Heart of the Witch (5 page)

Ravyn went back inside. She paced the length of her living-room floor, then back again. When she passed the bookcase for the second time, her gaze fell on the top shelf. It wasn't the row of books on display that caught her attention, but what she knew was behind them.

She pulled a worn copy of Gone
with the Wind
from the shelf, revealing a burgundy leather-covered book behind. It wasn't with the other books, because this was something she wouldn't want anyone else to see, something she shouldn't see herself. Kayne had given it to her just before he left the coven. Just before he'd been
driven
from the coven. She'd refused to go with him, refused to go along with his sudden conversion to the dark side.

He'd been angry with her—so why had he given her this gift? Maybe because he knew it was a gift she couldn't use. Maybe because he knew there would be no turning back if she did use it.

She shoved the volume back toward its hiding place but stopped.
You could at least look through it. At least see what your options are
.

Taking the heavy tome down, she sat at the rolltop cherrywood desk in the corner of her living room and stared down at the book.
Invocations of Shadows
was emblazoned on the leather cover.

The skin on Ravyn's fingers tightened as she flipped through the pages. As if knowing what she needed, the book opened to a section on retribution. She stared at the words, not reading them but just looking at the blurred, Old English lettering.

She was unaware that she'd begun reading, but the words suddenly jumped at her from the page:

This incantation is most powerful while in the presence of the one you wish to harm. It is also effective while holding a personal possession belonging to the enemy
.

Light a black candle and send your mind to the soul of the cursed one. This must be done in the black of a moonless night.

"By the flame of the dark pillar,

O Horned One!

We call thy name,

O Ancient One!

We invoke thee, beseech thee, to hear our cry.

Come to us this night,

shed your dark light,

our enemies will cry out,

their torture echo…"

A gust of wind much stronger than the earlier breeze whipped through the room, sending a Tiffany lamp crashing to the floor. Ravyn jumped, fear hammering through her veins. Goose bumps shivered along her flesh. She slammed the book shut and rushed over to close the window.

The cold air bit at her skin, billowing her black gown around her. The creaking frame split her eardrums as she slid the window shut. She quickly flipped the latches, then jerked the curtain closed.

Slowly, her fists held tightly at her sides, she turned and walked toward the desk. A gasp escaped her clenched lips. The book was open again. And while she wanted to believe the wind had blown it open before she shut the window, the pages were turned to the exact place she'd been reading.

She reached out but stopped before touching the book. Let it
go. He won't hurt you again. He won't hurt your people as long as you let it go. There's no reason for him to come after you. Not as long as you leave him alone
.

But she couldn't convince herself of that. He was all she could think about. She could not forget what he'd done to her and what he'd done to those other women. What he might be doing to someone right now.

She slipped back into her chair. Glancing around the room, she considered turning on the lights but discarded the idea and instead bent her head back over the book, reading as if compelled. She was deeply absorbed in the words when she felt a tickle in her throat. Her hand went to her neck. The tickle became a pressure, tighter and tighter until she couldn't breathe. She gasped and pushed back from' the desk, struggling with the effort to draw air into her lungs—

The feeling dissipated and she could once more breathe as normal. But this was not the first time it had happened—suffering the sensation of having the life choked out of her as if she were suspended by a rope from a tree just before her body was set ablaze. Was it a memory from another life, or just a manifestation of unreasonable fear? She didn't know, and it haunted her both in dreams and when she was awake.

Ravyn looked down where her fingers rubbed the scar on the inside of her right hand. She still remembered how that had felt, how the fire had singed her skin and burnt the tender flesh from her palm. She lifted her gown and looked at the burn on her stomach. The one
he'd
given her. She could still smell the sweetish odor of melted flesh. Her own flesh. It smelled the same way it had twenty years ago, when Ravyn's mother had placed the flame of a candle against the hand of her eight-year-old daughter.

Ravyn clasped her hands together beneath the table, her thumb massaging the scar on her palm. Her stomach seemed to have a lead ball suspended in its center. She swallowed—a gulping, desperate sound, like a scuba diver sucking air through a mouthpiece.

Her gaze flittered over the stark interview room. Her eyes took in the battered metal table and straight-backed chairs. The glare from the austere lighting bounced off of a large window taking up half of one of the yellow walls—a two-way mirror, most likely. Was yellow supposed to calm, or to cause anxiety? She couldn't remember which. Maybe there was no significance to the color of the walls. Maybe her thinking that was just an indication of her growing paranoia.

Dread suffused her at the prospect of the upcoming interview. The detectives had phoned and offered to come out to speak with her, but she didn't want them at her house. She didn't want to talk to them at all, but she knew she couldn't refuse. So she'd offered to come in to the police department.

The Oklahoma City police wanted to follow up on Whitehall's questions. It made sense. All of the Tin Man's victims had been kidnapped here and taken to that cabin.

The more she talked to the police, the more questions she answered, the more likely they were to find him. That's what she wanted, wasn't it? She wanted them to stop him?

Yes! But she didn't want them to know what she'd done. Didn't want her coven to know.

Ravyn took a sip from the bottle of water that had been provided, and looked up as the door opened. A tall Latino officer and a shorter, balding cop with a mustache entered the room.

The Hispanic man stuck out his hand. "I'm Detective Carlos Mungia, and this is my partner, Detective Scott Harris. Thanks for coming in."

Ravyn nodded and shook his hand. The other cop eyed her with a mixture of contempt and suspicion. He smoothed the sparse hair on top of his head before extending the same greeting.

The moment she took his hand, Ravyn's whole body tensed. She wanted to release it immediately, but her grip held tight, almost as if she were suffering a spasm. Nausea rolled from her stomach and up her throat. Her eyes fluttered shut, and images flashed across her mind.

An evil leer on the detective's face. A woman was screaming and cowering, arms over her head as if warding off a blow
.

The scene faded to a darkened road.
Detective Harris was standing behind an open trunk, accepting a wad of cash and handing a long package to a tattooed, burly man with mean eyes and greasy hair
.

And there was another flash:

The same man, Harris, inside a rundown apartment. A young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, eyes round in fear, blood dripping from her nose. There was swelling beneath her left eye.

"Miss Skyler, are you okay?"

Ravyn wasn't sure which detective had spoken, but her eyes snapped open and she was staring into Scott Harris's face. His skin had lightened a few shades, and lines pinched the corners of his mouth. He tugged his hand free and the images disappeared. Ravyn shuddered in relief.

Mungia took a seat in the chair next to her, but Harris stood slightly behind him and to the right. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his brown slacks. Those pants were already a size too small, and his stance emphasized that fact to an unflattering degree.

Mungia opened a folder and glanced down at it. "Miss Skyler, I know you spoke with the uniforms and Sheriff Whitehall, but we'd like to do a follow-up interview, just to make sure nothing was missed."

Ravyn returned to her palm massage beneath the table and said, "I don't see the point. I told them everything I know."

"I understand." Mungia smiled kindly, and she noticed his eyes were an appealing shade of velvety brown. They were caring eyes, unlike those of his partner. "But sometimes witnesses remember extra details after a few days, when the shock has worn off. If you would, please tell us your version of that night step-by-step, and take your time."

Ravyn did, speaking slowly as she recounted her story, hoping she repeated her earlier description of events verbatim. She didn't want any inconsistencies that might raise a red flag.

The whole time she spoke, Detective Mungia glanced back and forth from Ravyn to the paperwork in front of him. Once in a while he would nod or scowl a little, as if a thought had occurred to him. When she was finished, he looked up and gave her a reassuring smile.

"Well, that's pretty much what we have here. You haven't remembered any more about the man? Maybe some physical characteristics you didn't recall the night of the attack?"

Ravyn shook her head and opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Harris spoke. "Can you perhaps tell us how you managed to get away, when the other vies weren't quite so lucky?" His voice was laced with contempt.

She looked up at him, hoping to keep the loathing out of her eyes. "As I said, I screamed. That must have scared him away. Or maybe the boys who found me were nearby, and he heard them. I don't know exactly how I escaped, but I'm very grateful. It was terrifying, and my heart breaks for the poor girls who weren't as lucky."

Harris's lip twisted in a sneer. "Yeah. I bet."

Ravyn didn't want to get into a fight with the jerk, but it took all her willpower to control her temper—and her magic.

The situation was quickly defused by Detective Mungia. "I apologize for my partner's insensitive remarks, Miss Skyler. This case has been very hard on all of us. We're under a lot of stress, a lot of pressure to catch the killer, so we'll attribute his bad behavior to that." His gaze swung over to Harris. "I'm sure Miss Skyler would appreciate an apology."

Harris stared mutinously at Mungia, his lower lip protruding in a childish pout. After a moment, he turned to Ravyn. "I apologize. I meant no disrespect."

Though the words of contrition were clearly grudging, Ravyn gave a slight nod and turned back to Mungia. "Is that all, Detective?"

"Actually, we'd like you to get with our artist. We'd like a composite sketch of the man who attacked you."

Reluctantly, Ravyn nodded. "Sure. Okay."

"Wait right here."

Ravyn's eyes flew to Harris, afraid Mungia would leave them alone, but both detectives left the room. In moments, Mungia and Harris returned, followed by a man who looked to be in his fifties. He had a ruddy complexion and thin, graying hair.