firepit, sweeping his light back and forth across the ground. “Remember we’re talking about a dark sorcerer here—they’re mad bastards at the best of times.”
“And this one probably more so if he somehow survived what you and his demons did to him the first time,” Eli said.
I glanced at him. “If he survived his injuries all those years ago, why would his demons have attacked him?”
“Because demons are generally only controlled by a sorcerer in peak health. They would have taken advantage of his weaker state.”
“They obviously didn’t kill him though,” I said. “These notes weren’t written by a ghost, nor was the first victim killed by one.”
“True,” Ashworth said. “But it’s possible he’s in an in-between state, especially given I’m finding no trace of prints on the ground and no indication that he’s used a magical or practical means of getting rid of them.”
“You’re talking about a wraith,” Belle said.
I glanced at her. “What’s the difference between a wraith and a spirit or ghost? Aren’t they basically variations of the same thing?”
She shook her head. “Superstition would have us believe that wraiths are nothing more than the tortured souls of dark witches or sorcerers, created when something goes wrong with their spelling—usually when they’re trying to extend their life in some way. In reality, they’re dark sorcerers or witches who have actually died, but who have ‘unfinished’ business that keeps them on this earth in an undead form.”
“Meaning they’re basically a zombie?” I said.
“No,” Eli said. “They’re far worse.”
“Zombies are pretty damn bad.” I knew this from having dealt with one.
“Zombies aren’t magic capable and have no capacity for thought or reason. They are simply compliant flesh and bones. Wraiths, on the other hand, have all the skills and reason they had when alive.”
“Well, fuck,” I muttered, “we really get to play with all the good ghouls, don’t we?”
