39. DIVINATION
DIVINATION
“BEFORE YOU SHARE WHATEVER STATEMENT YOU CLEARLY HAVE planned, I need to understand why I should believe a single word you’re about to say,” Lazarus told Alistair when he settled into a chair across the table from him in the formal dining room.
The diviner was flanked on either side by his mothers.
Embry stood at Daddy’s back, too anxious to sit.
Rye leaned against the wall, arms crossed, espresso in hand, and a frown dominating his brood-friendly face.
“Your incorrect divination has done considerable damage to my daughter, who you once called a friend.”
“I’d still call her my friend if she’ll have me,” the diviner replied, eyes on Lazarus but words meant for Embry.
“That depends on what you say in the next few minutes, Alistair,” Embry answered, as coolly as possible.
She crossed her arms over her chest, the heart beneath it in utter turmoil, tussling between Alistair’s clear betrayal and their three years of history.
But she was Lazarus Woodcross’s daughter, and didn’t show it, standing as tall as she could in head-to-toe spandex.
“That’s more than fair, Embry,” Alistair started, nodding at her, before shoving his rich walnut curls off his forehead, tenting his hands upon propped-up elbows, and facing down the inquisitive glare of Lazarus.
“Sir, you are spot-on—my divination was incorrect. More than that, it was false. A fact I didn’t realize until I’d left the grounds of Raven’s Head and retired to my parents’ estate in Vermont.
When I arrived there, it became clear that something had corrupted my vision on campus. ”
Daddy didn’t give an inch. “When you say it became clear what do you mean?”
“My mothers asked me to share the vision I’d had on campus where I’d seen Embry with Oakley’s body on the football field.” Both women—Kimberly and Natasha—nodded. “Normally, shared recall is something we can manage easily, especially within a year of the initial vision.”
This, Embry knew. It was how he’d been so devastating as a “witness” to investigators. The diviner was able to share exactly what he’d seen with them, like a film clip projected on a screen. This was why the vision was considered hard evidence in the magical world.
“But,” Alistair went on, “when I tried to show them, all I saw was Oakley on the field. I didn’t see Embry at all.
Even though she was consistent in my vision previously, appearing each time I shared what I’d seen with the authorities.
Instead, the person I saw—we saw—leaving Oakley’s body on the field was Balthazar Hale. ”
Silence punctuated Alistair’s reveal.
Rye pushed off the wall, set down his espresso, and clarified, “Are you saying this corruption superimposed Embry over Balthazar in your vision of Oakley’s body in the football stadium like, I don’t know, some bad AI?”
“Not bad AI. Very good AI.” Alistair again fidgeted with his hair, trying to explain. “It was as if she’d been edited in. Like when moviemakers insert modern actors into old film reels.”
Alistair’s American-born mother, Kimberly, nodded. “The way Alistair described it, the whole thing was seamless. The vision started and ended in the same place, with the same point of view. The only difference was who was leaving the body—Balthazar or Embry.”
All three members of the Elton-Bentley clan looked to the young witch now, sympathy clearly edged in their aristocratic faces.
Lazarus rubbed a thumb along his jaw—his color was still a few shades too pale, but the vigor was fully recharged in his tone. He asked the question as directly as he would in a legal deposition. “And you believe this corruption was managed magically?”
“Yes,” replied Alistair’s British mum, Natasha. “It’s rare, but there are recorded instances of specific visions being altered by someone with both the magical skills and motivation.”
Daddy nodded. “Like a sorcerer.”
Natasha retrieved a clutch of printouts from her bag and passed them around.
“Of the few instances recorded by the Table that we found, at least half were created by sorcerers. And the only one who was ever interviewed about it told the Table verbatim that he’d drawn on dark magic from the sorcerer’s well to achieve blanket corruption over a ten-acre area. ”
Sharing a copy of the transcript with Rye, Embry was relieved what they were describing wasn’t a novel occurrence. Skimming the packet, she noticed something interesting—the sorcerer interviewed said he could blanket a smaller area for days at a time.
“Were any of your visions previously corrupted at Raven’s Head?” Embry asked, curious.
Alistair’s gaze immediately dropped to the tabletop. His throat bobbed, and again he mussed his curls. After a moment the diviner said, “Yes. I’d had a vision that showed you saying yes to going to homecoming with me if I asked you when the court was announced.”
Oh. Oh. No.
“Instead, you were summarily shot down by Embry in front of your entire friend group,” Rye clarified, direct but not harsh.
Alistair sighed. “Yeah. That wasn’t the best, but I thought it was finally my chance to shoot my shot.” He was brave enough to lift his gaze to Embry’s face. “Off the mark.”
Balthazar had taken Alistair’s fragile heart and plugged it in as part of his grand plan.
He’d been just as much of a pawn as she was. And he’d been so upset by it all, he’d literally left the last three years behind and ran home.
Twin engines of anguish for Alistair and anger at Balthazar flared within Embry.
“Then,” she said, her attention squarely on her poor friend’s face, “Balthazar used that entire exchange as an opening to offer me a corsage for the dance and to gain access to our next coven meeting, which was the same weekend as homecoming. Both those things have or may be used against me in this case. His plan was in place from that moment on.”
Those pieces painted a particular picture: Balthazar Hale was a vampire hunter.
The sorcerer came to Raven’s Head to murder Oakley Riddle, and he used Embry and Alistair to do it, before drawing the coven into the mix and the blame for Oakley’s murdered family members.
If they could prove the corruption and Balthazar’s possession of Oakley’s dress, Inspector Brown might be swayed.
Even if they couldn’t prove he’d been the one to siphon the vampire’s magic, though that felt more likely now.
“What does your coven meeting have to do with it?” Alistair asked.
Another round of coffee was required to explain the vampire ambush, the concurrent investigations, Embry’s wayward breaking-and-entering attempt, and the clear threat to both Oakley’s family and the Woodcross coven.
By the time all the explaining was done, both Embry and Rye had retired to sit at the table, and Daddy had so much returned vim and vigor that he’d requested a legal pad to take notes.
“Okay, Alistair,” Lazarus began, turning to a new bright yellow sheet and stabbing his pen to the paper, “I can safely say we believe your story. Now I need you to tell us where to find Balthazar. You told Embry that’s why you were here beyond an apology, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Alistair answered quickly. “I divined that if I came to the Woodcross Residence on this particular morning I’d clear her name—which, to be frank, I owe her, not simply for our friendship but for my starring role in this mess.”
“Fine. Good,” Daddy agreed. “Where is he?”
Alistair hunched in his chair, and both his parents leaned in to touch his shoulder. “The issue is I haven’t divined where he is yet. I simply divined that if I came here, I’d clear her name and could find him.”
“Semantics,” Lazarus said with a dismissive wave.
“You came to clear her name—we do that by finding Balthazar. If we’re able to nab the sorcerer, we can bring him to Inspector Brown, explain what happened with the vision, and point to it as another part of this elaborate plan to frame Embry and the coven. ”
“I understand the importance of finding him. I just haven’t divined it yet.”
Daddy knocked his big elbows on the table. “Well, what are we waiting for? Do you need us in a specific formation? Or perhaps to be alone for the initial viewing before you share it? You can use my office, if that’s the case.”
“No, no, sir. I don’t need to be alone. A circle would be best. In nature is preferred.”
Daddy was already out of his chair. “Around the pool? Or in our coven pentagram?”
“Either, sir.”
The group went for what was closest. They made a circle in the manicured lawn that surrounded the pool before bleeding into the property’s wooded sections. Embry sat between Alistair and Rye, determination renewed.
They were going to find Balthazar. Then they were going to bring him to justice. For what he’d done to Oakley. Her family. What he’d tried to do to Embry and her coven.
“Get cozy,” Kimberly pressed. “It’s best if we’re cross-legged, our knees and hands in contact.”
There was some shuffling, and then Embry was holding both Rye’s hand and Alistair’s. Even though she wasn’t in the habit of regularly holding hands with anyone except maybe Amethyst, Embry felt a deep sense of comfort wash over her.
They were going to find answers.
Unless Balthazar’s powerful sorcerer magic didn’t want them to. Embry’s closed eyes flashed open as a shard of fear stabbed her straight in the stomach.
“Wait.” The word was a near shout. The entire circle jolted.
Alistair looked to her, alarm in his handsome features.
Embry wet her lips and tried to explain her very un-Embry-like outburst. “Before you divine for Balthazar’s location, I think we need to ensure your vision isn’t currently corrupted—we’re less than an acre from the Raven’s Head grounds, after all. ”
Disappointment panned across Alistair’s face, and then determination. “Okay, that’s a good point. Clearly whatever spell he’s using is good enough that I can’t spot a corrupt vision on my own. So… what do you suggest?”
Embry took a deep breath. “I think if you share the vision from Oakley’s murder scene, we’ll know if your magic is clear or corrupt.”
“If you’re in it, we’ll know we can’t trust it?”
“Exactly.”
“It may be hard for you to watch,” Alistair said kindly.
“I know.”
“And if it’s wrong? How do we find Balthazar?” Lazarus asked. He turned to the women beside him. “Would your skills of divination be corrupted by this sorcery?”
“We’re not sure,” Kimberly answered.
“But we’ll give it a try,” Natasha added.
It wasn’t a perfect Plan B but at least they had one.
Alistair turned to Embry. “You ready?”
She nodded. Alistair closed his eyes and began humming an indecipherable tune. As the notes piled on, so did the divining magic. It warmed Embry’s fingers, the sweet scent of it lifting to the morning breeze, like a cherry pie cooling on a windowsill.
Then color washed on the purpling backs of her eyelids.
Shapes began to form, sharpening until they came into view all at once.
The Raven’s Head stadium. A shadowy figure running toward the gate, away from the field.
The point of view moved toward the figure like a fancy camera on a wheeled track.
Embry held her breath as the shape shifted, limbs separating from shadow into form and function.
Then, just as her lungs began to burn, the person began to elongate, becoming taller, broader, darker.
Until it was Balthazar.
Running away from the scene, Oakley’s blasted backpack slung over dark clothing.
The scene moved smoothly into the stadium proper, rolling on an expedited clip straight toward the display. Embry’s lungs released as she gasped at the sight, just as vivid in this vision as in her memory.
Silver-blond hair streaked with bloodred. Pale skin gone gray. Mounds of magically blue chiffon against the stark green of a frost-tipped field.
The vampire Oakley Riddle, dead a second time for all to see.
The vision cut to black.
The circle stirred, everyone seeming to come up for air at the same time, like those very talented synchronized swimmers in the summer Olympics (who were often witches, by the way).
Embry blinked around. The Elton-Bentleys seemed both relieved and reserved, particularly Alistair, who very clearly didn’t want to let anyone down, nor stay under Balthazar’s influence.
Lazarus blinked at his daughter, pain flashing in a wince.
Rye was as white as a sheet and staring straight at Embry, mouth parted, breath shallow—he’d seen the body yes, but not the murder scene.
Embry squeezed Rye’s hand. He squeezed back.
“Okay,” Lazarus said, clearing his throat, “that’s as good of an indication as any that you are not currently corrupted. Time to find Balthazar.”
“Just as a point of explanation.” Natasha raised a hand. “Our son isn’t an app. He can’t locate the sorcerer. What he can do is divine something that will happen with him.”
They nodded. Natasha returned her hand to Lazarus’s grip. Embry forced herself to breathe and squeezed perhaps a little too hard on both Rye’s and Alistair’s fingers.
Again, the rich purply blackness on the backs of her eyelids flooded with blurry color as the scene developed from the vision’s point of view.
Shadows hardened into sketchy lines and then solid ones, forming people, place, movement. Lots of people. Places. Movement.
When the colors finished sharpening, the scene splayed across the backs of her eyelids was a melee. Magic pulsed from all corners, launched like lasers from a spaceship in a big-deal action movie. And, at the center of it all, were two points of focus.
One, Balthazar Hale, hands raised and pulsing with power.
Two, the grave of Hiram Woodcross, with its self-serious statue gazing out on new lands, tomb lid ajar.