Occam said, still loud enough to carry clearly, “We’ll provide interdepartmental cooperation when and if we get access to Catriona Doyle.”
“And have you paras prep her? Ain’t happening.”
“We’ll get the PsyLED special agent in charge of the eastern U.S., Ayatas FireWind, involved,” I said quietly. “He’ll provide pushback.”
“Hope it’s not too late,” the feeb said softly. Gerry Stapp turned on a heel and strode back to his car, the epitome of outrage.
Etain said, “Him I like. He’s a right sneaky bastard.” She slanted her eyes to Occam. “So are you, cowboy. You happen to be available tonight?”
I flinched at what sounded as if she was asking him for a date, but she went on.
“I could use help to kidnap ma niece back and break ma sister frompríosúnacht.” She sent him a saucy grin. “We could have a pint and a bit of fun after, to sweeten the deal.”
It sounded like a churchwoman bargain, help in return for sex. And I did not like it one little bit.
Occam grinned at her, a lazy twinkle in his eyes. “The rescue part sounds like fun, but I’m taken.” His gaze slid to me. “And she’s dangerous.”
“Oh,” Etain said, looking back and forth between us. “I see how the wind blows. If I break Catriona out, I’ll have to do it on ma own, then.” She sighed in frustration and went back to removing gear from Astrid Grainger’s trunk.
I had a feeling Etain wasn’t joking about the jailbreak, but Occam didn’t look worried. He showed teeth in a grin and called FireWind on his cell, telling the big boss that we had political troubles—not an uncommon thing these days—and rerouting him directly to the Cookeville PD and the recalcitrant FBI special agent in charge.
But unless FireWind had favors he could call in, things were pretty much what Gerry Stapp had said: We had the site. Smythe had Catriona.
I shook my head and left my cat-man talking, putting politics and pretty, flirtatious, desperate Irish girls out of my mind. My job today was database work, talking to the local law, and questioning the band members about where they were, and when. Politics were the problem of the more experienced team members.
Events at the scene crawled on. Deputies and the remaining victims were read by the witches. They all had some measure of thedeath whateveron them, so groups were herded into the null room trailer.
As the band members finished their half-hour stint in the portable null room, I began to expand on the prelim questioning for the timeline, talking to as many as I could. It was an ethnically diverse group, which I learned was an oddity in the country music scene, including three backup singers, all female, one African, one Asian, and one Caucasian, and Cale Nowell, the tattooed African-American guitarist. He had been one of the first on-site that morning and was with the first group that found Stella, along with the drummer. He turned out to be the man who had waved at me from the ambulance when I arrived. The entire band was visibily shaken and not overly helpful. No one knew anything about how or why Stella died. She seemed to be universally loved and respected.
Initial interviews were usually interesting and challenging, but this time it was sweaty work, outside, in the afternoon sun, in the last hot spell of fall. My clothes smelled likedeath whatever; I was getting nowhere; I was feeling marginally gripey; and I was wondering when Tandy would arrive. He was the unit’s empath and was normally present at questionings, but he was nowhere to be seen yet. Not that anyone was telling me anything. I might no longer be a probationary agent, but it was taking far too long for the stigma to wear off. Hence the gripey.
I worked until T. Laine called to me. “Ingram? Your turn to be read by the witches.”
The air had cooled in the late afternoon, but it wasn’t cold enough to create the shivers that suddenly quivered along my bones and pebbled my skin. My feet felt leaden as I crossed the lawn. It was all I could do to step through the witch circle and not run before Astrid could close the circle behind me. I was all kinds of self-conscious and crossed my arms, holding myelbows as I took a place in the middle of the witch circle. The coven and T. Laine looked at me. That was it. They looked at me as the wind cooled, sharpened, and blew through the horse farm.
Standing in the chalk circle, witches looking me over, brought slivers of odd memories to the surface, one of me standing in the middle of a circle, long ago, as someone decided I wasn’t a witch. The next memories were an overlapping batch: the sound of a man’s voice as he demanded me for his bed; the same man reaching for me in the greenhouse; the smell of fresh-baked berry pie on the air where I hid in the kitchen as that voice informed Daddy for the third time that I was “ripe” and that he wanted me; the fear that clotted my heart as my father calmly said he would think about it. I had been twelve.
“Nell?”
I flinched and looked up. Tried to focus past the memories and into T. Laine’s dark eyes. Dark hair, nearly black, caught the wind, tangled in her eyelashes. I caught a breath and it sounded strange, squeaky. My arms were aching and my fingers were stiff as I peeled them off me. I was shaking.
“Nell?” she asked softer. “You okay?”
I nodded before I thought. Because no. I wasn’t okay, and my friend knew it. “Memories,” I managed. “Bad ones.”
She gave a slight head tilt that meant she heard me, and that others were listening. She took my arm and led me from the circle, away from the witches. “We should have a girls’ night out and blow off some steam.”
“I don’t know how to blow off steam,” I said, blinking away the dryness that burned my eyes. “Churchwomen don’t blow off steam, we—they—redirect it.”
“I’ll bet they do,” she said, sounding grim. “But you broke that mold. You, JoJo, Margot, and me? We’ll have a few, maybe do some line dancing, and indulge in girl talk. Soon. For now”—she glanced at the driveway—“you need time in the null room. You’re covered with what we’re currently callingdeathenergies.”
My heart went all aflutter. Death energies was more specific thandeath whatever. Death energies sounded like a new thing. Not witch magics. Not... not anything I understood. I couldn’t go home withdeathon me. I might harm my sisters, could damage Soulwood.
“So am I,” she continued. “The coven wants us both inside the null room for ten-minute segments, with readings in between, to see how long it takes to break down the energies on nonhumans. We can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I said.
“Then we can just sit there in silence. Come on.” She plucked at my sleeve and I followed her to the portable null room trailer, up the back ramp, and inside. Someone shut the door behind us, leaving me with T. Laine and six chairs. She pushed me to one and took another, sitting. She glanced at her watch and back up to me. I had been afraid we’d be in the dark, but there were lights in the ceiling and someone had run in an extension cord.
