Page 22 of Wicching Hour (The Sea Wicche Chronicles #3)

TWENTY-TWO

We Were Overdue for a Family Meeting

O nce everyone was finally seated, Gran and Bracken on the sofa, Mom in Gran’s rocker, and Declan in my usual club chair—he’d pulled me onto his lap to sit with him—we got down to business.

I explained both of the prophetic visions I’d had this morning and then briefly touched on the murder so they’d know what had been happening when Mom had called earlier.

“The shared vision with Uncle Bracken was different,” Mom said. “When we’ve done this before—you, your Gran, and me—we see things from a little different angle. This time, I was watching the arsonist from inside the truck, idling up the road, waiting for him. The gas gauge was close to empty and there were fast food wrappers littering the floor mats. The radio was turned low, a man talking about baseball. The driver kept turning his head, looking in all directions.

“Through the back window, I watched a dark figure throw something bright in the moonlight. It hit the side of the gallery and then flames began to climb up the walls. The driver threw it into reverse, kicking up pebbles as he floored it and then slammed on the brakes. A man opened the door and jumped in, but the cab lights must have been disconnected because I couldn’t see the arsonist’s face. He was turned around, staring out the back window while he hit the dashboard, yelling at the driver to go.”

“It’s because Bracken was with us,” I explained.

They all looked at me.

I gestured to my great-uncle. “He’s the one with the eye for detail. I know the arsonist has yellowing teeth, a chunky ring on his thumb, and cracked and peeling work boots. I don’t normally see that. My visions aren’t that zoomed in. This gives us some details to look for and report.”

“But nothing has happened,” Bracken protested. “Why would the police be involved before the fact?”

“Remember I told you that Declan, Orla, and I are part of a supernatural crime fighting committee?” I asked. “We can tell Detective Osso—he’s a black bear shifter and our grumpy leader. A hate crime against a wicche qualifies as something we need to investigate.”

“Oh, good,” Bracken said.

I explained about the stalker and the new burning witch podcast. At first Gran waved it away as a waste of our time, but the more I explained his behavior, the recordings, and my belief that Cal was pushing him, she sat forward, anger lining her face.

“She’d expose all of us?” Gran demanded. “She’d see us all hanged?”

Bracken patted her arm. “They don’t do that anymore.”

She turned to him. “Given the vision, they still want to burn us at the stake.”

He tilted his head in acceptance of that point. “I suppose some of them do.”

Gran turned to Mom. “You called your sister and told her to stay off the sailboat?”

Mom nodded. “I did.”

“What about you, Bracken?” I asked. “What did you see?”

He turned and studied me a moment. “I don’t know how you do that.” He shook his head. “It was horrifying. I was there. I saw the hatred in his eyes, the sneer on his face, as he threw the lit beer bottle of gasoline at your magical gallery.”

Staring out the window, he said, “You’ve done so much. You’ve created this precious soap bubble of fantasy, brightening our dreary days.” He turned up a palm. “And someone decides that must be destroyed. More, the artist, the creator of wonder, must be destroyed along with her creation.” He blew out a breath. “Who are these people?”

Declan wrapped his arms more securely around me at Bracken’s words.

“Could you see his face?” I asked. “I only got a close-up of his mouth and his hand.”

“Oh.” He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his jaw. “Let’s see. He was white, with brown hair and eyes.” He patted his own chest. “He had a black denim jacket that was turned into a vest.” He brushed his shoulder. “The edges were ragged with stray threads. It had a patch on the left breast that I believe was a name. There was something obscuring the patch, though.”

He tapped his index finger on his chin a few times. “I think it was electrical tape, but since it had been affixed to fabric, it was starting to peel up along the edges. I could be wrong, but given the lines visible above and below the strip of black, I’d guess his name is John. Assuming that was his vest to begin with.”

Damn. I wished I’d always had Bracken picking up the details in my visions. “Perfect. Anything else about him physically that might make him easier to identify?”

Frowning, he added, “Well, he has a soft sort of face. Round. His eyes are too small and far apart. He has one of those short noses that forces you to look up his nostrils. Weak chin. And he had a little limp. It wasn’t noticeable until he ran for the truck, but then he seemed to be favoring his… right leg. There was a hitch in his step.”

“Okay.” I got off Declan’s lap, grabbed my backpack, and sat on the floor at Bracken’s feet. I pulled out my sketchbook and put it on the coffee table with my charcoals. Bracken leaned forward to watch me work, making suggestions if what I drew was different than what he remembered. It wasn’t perfect, but at the end, we had a close approximation of the arsonist.

“I don’t understand, darling,” Mom said. “It hasn’t happened. How can this help?”

“It’s always good to know who our enemies are,” Gran said.

“There’s that,” I said, flipping the page and drawing the stalker. This face, I knew well. “I’ll send them both to Osso and he’ll send them out to the rest of the group. It’s good to have faces and know what the threat is. If we’re lucky, someone may even recognize one of them.”

Away from Declan’s warmth, I felt a chill run down my spine. I glanced out the back window and caught a dark shadow disappearing around the house. I needed to do something to beef up her wards. “Meanwhile, what are we doing about the Swans and their willingness to kill in aid of a sorcerer?”

Mom and Gran shook their heads.

“I know I shouldn’t be shocked,” Mom said, “given what my sister and niece have done, but I suppose I’ve become used to thinking of this lust for power at all costs being a Corey failing. That the Swans—or at least two of them—would poison innocents to curry favor is hard for me to accept. We’re not living in the Middle Ages.”

“She covets your power,” Bracken said. “And Mary’s. She always has.”

“Do we have any recourse?” I asked, taking more time with the familiar stalker’s face.

Mom tipped her head side to side. “We can report them to the Council, I suppose.”

Gran shook her head at the suggestion. “To a council that fell apart more than a decade ago? What would be the point?”

“What’s the Council?” Declan asked.

“Every wicche family has a leader,” Mom explained. “Sometimes it’s one person, but more often than not, it’s a triad, like ours.”

“Maiden, mother, crone,” I clarified. “Basically, three generations of the most powerful wicches in a family.”

Declan nodded, watching me draw.

“It isn’t always the most powerful,” Bracken said. “Sometimes it’s the most sane, or the ones most able to work well with others.”

Gran sighed. “True. Some of the most powerful have gone mad with it.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I don’t remember hearing about a council other than the Corey Council.”

“It existed for ages,” Mom told us. “A representative from each of the old wicche families sat on a council that met regularly. They settled squabbles and dealt with threats to wicche survival. Had the Council not existed, far more of our numbers would have been lost in the Dark and Middle Ages. As it was, most accused wicches were just human women that someone had an issue with.”

Gran nodded. “Midwives, early apothecaries who had some knowledge of medicinal herbs, women who refused to marry powerful men.”

“Poor women, as well,” Mom said. “The vast majority of women burned, drowned, or hanged were humans that some pious person pointed a finger at for their own highly dubious reasons. We know how to hide and when that doesn’t work, how to cast the spells that keep us alive.”

“In the modern world, the Council seemed less important,” Bracken said. “The days of ritual burnings were long gone. Also, as more families intermarried with humans, our power was diluted.” He paused and then looked at his sister. “This family excepted, of course.”

“Oh, yeah,” I grumbled. “We all know about the importance of pure bloodlines.”

Gran’s back went rigid. “Mock if you must, but notice which family still has real power.”

I can’t tell you how I knew, as Declan was sitting behind me, but I could feel him bristle. He was as pissed off as I was about my Gran and Great-Gran making Mom give up Dad because he wasn’t a wicche.

Still drawing, I lifted my left hand and wiggled my fingers. “Speaking as a mongrel, I’m plenty powerful, Gran.”

She tsk ed. “I didn’t mean you and you know it.”

I sat back from my sketchbook and looked over my shoulder at Gran. “Okay. If you knew that my having a fae father would make me strong enough to survive being a Cassandra, why didn’t you let Mom stay with Dad? We could have had more fae blood strengthening our line.”

“Arwyn, please,” Mom said, shaking her head.

“We are one of the oldest and strongest line of wicches in the world,” Gran said. “We respect and value that.”

I’d heard this all before and never pushed her on it. Today, I was feeling pushy. “Does it bother you that my last name is Corey, considering my fae DNA?”

Gran blew out a breath. “This isn’t helping. We need to decide what to do about the Swans.”

Mom stared at Gran with an expression I’d never seen before. If I had to guess, I’d call it a combination of disbelief and disillusionment.

Bracken laid his hand on my shoulder. “My sister was taught by a severe and unbending woman. She may not be able to bring herself to say that she is proud of you and proud to call you Corey, but she is.”

I patted his hand. “Deep, deep down, right?”

“Arwyn,” Gran said, “you are a part of the Corey Council, and we waited until you arrived before we made any decisions. We’re overlooking your werewolf friend while we discuss Council business. I’m not sure how we’ve leapfrogged from the Swans being in league with your cousin to the status of mixed-blood Coreys. We have problems that touch the entire family that need to be dealt with now. Perhaps we can table the angst for another time.”

“I can leave, if you’d prefer,” Declan rumbled.

I closed up my sketchbook, put it and my charcoals in my backpack, and then returned to Declan’s lap. “I’d prefer you stayed. It saves me explaining all of this later.”

He wrapped his arm around me again and we sat together as a team.

“So, are you saying there is no wicche Council anymore?” I asked.

“That’s just it,” Mom said. “The Council hasn’t met in years.”

“Are you sure they’re not meeting without us?” I ventured. “We’re kind of the worst. Maybe they’re still meeting and just dropped our names off the list.”

Bracken chuckled. “I think you’re on to something. I’ve heard mention of Council meetings off and on over the years. If you’re no longer getting an invitation, that could be intentional.”

Gran pushed up off the sofa and began to pace. “Who do they think they are, cutting us out of the Council? We led the Council for centuries.”

“That could be why,” I mumbled.

Bracken glanced at me, mischief in his eyes.

While Gran continued to rant, I caught another swoop of a shadow across the window. There was nothing I could do about this Council issue, but I could try to do something about that dark entity circling Gran’s home. I had an idea.

When I stood, Gran paused her tirade, watching me expectantly.

“While you three figure out how we get back in the Council’s good graces, Declan and I are going up on the roof.”

Mom’s brows drew together.

“Gran, I can feel it. I can see it. Something is trying to break through our wards. I’m going to see if I can add a fae ward. Neither a wicche nor a demon should be able to break that.”

Declan rose.

“You guys keep it up,” I said. “I’ll let you know if my tainted blood helps save the day. Again.”

Declan dropped an arm around my shoulder and we went out the front door.