Читать книгу Entangled Secrets - Pat Esden - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Some say the duplicity comes from demons vying for man’s soul

or the fae seeking sovereignty over this realm.

Many believe it’s witches tainted by a lust for power.

It is all these things and more.

—Rafael Mastroianni, High Chancellor

Eastern Coast High Council of Witches

“Do redcaps leave footprints?” Peregrine asked as they passed the journalist’s Volkswagen on their way to the main house.

“Can we not talk about redcaps anymore?” Chandler said.

He scuffed his feet against the walk. “If their hats are all bloody, why don’t they leave a gooey trail wherever they go?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I wish I’d see someone shift into a loup-garou. I wonder if Gar can shift. His father’s a loup-garou…”

Chandler tuned out Peregrine’s chatter, focusing instead on the soothing energy wheeling off the main house. The brick building that served as the heart of the coven’s complex had been an abandoned factory before Devlin and his sister, Athena—who had served as high priestess beside him—had taken over the project of revitalizing it from their mother. Chandler had loved the place from the first moment she’d arrived, well over eight years ago now. There was something about its psychic energy. Perhaps it was the memories imprinted into its scarred floorboards by the factory workers who’d traveled over them for decades, or the emotions crackling off the graffiti that still slashed its brick-walled hallways, tags left behind by people who had claimed the factory during the years it stood forsaken. Chandler couldn’t help wondering if their current confrontation with the journalist would also fuse itself to the building’s soul.

Of course it will, she answered her own question. If the journalist hadn’t attempted to infiltrate the coven, things might not have gotten to the point where the Circle couldn’t ignore him. But he had—and, unfortunately, it had happened after a witch by the name of Rhianna had murdered Athena and used dark magic to impersonate her. Every single member of the coven felt ashamed that they had failed to realize Rhianna wasn’t Athena. However, the journalist most likely still believed that Athena, and not Rhianna, had performed the ghastly spell that left his brain scrambled.

Chandler opened the building’s front door and let Peregrine race into the foyer ahead of her. He spread his arms out as if transforming into the falcon he was named after. Then he screamed into the hallway, his birdlike shrieks echoing off the brick walls as he made for the stairwell down to the first floor.

She rushed after him. But by the time she reached the open stairwell, he was already in the living room below. He made a loop around Chloe, who was setting a bottle of wine on the coffee table, then beelined into the lounge before vanishing into the dining room hallway. Hopefully, Brooklyn and Midas would be able to keep him occupied for at least a few minutes.

Chandler hurried down the stairs. “Where is everyone? I thought the journalist was here?”

Chloe was in her early twenties, willowy, blonde and bound-for-med-school brilliant. She was one of the most recent initiates to the coven, but she and Devlin had already formed a close relationship. That was a good thing; coping with the fallout from Athena’s murder hadn’t been easy for any of them, especially not for Devlin. He loved his sister deeply and needed the support—and distraction—of a vivacious witch like Chloe.

Sadness tightened Chandler’s chest. She missed Athena so much. Sure, Athena’s spirit was still present. But that wasn’t the same as having her longtime friend around, not at all the same.

“Unfortunately,” Chloe said, “the journalist is most definitely here. Devlin and Gar are giving him a tour of the teahouse right now. They should be back any second.”

Chandler frowned. “A tour seems a little friendly, all things considered.”

“I imagine they’re testing to see how much he remembers about the stuff that happened here with Rhianna. Not to mention trying to figure out if he really witnessed a loup-garou transforming.”

“That does sound smart.” Chandler eyed the wine bottle, weighed the idea of having a glass, and decided against it. “I wish I’d met the journalist that night and stopped Rhianna before she cast the spell on him. I can’t believe I missed everything.”

“Rhianna probably went out of her way to keep you in the dark.”

“I suppose.” She still felt awful about not noticing what was going on right under her nose. “How much damage do you think her magic did to him?”

“Something’s wrong with him for sure. He stumbles over his words as if he can’t get his thoughts to come together. If Brooklyn hadn’t told me that he was fine before Rhianna’s spell and worse as it went on, I’d assume he was recovering from aphasia.”

An ache pulled at the back of Chandler’s throat. A few years ago, when her adoptive mom had the stroke that put her in the High Council’s palliative care infirmary, she’d suffered from aphasia. It had been heart-wrenching to watch such a dynamic woman struggle to form even a single word.

The glass-and-steel industrial doors that formed the back wall of the living room glided open. Devlin and the journalist strolled in, shadowed by Gar’s broad-shouldered outline.

Though Chandler hadn’t met the journalist before, she had seen him on TV. It had been a rebroadcast of him ranting to a reporter that witchcraft was responsible for a club fire and a ton of crazy incidents around the city. He’d come across as irrational, but he’d been a hundred percent right about everything. At the time, she’d registered only that he was a slim, determined black man in his mid to late twenties with haphazardly chopped-off hair. Now, in real life, his loose-jointed stride and crazy hair made her think of Ichabod Crane from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” The fact that he wore slightly twisted librarian-style glasses only added to the unconventional vibe.

Chandler pressed her lips together to hide an amused smile. If she were to create a sculpture of him, she’d start with pipes from a child’s swing set for his long legs and wild curls of dark chain for his hair. She wasn’t sure what she’d use for his lips. He had beautiful lips.

She clenched her hands, squeezing them tight to stop the sculpture from coming to life in her head. She couldn’t afford to let his quirky appeal convince her he was harmless. He was dangerous. If they couldn’t convince him he was wrong about everything he’d witnessed and keep him quiet, the High Council would rescind the reprieve they’d given the coven. The Circle would once again be accused of being responsible for breaches in the witching world’s anonymity. For sure, they’d get disbanded. Worse than that, the Council could even have the members’ abilities to work magic removed. Their sacred objects and all their assets could be seized, including the complex. They could lose everything.

The journalist’s gaze zeroed in on her. He smiled broadly, hesitated as if gathering his thoughts, then spoke in a tone that was measured but as warm as earth in summertime. “You—are Chandler Parrish?”

She extended her hand as he walked up to her. “You’re Lionel, right?”

“Lionel Parker.” He took her hand, his long fingers wrapping hers in an earnest grip. “I am—a huge fan. Your sculptures are remarkable.”

“Thank you.” She kept hold of his hand and met his gaze full-on, buying herself time to assess his energy. He had a creative fire, kindness, empathy… His energy warped, wringing so tight she couldn’t read it anymore. Whatever spell Rhianna had worked on him, it was powerful, multilayered, and fiercely debilitating. It was a miracle that Lionel was able to hold a somewhat normal conversation, let alone survive day to day with an upheaval like that going on inside him. How brilliant had he been before the spell?

As bright as the light from a welding torch, her instincts whispered.

His smile widened and his lips parted. A spark twinkled in the depths of his dark eyes.

Chandler released his hand as fast as if it were a greased cobra. Heat flushed up her cheeks. She knew that twinkle. He’d mistaken her lingering touch for romantic interest, and he wasn’t rejecting it. She wouldn’t have been as certain or taken aback, except she rarely saw that spark in a man’s eyes. Women, yes—though she had no interest beyond friendship with them.

Gar cleared his throat. “Well, Lionel, what do you say we drop the pretenses and get to the point of this visit?”

Chandler moved away from Lionel, retreating to stand behind the coffee table with Chloe. It made sense to let Gar lead the conversation. Lionel didn’t know it, but Gar was more than just a tough-looking guy in worn jeans and a camo baseball cap. He worked as a special investigator for the High Council of Witches. In fact, the coven had first met Gar when he’d been sent to assess them for possible disbandment after Lionel’s rant on TV—not to mention that the Circle had awakened Merlin’s Shade while under Rhianna’s influence, and in turn the Shade had brought a bunch of her flying monkey sculptures to life. The important thing was, when push came to shove, Gar had proven to be the Circle’s staunch ally.

Lionel’s voice quieted. “I—I am not fond of games. I would prefer to get to the point.”

Gar glanced toward Chandler and Chloe. “When we were touring the teahouse, Lionel admitted he isn’t certain he saw a loup-garou.”

“He thinks he might have seen a dog,” Devlin added.

Lionel straightened to his full height, a good several inches over six feet. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with care. “That is not right. I said I wasn’t sure I saw a person transform into a loup-garou. But I did see a person—a street performer, posing as a statue of The Thinker—change into a wolflike animal. Um—I know shapeshifters and magic are real. I am not mistaken. And you all know it.”

“What makes you so sure?” Chloe said, before Lionel could take a breath.

Chandler hated the idea of ganging up on anyone. She’d told Peregrine a million times that bullying was wrong. But browbeating Lionel into thinking things like magic, powerful witches, and shifters didn’t exist was vital for the coven’s welfare, and for Lionel’s safety, too. Why did he have to be so determined to expose them? For that matter, what made him so willing to believe things other people dismissed as unreal?

She narrowed her eyes and took over the badgering where Chloe had left off. “Did you get a photograph of this street performer changing? A video? What proof do you have that it wasn’t just part of the performer’s act?”

Lionel’s voice went as taut as brass strings on a harp. “Why—why are all of you so interested in convincing me that I am wrong?” His gaze darted around the room. “Where—where is your high priestess? I expected to talk to her.”

Chloe stepped toward him, skirting the coffee table. “First of all, let me clarify that we aren’t the Grimm’s fairy tale coven you’re imagining.” She gave him a second to mull that over. “That said, I’m the coven’s high priestess.” It wasn’t a lie. Chloe had agreed to temporarily take the position after they discovered Athena’s murder.

“Bullshit.” Lionel raised his hand, showing his wrist. The outline of a barely healed cut stood out against his skin. “The real high priestess slashed my wrist with a dagger. She took my blood. She chopped off my hair and cut my fingernails. She cast a spell on me. In this room.” He shoved his misshapen glasses up higher on his nose, preparing to add an important detail. His expression pinched, like he’d lost his train of thought. Then it brightened again. “She said, ‘Sacrifice willingly given. Hair and blood…’”

As he continued repeating the words of the spell, the air in the room began to vibrate with energy. It prickled against the nape of Chandler’s neck and made her tattoos tingle. Lionel wasn’t a witch. He didn’t have any ability to work magic. But the spell Rhianna had worked on him had imprinted itself on the room.

“That’s enough,” Devlin snapped.

Lionel stopped reciting. “I—I am right, aren’t I? You are more than Wiccan or Pagan.”

“What you are is confused,” Gar said flatly.

Chandler nodded in agreement. She slanted a look at Devlin. As high priest, he technically was the one in charge of dealing with things like this along with Chloe.

Devlin folded his arms across his chest. He rocked back on his heels. “What if you are right about us? How could you expect us to be honest with you? It’s no secret that you stole an invitation in order to infiltrate one of our parties. You pretended to be a potential coven initiate. Who did you steal the invitation from? What happened to that person?”

Lionel swiveled away. He paced toward the door to the gardens. Staring out, he rubbed his hands down his arms as if the question had given him the chills. He turned around and paced back to them. “You have to understand. All my life, I’ve sensed magic was real. I need to prove it. I have to.”

Chloe harrumphed. “You stole the invitation and lied to us in order to write an article that would expose our personal lives and whatever you think our coven does to the entire world.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I was going to do that. But that’s not how it went down. A clairvoyant gave me the invitation. He said my life is as entwined with witches as his was with death.”

Cold dread crept over Chandler. A clairvoyant. She had a suspicion who this person was and where this conversation was about to go, and the darkness of it was something she’d hoped never to revisit.

Chloe hugged herself. “What did this clairvoyant look like?”

“He was a goth. I met him in a bar. He was reciting poetry.” Lionel’s voice became almost too low to hear. “S-someone killed him. The police called it a suicide. They said he cut strips of skin from his own body. But that is not the truth, is it?” His gaze pinned Chloe, as if he were a psychic capable of compelling the truth from her.

She paled. Her mouth opened. Finally, she relented. “No, it isn’t.”

A sick feeling lodged in Chandler’s stomach. She’d never met the clairvoyant goth, like Chloe had. But she knew the fake story the police believed and the more gruesome truth about the missing skin.

Lionel tapped a finger against his temple. “That spell may have screwed with my head. To be honest, I have never been totally normal. But I know I saw other things, too.”

“Like what?” Gar asked.

“I found the clairvoyant’s body in the cemetery. I am the one who called the police.” Lionel’s voice was as solid as bedrock, not the slightest hint of hesitation or confusion. “I wrote the article about him skinning himself that went viral online, but it wasn’t the truth. I saw who really killed the goth and cut the skin from his body. Your high priestess. She made a charm from it in the shape of a bracelet. It looked a lot like the necklace she wore to make herself appear younger. Your high priestess wrote the goth’s suicide note, too. I saw her do it.”

Chandler bit her tongue to keep from correcting him. What he’d seen and confessed to doing answered a lot of questions. But he was wrong about the purpose of the gruesome charms. The necklace he’d seen her wearing wasn’t designed to make her look younger. It was designed to allow Rhianna to impersonate Athena—and was made from Athena’s skin.

Devlin’s tone hardened. “Maybe that’s what you think you saw. But you’re wrong.”

Gar chuckled. “Lionel, you do realize how crazy you sound?”

“Th-that is what I saw.”

“Maybe you should speak to a psychiatrist,” Chloe said quietly.

Lionel punched a fist against his thigh. “I’m telling the truth.”

As Gar and Devlin continued to gang up on Lionel, Chandler’s shoulder muscles pinched so tight that she winced from the tension. She couldn’t stand this. The coven and the witching world’s anonymity had to be protected at all costs. But messing with Lionel’s head like this wasn’t right. It was painful for him. And painful for Chloe, Devlin, and Gar, she was certain of it. She had to stop this, for everyone’s sake.

Chandler rested her hands on her hips. There was only one way out of this stalemate as far as she could see. She needed to give Lionel the full truth and then make him believe it was a lie. It was a technique—used along with sarcasm—that had served her well on many occasions, like when potential customers walked in on her using magic to weld sculptures. Hopefully, everyone else would get what she was up to and play along.

She raised her voice above everyone else’s. “You’re right, Lionel. We are real witches. Heritage witches is the term we prefer. Magic is real. It’s also true that the woman who cast the spell on you was not our high priestess…” She went on, revealing the entire truth about Rhianna, Athena, and the necklace charm, and ended by saying they hadn’t known for sure until now who killed the goth.

Lionel blinked at her, openmouthed like an archeologist struck dumb by unearthing the Holy Grail.

Chandler raised a hand to keep everyone else silent. Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, as if weighing what she’d said. “The question is: was what I said the truth or a lie?” She fixed her gaze on Lionel. “You believed me, didn’t you? There are people out there who will try to take advantage of trusting people like you. We aren’t that way. The Northern Circle coven is nothing more than a group of people who live together because we share similar spiritual beliefs and an interest in discovering truths that remain unproven—that is the real story. In some respects, we aren’t much different from you. We aren’t the fantastical, magic-wielding witches or bloodthirsty evildoers you believe us to be.”

His gaze remained on hers, unflinching. When he spoke it was with unobstructed clarity. “If that’s so, then explain one thing to me. What makes me so willing to believe things others dismiss as unreal?”

Chandler’s mouth went dry. Word for word, that was the same thing she’d asked herself only a few moments ago. She covered her surprise with a nonchalant smile and shrugged. “That would be a good question to ask the psychiatrist that Chloe recommended.”