The Line (Witching Savannah #1)

The Line (Witching Savannah #1) Page 37

“Maybe. Maybe not. You gonna have to figure that out for yourself.”

“But what I don’t get is that Ginny must have known how to protect herself from whatever was attacking her. Based on what you’ve told me, she must have accepted the intention of her attacker.”

Jilo smiled like a proud teacher. “That’s right, my girl. You seeing the big picture now. Who would that old woman have accepted her death from? That’s the question you need to be askin’.” And with that I was standing by the river alone, as alone as if Jilo had never been there at all. The air was as hot and moist as a dog’s breath as I started making my way through the cemetery. A storm was brewing, and I just hoped to make it home before it broke.

TWENTY

The sky turned the orange of ripe cantaloupe, and the wind began to swirl around me, pelting me with hail. A bolt of lightning zipped overhead, followed by the peal of distant thunder. Then the clouds opened up, rain falling in buckets as the quickening lightning chased it from the sky. I must have been living right, because I managed to catch an empty taxi that had just let off a bunch of fool tourists at the gates of Bonaventure. I knew the driver, and she refused to turn the meter on. “I got a hotel pickup on Bay anyway; I’ll drop you off on my way,” she said. “Sorry about all of your family’s troubles of late.” I thanked her and forced her to take a five for an after work drink before letting her drive off.

By then the worst of the wind had blown through, and the sky had gone from sherbet to gunmetal. Even though the wind had relented, rain was still falling all around me as I tore up the steps to the front door.

“Mercy.” Jackson’s voice surprised me. I hadn’t even noticed his presence until I heard my name. He was soaked and shivering in the rain that was still whipping through the porch’s columns. His car was nowhere in sight, so he must have walked here in the storm. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”

“Sure,” I replied. “About Maisie?”

“No. About us.” Lightning flashed around us like a strobe light with a migraine, and I wanted to be inside.

“There is no ‘us.’ ” I wanted to put a barrier between myself and the elements. I wanted to put a barrier between myself and Jackson too, but I wasn’t sure why. Had Jilo’s magic worked so completely? Thunder trampled on the lightning’s heel, with hardly a second between them. I couldn’t just leave him out here. I reached out and tried the door.

“It’s locked,” he said. “I rang a few times. No one’s home.”

I found my key and opened the door. “Let’s get you a towel,” I said and stepped into the dim foyer. I tried to switch on the lights, but nothing happened. “Looks like we’ve lost power.”

Jackson followed me inside and closed the door behind us, leaving us nearly in the dark. My eyes were slow to adjust, dazzled as they had been by the lightning. I felt him draw close to me, placing a tentative touch on my shoulder. He pulled me to him—gently at first, but with increasing urgency. I tried to extract myself, but his other hand reached for me too, and before I knew it, I was in his arms. His skin was hot beneath the chill of his wet shirt, and I could feel his heart thudding against mine. My body began to respond to his, fire building between us, but as my body’s will weakened, my conscience took over. I could not—would not—betray Maisie. I reached up to push him away, my hands pressing against the steel of his chest, his shoulders, but his mouth found mine. His tongue forced its way past my lips, and for a moment all of the old feelings were there, as sharp and as intoxicating as they had always been. My scruples deserted me. He should be mine.

But even as that thought burned its way into my consciousness, my body began to strain to free itself from his grasp. Jilo’s magic wrestled with my emotions, repressing my ardor for Jackson, making its color drain away until I felt nothing. Peter’s face rose up in my mind, and the warm glow I felt for him once again transformed itself into the passion I had sold my soul to Jilo to kindle.

“Stop,” I said, and then again more forcefully, “Stop.”

He loosened his hold, and I pushed away from him. Even in the dark, my eyes had no difficulty registering the disappointment on his face. “I know you feel it too,” he said. “I know…”

A flash of lightning flared through the window, lighting up the room around us. There was a bloody stain on the wall behind him. A handprint. Adrenaline flooded my body. I tried to speak but couldn’t find my voice. I pounded on his chest with one hand, pointing over with his shoulder with the other. At first he wrinkled his forehead in confusion, but then he turned. Another less furious flash illuminated the print once again.

“Stay here,” he said, scanning the entrance way for a viable weapon. There was nothing.

“No way,” I replied, reaching out to take his hand. This time he was the one to pull away. “Stay behind me if you’re going to come,” he said.

I followed him into the library, my view blocked by his broad shoulders. He banged into an end table. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Can’t see a thing.”

“In the desk,” I said. “Connor usually keeps a flashlight in the top right drawer.”

Jackson carefully made his way to the desk and rummaged for the flashlight as noiselessly as possible. After a moment, he pulled it out and flicked it on, its beam hitting my eyes and temporarily blinding me. He turned and ran the beam over the room. “Nothing,” he said and led me back across the foyer and into the living room. Jackson swept the room with the light, and I stepped out from behind him and took in the scene. A struggle, a fierce one, had taken place here. The poker from the fireplace lay in the center of the room, and the rug beneath it was stained black.

“Don’t touch it,” Jackson commanded before I even realized that I’d bent over to pick it up. I took a step back and surveyed the room. Furniture had been knocked aside, and there were shards of broken crystal everywhere—the remnants of Iris’s favorite vase. Jackson shone the light on the floor, revealing a trail of blood drops that led from the room to the handprint on the foyer wall. He crossed over to the fireplace, grabbing the log tongs. “Take the light,” he said, handing it to me. It was only when I took it that I realized my hands were shaking.

Jackson returned to the foyer, and I followed close behind. Drops of blood led us the first few steps down the hall, and then the drops turned into a smear. Someone had fallen and been dragged away from the spot. The smear served as a bloody marker, pointing us in the direction of the kitchen. We crept up to the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the hallway. Jackson turned to face me and raised the tongs in his hands like he was holding a baseball bat. He nodded at me and then kicked open the door, which hit the wall behind it with a whack as loud as the dying thunder. He dove through the opening, but the door swung back through the frame before I could join him, flapping until it came to rest.

“Oh, my God,” his voice carried over to me. It felt like an eternity had passed since he’d crossed into the kitchen. “My God,” he kept repeating, his tone keening and filled with panic. I didn’t want to see what was on the other side, but I stepped forward and eased the door open with the gentlest of pressure, and my feet carried me across the threshold.