Well, Shannon had known him best. What could it hurt to try? We might learn something about her gift, as I’d certainly never heard of anything like it. Kilmer did birth some weird ones, and yes, I meant myself too.

“Try calling him,” I suggested. “If we can get him in the room with us—”

“The wards,” Jesse cut in. “He can’t come in. We blocked anything that means us harm, and confused as he is right now, he might not know friend from foe.”

“Ideas?” I glanced at Chance, hoping he wasn’t still mad.

He was. I saw it in the set of his jaw and the tilt of his eyes. That didn’t stop him from saying, “If you’re determined to do this, we could go out on the porch. That way, if things go bad, we can run back inside.”

The notion sent a cold chill through me, and I wanted to immediately reject it. It didn’t seem wise to step outside our protective walls after dark, but I waited to see what everyone else would say. Saldana considered.

“We’d need to prop the door open with something heavy,” Jesse said finally. “If we get locked out, we’re sitting ducks out there, and my gun isn’t going to help.” At Shannon’s worried look, he added, “Don’t worry. I’m a cop.”

Evidently she didn’t like the police any better than I did. If Robinson set the standard in Kilmer, I could see why she shared my bias. But Sheriff Pasco, who had the job when I lived here, had been worse.

I raised a brow. “So y’all want to go outside in the dark—in sight of those scary woods—and call up an angry dead man to see what he has to say?”

The looks I received in answer to my question registered as the facial equivalent of a shrug. Shannon seemed least concerned, but she either figured she could run faster than us, or she hadn’t seen as much trouble. Either way, I had a bad feeling.

Butch whimpered.

“Yes or no? Show of hands.”

I wanted to vote no; I really did. But it was my fault we were here in the first place, and if Mr. McGee could tell us something about what was killing Kilmer, we had to find out what he knew. It would be better if Chuch were here, but we’d do the best we could under the circumstances. With a sigh, I raised my hand. Slowly, Jesse did the same. Shannon’s hand went up next—and when she stopped touching the radio, it lapsed into signal snow. Chance’s vote didn’t matter.

My ex stood and went rummaging in the house. I heard him looking for something heavy enough to function as a doorstop. He returned with a rusty cast-iron skillet.

Chance propped open the door. Night air rushed in, cool, clammy, and somehow ominous. “If we’re doing this, we shouldn’t let it get any later.”

I hoped he wouldn’t make stupid jokes about the witching hour. I tended to take them personally.

I blew out a breath. “What the hell, right?”

In the Still of the Night

Thunder boomed a third time, a ghost storm threatening noise and nothing else.

I noticed a prickle as I passed out of the house, beyond the protection of the wards. Out there, I felt defenseless, and not just because I was barefoot. I sensed the thing in the forest watching from the shadow of the trees, darkness beyond mere night, beyond mere absence of light.

It had a particular smell, thick and cloying, like a stagnant pond grown black and green with dying things. With it came that sense of pressure, as if we were miles beneath the ocean. The thing watched us, listened, but it did nothing. I didn’t understand its passivity, and that bothered me.

As we arranged ourselves in a circle, keeping on our feet in case we had to move fast, I had the ill-timed thought that between Jesse and Shannon, we now qualified as a Scooby-Doo unit. Butch watched us from the doorway. Whatever foolishness we were about, he wasn’t dumb enough to step outside the house for it. That should have sent us all back inside, I guess, but sometimes necessity outweighed wisdom.

“Call him,” Chance said to Shannon.

She cast an imploring look at me. “I don’t know how.”

“There are no real magick words,” I said, quoting my mother. “Any old words will do, if you put your will behind them.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try.” She closed her eyes as if she meant to pray. “Mr. McGee, I’m really sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye to you. We both knew things were bad here, but I reckon we didn’t know how bad. If you can hear me, if you’d come and talk with me a minute, I’d sure appreciate it.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and then I felt it in the wind rustling the bushes beside the porch. It picked up speed and curled around us like a small, unearthly cold cyclone. I just hoped Mr. McGee didn’t blame us for what had happened to him. We had been talking to him when he died, after all.

“Well done,” Jesse told her. “He’s here.”

Shannon gulped a little. I guessed the certainty of the strange was more intimidating than the idea of it. Things usually sounded cooler in theory than they were in practice.

She didn’t hesitate, though. I gave her credit for that. Instead, she fiddled with the knobs, trying to find his frequency. It took a little while for her to tune in; she found him on the AM side of the dial this time.

And then McGee’s voice crackled from the speakers, tinny and full of impossible distance. “Can you hear me?”

The eeriness of the moment went beyond anything I could articulate. There were no stars; just a brooding wood beyond, and the heavy feel of a storm that wouldn’t come. He’d stopped raging, and sounded more or less coherent—for an angry, vengeful spirit.

It seemed right for Shannon to greet him. She’d known him best. We motioned her onward, so she said uncertainly, “Mr. McGee? It’s me. What happened to you?”

I thought that was a singularly unhelpful question, but then, we had yielded the lead to an eighteen-year-old girl. What did we expect?

McGee answered, “I died, fool girl. They killed me.”

“How?” Chance cut in.

Shannon repeated the question because he didn’t seem to hear anyone but her.

The radio speakers popped. “How should I know? Something choked me while two fools stood there, worthless as tits on a bull. But I do know damn well that wasn’t natural.”

It hadn’t seemed so to me, either. It stank of summoning. I’d heard of dark stalkers, malicious energy given purpose by a wicked practitioner’s will. Maybe we’d hoped for too much in thinking he’d be able to give us information about his death. Dying didn’t give you all the answers, apparently.

“You were trying to tell us something,” Chance prompted. “Can you remember what it was?”

The girl passed the question along.

“Yes.” The radio cut out, and I glanced at Shannon, who was looking pale. Snowy static replaced McGee’s voice. The radio cut back in. “—and Augustus England.”

I had the feeling we’d missed some important bits, but the girl didn’t look good. Her skin had gone from pale to ash gray. Not good—maybe we shouldn’t push further. We didn’t know anything about her gift or what it took from her

“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her shoulder because she looked like she might collapse.

“My head feels funny,” she whispered.

I touched her cheek and found it clammy. Tremors shook her like an apartment above an overpass. Chance plucked the radio from her hands, probably figuring it was draining her somehow, and Jesse swung her up in his arms.

“Let’s get her back inside,” I said.

The threat from the woods never manifested. I found that strange—and disturbing. Evil rarely practiced anything so subtle as restraint; I didn’t want the thing watching us, learning. I didn’t want a clever, refined enemy. That might prove more than we could handle. I shuddered, remembering how it had said my name. It had called me “precious child,” like Mr. McGee. It had claimed to know my mother. With a final look down the dark gravel drive, I shut the door behind me. Inside, I found Shannon sprawled on the couch. The radio sat beside her on the table, but I wouldn’t ask her to do that again until I knew something more about her gift.

“I think she’s hypoglycemic,” Jesse said. “She has all the preliminary symptoms: nausea, clammy skin, shakes. I’m going to get her some raisins and make a cup of sweet tea for her to drink. If that doesn’t help, she might need a hospital.”

I nodded as I sat down beside her. “Get the raisins. Quick.”

Shannon tried to protest, mumbling she hated raisins, but I ignored the complaint. She ate a handful at my insistence, and then muttered, “If I hurl, you’re cleaning it up.”

Recognizing her need for bravado and attitude, I gave her that. “Yeah, of course.”

By the time Jesse returned with the hot tea, she looked a little better. Her face had some color again, and she was no longer shivering. She took the mug gratefully and cupped her hands around it.

“Well, that was weird,” she said at last.

The guys had given up hovering and dialed back to merely looking worried. In retrospect, this wasn’t the brightest thing we’d ever done. If any harm had come to this kid with us, I didn’t like to consider the consequences, especially not after Mr. McGee died in our presence. I had no doubt Sheriff Robinson could manufacture enough evidence to see us receive life in the state penitentiary if he felt so inclined—or received orders to do so. We needed to keep our noses extra clean from here on out.

“Weird how?” Jesse asked.

“Well, I’ve done that before,” she told him. “That never happened, at least, not that bad. I’d feel a little light-headed, and then I’d have a candy bar and it would be fine.”

“Sounds like your gift converts sugars to energy that lets you power the radio like you do,” Chance said. “Do you have to be touching it?”

She nodded. “Never thought of it like that, but yeah. Sounds about right.”

Interesting. I made a mental note. Kilmer appeared predisposed to breeding girls who had some special gift in their touch. Even if Shannon and I were the only ones, two people in a town this size seemed remarkable.

I followed Chance’s idea to its natural conclusion. “If it took tons more energy to hear Mr. McGee than it usually does, that implies resistance.”

Jesse took up the thread as I paused. “Which means somebody is trying to keep that from happening.”

“Not a warlock,” I said. “Not spirit wrack like we saw with Maris. More like a spell that puts barriers in place.”

Shannon regarded us, wide-eyed. “Y’all know . . . warlocks? For real? You aren’t messing around?”

I smiled at that, though it felt grim and wry. “Not even close. The one we were talking about is dead, but there are others like him out there. I just don’t think we’re dealing with one here in Kilmer.”

“The magick seems clumsy,” Chance agreed. “I don’t think whoever we’re dealing with really knows what they’re doing, but I’d give a lot to get a good witch out here and see what she thinks.”