C.E. Murphy - Shaman Rises

Peripherally, I knew mundane things were going on. Morrison had left me standing stock-still a stone’s throw from the bodies, and was taking charge of the gathering cops, medical teams and, God forbid, reporters. His calm took some of the edge off rising hysteria, though I Saw glimpses of anger and shock sparking through his aura. Eyewitnesses were babbling stories to anyone who would listen, including others who had been there. Some of them were arguing with one another. Pale-faced cops were trying to take down the comments without looking at the bodies, and I saw my friend Heather Fagan, head of the North Precinct’s forensics team, cross under the police tape with her mouth set in a thin grim line. All of this activity was going on around me, and I couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring myself to look at the faces I was holding out of focus because I was afraid of what I would see.

Afraid it would be worse than blood and bone and viscera spattered across a sand-addled shore. The horribleness of that made me breathe a sharp laugh, which in turn let me close my eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I’d be able to look elsewhere when I opened them again. I did that on purpose, with them still closed: moved my gaze, pointed it in the direction of faces, not bodies. It still took turning my hands into fists to make me open my eyes again.

The first face I saw was a young man. Early twenties, nice-looking, familiar.

“Garth.” The name didn’t make it past my throat. Didn’t even shape my lips as my stomach dropped and left a wake of ice where it had been. Garth Johannsen, Colin’s older brother. Colin, who had played host to a dark sorcerer and paid for it with his life in the battle that had birthed Thunderbird Falls. I thought Garth had gotten out of the Magic Seattle scene. It looked like he’d gotten back in.

I knew the other faces, too. Duane, the very decent guy whose blood I’d shared in a rather literally minded ritual. Thomas, their Elder, the male counterpart to the Crone. Roxie, who’d been as cute as her name.

But I’d been wrong. I’d misjudged in my counting. There weren’t thirteen bodies. There were twelve.

Marcia Williams, the coven’s leader, was missing.

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