M Sellars: Harm none

“Like I said,” I took the envelope, “you aren’t doing anything to me. I offered to help.”

I unwrapped the string that held the package shut and folded back the flap. Tilting it, I slid out a healthy stack of eight-by-ten photographs, some color, some black and white. I began thumbing through the pictures slowly, studying each one carefully and giving Ben my general impression of the images.

The first photo was of a crudely painted Pentacle on a wall. Sections were shaded in pastel yellow, blue, and green. The outline of the symbol was a deep, rusted red, and a portion of it was smeared with the same color.

“Now I see why you were asking about the pastels,” I stated. “But the red looks a little strange. Not really a pastel.”

“It’s the victim’s blood,” Ben volunteered matter-of-factly, his voice almost a whisper.

“Oh,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The second picture showed the Pentacle at more of a distance, revealing a mound of black and a mound of white on the floor. The following picture, a close-up of the mounds, showed them to be candles that had burned until they extinguished themselves, leaving behind hardened puddles of wax.

“Obviously a ritual of some sort,” I told him. “I’m not sure for what.”

I thumbed through more pictures of the candles and wall from various angles. The black and white images were much easier to tolerate, though knowing that the Pentacle had been inscribed in blood made me imagine I could still see the glaring red within the crisp black and grey tones. Eventually, I came to a picture of another wall. In the same dripping crimson strokes as the Pentacle were the words “All Is Forgiven.”

“The consultant still can’t manage to explain that,” Ben told me, indicating the pictured words. “He says it probably has somethin’ ta’ do with blood sacrifice rituals. Says he thinks it might…”

“No,” I interrupted him, holding up a hand, “those words have nothing to do with a blood sacrifice ritual.”

“Whaddaya mean?” he queried, sitting up a little straighter and focusing his attention.

“Your expert is apparently pretty full of misinformation. I’m not saying that there wasn’t a sacrifice ritual performed mind you, but just because the victim’s blood was used, that doesn’t make it so,” I detailed. “The Pentacle and the inscription are components of a spell.”

“You mean a hocus-pocus-poof-you’re-a-frog kinda spell?”

“No. That’s a fairy-tale misconception. While spells sometimes do involve what can be called magick, they are primarily something like a prayer. This particular spell is a separate ritual unto itself, and if I’m right, then I’m willing to bet your killer performed it because of the murder, not as a part of it.”

“I still don’t get it,” Ben told me, both eager and frustrated.

“Just a second…” I got up from the table and went across the room to the bookshelves. “I just want to verify something real quick to make sure I’m right.” I scanned the shelves reserved for our Wiccan and alternative religious literature and quickly found what I was after. “Here it is…”

I pulled the book from the shelf and leafed quickly through it as I strode back across the room and once again took a seat at the table.

“What is that?” Ben asked as I continued rapidly turning and perusing the pages.

“A grimoire,” I told him. “Kind of like a recipe book for Witches.” I stopped leafing through the book, and my eyes followed my finger down the text while I quietly mumbled to myself. Eventually I came to rest halfway down the page. “Yes, it’s a variation of an Expiation spell.”

“A what?” Ben’s still confused voice reached my ears as I handed him the spellbook and quickly leafed back through the pictures I had already seen. According to the grimoire, a piece of the spell appeared to be missing. I felt sure it was there but that I simply hadn’t noticed it.

“An Expiation spell,” I repeated. “A ritual to rid yourself of guilt and regrets-a way of asking forgiveness from yourself. I’m not finding it…” I stated hurriedly. “Was there a cup or goblet there? It would have had wine in it. Or maybe water.” Only silence met my ears. “Ben?” I queried again, looking up.

He was staring at me across the table, face ashen, the spellbook held loosely in his hands.

“Are you okay?” I asked, growing mildly concerned.

“Yeah, we found a wine glass all right,” he said quietly. “But, it wasn’t filled with wine.”

The look on his face told me that which I needed but didn’t want to know.

“It was filled with blood wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “We think the bastard drank her blood.”

The two of us shared a wordless stare as we were simultaneously bludgeoned by the revolting possibility he had just voiced. I swallowed hard and slowly forced my eyes back down to the permanent visual records of the abomination. Five photographs later, it was my turn for the greyish pallor to overtake my face. The glossy color image before me showed a bed with the nude body of a petite young woman draped across it. Her mouth was frozen in the oval shape of an agonized scream, her dull eyes staring horrifically into space. The wall next to the bed was spattered wildly with blood. Her throat had been cut, and her long, strawberry-blonde hair was matted into the sheets, which flowed to the floor like a crimson waterfall. From the ragged incision at her throat to a point just below her waist, and from shoulder to shoulder, she was nothing but bare exposed muscle. She had been skinned.

As if that weren’t enough, there was something else that made me hold my breath a beat longer. That something was the fact that her face held more than just a passing familiarity to me.

“An invocation rite,” I stated flatly, fighting back insistent waves of nausea.

“What’s that?” Ben asked.

“A ritual used to call forth someone or something from another plane of existence.”

“You mean like a spirit or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “it’s the ‘or something’ that bothers me.”

“How can ya tell that’s what it is?” Ben pressed. “All the symbols were with that Expiation thing.”

“The flaying,” I answered. “Skinning and mutilation are considered parts of a ritual sacrifice for invocation in some old religions. Have you gotten a report from the coroner?”

“No, not yet…Why?”

“Whoever did this…” I caught my breath and started again. “Whoever did this probably skinned her alive. The sonofabitch performed two rituals. One to invoke who knows what, and one to forgive himself for doing it.”

“Jeezus,” Ben whispered.

“I need to see this crime scene, Ben,” I told him, still staring at the two-dimensional horror.

“I don’t know, Rowan…” he began to protest.

“No, Ben,” I shot back, “I’m serious. I don’t know for sure what this guy is up to yet, but you’ve already told me that your expert can’t find his way around the block. If this bastard is really trying to do what I think he is, then I doubt if he’s going to stop here. If I’m physically on the scene, maybe I can find something that will help.” Without realizing it, I had stood up from my seat and had begun pacing. “Besides,” I stopped, looked down at the picture for a moment and then back to Ben’s face, “I know the victim.”

“You know ‘er?” He stared back at me incredulously.

“Her name’s Ariel Tanner,” I stated quietly and then turned away as if having the photographs behind me would make them magically disappear. I took a deep breath before adding, “She’s a… was… a Witch.”

“How did you know her?”