Was that similar to the way I had killed Brother Ephraim? Had I come close to becoming anajasgili? Was it intent or was it all genetics? And if genetics, had Ephraim beengwyllgi? The grindylow, Pea, had confirmed that he wasn’t human. His life force had contaminated the earth.
What if Ephraim wasajasgili?
Leaves budded and curled from my hairline at the thought.
I’d found a way to block off that life force, to fence it in, just like T. Laine and the Nashville coven had blocked off thedeath and decayand captured it in shields to keep it from spreading.
“Ethel Myer and Carollette Myer Ames are related back four generations,” JoJo said, “when two first cousins married, so that gives us a recessive at that time. And their grandparents, two generations back, were second cousins. According to the witch-family lineages T. Laine sent me, there was an Ames witch family in Tennessee prior to the very late 1800s but nothing recent—” Her words broke off. “Hang on. Hugo and Carollette come from a common ancestor. The Ameses and the Myers all came from a common Ames witch line.”
Three generations back my parents had a common ancestor or two. All church families did. Keeping the family lines straight was paramount in polygamous churches. Did inbreeding in families with latent or recessive witch genes stimulate abnormal magical abilities and create unusual magic users? Like me? Like thegwyllgi? Like theajasgili?
I had neutralized Brother Ephraim’s evil from the land. I had reclaimed the land from the death magic of the salamanders. I had used my magic to fight a demon. In each case there had been sacrifice, of myself and of blood. It nearly killed me. I hadgiven myself to the land to heal it and had become a tree in the process, one time for six months. I almost didn’t make it back.
I had noted early on that thisdeath and decaywas similar to natural processes.
I could try.
I looked to my bosses. “I’d like to try to neutralize thedeath and decay. Now that I know what it is, my magic is enough like it to, I don’t know, maybe nullify it?” Or maybe send it into magma and let the crust of Earth neutralize it. I had done that before.
“Ingram,” FireWind said. “Reading the land, especially thisdeath and decay, has been dangerous to you. You may understand it better, but that will not make it less hazardous.”
I had claimed Soulwood long before I killed a man and fed his body and soul to the woods. I had claimed it with a few drops of my blood on the roots of the married trees behind my home.
If I was careful, if I used my magic—mine, not the vampire tree’s, not Soulwood’s,mine—and didn’t let it use me, I might be able to fix this without feeding it a blood sacrifice, without killing someone. Without becoming a tree. “I’ll be careful. I’ll go slow. And I’ll pull away at the first sign of trouble.”
“For the record,” Rick said, his white hair swinging forward as he leaned to make a point, “I’m against this. Totally and unequivocally.” He made eye contact with FireWind and the expression was all wild leopard, vicious and untamed, a challenge even I could see. FireWind lifted an eyebrow in unconcern. Rick finished, “Nell is too important to this unit, too important as... as myfriendfor this.”
Friend. Friend wasn’t a law enforcement word. Or a boss word. It stood on its own. I warmed.
“Noted. Do you see another option?”
Rick snarled, his cat breaking through.
“Neither do I. We are not far from Hugo Ames’ house,” FireWind said. “You can try there.”
***
I had admitted to Unit Eighteen how I had claimed land in several locations, with a blood sacrifice, mine or another’s, and now the entire unit, except for Occam and T. Laine, wasgathered on the street a safe distance away, watching. I sat on my faded pink blanket on the edge of Hugo Ames’ rental property, the potted cabbage on the blanket between my folded knees. Occam, Lainie, and the plant were closer, in case I needed rescuing, in case my magic wasn’t enough and I needed help, needed to call on my land to enter the fight. I had tried to tell them what might happen, but mostly, I had no idea.
Occam was immediately behind me, his knees touching my back, standing with a steel blade drawn, ready to cut me free from roots and vines if the land tried to claim me. He was quietly furious and desperately afraid, but we had agreed that my life was mine, to do with as I saw fit. Afraid or not, he was backing me up, proving his promise to let me choose in all things. He also carried a small plastic bag of healthy farm dirt that I had dug from the side of the road on the way over.
I looked at him and said, “I love you, cat-man.”
“I’ll keep you safe or die trying,” he said.
“You’un jist cut me loose like you always do.” But it might not be same and we all knew that.
Lainie was kneeling beside me, having insisted that she be close with null pens primed and ready, in case anything went wrong. She had also prepared incantations for special workings and had brought a sterile steel lancet for a blood draw. Lainie thought her incantations and workings might allow her to strengthen my magic, like a battery powering a motor. One of the incantations was a scripture verse we had chosen on the way over. I didn’t think any of that would help, but I wasn’t going to naysay her.
The unit had walked through the steps I’d take to try and neutralizedeath and decayusing a different sort of sacrifice. Not a bunch of salamanders or the blood of invading vampires, but a sacrifice of life. However, to get the attention of thedeath and decayenergies, I needed bait. Bait meant me.
I studied the remains of the house. No coven had shielded the energies yet and they had spread. We had left only a few hours past, and now the roof had caved in, the side wall had fallen inward. Two dead pine trees had dropped limbs and bark and one of the trees had broken off at the roots and fallen. The birds had disintegrated. The stench coming from the remains of the house was worse, if that was possible.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Occam, I need the two piles of soil, here and here.” I pointed in front of my knees to the ground just outside of thedeath and decayinfecting Hugo Ames’ house.
He tipped the bag and shook it to make two small piles of local farm soil. Beside me, T. Laine tore an alcohol pad open and, to make her happy, I cleaned my finger with it. She opened the lancet and held it out to me.
I stabbed my fingertip and inhaled a gasp. “Dagnabbit!” Ithurt. It hurt worse than when a plant stabbed me with a thorn. Maybe, like a plant, I was becoming sensitive to steel. And dagnabbit was an exceptionally unsatisfactory word for the pain.
