The Witch with No Name

“Well?” I said as I turned, startled at the figure Trent cut before me. I saw him so rarely with such a thick stubble. He had the remote in his hand, and I wasn’t surprised when he pointed it across the huge room and unmuted the TV. It was showing a mix of familiar and unfamiliar reporters in front of Trent’s gatehouse. The big names were there this time along with the local, and I frowned. Even the Washington Inderland Press.

“. . . the continuing investigation into Kalamack’s supposed death,” the woman was saying, and I followed Trent back to the sunken living room and the cushy white couches. I recognized some of Trent’s security people, and I felt bad for their stricken expressions.

“Longtime associate Rachel Morgan has been called into question as the I.S.’s main suspect, despite claims that she perished along with Kalamack during an organized vampire hit.”

“What!” I exclaimed, bouncing back up before my butt had even hit the cushions. “Me?”

Trent shushed me, upping the volume.

“But until a body can be found, or Rachel Morgan herself, this theory will remain a wishful thought by I.S. personnel.”

My breath puffed out. The press knew it was bunk and that was half the battle.

“Oh, Rachel. I’m sorry,” Trent whispered, and my head jerked up, my stomach clenching at the image of the church now on the TV. It had been taken from across the backyard and it showed the entire back end burnt and black. The original stone of the church was covered in soot. Ivy’s grill still stood sadly under the big tree beside the picnic table.

“I think the original structure is okay,” he said, and I realized he’d taken my hand and I was sliding into him as our weight pushed on the cushions. “I’m so sorry. You know we’ll rebuild it. Before the first snowfall.”

No one was in there, I thought, eyes closing as I remembered my spell books. Those would be hard to replace. And the picture of Jenks and me in front of the Mackinac Bridge. All my ley line stuff. Everything that Trent hadn’t stuffed into my shoulder bag—gone.

“I’m okay,” I said, though I felt like throwing up. At least I hadn’t done it. It had been someone else. Landon . . .

“Though the I.S. denies allegations that Morgan and Kalamack were the victims of backroom deals and assassination, it’s interesting to note that the deaths of Morgan and Kalamack fall closely alongside the elven dewar coming forth with a magical-based method to restore souls to the undead, something Morgan and Kalamack publicly touted as dangerous.”

“We did?” Surprised, I glanced at Trent. He was flushing, his lips pressed in irritation.

“I issued a statement,” he said, eyes riveted to the TV. “Your name came up, but I never said anything about you agreeing or disagreeing.”

I was used to the press getting things wrong, either through carelessness or intentional bashing, and I turned back to the TV. A frown pinched my brow at Landon being interviewed before the FIB building. The banner ELF HIGH PRIEST, SA’HAN, LANDON ALEXANDER scrolled under it. The sky was bright and his hair was shifting wildly under that funny ceremonial hat. The sun in his face made him look older. My eyes narrowed. Now that I thought about it, that hat of his looked a lot like one that Newt favored. “Son of a bastard,” I muttered, and Trent grimaced, trying to hear.

“The newly evolving elven community is pleased to offer a way for a long-suffering demographic to find peace and wholeness.”

“Bull!” I shouted, and Trent pointed the remote again, upping the volume.

“I’m personally delighted that with a collective show of union and direction we can help another species find a permanent, healthy balance that we’ve only recently found ourselves, in great part due to Kalamack’s efforts.”

I tensed. “Did he just say the vampires killed us because we stabilized the elf population, and that he’s trying to make up for us shifting the vampires down a rung on the power ladder?”

Trent nodded, his elbows on his knees, making his robe fall open. “Be careful, Landon.”

Again I was reminded of David’s threat, and I stifled a shiver. Landon had the backing of the dewar and enclave, but Trent . . . Trent had practice at doing the ugly thing.

The reporter had taken the center of the screen again, clearly wrapping up. “The sudden disappearance and probable death of Kalamack has left lawyers from many fronts scrambling for control of Kalamack’s continually dwindling assets, a prospect that promises to be tied up in the courts for years as obscure contracts and entitlements suddenly emerge.”

The rims of Trent’s pointy ears turned red. “But ask for their silence, and you have to buy it. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I glanced at him, knowing he loved the power plays, the intrigue. “Meanwhile,” the announcer said as the TV went back to a shot of the newsroom, “daughter Lucy Kalamack will remain in the care of Ellasbeth Withon at the Kalamack estate.”