Free Admit One by Lisa Clark O'Neill

that over. “Would people who believe this stuff be willing to pay more for the dirt from a soldier’s grave? Particularly a soldier who was honored for valor?”
    “As far as I know, rootworkers charge for the spell as a whole. Some spells might be more complex, I guess, but I don’t think… wait.” She leaned forward. “You mean you think someone was digging up the dirt to sell it? Like a curio?”
    “Do a Google search for graveyard dirt, and you’d be amazed at how many hits you get.”
    Allie shook her head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But from everything I’ve read, and what Josie has told me, the removal of dirt from a grave is approached with both respect and a certain amount of ritual. No more than a handful of dirt is taken at a time. Eugene’s grave…” her gaze flashed to his “it was dark, and I couldn’t really see much, but I know the soil was much more turned over than if someone had simply removed a spade full. That’s why you suspect a larger commercial purpose, isn’t it?”
    “It’s a consideration.”
    “Selling it on the internet seems so… unscrupulous,” Allie said. “And as far as that goes, why not just dig up some dirt from the backyard and say it’s from the grave of a soldier? It’s not like anyone can tell the difference just by looking.”
    Will drummed his fingers on his thigh. That thought had also crossed his mind.
    Maybe the grave selection had been random. Some teenagers carrying out a dare, and given the location of Eugene Hawbaker’s final resting place, back near the edge of the trees, they figured they’d be less likely to be seen.
    Or perhaps someone wanted to dig up that specific grave for a different reason entirely.
    It probably shouldn’t bother him as much as it did. After all, Cousin Eugene had been dead for two hundred years, and Will had plenty of crimes against the living – or recently deceased – to occupy his attention. Grave tampering was rather minor in comparison. But to his mind it also indicated not only a lack of respect, but possibly a sort of nefarious intent that both angered and chilled him.
    Not to mention that his sister had almost literally stumbled over the perpetrator – or perpetrators; they were still sorting out all the various shoeprints – in the act. Luckily, those perpetrators had been sufficiently disinclined toward discovery that they’d fled the scene rather than engaging, but what if Allie had been alone?  
    Allie yawned, pulling Will’s attention back from his musings.
    “Why don’t you go on to bed?” he suggested. “Get some rest while Dad’s sleeping.”
    Her gaze slid toward the door, a shadow of grief darkening her expression. “He’s getting worse,” she said simply.
    “I know.” And he knew what Allie wasn’t saying, what none of them had had the courage to say quite yet. Their father, as they’d known him, was gone. Like a sea creature, he’d left behind a familiar, but empty, shell.
    “Get some sleep,” he repeated, tweaking a lock of her hair as he stood up. Will stifled his own yawn, then headed toward the back stairs, and his childhood bedroom, where he changed into a clean shirt. There was work to do before he sought his bed for the night.
    He had a dead man to identify.
     
     
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    MASON opened his eyes, barely stifling the scream that wanted to emerge. Slitted yellow eyes stared at him from a distance of mere inches, as if sizing up his nose for an afternoon snack. A low, rumbling sound – impossible to distinguish as to whether it might be a growl or a purr – emanated from the gray, blubber-like shape.
    “Useless,” he murmured, finally recognizing his visitor. “How the bloody hell did you get in here, you fiend?”
    A knocking sound had him leaning up on one elbow. He met Sarah’s amused gaze through the screen of the porch door.
    “Mind if I come in?”
    “Mi casa es su casa,” he said. “Literally, in this case.”
    Sarah pushed open the