The Void (Witching Savannah Book 3) (3 page)

“Oh,” Oliver said, his eyes open wide. “I thought this was about finding justice for the poor woman Wren and associates have been hacking up.”

Adam’s head jerked back. He blinked. “That’s unfair—”

“Damn right it’s unfair.” The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I was going to say them. I might as well finish the thought. “Adam has bent over backward to protect our family.” My index finger was up, and it was pointing. “You reel that smart mouth of yours back in, or I will smack it for you myself.”

“There will be no smacking anybody.” Iris did some finger pointing of her own, this time in my direction.

“I didn’t mean it,” I said, feeling like a chastised six-year-old. “I just mean we owe it to Adam to deal with this in a way that doesn’t leave him hanging.”

“Damn,” Oliver said, his chest puffed out and a lopsided grin on his face, delighted I had stood up for Adam, even if it meant standing up to him. “I’m really starting to miss the days when Mercy didn’t like you so much.”

We were all struck silent when the pendulum stopped dead and pulled toward the map like it had been magnetized. With his free hand Adam patted the pocket of his suit coat and retrieved a ballpoint pen. He clicked it and made an X on the map at a point near Columbia Square. He’d evidently been satisfied with the preliminary result of his experiment. He looked up at us. “It’s a hit.”

He lifted the pendulum and it instantly began swinging again. It fell with a thump on a second point. Adam had no sooner inked a mark near the cartoonish representation of Christ Church than the pendulum’s weight bounced back into the air. It landed again on East Bay Street, near the point where it crosses Whitaker. Before Adam could mark the map, the pendulum bounced across the river and landed on Hutchison Island, right where the Talmadge Bridge crosses over the parkway. Adam seemed shocked by his own success, so much so that he didn’t even bother trying to mark the spot.

The weight jumped back up and began to spin again, but this time instead of widdershins it moved clockwise. It dove again with such force the weight punched a hole through the caricature of a spitting lion that marked the location of the Cotton Exchange fountain. We’d find a permanent divot in the tabletop once the map was moved, of that much I was sure.

“Dang!” Adam exclaimed and dropped the chain. He hopped up and ran to the sink, turning on the cold-water tap and putting his hand under the stream. “The damned thing burned me.”

“Let me see.” Iris rose and joined him at the sink. “Just a burn. Magical in origin, but natural in effect. Let me get some ice for that.”

Adam shook his hand once, twice. “No. That’s okay. It’ll be fine.”

“Tough guy,” Oliver said as he took hold of Adam’s pen and marked the locations Adam had missed. Adam and Iris returned and studied the defaced map. “All right, does anyone see a pattern?”

“Four of the five are hits for where we’ve found body parts.” Adam swiped the pen from Oliver’s grasp and drew somewhat shaky lines between the points. He tapped at the map with his finger, pointing to the scrawls he had made. “There. Is that witch writing? What does that symbol mean to y’all?”

“It means you are grasping at straws,” Iris answered shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Adam, I can discern no pattern in the markings.”

I leaned in and picked up the pendulum. It still felt warm to the touch. “I don’t see any pattern in the markings, but the pendulum spun left when it hit on places where you
have
found remains. It spun right before hitting on the fountain. I suspect that’s where the next part is gonna turn up.”

I no sooner got the words out than Adam’s cell rang. He swiped it off the table and looked at the caller ID. “Cook,” he answered before it had the chance to ring a third time. His eyes locked on to mine. “Yes. I understand. Cordon it off. Keep the tourists back. I’ll be right there.” He hung up and dropped his phone into his pocket.

“Her torso—headless—has turned up at the fountain.” His face fell. He looked suddenly older, defeated. I realized he really had been holding out hope he’d somehow save this woman. I didn’t know whether to think of it as optimism or denial, but I liked him even more for it. “I gotta get back to work.” He focused on me. “You keep close to your family for now, okay? No more sauntering around on your own.”

“Okay.”

He looked at Oliver. “Walk me out?”

“Yeah.” Oliver went to the sink and rinsed out the dirty pie tin. “I should get going too,” he said and turned to give Iris a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanksgiving. Two p.m. Thursday, you two,” she called out after the men. “Don’t be late.”

“I’ll do my best.” Adam opened the door to the garden.

“Which means keep a plate in the oven, but don’t wait up.” Oliver pushed Adam out the door.

Iris turned to me. “I should have let you smack him.”

“Yes, ma’am, you should have.”

THREE

“I just caught the menfolk smooching in the driveway.” Ellen came in and sat her purse on the table next to the map. “Adam informed me that we delicate ladies are no longer to be wandering the streets of the wicked city of Savannah by ourselves.”

“The poor man’s ego has suffered enough.” Iris went to the cupboard and pulled down three mugs. “Let him believe he is protecting us, rather than the other way around. I’m not sure how he’d react if he knew we three fainting flowers have woven a cage of protective magic around him.”

After the abuse Emily and Josef had dealt Adam, we made a pact to ensure he could never be snatched from us again. Oliver knew only enough about our spell to allow him both a case for plausible deniability and the ability to sleep at night.

“How was your ‘meeting’?” Iris asked.

“Well, let’s see, I sit down and say ‘Hi, I’m Ellen. I’m an alcoholic. And a witch.’ There’s a moment of dead silence, then someone inevitably says, ‘Keep coming back.’ ” In spite of her sarcasm, I could tell she was doing better. She glowed with health, and a bit of her old spark had returned to her lovely blue eyes. She brushed aside her blonde bangs and smiled at me.

“You discuss magic?” Iris asked with muted horror in her voice.

“ ‘You’re only as sick as your secrets,’ ” she quoted brightly, but then her tone fell flat. “At first I tried speaking in veiled terms, but it was too exhausting. Then I realized most everyone there was caught up in their own thoughts anyway. The ones who do listen are convinced I am crazier than . . . well, than I don’t know what.”

“But it’s helping you?” Iris pressed.

“Yeah.” Ellen nodded. “I think it is.”

“Then you share whatever you want.” Iris fetched the teakettle from the stove and filled it at the sink. “I think it will do some of these folk around here good to know the types of difficulties we Taylors face daily. Might even change a few people’s opinions about us.” She lit the burner and set the kettle on the flame.

“I think I’m beyond caring what anyone thinks about us. I am tired of being judged. I am tired of watching our neighbors grab their children and scurry away like frightened mice every time I say good morning.”

“Now, Ellen, you know you are exaggerating. They don’t behave that poorly toward us.” Iris folded her arms and smiled. I agreed with Iris that our neighbors were never impolite, but there were many subtle bits of evidence that Ellen’s feelings were not unfounded. Her new flower shop was doing well, but most of her orders were destined for hospital delivery, not weddings. Was it actual talk of Ellen’s power to heal or merely intuition that led people to send her bouquets to the broken and ill, but not to mark an anniversary? People had always found witches to be useful, as long as we maintained a comfortable distance. Since I had gained my powers, I myself had noticed a remarkable change in the way the non-witches treated me. Even those with whom I had been closest had begun to draw back.

“Well, no, but if I yelled ‘boo’—” Ellen stopped as her focus fell onto the pendulum I still held. “Where in the hell did that come from?” She took note of the map. “What is going on?”

“Have a seat,” Iris said. I laid the pendulum down on the map, feeling somehow guilty for having been caught with it in hand.

Ellen shrugged and sighed. “This day just will not stop.” She pulled out a chair across the table from me and sat. “What is it now?”

Iris and I looked at each other, silently debating which of us would update Ellen. “The map,” I said, taking the coward’s approach to the problem. After Paul’s death, Ellen had used Wren almost as a surrogate, wasting the fruit of her maternal instincts on the false child. I’d start with the latest news about the murder and figure out a graceful way to bring up Wren in the seconds that bought me, at least I hoped.

“Wow, it must be bad if you are trying to start there.” Ellen pointed at the pendulum. “Let’s hear about that first. I thought it disappeared during the fire at Ginny’s.”

I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. My life had become far too sedentary for my liking. Especially at the current moment. Ellen continued staring at me, so I dove in. “Wren’s back.”

Ellen closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “Then I haven’t been hallucinating.” She opened her eyes. “I thought I saw the little bastard lurking. I caught glances of him a few times out of the corner of my eye. I set fire to a ficus trying to hit him.” She folded her hands on the table. “You got the pendulum off him?”

I nodded. “He passed it on to me with the message that Adam should use it.”

Her hair fell at an angle as she tilted her head. She smiled. “Was that the bad part? The part I needed to sit down for?”

“Well, yes, kind of . . .”

“We have reason to believe he is involved in the murder Adam has been investigating.”

Ellen turned her face toward her sister. “It is officially a murder, then?” The kettle chose that very instant to cry out, and I jumped a little.

Iris turned off the burner. “We don’t know the details. Adam was just heading to the scene when you arrived, but a headless torso was left at the Cotton Exchange fountain.”

“Lovely,” Ellen said and turned to me. “That image will about ruin Old Rex for me forever.” When Maisie and I were kids, we had dubbed the fountain’s lion “Old Rex.” I knew what she meant. Yet another happy memory tainted.

I watched as Iris scalded the teapot and started the brew. Ellen caught my attention by tapping on the map with her nail. “These marks. They’re where the parts have been discovered?” I nodded. “What about the lines drawn between them?”

“Adam was looking for some kind of pattern in their placement,” Iris responded for me. “He thought he’d discovered an occult symbol or something.”

“Bless his heart,” Ellen said reflexively. “I suspect he’s correct in thinking there is a hidden meaning in this, even if he’s naïve about what the message should look like.”

“What do you mean?” I leaned back over the map, taking another look at the points where marks had been made.

“You’re the tour guide in the family.” Ellen pointed at the X Adam had put on Hutchinson Island. “Let’s start there. A foot was found there, right?” she asked Iris, and Iris nodded her response. “What is significant about Hutchinson?”

I brushed past the untruths I myself had made up about the island to arrive at the accepted canon of stories, factual or no, that make up Hutchinson’s official history. “It’s where Alice Riley killed William Wise.” This murder led to Alice being hanged. The first time in the history of Georgia that a woman died at the gallows. I shuddered as a connection formed in my mind. “Alice was accused of practicing witchcraft.”

Iris had spent years volunteering for the historical society. “In her day, any woman worth her salt was accused of it,” Iris said as she carried a tray with the teapot and three mugs to the table. Ellen slid the map over so Iris could find room for the tray. “Still, she was tried for murder not witchcraft. She was a killer, but by no means a witch.”

“Wasn’t Alice pregnant at the time of the trial?” Ellen asked. I didn’t like the next station where this train of thought was bound to stop.

“Yes, the court stayed her execution until she gave birth.” Iris turned to me. “Listen, we could easily jump to conclusions and draw connections between you, a pregnant witch, and the unfortunate Miss Riley. But let’s don’t for now.” She placed a cup of hot chamomile before me. “Drink that.”

A look passed between my aunts. “The other foot. They found it near Columbia Square,” Iris said as she handed Ellen a steaming mug. “In the middle of the street right in front of the Kehoe Mansion.”

“Kehoe.” Ellen took a sip of tea. “Savannah’s king of cast iron. What could that signify?”

I shrugged. Nothing jumped to mind.

Iris took the seat next to Ellen. “What was that horrible lie you used to tell about the Kehoe family?” She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “The one that almost got me kicked out of the historical society.”

“You mean the first time she almost got you kicked out.”

“Yes.” Iris snapped her fingers as my story came back to her. “You claimed Kehoe’s wife, Anne, had an affair with a worker from the foundry, and Kehoe killed him and burned him in the furnace.”

“Then added the ashes to the cast iron he used to build the Kehoe Mansion,” Ellen finished for her. They both stared at me. Ellen shook her head. “How did you come up with those horrid stories of yours?”

“It was just a fib.” I had actually forgotten the part about the ashes until Ellen reminded me.

“A fib?” Iris looked at Ellen then turned back to me. “More of a calumny.” I surmised she had forgiven me due to the smile on her lips. “I could never decide whether I should feel mortified by these fables you were spinning or proud of them. Every day I stood helplessly by, watching as you twisted the essence of your heritage to the benefit of your own unscrupulous purposes.” She laughed, but from the way she squinted at me, she had remembered another tale to take me to task over. In the next instant her laughter dried up, and her eyes fell to the map. “What if we are looking at this whole situation wrong?” Iris wrapped her arms around herself as if she were fighting off a sudden chill. “What if instead of viewing the killer’s actions as a message, we look on it as a spell?”

Ellen leaned in toward Iris. “You mean rather than looking for a logical connection between the places the killer has chosen, we try to uncover any magical correspondences?”

The use of magical correspondences helped to focus a spell by drawing like to like or substituting an item with similar attributes for another. In the most vulgar of its forms, the power of magical correspondences showed up as tourist shop Voodoo dolls. At its most refined it served as the basis of spiritual alchemy. Real witches rarely relied on it, using it only when the magic they were attempting fell outside their innate abilities or called for a higher level of precision than they could muster without habiliments.

“That makes it less likely we are looking for one of us then, right?” I asked. “A witch, I mean.”

Iris was about to answer when her cell rang. Her hand pounced on it before it could ring a second time. The rise in color to her cheeks announced her caller was Sam. Her face glowed as a mischievous smile rose to her lips. She paused before answering, trying to come across a little less excited than she was. “Hello,” she nearly purred. Ellen leaned toward her, trying to eavesdrop, but Iris gave her a playful push back. “Oh,” she said, the shine leaving her eyes. “No, I understand, I do. Tomorrow—” she began, but her eyebrows fell. I knew that Sam had hung up.

“Everything all right?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.” Iris forced a new smile on her face. “Sam was supposed to swing by this evening, but he’s run into some difficulty with work. He’s under quite a bit of pressure right now,” she offered as apology for him when in truth none was owed. I knew she was merely repeating his own words. I had to wonder if things were cooling off, at least on his side.

Ellen flashed me a look that told me she was wondering the same thing. Iris caught on to our silent conversation. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, “he’s got a project to finish before the holiday. Don’t go reading anything into it.”

“Reading nothing into anything,” I said throwing up my hands. “Still, I will shrink his head to the size of a grape if he hurts you.”

“And I,” Ellen said, “will shrink the part he thinks with.”

Iris placed her hands on her hips. “No one is shrinking anything. Please remember, I am quite fond of his ‘thought’ process.” I was glad to see she had shaken off the gloom that had descended on her, her false smile making way for a true one. “Everything is wonderful. He’s a bit stressed out. That’s all.” The smile faded as she fixed us with a steely glare. “Now, put that map away, and prepare yourself to face a true horror. Grocery shopping two days before Thanksgiving.”