Free Spellcasters by Kelley Armstrong Page A

wait. Put your robe in a bag. I’ll burn it—”
    “Paige …”
    “I—Take a shower,” I stammered. “But leave the lights off. Don’t turn on any lights. No radio, no lights, nothing. Don’t open the blinds—”
    “Paige!” Savannah said, grabbing my shoulders. “I can help.” She enunciated each word as if I might not understand her. “It’s okay. I’ve seen this kind of stuff before.”
    “No, you haven’t. Get in—”
    “Yes, I have. Goddamn it, Paige—”
    “Don’t swear.”
    Savannah blinked and, for a second, she looked as if she might cry. “I know what that stuff is, Paige. Like I know what a Hand of Glory is. Why do you keep pretending I don’t?”
    As she tore off, I started going after her. Then a light flicked on next door and I froze. I looked from Savannah’s retreating back to the glow of the candles behind me. I didn’t have time to go after her—not now. Leah had composed this horrific tableau for a reason and I doubted she went to all that trouble just to spook me. The police would receive an anonymous phone call: “Go look behind Paige Winterbourne’s house.” I had to clear this before anyone followed up on that tip.
    To the left of the altar was a blackened mound that I hadn’t seen earlier. Smoke rose from the mound carrying with it the stench of burned meat. I closed my eyes to compose myself, then approached the smoldering heap and bent to look at it. At first glance, I couldn’t tell what it was, or what it had been. I wanted to walk away then, get a shovel, and bury it without ever knowing. But I had to know. If I didn’t, I’d lie awake at night, wondering what I’d buried.
    I took a stick and prodded at the mound. At the first sharp jab, it fell apart, exposing a sawed-open rib cage. I pressed the back of my hand to my eyes and took a deep breath. The very taste of it filled my mouth and I lurched forward, spilling whatever was left in my stomach.
    Oh, God, I couldn’t—I just couldn’t. No, I had to. This was my problem, my responsibility.
    I forced my gaze back to the charred bones, struggling to study them with a scientist’s eye. From my few years of biology, I could differentiate between a biped and quadruped ribcage. This was quadruped. To be sure, I poked the stick near the end of the spine, revealing a tail. Yes, definitely an animal. Probably another cat. Okay, I could handle this now. Observe without truly seeing, that was the trick.
    I stood and surveyed the site. My brain processed the details, making no judgments, allowing no reactions. There was a chalice filled with blood beside the dead cat on the makeshift altar. Yes, that was to be expected. Black Mass was an inversion and perversion of the Catholic Mass. In a university folklore course I’d done my term project on Satanic cults, debating whether they fit the standard definition of a contemporary legend, so I knew what to look for, what I needed to find and clear away.
    There should be an inverted crucifix … yes, there it was, hanging from the tree. I strode over and pulled it down. Pentagrams? No, it appeared they’d overlooked … wait, there, drawn in the dirt. I started to erase it with my boot, then grabbed a handful of brush instead, so I wouldn’t leave footprints. Okay, that seemed to be everything.
    Next I needed to bury the corpses. I turned to look at the eviscerated cat in the tree. I willed my gaze past the poor beast to study the hanging device instead, so I’d know what I needed to cut it loose, but I couldn’t help seeing the body, swaying in the breeze.
    What kind of person could bring themselves not only to kill a cat, but to—My gorge rose and I doubled over, retching. This time, nothing came but a thin string of acid. I spat to clear the taste from my mouth, then, still bent over, wiped my face, took a deep breath of the foul air, and marched to the shed to find a shovel.
    Twenty minutes later, I’d buried all three cats and started dismantling the