Eileen Wilks: Ritual Magic

“Son of a bitch.”

“Don’t get all soppy, now.”

“Drummond—”

“I can’t stay, but I wanted you to know, first, that Friar’s in this up to his grimy neck. Second, I’ll be working this one with you, but mostly from my side of things. I won’t be able to chat much.” Far faster than he’d come into focus, he winked out.

Lily stared in disbelief at the empty space. “I need a saint, and that’s what I get?”

LILYhad had plenty of experience dealing with a victim’s family members when they were in the grip of grief or anger. She’d thought she understood their feelings. She’d been wrong.

Fury pulsed inside her like a second heart, driving her forward, but she could keep it in check. Use it. Over the next couple hours it flicked at her now and then, hot and raw like a flame licking up the side of a fire pit. But the job wrapped its constraints around her, telling her when to pause and take a breath, telling her not to respond to that sullen lash. As long as she could keep moving forward, she’d do okay.

But it was a good thing Karonski would be here tomorrow. A damn good thing.

At this point Lily knew pretty much exactly what she’d known two hours earlier. Her family had been questioned and turned loose; most of them had headed to the hospital. “Nothing,” Rickie had told her. “The Big A and I got nothing from them worth repeating. No one saw or heard anything unusual until Mrs. Yu started screaming.”

The coven wasn’t here yet. Their head priestess had been in Mission Viejo, over an hour away, when Ida called her. CSI was still working the scene. Cullen was helping them by making sure everything they removed was magically inert. Ackleford and his people were interviewing the last of the restaurant’s patrons. Lily had told him that Friar was probably involved. There were special procedures to be followed in a case involving Robert Friar. For one thing, he was a powerful clairaudient—a listener. Lily’s Gift blocked him, as did Rule’s mantle, but the regular agents would have to be careful about what they said.

And Lily . . . Lily was feeling increasingly useless. She was also running out of reasons to avoid going to the hospital.

She ought to want to be there, but, oh, God, she didn’t. For once in her life, she wanted to play ostrich. She would put off going as long as she could, put off that moment when she looked at her father and her family, knowing she was probably the reason her mother had been attacked.

Coincidences happen, but this was not one. Not if Friar was involved. He hadn’t done this just to get at Lily, though. He and his damn mistress were too goal oriented for that, and their goal was the biggest makeover ever, using her specs for Humanity 2.0.

Lily didn’t see how robbing Julia Yu of most of her life gave them a leg up on the world-domination thing. Maybe this had been the test-drive of some new magical trick or device. A way to be sure it worked before turning it on his real target—Rule? Ruben? the president?—and to hurt Lily along the way. That made more sense.

No, it didn’t. Why would Friar show his hand this way? Why alert them that such a thing was possible? Robert Friar wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t risk having his real attack misfire just so he could shovel some pain into Lily’s life. Did that mean that somehow Julia Yu’s memory loss did help him? Had there been something in Julia’s life—something she used to know, but no longer did—that could derail Friar’s plans?

Whatever the hell those plans might be. She needed to stop speculating until she had more facts to build on. If she couldn’t get a handle on why , she’d look at how. Which meant pestering Cullen, because Miriam and her damn coven weren’t here yet.

She only hoped he wouldn’t be too bloody careful with her. Some of the others were doing that, and it drove her crazy.

Cullen was perched on a table in the center of the main dining room, legs folded in half lotus, watching the busy CSI techs like a grouchy Buddha. Every so often he sketched something in the air, though his air-writing didn’t glow like it usually did. Maybe he didn’t like to do that around so many cops. Technically, sorcery was illegal, though the law hadn’t been enforced for decades, and not just because most people didn’t think sorcerers existed anymore. The law was based on such poor understanding of what sorcery was—and how magic in general worked—that enforcing it was about as reasonable as arresting people for leaving their Christmas decorations up too long. Which, she’d read, was illegal in Maine, but no one got arrested for it.

He saw her coming and stood, then launched himself from the table, leaping over a startled tech using a hand vac. The table rocked slightly. He landed easily and scowled at her. “I hope to God you’ve got something for me to do.”

She should have known she could count on Cullen not to tread warily around her delicate feelings. “You can leave if you’re done.”

“No, I can’t. I’m waiting on Miriam. There’s a couple more elaborate spells I can try, but they require a full circle.”

“While we wait, I’ve got a few questions.”

“Of course you do.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve got precious few answers for you. Whatever was done to Julia, the spell or ritual took place elsewhere. No matter how carefully a spell or ritual is worked, it leaves traces. There aren’t any here.”

“You’ve abandoned the idea of a potion?”

“It’s just so damn unlikely. If Friar somehow hooked up with another of Dya’s people, someone who might be able to concoct a potion that would do this . . . but that’s not at all likely, is it? Plus any potion would have to have turned magically inert afterward, since I checked every glass at the table. That’s also hard for anyone but a Binai to pull off.”

Dya’s people made the most sophisticated potions known to the sidhe, which meant they were very sophisticated indeed. But the Binai were few and lived in the sidhe realms, and the two Queens came down really, really hard on anyone in their realms who so much as spoke the Great Bitch’s name. None of the Binai would knowingly give aid to her .

All of which made it, as Cullen said, damn unlikely. “So what—ah. At last.” Lily started for the restaurant’s front door.

It had opened to admit five people. The one in the lead was a tall woman, what some might call statuesque, others lush. An insurance chart would likely peg her as thirty pounds above optimum, but she wore those pounds the way another woman might wrap up in a sarong.

Miriam Faircastle reminded Lily a bit of Nettie Two Horses. They were about the same age, two self-assured, forty-plus women who’d never married or seemed to feel the need. Mostly, though, it was the hair. Miriam’s was every bit as long and frizzy as Nettie’s and a similar shade of coppery brown. Their styles were vastly different, though. Miriam liked color. Lots of color. Tonight she’d pulled her hair back with a blue scarf. She put that with a floaty turquoise skirt, an orange tee, and a second scarf wrapped around her hips, that one mostly yellow with some green and blue. To make sure she didn’t leave any part of the spectrum feeling neglected, she’d added several strands of bright red beads around her neck.

Lily had met three of the people with Miriam. The fourth was new to her—a short, square little woman with thick glasses and a blond braid. Lily gave the group a nod. “I know Jack and Gail and Warren,” she said, “and this is—?”

“Abby,” Miriam said and clasped Lily’s shoulders in her hands, looking down at her with dark brown eyes. “Abby Farmer. You haven’t worked with her before. She’s new to the coven and is an extremely strong and capable Earth witch. Lily, I am so very sorry about your mother.”