Chapter Twenty-Seven. A Twist of Fate

C HAPTER T WENTY-SEVEN

A Twist of Fate

ANY hope I’d entertained of having a good night was dashed upon entering my room and finding the White Witch sitting there waiting on me. She was dressed in her usual black mourning gown and seated at the table with a cup of tea in her hand, as if she’d dropped by for a visit—albeit at one o’clock in the morning.

Her amber gaze settled upon me in the same fashion my cat, Fiachna, would eye a field mouse before giving chase. She lifted the teacup to her lips in silent greeting.

At the best of times, I struggled to look her in the eye—but the effect was even worse after what happened with Ruan at the lake. “I am sorry. I should have sent him away.”

I braced myself for the anger that did not come.

“It was vanity to think I could intercede in what the gods have decided.” Hecate sighed, placing her teacup down in the saucer before turning her attention to the fogged-up window behind the bathing tub. “My visions have never erred before, not until you crossed his path. But I suppose not an unexpected turn of events considering what you are.”

“I do not get your meaning.” I shifted, hugging myself against the cool night air.

“You are not ready to understand. Not yet. But in time it will become clear.”

I blew out a breath and grabbed a log, tossing it onto the fire. This was the most preposterous conversation to be having at this hour. But at least if we were going to have it, I’d be warm. I poked angrily at the hot embers until finally the new log fed the dying flames. “Your vision wasn’t wrong.”

“What do you mean, child? He lives. I felt it when I found you upon the shore.”

I stood—joints aching, and squeezed the handle of the poker—twisting it in my hand. “He does, but it seems that he lost his…”

“He lost his what, Morvoren?”

I turned back around, fixated on the fireplace as if there were answers there within the flames. It was easier to stare at fire than at the curious look of the woman behind me.

“I repeat. What has he lost?”

“His power. He’s lost his power.” There. I’d admitted it at last. Put voice to the things I could not bear to think upon.

Hecate remained silent for several seconds before she let out a chilling laugh. “Foolish child… Pellars are born what they are. They cannot be unmade. The boy simply exhausted himself. What he did…” She stared as if she could see through the clothing to the scar on my chest. “What he did in that lake was beyond anything I’ve seen in centuries. It is ancient and dangerous, the power he drew upon. And I wonder—”

Centuries? My hand rose in a futile attempt to hide the scar, leaving a sooty mark on my blouse.

“Do not fear for him. His body needs to heal, as does his mind.” She ran her hand through the flame of the candle on the table, drawing my eye. “Ruan Kivell is stronger than any mortal witch I’ve seen, but he does not know how to use his power. It is for the best that it is resting. Especially in this place. This is an unstable site. It has been a seat of power for my kind for thousands of years. It is also why the spirits have sway. But I sense you did not want to speak of your Pellar to me this night.”

My nostrils flared. No. I didn’t. Truthfully I did not want to speak to her at all. She laid her unnaturally cold hand on my shoulder and gave me what could only pass as a smile—an unnerving sight. “Tell me what troubles you, Morvoren.”

I let out a strangled laugh, my free hand going to my hair. “Hecate, there is a murderer here. One, possibly two dead mediums. Someone shot me. Ruan almost died. And my employer’s fate depends on whether or not I can figure out who actually killed Lucy Campbell. And you ask me what troubles me ?”

Hecate looked past me into the flames. “Be mindful of the remaining medium. I do not believe she works alone.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. “Truly. That is what you tell me? To be careful of quite possibly the most suspicious person on this entire estate.” I gestured, forgetting for a moment I still held the poker. “You call yourself a witch and tell me no more than what I’ve already surmised. Can’t you ask your old gods? Summon a vision. Something useful?”

She gave me a bemused look, not at all disturbed that I was waving a fire poker at her. “Do you not think, child, if we had such vast power at our disposal that we would have altered just one single moment of human history, halted one of their foolish wars, or prevented the slaughter of so many of our kind by theirs over the years?”

Exhausted from the day, I laid the poker on the table and slumped full-bodied onto the bed, staring up at the beams on the ceiling above. “I don’t suppose you deal in miracles then, do you? Because I most certainly am in need of one.”

“Those are the province of your kind, not mine.”

This was more frustrating than conversing with a drunken Mr. Owen, but I no longer cared. If I was going to succeed in my plan for a second séance, then I needed her help. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

She tugged her long dark braid over her shoulder and glided across the room. “I do.”

Hecate drew in a haggard breath and continued. “It is a dangerous game to call for the dead, as one can never be certain who will answer. Especially in a hallowed place like this.”

The scholar in me might have questioned her more, had we more time. But there simply never was enough of the stuff. Not when I remained stubbornly two steps behind the killer. “Ruan says the spirits are angry here.”

“They are. Dark and terrible things have happened to those who dwell in this house. They do not forget it.” She frowned. “I do not like this turn of conversation. I beg of you, do not even think of doing what you are about to ask.”

I slammed my hand helplessly on the mattress. “I do not know what else to do. Everyone in this godforsaken castle has secrets and there are so many lies that I cannot see my way out of it. The only thing I can think is to have a second séance.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, quite possibly the most human emotion I’ve seen from Hecate in our brief acquaintance. “I will not summon the dead. Not even for you, Morvoren. And you cannot force me.”

“It isn’t the dead I want to find, it’s the living.” I tugged the ring from my pocket and thrust it at her. “I believe this is the key that Mariah’s spirit spoke of. I am certain of it. But what I cannot understand is what it means.”

“You believe that is why Lucy was killed.”

“Perhaps even Mariah too. She left it with Mr. Owen the night she disappeared. ‘I left you the key,’ the spirit said at that very first séance. This must be that key.”

The only sign Hecate was listening was the slight widening of her golden eyes at my words.

“I don’t give a damn about the dead—they can answer or not—but I believe the ring will bring the killer to us. It’s our only chance.”

For a half second, I worried that Hecate might continue to argue with me as Ruan had earlier. The White Witch plucked the ring from my palm and held it up to the candlelight, wordlessly studying it before dropping it back into my palm.

“I accept, Morvoren.”

Only I wasn’t quite certain what the terms were for her aid. But if it saved Mr. Owen, I would have agreed to them all without question.