Heart of the Witch (6 page)

"This is James Coloran. I want you to describe the suspect for him," Mungia said.

Ravyn did, and the artist sketched quickly. She watched the paper as he drew, correcting him a few times on the size of the nose and thickness of the beard. When he was done, Ravyn stared at the drawing. It was strange, but she was realizing that her image of the killer was really more of an impression. Maybe this was a combination of the drugs and the trauma, but she couldn't get a clear picture in her head. This drawing
could
be him. But it could be almost anyone.

"Is that all?" she asked Mungia after the artist left.

"Yes. For now. Please contact us if you think of anything else," the cop replied.

"I'll do that," Ravyn promised. Then she shook Mungia's hand one final time, pointedly ignoring Harris.

As she left the police department, she found herself shivering. She was almost as disturbed by what she'd learned about Harris as by her time with the Tin Man. The detective couldn't be trusted. He was almost as evil as the monster he was hunting. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

Ravyn stood in the clearing outside the home of the coven's high priestess, Vanora. The power was greater here, in the secret place where the coven held rituals and cast spells. Her coven practiced white magic, using their powers for good, for healing and protection. Even though the outside world wasn't aware of it, many disasters were averted and people were helped due to the incantations of covens like Ravyn's, which were scattered throughout the world.

The other coven members didn't know she was here now; this was something she had to do on her own. She would invoke a spell to track the killer and… then what? Confront him? Capture him? Kill him? No, of course she couldn't kill him. But if she could figure out who he was, she could let the police know. They would take the matter into their hands, then, and she would have no more reason to feel guilty. She would have done her part.

Or maybe she could just render him paralyzed. The rule said she couldn't
harm
anyone. But paralysis didn't hurt, right? She'd start with his tongue, so he couldn't tell people what she'd done.

She shook off the thought. Paralyzation wouldn't work. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn't want to doit.

On the ground a cauldron bubbled, and the scents of sage, rosemary and other herbs tinted with the fragrance of sweet alyssum wafted in the air. Ravyn lit two black pillar candles and two purple ones, placing them on the altar. She closed her eyes and began to chant. The words tumbled from her mouth, and she beseeched the goddess to reveal the killer's identity. A shiver ran through her as the enormity of what she was doing sank in. Never before had she been touched by such evil. Never before had she used her magic to bring her close to someone so vile, so reprehensible.

The Tin Man's face filled the blackness behind her closed eyelids, and her body began to shake violently. It was as if she were in a dark room with the man. As if he were standing so close she could reach out and touch him. Subconsciously Ravyn leaned back, as if trying to get distance.

Pushing away her fear, she concentrated on his features, tried to connect with him, tried to come up with a name, an address, anything to help her find him. But before the information could come, the evil visage in her mind became larger, his face splitting into a grin. His gaze bored into hers as they connected. Their minds met, and his evil presence filled the space around her. It was horrible and suffocating and—

Her eyes shot open and the vision disappeared. She was trembling, cold. The flames of the candles were burning very low, and the steam from the cauldron had dissipated. The Tin Man's spirit had been here. Her magic hadn't been enough to discern the information, but it had been enough to summon his evil for a visit.

She stood in the clearing for several moments, watching the flames of the candles as they flickered in the darkness, her heart hammering loudly in her chest. She'd failed. The madman was still out there, a stranger to her, unknown. And yet… he was so close, so intimate, she could practically feel him inside her.

She felt something else, too, something she'd heard, or perhaps sensed, when the maniac had her captive. He fed on the fear of others, but he had an inherent fear of his own.

Mother.

It was more than just fear. The mind-numbing terror consumed him.
Naughty little bastard .
. . Evil
little fuck… You'll burn in hell
…

A shudder ran through her, and she banished the thoughts—that voice—from her head. Quickly she gathered the items she'd brought with her and on trembling legs left the clearing.

Haleck thrashed in bed. Even the cool, soft sheets hurt him. Colors—some bright, some dull and murky—undulated in the darkness of his sleep. In his ears was an echo, a pounding, booming echo. Behind the pounding were sharp, terrified screams. Those screams were a balm. His body relaxed, and even in his unconscious state he smiled.

Faces began to float through the darkness of his drug-induced slumber. He was on the verge of waking but really didn't want to. He was reliving his past victories, his moments of triumph.

The first had been a blonde. He'd snatched her from her front step, forced her into his car at midnight and driven her to the cabin. She'd screamed, oh, she'd screamed and begged, her eyes beautifully insane with fear. Then came the others, one magnificent scene after another.

His mother was here, too. She was watching and shaking her head, that beehive hairdo sticky with hairspray, her grim mouth tight with disapproval. Words were flowing from her lips, even though they were closed.

Just as I thought. You're an evil little bastard. Never could beat it out of you. You'll burn, Jay. You'll burn in hell.

The bitch had died in a car accident, and he'd been freed at the age of eighteen. His only regret was that he hadn't been the one to kill her. Now, that would have been a thrill.

He moaned as a searing pain shot through him, from his groin clear up to his jaw. His eyes flew open and the moan turned into a screech. Make
it go away, make the pain go away, please
. But Marshall was gone; he remembered that. And with Marshall went the morphine injections. He'd been left a bottle of oral morphine, but that didn't cut the pain as well.

Tears surfaced in Haleck's eyes and ran down his cheeks into his pillow. Sleep—he needed to sleep and let the dreams come back.

He fumbled around the nightstand for the bottle of pills. Swallowing two, he washed them down with the water Marshall had left. Then he lay back and closed his eyes, willing the pain away, willing the return of blessed sleep and his beautiful dreams.

Clenching the bedsheets in his fists, he took deep, calming breaths, waited for the drugs to work. Waited in agony. Slowly—too slowly—the pain ebbed, and he felt himself drifting, drifting into oblivion. The dreams. The dreams would return. He would see again his beautiful victims, hear their beautiful screams.

Suddenly he was jolted, as if someone or something had reached out and grabbed him. His eyes flew open and a shriek tore from his throat. Another vision came, this one even more terrifying than the others had been calming. It was a woman with flowing hair and fire in her eyes. Demonic fire. And she was searching for him.

The afternoon sunlight crept between the forest green curtains, spilling shafts of light across the hardwood floor, but Ravyn's mind was on darkness. She couldn't stop thinking about the Tin Man. Couldn't stop wanting to hurt him. Couldn't stop wanting to hurt him even more than she already had.

Studiously untangling the silver and onyx necklaces in the jewelry display at her store, she tried to force him from her mind.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sorina's voice startled her. She had been so deep in thought, Ravyn hadn't realized her sister had walked up beside her.

Sorina's blonde hair shimmered in the rays of sun spilling past the curtains. The salmon-colored shirt she wore, although not revealing, clung to her curves, giving her an unconscious sex appeal that was all the more attractive because it was unintentional.