Chapter Eight
Arran, the vampire liaison for the Witch Council of the British Isles, sent Octavia some coordinates.
They led to a dirt track in a rural area in the Surrey Hills, an hour’s drive south of London.
While Octavia had set up the meeting, Lavinia had called in an anonymous tip to the London Metropolitan Police, letting them know the location of the dead man.
They would contact his next of kin and would use their own networks to try to find the killer.
If they made any headway, the Sisterhood would hear soon enough.
They had informants in most places, including in the police.
Money could make even the most reticent human talk, if necessary.
“We’re getting close,” Zachary said. They drove through open countryside, surrounded by startlingly green fields lined with clusters of trees and shrubbery. The GPS indicated that they were almost at the specified location. No buildings or other cars were in sight.
“Why can’t they just meet in a café like normal people?” Octavia said wistfully. “I could go for a coffee. Maybe a piece of cake…”
“We just had lunch,” Lavinia said.
“Don’t tell me you would rather meet in the middle of a muddy field with a bunch of witches that speak in riddles, instead of having a triple espresso and some chocolate cake.”
Despite the quick lunch of store-bought wraps they had eaten standing beside the car, Lavinia’s stomach growled. “Stop it.”
Octavia flashed a quick smile, but turned serious again when Zachary stopped the car. “This is it,” he said. The view had hardly changed. The car had come to a standstill on a road that ran alongside a field. A lone tree stood along the tall grass, swaying slightly in the breeze.
“No one’s here yet,” Lavinia said. She looked at the time. Four o’clock. Exactly as in Arran’s message.
“They’ll be here,” Octavia answered.
“I’ll wait for you,” Zachary said as the Sisters got out.
For a moment, Lavinia surveyed the surroundings.
Hills rose around them, the road lying in a valley of sorts.
The sky was cloudy, hiding the sun. Still, being so out in the open was draining, and neither she nor Octavia would be able to rely much on their strength.
Then again, strength was often useless against the tricks of witchcraft, so perhaps it didn’t matter much.
She tasted the air and could tell that Octavia was doing the same beside her.
Traces of various animals, the sharp but faded scent of a car running on diesel that had passed down here a couple of hours ago.
The grass, of course, and the ever-present sting of pollution edging every other scent. No humans nearby—no people whatsoever.
“What do we do? Just wait here?” Octavia asked. Lavinia weighed their options, assessing the land around them.
“The tree,” she said finally. It looked exactly like the kind of thing witches liked—old, gnarly, its branches jutting into the sky like arms.
Octavia fell into step behind her, her movements just a tad too sharp to seem relaxed. Lavinia shared the feeling. It was always unnerving to meet witches, even if they were ostensibly their allies.
They climbed the hill, the raised position revealing more of the surrounding countryside. It was quite beautiful, in a way, but this was not the time to enjoy it. Before they could reach the top crowned by the old tree, something shifted.
One moment, there had been nothing. Just the rustle of the wind among the tree’s leaves and the song of a lonely bird twittering in a high branch, and the next, they were there.
Three figures, cloaked in shadows despite the late afternoon light, appeared without a sound.
Not a single branch stirred. It was as if they had risen from the ground, spat out by the earth among the roots of the ancient oak.
Witchcraft. The small hairs on the back of Lavinia’s neck rose.
They were showing off, flaunting their powers.
She kept her facial features immobile, not allowing herself to show surprise.
Whatever happened, they would not reveal any weakness.
The witches would exploit it, experts as they were in psychological warfare, leveraging the pressure until the person cracked.
They could populate dreams with your worst nightmares, forcing you to relive them again and again.
Lavinia had seen the results of a witch’s retribution a century ago.
She had resolved there and then to never anger a witch.
The person in the middle spoke, the shadows slowly dissolving into the air as wisps of smoke.
They revealed Arran, all six feet of him, broad-shouldered and bearded.
He was only in his early twenties. Arran was very young to be on the Council which usually valued experience over ambition, which was probably why he got stuck with the unappealing role of vampire liaison.
“Sword Sister Lavinia of Coriovallum, fourth of her name, and Sword Sister Octavia of Lugdunum, seventh of her name.”
“Arran,” Lavinia nodded. She didn’t know his last name or family designation. Witches seemed to purposefully cultivate an air of mystery.
He did not introduce the two others. The one on the right, a middle-aged woman with black hair streaked with grey, looked familiar.
The other, an older man with weathered skin, she had never seen before.
Like all witches, they reeked of magic. Not just of the ingredients and tools they used for their craft, but magic itself: the smell of raw power, that indefinable potential that the witches somehow managed to manipulate and harness.
Lavinia always thought it smelled a little bit like a warm spice, like cinnamon or maybe cardamom, but she’d never shared that thought with anyone—least of all the witches themselves.
“The Sisterhood appreciates you meeting us at such short notice,” Lavinia started.
Internally, she lamented that Vesta was hours away.
This kind of thing was her Sister’s strength.
Lavinia was a soldier, not a diplomat. “We have reason to believe a rogue vampire and a warlock are killing humans in close proximity. It’s possible they’re working together. ”
The woman scoffed. In her loose-fitting black clothing, she reminded Lavinia of a crow.
Arran tried to manage his expression, but wasn’t entirely able to suppress his scepticism either.
The man on his other side didn’t make such an attempt at all.
He stared at the vampires in barely concealed contempt.
“What evidence do you have of this?” Arran said.
Lavinia quickly outlined the events of last night, minimising Michelle’s role as much as she could, and added the insights from today’s discovery to hopefully divert their attention.
She wished she could keep Michelle out of the conversation entirely.
For some reason, she felt rather protective of her.
Arran, though, immediately latched onto the lack of detail. “And the demon’s quarry? Where is she?”
“Safe,” Lavinia said through clenched teeth.
“Under your protection, then.” He exchanged a wordless glance with the woman at his side. “We will need to examine her.”
“No,” Lavinia growled.
Arran raised an eyebrow. “There is no need to get territorial.”
Lavinia swallowed, suppressing the sudden urge to bare her fangs. “Apologies. Still no.”
“Then I should perhaps remind you that the terms of our treaty clearly state that neither side will restrict access to a member of their own party, regardless of circumstances.”
Lavinia frowned and said, “But she’s not a witch.”
“And how sure are you of that?”
“Very.” It was impossible that Michelle was a witch. Her shock at the demon’s appearance was genuine. Lavinia had been able to smell her fear. She hadn’t known what a demon was, and had shown genuine surprise and confusion. There was no way Lavinia could have been fooled.
“What do you want with her anyway?” Octavia said.
A quiet struggle reigned among the witches. Eventually Arran won out, apparently having wrestled permission to share information from the others. “We too have a dissenter among ourselves,” he admitted. Dissenter was a polite word for what he meant. Warlock.
“How long have you known?” Lavinia asked.
“Two months.”
“Were you going to share this information with us at some point?”
“No,” he said, straightforwardly. “We police our own, as do you.”
“Would have been nice to know a witch had broken free from the Council’s control,” Octavia said, her tone venomous.
Octavia had no patience for the Witch Council’s politics.
Lavinia shared her frustrations. They had barely made any progress in the last couple of weeks.
If they’d known a warlock was on the loose as well…
perhaps they would have made more headway in finding the outlaws, and Michelle could have been spared a traumatic encounter with a demon.
“How long have you known about your rogue vampire?” Arran countered.
Touché. Lavinia considered. “Perhaps you agree it is in both of our interests to share information from now on.”
“If the Council wills it,” Arran said, inclining his head. It was the closest to agreement they’d come, so Lavinia moved on.
The faster they were able to find the warlock—and the rogue vampire—the sooner she would be certain Michelle was safe.
For now, that meant working with the witches.
They weren’t untrustworthy, exactly. The issue was merely that they always had their own agenda, and one could never be sure what it actually was.
But for now, collaboration was their best option.
“What is the war—dissenter’s pattern? What is their motivation? ” she asked.
“Bloodwaster,” the man beside Arran muttered to himself, and for a moment Lavinia felt her hackles rise. She didn’t like the witches either, but she would not be insulted.
Then Arran clarified, “He seeks out those with the Mark, and kills them.”
The Mark of the Fates. According to witches, they were a chosen people, marked for magic at birth.
Lavinia didn’t particularly know or care whether this was true or not.
The only thing that mattered was that the witches believed it—and that the murderer who had targeted Michelle did as well.
“And that’s why you think the human in our keeping is a witch. Because he tried to kill her.”
Arran nodded. Lavinia mulled over this information.
She was certain Michelle wasn’t a practising witch.
She wouldn’t have been ignorant of the Other World, and would have known to invoke the help of her coven, even if she hadn’t been powerful enough to handle the demon by herself.
But could she be marked somehow, have some latent ability that just had never been cultivated?
Lavinia didn’t know. It had seemed impossible only moments ago, but Arran’s certainty planted the seeds of doubt in her mind.
Perhaps he and the other council members were mistaken.
Perhaps the killer himself was mistaken and had somehow mixed up Michelle with his real target.
Innocent bystanders sometimes got hurt. When the killing started, rogues found that it was difficult to stop.
Perhaps it was the same for warlocks and the demons who did their bidding.
“What else can you tell us about him?” Octavia asked.
“We are not currently willing to share our suspicions,” Arran said smoothly.
“So you have an idea of who it might be?”
Silence met Octavia’s question. Either they knew exactly who the warlock was, and they didn’t want to share.
Or, quite likely, they didn’t know at all, and didn’t want to admit to their ignorance.
Whichever it was, the Council would wish to find the warlock first. They would have their own punishment in mind.
“Do you know where he is? This person you suspect?” Octavia pressed, but Arran shook his head.
“The raven will feast,” the black-clad woman beside Arran added darkly.
Lavinia had no idea what that meant, but it was undoubtedly a threat. Witches had means of locating people who didn’t want to be found. Then again, a skilled warlock would know what those means were and might know ways of counteracting them.
“Do you have any idea why the warlock might be working together with a vampire? Why they might kill together?” Octavia asked.
“No,” Arran said. “We had been certain the warlock was working alone. In no small part because rogue vampires aren’t known for their capacity for reasoning.” He looked back and forth between Lavinia and Octavia. “No offense.”
Lavinia gestured that none was taken. He wasn’t wrong.
Rogues were in the grip of bloodfever, having reverted completely to an animalistic version of themselves.
Many of them lost all capacity for higher reasoning, acting purely on instinct.
Many would kill their own kin, unable to recognise them as anything but obstacles standing in the way of their desires.
“We are willing to share information on the warlock’s previous victims. The Council is amenable to extending a hand to the Sisterhood in order to restore the balance of power,” Arran said.
“The Sisterhood thanks the Council,” Lavinia said, but Octavia immediately followed with her own remark.
“And how will you do that? Will we have to dig it up like treasure? Postal dove? Magical sparks in the night sky?”
Arran gave her a stare that could wither a flower on its vine. “Email,” he said drily.
“Thank you,” Lavinia said again, hoping to move past the awkward silence that now reigned.
“We will do the same.” They had collated a file of increasing length on the rogue’s victims. She would have to add the information on the murdered man in the alley later tonight before passing it on to the witches.
“One last thing,” Arran added. “We will access the human, one way or another. If she is one of us, she will be brought into the fold.”
Lavinia didn’t reply. She turned around and marched towards Zachary and the car, not waiting to see whether Octavia followed or not, nor bothering to see what magic trick the witches would conjure for their grand exit. Over her dead body. Michelle wasn’t going anywhere.