Mind Games (32 page)

“Scott won’t be in trouble, will he?” Madison asked.

“No. I’ll make sure of it.” I frowned. “Did something happen with you and Scott that night? Because I thought he was interested in you but he hasn’t done anything about it.” And she owed him her life, but I didn’t mention that.

“I don’t think so.” Madison shook her head. “I thought maybe he was but… A stupid fantasy. He’s a werewolf.”

“I know that.”

“It was the full moon.”

My eyes went wide. “Did he bite you?”

She shook her head. “I can’t talk about it. Please.”

“Madison–”

“Please.”

I nodded, once. “All right. But you do know I’m here for you, no matter what?”

“I know.”

“Madison, no one’s going to find out about David McClellan from me.”

Tears shone in her eyes. She leaned forward to give me a quick hug before backing away.

“What about the ring?” Madison asked, holding it out to me. “I shouldn’t have bought it, should I?”

“You sort of supported the industry that created it.” I sighed. “But I know why you did it. Just give it to Evan, like you said.”

M
Y BROTHER STOPPED BY THE NEXT
morning to infuse magic into the fire resistance potion. When he knocked I was already on my way out the door, eager to begin the two-hour trip that would take me to Sarah’s father and perhaps a greater insight into who she had been and what might have happened to her. I still didn’t know if she had killed herself, or if her husband had helped her; I only knew I needed to learn the truth soon. Assuming truth could stop a hate-filled mob.

“The potion.” I smacked my forehead. “Will this take long?”

“No.” He crossed to the kitchen where the potion still simmered on the stove.

“How is it?” I held my breath, worried that my recent distractions had ruined it.

“Very good,” Nicolas said, giving it a stir. “I always figured you’d be good at potion making since you’ve always been good in the kitchen.”
I smiled at the compliment. I had also done a good job brewing non-magical potions in the past, but it had been a while since I’d done much of that. Not since I’d all but given up magic in my life.

“I think you might have been just a little late adding the baking soda, though,” Nicolas said.

Wincing, I nodded. “Will it work?”

“Yeah, but probably not for the full hour.”

“I’ll throw it out and start another batch tonight,” I told him. I felt exhausted at the prospect, but determined to get it right.

“No, don’t do that.” Nicolas closed his eyes and began a low chant. About a minute later, he snapped his eyes open. “Done.”

“I will try this one again,” I said. “I’ll let you know when the new batch is ready.”

“Great, but in the meantime…” He scooped portion into each of four tiny vials and handed them to me. “Your share, as promised. Each one is about one dose. If you come up with something better, we can always replace it.”

He made too much sense to argue, and I felt oddly triumphant despite the fact that I still needed Nicolas to add the final magic. My labor and skill had produced the potion. I even felt as if I had earned it. Maybe I would make another potion soon, something that I hadn’t made in years but had a particularly satisfying affect when it contacted human skin. Only my mother could make painful boils better than I could.

* * *

The Matthews lived on a farm in the middle of Clay County, about thirty minutes from the nearest small town. When I arrived, Mr. Matthews sat on his front porch, sipping on a glass of lemonade. His eyes followed my progress from the driveway, never wavering, almost as if he thought he could read my intentions by the way I walked.

“Mr. Matthews,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Cassie Scot, a deputy with the Barry County Sheriff’s Department. ”

He took my hand and shook it, firmly.

“I hate to bother you at a time like this,” I went on. “I can’t imagine how hard it would be to lose a daughter.”

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to several rusty chairs scattered across the porch. At one time, they might have been green, but most of the paint had flaked off.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the one that looked the least abused.

“The sheriff already gave me a call,” Mr Matthews said. “Not sure how else I can help.”

“Well,” I said, “I was kind of hoping to talk to you and your wife, if that’s possible.”

“My wife is not well.” He frowned, deeply.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“I don’t really like to talk about it.”

“Please, Mr. Matthews, it may help our investigation.” After a moment’s hesitation I added. “I’m wondering if Sarah suffered from the same thing.”

“Sarah was just like her mom,” Mr. Matthews said, as if that explained everything.

“How was that?” I asked.

“Weak. My wife hasn’t spoken a word in ten years, but she writes. She’s always writing. You want to see her, you’re going to have to travel down the road to the County Asylum, where she’s been for the last eight years.”

“But Sarah wasn’t in an asylum.”

He laughed, mirthlessly. “Not yet.”

“What makes you think she would have been committed?” I asked.

“Her husband. She wouldn’t talk to me. Hadn’t spoken to me since I married her off, but I talked to her husband all the time. You’d think twelve years of prayer would make a dent, wouldn’t you?”

Only if you listen to what God’s actually telling you
, I wanted to say. Aloud, I said, “Faith can be powerful, yes.”

“Ah, but faith in what? My daughter once told me that she thought she should have faith in herself.”

“That’s good advice,” I said slowly, thinking idly of the war two men fought over the right to protect me.

“You’re as crazy as she was, then. You have faith in God. Only He can show you the way.”

“I didn’t realize the two were mutually exclusive.” I stood, knowing that any further conversation would degrade into irrational argument. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Matthews.”

“You just find the witch who did this.”

“What makes you so sure it was a witch?”

He gave me a look that told me it was patently obvious, if I would just pay attention. “Mark says it was. He wouldn’t lie.”

I
CALLED THE SHERIFF ON THE WAY
back into town and told him what I’d learned.

“Honestly,” I said, though it hurt me to do so, “I think she killed herself.”

Sheriff Adams didn’t say anything for a long time. “That doesn’t explain why the chief lied about his report. I’ve got our official second opinion, and I’m holding Sam for questioning.”

“Someone’s inciting all this,” I said.

“Looks that way, but who? And how?”

“Pastor Roberts,” I said instantly. “He’s got the gift of charisma, whether he wants to admit it or not.”

“Charisma?” The sheriff didn’t sound like he believed the gift could be so powerful. I knew better. Granted, my six-year-old brother, Adam, was all childish innocence now, using his gift to get extra desserts and new toys, but what about when he grew up? What would he want then?

“Was the fire at Jennifer Adams’s apartment deliberate?” I asked.

“Yes. I skipped Sam and went straight to my friend from the next county. The worst part is, the protesters are celebrating. I think they know who did it, and aren’t saying.”

My stomach did a little flip. “Is anyone keeping an eye on the pastor?”

“Yes, I have a guy following him, but he’s not doing anything interesting. And I can’t keep an eye on everyone.”

“What about Bethany Atkins?” I asked.

“I warned her to stay home. That’s all I can do right now. I don’t have any evidence to suggest they’ll go for her next. I actually had Jane call everyone on the list.”

I knew that was the best we could do, but I still felt uneasy. “You got anyone going to that church service tonight?”

“Your former partner, Rick, told me we were officially uninvited. Oh, and just in case anyone tries to use any illusion magic, he wanted to make sure I knew he remembered the camera trick.”

I cringed, remembering my father’s anger at me revealing that tidbit. I didn’t know what else I could have done at the time, though it would be convenient now if the enemy didn’t know.

“I doubt there’s a need,” Sheriff Adams continued. “At least tonight, they’ll all be in one place. We’ll have patrols in the area.”

“I could go,” I said. “Incognito.”

“No.”

“But–”

“No. You’re too hot right now. Half of them are still calling out for your brother’s blood, convinced he started the fire. None of them seem to have listened when I told them it wasn’t started with magic. Or maybe they did, and thought whoever it was used magic to cover up the fact that it was magic.”

“That kind of circular logic could drive you crazy,” I said. Kind of like wondering if someone was controlling a person’s mind. Not that anyone was. Controlling my mind, that is.

“I don’t actually want you to come back to the station today. You worked all weekend, take the afternoon off.”

“What? Why?”

“Cassie–”

“All right. Fine.”

“And you’ll stay away from that church tonight?”

That, I wouldn’t promise. “Bye, Sheriff.”

* * *

I spent the afternoon brewing my painful boils potion. It only took three hours, and when I was finished, I poured a healthy amount into a spray bottle. I suppose I could have gone to the store and armed myself with mace to achieve similar results, but brewing my own potion made me feel stronger. More in control. Even if I probably wasn’t.

At quarter to seven, Katie Clark hobbled up the front steps of the Gateway Christian Church with fewer friendly greetings than the week before. For the space of a minute or two, I wondered if they saw through my disguise, but then I realized the parishioners were simply preoccupied. I suppose I should have expected that, with the wife of their beloved pastor dead. This group was, if nothing else, a cohesive unit. And while they had seemed friendly to outsiders, they now clung naturally to the inner circle.

Rick stood guard at the door when I hobbled inside, inspecting all who walked through the doors. He had a hand-held camcorder in one hand and shone it at me, but since my disguise didn’t rely on magical illusion, he only saw what I wanted him to see.

“Who are you?” he asked, lowering the camera.

“Katie Clark.” I softened my voice, and prayed he wouldn’t recognize it.

“Never seen you here before.”

“Came last week. In town for a month and needed a church home.”

Rick looked ready to argue, but just then, Mr. Mueller, the youth pastor and Angie’s father, put a calming hand on his shoulder. “I saw her last week. Let’s not forget we’re Christians here. All God’s children are welcome.”

I supposed that meant sorcerers weren’t God’s children, but I didn’t say so. My face remained expressionless and serene, although the intense scrutiny Pastor Mueller was giving me made me want to check a mirror.

After that, most people simply didn’t notice me. But there was one. When I entered the sanctuary, I immediately ran into Angie, who stared at me with wide-eyed recognition. For a moment, I thought she would reveal my identity to everyone, but instead she grabbed my arm and led me across the hall to the ladies’ room.

Angie began checking the three stalls to make sure no one lurked within. “You can’t be here.”

“No one will know it’s me unless you tell them,” I said.

She shook her head. “I won’t, but you can’t risk it. People are seriously upset about Sarah and about what happened at the school yesterday. They know your sister started it and–”

“Don’t go there. Amanda started it.”

“Amanda didn’t blow up the cafeteria.” Angie finished her inspection of the stalls and stood with her back to the door.

I gazed at her levelly, trying to figure out whether it was worth arguing with her. “Just out of curiosity, how do you think she did that?”

“That’s just the problem. A week ago, most of the people in this church didn’t really believe in magic. They thought all the people who claimed to be sorcerers or whatever needed to find Jesus, but generally that they were crazy.”

“What do you think now?” I asked.

“Well, not everyone knows what to believe but–”

“No,” I interrupted. “What do
you
think?”

She looked away. “Well, I don’t think Elena went to school with explosives.”

“And everyone else?” I asked.

“Pastor Roberts is really convincing people now. He always believed, but now–”

“I see.”

“You don’t see,” Angie said, “They’ve already killed someone.”

“Jennifer,” I said. “Do you know who?”

“No. I’d tell you if I did. All I know is they’re talking about burning more witches and they’re naming names. It’s not an act anymore, and your name is at the top of their list.”