“You think you know me.” Charles’ mouth curved slowly. “But I can assure you, you never knew half of what I was capable of.”
He raised his hand again, and Walcott was pressed even more painfully into the wall. With agonizing slowness, he felt his body begin to slide upward, the rough wall taking off layers of skin.
“My wife wasn’t the only one descended from a powerful witching family as well you know,” Charles reminded him.
“Is that what all this is about?” Walcott spat contemptuously. “A pissing match between the Wests and the Connells? Is that why you killed her? Isabel didn’t deserve what you did to her and her mother.”
Charles replied in cold amusement. “How very like you, Tommy. As usual, always two steps behind everyone else.”
“Just tell me why? Why’d you do it? Why her? Why the others?” His voice dropped to a broken whisper. “Why Jimmy?”
Charles’s expression flattened, giving nothing away.
“What do you want, Charlie?” Walcott gritted his teeth even tighter against the helpless wave of rage at the sharp pain of seeing his former friend. The man he’d once called brother.
Charles tilted his head slightly as he made a small gesture with his hand, and Walcott slid sharply down the wall. “I came for one reason and one reason alone.” He stepped closer so there was only a breath between them.
“What?” Walcott hissed.
“Stay. Away. From. My. Daughter,” Charles warned, his voice like ice. “If you harm her…” His voice dropped to a whisper and Walcott felt the pressure against his body tighten painfully. “You’re a dead man…”
Satisfied he’d made his point, Charles turned to leave, but at the last moment, he paused at the entrance to the alley and glanced back. “If it makes you feel any better,” he spoke quietly, something unreadable in his expression, “Jimmy didn’t suffer. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
Walcott howled like a caged animal, fighting against the invisible bonds. It wasn’t until Charles was long gone that the restraints finally dissolved, and he dropped weakly to his knees on the sodden, filthy ground weeping bitterly.
Olivia dropped down on the rug in front of the fire next to Theo and handed him a steaming mug of coffee.
“Are you absolutely sure this is Hester’s Grimoire?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Why?”
“It’s complete nonsense.” His brow creased as he leafed carefully through the pages, which crackled with age. “It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I know that the language is a little archaic, which frankly shouldn’t bother you, and she seems to like to rhyme an awful lot, but most of the spells and charms are pretty self-explanatory.”
“How do you know? It’s not even written in English. In fact, it doesn’t look like any language I’ve ever seen.”
“What?” Olivia laughed. “Of course it’s written in English.”
“No, it’s not,” Theo told her seriously, handing the book back to her.
“What?” She frowned. Setting her cup of tea down, she leafed through the pages. Although the letters once again swirled and moved, they settled down into English, and she found she could read it easily.
“This is an old housewives’ charm for shining the silverware, and this one here is a draught for relieving the symptoms of ague.” She flipped through the pages.
“You can read it?” Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m a West,” Olivia mused. “I suppose Hester could have charmed it so only certain people could read it. It would be interesting to see if anyone other than me can read it.”
“Have you come across any mention of Nathaniel?”
“No, but I haven’t finished looking through it yet.”
Leaning back against the couch, he stretched his legs out in front of the fire and sipped his coffee as he watched her. Olivia was reading avidly, a small smile tugging at her lips, while her tea sat cold and forgotten. It was always the same he noticed, the second she started reading, she would forget everything else. He’d lost count of how many cups of cold tea he’d thrown away.
“Have you called Margaret?” he asked.
“Mags?” she muttered, her gaze not leaving the book. “No. I’m not ready to talk to her yet.”
