Her chin lifted somewhat. “If you bothered to come to a few of the local meet-ups,” she retorted, “you’d know that WEC isn’t as lofty as they’d like everyone to believe.”
I didn’t budge. Lydia never mentioned anything about the meet-ups’ discussing WEC for good or for bad.
“Look.” Vivian bowed her head and rubbed it wearily. “I know about your column, and I’m concerned about giving you details. I have to make sure that nothing I say to you is in any way considered an interview. And you have no right to scold me for ‘hiding’ when you won’t even use your real name for your column.” She crossed her arms, mimicking me. “Who are you hiding from, I wonder?”
So she knew I was the writer behind my byline: Circe Muirwood. I was surprised, but not much. All the wæres who kenneled at my home knew that. If Lorrie spilled my secrets to her, that was the smallest of them. I ignored the dig. “Did you get a verbal or written warning? Did you know Lorrie was in danger?”
“No!” Vivian stomped her foot and dropped her arms to her sides to emphasize the word, then leaned closer to whisper. “That’s why he must be stopped. Lorrie never knew. She never had a chance! And hers was not a simple, isolated incident. At first, WEC used him discreetly, but now…” She glanced furtively at some people approaching from up the street.
“Sounds like you need to get the support of several coven leaders and confront the Council. Sounds like ‘they’ need to be stopped, not ‘him.’”
“No. They’ve lost control. He’s become a rabid watchdog. He’s taking it upon himself to act like surveillance and security, and he’s begun to act whenever he feels it is necessary. He’s out of control.”
The people were close, and the fact that their presence bothered Vivian made me resolve not to let it bother me. I said, “They should tighten their grip and restore control.”
“They can’t tighten their grip on him!”
“Why not?”
Vivian waited until the pedestrians had passed us before answering. “He knows too much now. If they try to stop him, he’ll use what he knows against them.”
“Maybe he should. If things are so bad, a restructuring might be therapeutic.”
Vivian clenched her hands into fists. “You can’t possibly understand what you’re saying. If you were active in your community, your opinions might be worth something to me.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked. “You’re not a Council member.”
“I have close friends seated in WEC.” She said it with an arrogant toss of her head. “I’ve made no secret of my ambitions to be voted in, Miss Alcmedi, but I have to wait two more years to finish my decade of coven service to be eligible. By then, he may have destroyed the council and, like I said, if I save their asses, they have to give me a seat immediately. With him gone, they will have to revert to the old ways. The time-honored ways. He knows I intend to change things; that’s why he did this. To stop me. That’s why I am the reason she’s dead.” She gave me an imploring look. “If he isn’t stopped, if we don’t show we will take care of our own problems, the government will legislate our annihilation. There is no other way.”
“There’s always another way.”
“A way that stops a killer, avenges your friend, saves the council, and stops the government from wanting us all dead to make life easier? You have something that accomplishes more than that?”
She had me there.
“He’s already created countless orphans, Miss Alcmedi. And Beverley will not be the last. Beverley herself might be in danger.” Vivian edged closer. “Are you willing to take the job, or aren’t you?”
My stomach churned. The roof of my mouth turned pasty. Sweat dampened my neck and palms.
I had acted to keep Beverley’s mother alive once before, to keep Beverley from becoming an orphan. In the guilt I’d suffered after what had happened, I consoled myself with the knowledge that Lorrie and Beverley were safe.
Had I scarred my karma for nothing?
Karma-wise, I couldn’t abandon Lorrie’s spirit now as if she hadn’t mattered. I had killed for her. Accidentally, yes, but I had blood on my hands. If I didn’t avenge her now, well, stuff like that makes ghosts go insane. Her spirit might refuse to cross over and lash out in frustration as a phantom. This was a wrong I had to make right.
Then there was the matter of Beverley. How could I live with myself if something happened to her, if I had the opportunity to do something to save her from further harm and refused?
“I’ll take care of it.” I was glad my voice sounded confident.
Vivian smiled. “Good.”
“I’ll have to know where to start. And I’ll need a contact number for you. One that will reach you at any hour.” I handed her one of my business cards and a pen; she wrote her cell phone number on the back.
As she handed the card to me, she said, “His name is Goliath Kline.”
I repeated it in my head a few times, though I doubted I could forget that name. “Your ‘donation’ will be in cash.”
“Half now. Half afterward.”
“Agreed.” I dropped the card into my purse. “Tomorrow at four, at the coffee shop.”
The gleam in Vivian’s eyes disturbed me enough that I found myself wondering if the coffee shop had security cameras. I decided I should have someone else pick up the money for me. Someone who’d smell a trap if Vivian had one in mind. “A friend of mine will collect it. And, Vivian?”
“Yes?” she asked with a condescending grin. It made me happy that some of her lipstick had smeared on her teeth.
“As for your meeting with Children’s Services concerning Beverley, you have some rather lofty parental shoes to fill. I’ll be watching you.”
Her smile disappeared. She knew a challenge when she heard it. She blinked, clearly shifting gears. “How will I know your bounty collector?”
“Trust me. When he walks through your door at four, you’ll know exactly what he’s come for.” I hoped Johnny didn’t have plans for tomorrow afternoon. He was the only one I could think of who might be able to handle this and not ask a billion questions.
Chapter 4
I sat in my silver Avalon, a car bought more because of the Arthurian reference than the gas mileage, and gently banged the back of my skull against the headrest. What are you doing? An’ it harm none, you witch! An’ it harm none!
In addition to following the Rede, witches and pagans believe that what you do comes back to you “threefold.” If you shoplift and harm a store financially, the Fates will see that you’re harmed back in triplicate. If you’re kind and good, you get kindness and goodness back in triplicate. “Pay it forward” isn’t a new idea at all.
I groaned. I was so screwed.
How could I have just agreed to kill someone for money? My next life was going to be a bitch. Talk about karmic suicide.
With trembling hands, I started the car and cracked the windows open. Fresh air helped me think, but the city air stank like a tire shop. I cranked up the radio and drove until the air smelled cleaner and deep breaths helped me feel calmer. By then I was halfway home and had pondered—yet again—the “wære problem.”
The conspiracy theorists were probably right—some top secret military experiment to create super-soldiers using wære DNA had run amok—but no one had come close to proving it. I doubted they ever would. How could the government admit responsibility for the chaos that had followed?
It wasn’t as bad for witches. Outside of fairy tales and the minds of religious fanatics, we were usually seen—accurately—as humans with a different sort of knowledge and the skill to use it. A great deal of what we did was no different than what other humans did—like meditation.