“Tell me,” Layla said, calmer.
“You know how we said we don’t do blood magic?” Cia asked.
Layla nodded, drawing the lapels of her leather coat closed over her chest.
“Well, this is blood magic,” Cia said. To Liz she added, “Carved horn. It looks like a set of tiny carved elk horns, layered with blood from past workings.”
Liz set the boot back where she had found it and stepped out of the circle, orienting herself to the north by feel and the position of the sun beyond the windows. The figurine case was on due north and matched the exact spot where Evelyn had started to disrobe. As if the figurine case were the number twelve on a clockface, Liz moved clockwise through the room. At about two o’clock, she found another of the little charms, this one tacked to the back of a dainty upholstered chair. She lifted the charm just as Cia had done and studied the carved figure. “This one’s a tiny knife, carved from old bloodstained ivory.”
“What does it mean?” Layla demanded, her voice cold.
Cia moved to the number five on the clockface and lifted another charm. “This one is an owl, some kind of stone.”
“Bloodstone,” Liz said with a glance, feeling the stone resonate with her own magic. She took the next point, between seven and eight. There she found and lifted a charm that looked like a tooth. She held it in the light at the window and said, “A wolf tooth. A real one.”
Cia nodded and moved to the number ten. This charm, unlike the others, wasn’t hanging from a thin black ribbon. It was nestled in the pile of expensive jewelry Evelyn had been wearing. “Ivory again,” Cia said. “Probably walrus. It’s scrimshaw attached to her bracelet with a silver link.”
It all fit. And it was all bad. “The boot’s in the middle of the pentagram. There’s a splatter of blood under it.”
“Middle of what?” Layla asked. “How did you know where to find those things?” Inherent in her question was the accusation that the Everhart witches had put them there.
“They were on the points of a pentagram, the geometric shape that allows a witch coven to contain their power and safely do workings,” Cia said. “Once you discover the north point of the five-pointed star, you can find the rest based on the angles and the size of the working space.”
“High school geometry,” Liz said softly, remembering that Layla had been in their geometry class. The twins had excelled at geometry. Layla, not so much.
“The charms have nothing in common,” Cia said, “except the fact that they seem to have old blood on them. That lack of similarity of matrix—meaning that some are biological items that an earth witch might use, and some are stone—combined with the old blood, and the fresher blood in the middle, suggest that a blood witch set up a conjure in this room and triggered it.”
“Your mother didn’t run off,” Liz said. “Or at least not of her own free will.”
“Your mother was kidnapped by a practitioner of the black arts,” Cia said grimly.
“With a spell,” Liz said. “And if we’re reading it right, she was taken from the middle of this room.”
“What?” Layla said, pulling her coat tighter, the seams stretching, her face white. “Like, transported out? Like Star Trek?” Her voice rose. “You can do that?”
“We can’t,” Cia said.
“And we’ve never met a practitioner who can.”
“The police won’t believe it,” Cia said.
“No. But Layla will need to tell them. Get them back here, get them working a kidnapping case with witchcraft elements. They’ll call PsyLED and get someone in here to read the room with a psy-meter.”
“PsyLED? How long will that take?” Layla asked, seeming to understand that it would take far too much time. That her mother might not survive long enough for law enforcement to find her.
“We could do a finding,” Cia said with a faint shrug, holding Liz’s gaze, “like we planned.”
“It just won’t be easy.” Liz pointed to the clothes on the floor. “But the left boot is missing. She was likely wearing it when she was taken.”
“We could find the left boot with the right one. Give the cops something to go on.”
“Or figure it out before they even get started on the case.”
The twins turned to Layla as one and said, almost in unison, “It’s up to you.”
“What’s up to me?” she demanded.
“If we take the boot and keep working to find your mom,” Cia said, “or return your money and let the cops take over.”
Layla looked back and forth between them, her breath coming too fast between perfectly parted lips. “I guess my mother stands the best chance of being found with both the police and you working to find her.” On that happy note, the goat raced back down the hallway and skittered to a halt in front of Layla, her hooves dancing.
Her diaper filled the room with goat-poop stink.
Layla gagged softly.
Cia giggled.
The sisters couldn’t do the finding inside the house, not without both contaminating any remaining magical energies left over from the blood magic spell and also maybe having their own working skewed or corrupted by the black magic. More magic on the scene would tick off any PsyLED investigator. It might also alert the blood magic witch. To be safe, the twins had to start somewhere else, which meant interviews, phone calls, and computer research. They had seen Jane Yellowrock track down a missing person. They had an idea of basic electronic investigative methodology, if not access to the specialized databases that the security specialist used.
Rather than further contaminate a crime scene, the girls retired to Layla’s exquisite three-bedroom Weirbridge Village apartment. It was one of the luxury corner units, and like Layla herself, the apartment was elegant and refined. Unlike her mother’s place, Layla’s home looked lived in, yet was still spotless. Early training in perfection had paid off in a neat freak.
Though painfully worried about her mother—or maybe to keep occupied—Layla served them colas and pita chips and softened Brie with fresh grapes on the side. And gave them access to her electronic tablets and an older laptop and her phone while her stinky goat raced around the apartment on tap-tapping hooves that had to be driving the people on the floor beneath crazy.
Between talking to Layla, talking to Evelyn’s office assistant (in a phone call placed by Layla when they asked), and doing a bit of Internet research, the Everhart sisters discovered quite a bit. In just ninety minutes, they had a good solid lead on where to cast their working.
The property development firm that Evelyn worked for—Mayhew Developments—specialized in turning mountain properties into ski resorts, hotels, and vacation resorts. According to the county planning board, Evelyn was in the middle of helping her boss to develop some of his family’s property north of Asheville into what was expected to be his signature project—upscale, exclusive, lavish.
According to the assistant, the property had been in the Mayhew family for nearly 120 years, and once actually boasted a town, Mayhew Downs. All that was left of the town today were a few foundation stones and a graveyard. And, most important, the property was the last stop Evelyn had made on her way home the evening she disappeared.
“That has Bingo written all over it,” Cia said.
“So, you’ll go to the property,” Layla said, sounding uncertain.