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They were four—the corners, the watchers. North, South, East and West. Two boys, two girls. Balance.
The older of the two girls belonged to him, six feet of creamy, milky skin so pale she almost didn’t need to use makeup to make herself disappear, with tumbling black locks that reached nearly to her waist. She was green-eyed, thin as a whippet but with womanly curves in all the right places, and if it weren’t against all his beliefs he would worship her as the Goddess. But she was flesh and blood. His flesh and his blood. They shared everything, every fluid, every waking moment. He felt incomplete when she wasn’t near, and as such kept her close always.
The boy was his closest friend and his occasional lover. He was handsome, with tousled blond hair and brown eyes, short and stocky and incredibly strong. Their youngest member had dark hair too, uncontrollably curly. She was a good physical match for her mate, small and solid, with thick calves and a cleft chin.
He trusted them with his life.
The four shared blood; through sacrifice, through a common vision, through the Great Act. Sex was their most powerful union, the blessing on their worship. They had been handfast, in the tradition of the Old Ways, declaring themselves for one another. They were looking for a Wiccan high priest who would do the official ceremony, legalizing their marriages in the eyes of the Goddess. They would go as couples, then as a quadrant.
While his magick was powerful, with his corners he could shift the very earth. His corners were his friends and lovers. His coven. They would follow him anywhere, and he would sacrifice himself for them in turn.
So when he told them the nonbelievers must die, they believed. They were The Immortals, and the night was theirs.
They had come tonight, the first night of the new moon, to cast a spell to Azræl, the Angel of Death. The last new moon, they had congregated, taken earth from the graveyard, said their spells and magickally charged it to allow the earth time to open, to allow a rift in the universe to form. Tonight they sought Azræl’s blessing; a celebration of their wondrous evening.
Samhain, what the Christians and Jews called Halloween, was a sacred night, when the veil between the two worlds was at its thinnest and spirits walked openly between the afterlife and the living. Samhain marked the Wiccan New Year, a sober celebration, a time for reflection. Messages were sent, ancestors honored, blessings bestowed. He had chosen Samhain as the night of the cleansing, the night when they would rid the world of their enemies. If they received the proper blessings tonight, he could put the rest of his plan into action.
It was nearly time. They had a great deal of work to do. He led the four to the oak.
“Who comes to call Azræl?” he cried.
They stepped forward in turn, beginning with the tall girl.
“It is I, Fane. Blessed be.”
“I am Thorn. So mote it be.”
“It is Ember, the bright spark. Blessed be.”
He stood with them, head thrown back to the sky, speaking slowly and carefully. Their names conjured great power—he could already feel the ripples of energy coursing through the air.
“I am Raven, leader of this coven. In the name of the God and the Goddess, so mote it be.”
He struck a match and touched the flame to a stick of jasmine incense, then lit twelve black candles, three for each of them. The clearing began to glow. They’d already set out the stones: a violet amethyst, melanite, dark tiger’s eye and a piece of jet. The elestial stone, their record-keeper—a jagged piece of milky quartz—sat on top of the pile. It would be buried near the site after the ceremony, a permanent archaic tie to the earth.
Contact with the netherworld was meant as a silent meditation, but Raven had written a beautiful oral spell in his Book of Shadows, had copied it out neatly three times for his coven. They’d memorized it silently on the way over, each poring through the letters until they’d committed the words to heart.
They shed their clothes, kicked the dark stacks of cloth well out of the way of the candles so there was no chance of fire. They worshipped skyclad, naked in the cool night air, never feeling a moment’s embarrassment. Their bodies were astral temples, and beautiful despite any superficial cultural flaw.
They drew cords from their bags, each nine feet in length, and took up their athamés and wands. They shuffled a bit, from foot to foot, shaking away any last bits of energy that would disrupt their ritual. Focusing.
Raven glanced at his watch, looked to the moon-blank sky. It was time.
They lined up in their corners, facing one another in a circle, silent and serious. The dark was broken only by the shimmering candles that reflected the glow of their pale flesh.
Raven began the ceremony. “We come together in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be.”
“Perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be,” they repeated after him, speaking in practiced unison. He used his athamé to draw a wide, invisible circle at their feet, chanting, “Cast the circle, draw it right, bring the corners to us tonight.” He walked in a wide arc, sprinkling salt water to create the borders of the circle. Fane followed behind him with the lit incense, sanctifying their footsteps. The circle was where they practiced their magick—inside the consecrated space, their prayers could be heard.
Once the circle was cast, Raven stepped inside, bade his coven to follow suit. When they were secure, he called the corners, using his athamé to trace specific angled pentacles in the air, each slightly different, depending on the corner he was calling.
“All hail to the element of air, Watchtower of the East. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of the air, we summon you to join our circle.” He turned to his right and drew in the air again, forceful slashes, purposeful. Practiced.
“All hail the element of fire, Watchtower of the South. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of fire, we summon you to protect our circle.”
He turned again, and again. “All hail to the element of water, Watchtower of the West. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Power of water, we summon you to guard our circle.
“All hail to the element of earth, Watchtower of the North. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of earth, we summon you to provide us guidance and success in our ministrations.”
The calls complete, Raven reached into the bag next to him and sprinkled the magickally charged earth they’d taken at the last new moon around the circle in a slow dribble. This would open the portal between the two worlds while keeping them safely grounded in the now.
“May the Goddess and the God look upon us in favor. All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”
The group spoke in turn. “All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”
He kissed the blade of his athamé, the others followed suit. Then they took up their cords, intertwining them, feeding them through each other’s hands until they were bound together. Raven caught each eye, nodding slightly. It was time to call Azræl. Time for their reward.
They pushed their personal energy into the earth, grounding, then reversed, bringing the earth’s power into their bodies. The force of it made them shiver. With their hands facing into the circle, they directed their power to the center and created an invisible cone, then walked widdershins, counter-clockwise, three times, pushing that energy down, toward their goal, ending back in their original spots. There was great danger in casting a widdershins circle, but Raven had assured them that the best, most direct route to Azræl was through a negative portal, downward, not upward to the light. Besides, they were guarded by the four Watchtowers and the God and Goddess. He was confident they were safe.
He reached behind him and withdrew a small finger bone from his bag. Death liked bones—it was the soul’s truest form. Death understood that he was a part of all natural life.
The four of them turned to face the west, and Raven carefully, gently laid the finger bone in the dirt beside their stones. They breathed slowly, modulating their breath to match their partner, calming and balancing their energy. Deeper breaths now, with pauses in between to help them overoxygenate their blood and raise their consciousness. Raven could tell when they were all perfectly attuned, and he began to chant. The others followed a fraction of a second later. Their voices carried through the graveyard.
Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.
Azræl Azræl Az-rah-el.
Azræl Azræl Azzzz-raaaah-elllll.
Angel of darkness, come bless us.
Angel of darkness, come bend us.
Angel of darkness, bring our true natures to the fore.
Bring us your power, and a sign of your blessing. We call to you, O ancient one, who dwells beyond the realms.
You who once reigned in the time before time. Come, hear our call.
Assist us to open the way, give us the power!
They repeated the poem three times, building into a tuneless chant.
Then Raven spoke, his arms spread wide, his head thrown back. “Bless us for finding the strength to rid the world of those who hurt us, who deceived and tortured. Fight our oppressors—punish those who are cruel to us. Allow us to know your divinity, to understand your ways, to find a painless path to keep us from shame. Show us the way, oh, Azræl. Night and need give life to your helping fire. Rectify our darkness, spread your wings of shadow through our souls. Watch over our houses, deflect their ire.”
At the end, they repeated their nocturnal God’s name over and over and over, turning in circles, winding themselves around each other, sinuous as snakes, then at the moment they felt the energy peak, consecrated their prayers with the Great Act. Raven and Thorn were so attuned to each other that they were able to climax at the same time. Their energy, like their seed, spilled into the earth, sanctifying their pact. The girls kissed, and the boys. They smeared the fluids along each other’s bodies, intricate glowing trails of symbols, then switched partners. The men writhed together while the women brought each other to a wild, breathless climax. They were all so good together, so right. The strongest magick was cast during the Great Act at the moment of shared orgasm.
Panting in the dust, they allowed their minds to come back. They stood, shakily, and unbound their cords. Raven thanked the corners, bid them hail and farewell. He closed the circle, careful to walk deosil, clockwise, to close their downward portal.
There was still energy in the air, crisp and crackling, so Raven told his coven to ground again so it wouldn’t drain their essences. Raven shut his eyes and envisioned a long, glowing root leaving his body and securing itself in the land, then let all his extra energy pour down the root. He felt better when he finished, smiled at Fane. They busied themselves with ending their prayers, burying the stone and the finger, blowing out the candles, dressing silently.
A breeze started, getting stronger until their hair was whipping around their faces. Thunder rumbled in the distance, then again, and lightning flashed, suddenly close. The sharp scent of ozone invaded Raven’s nose. He smiled.
“I didn’t think it was going to rain tonight,” Fane whispered.
“It wasn’t. Azræl has blessed our prayers,” Raven said. “We have been blessed. Nothing can stop us now.”
Five
Nashville
7:50 p.m.
Baldwin circled the Vanderwoods’ house until he found a quiet spot in the backyard.
“Sorry about that, Garrett. Needed to get clear of a situation. What’s up?”
“Well, I don’t have good news. The crypto boys sent a report in about some things they found on Charlotte Douglas’s computer.”
Baldwin stood straighter. Charlotte Douglas was a profiler he’d worked with years ago, and again just a few months back, on the Snow White case. She’d ended up embarrassing the Bureau before her untimely demise at the hands of a killer she’d recruited into her life—the same killer who stalked Taylor now. The Pretender was Charlotte’s creation, first an apprentice of the Snow White, then a self-named terror who’d invaded all of their lives.
Charlotte had brought death to their doors, and now it sounded like the Bureau was resurrecting the past. He held out hope that Charlotte’s records would help identify who the Pretender really was. But when she died, and the Bureau tried accessing her files, they self-destructed using a sophisticated encryption. Their best people had been working for months to resuscitate her work.
Charlotte was just as dangerous dead as she had been alive.
“And?”
“It seems she has some files pertaining to you. To a…relationship the two of you were having. She was rather graphic. And she’s made some other allegations against you.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yes. Well, we knew parts of this might come back to bite us. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Garrett, you know that Charlotte—”
“Baldwin, I know. Trust me, I know. I’m sorry, but this is out of my hands. I’ve been instructed to recall you to Quantico immediately so you can go before the disciplinary board first thing tomorrow morning for a little chat. I caught a shitload of heat when I told them you were in Nashville. So get yourself back up here. I’ve sent the plane for you. It should be ready to collect you shortly.”
“Is this serious, Garrett?”
His boss was silent for a few moments. “Yes, I think it is. They haven’t disclosed everything to me. I’ve arranged for Reginald Beauchamp to represent your interests at the hearing, just in case.”
“Whoa, I need counsel? I thought you said this was just a chat.”
“Baldwin, I’m not willing to take any chances. I’ve already defended you, told them any charges against you by that woman were ludicrous. But they’re very insistent.”
“Making an example out of me,” Baldwin grumbled.
“It’s possible. They have her files now. The focus isn’t on you and Charlotte—it’s gone deeper. They’re especially interested in the Harold Arlen incident. The past is catching up with us.”
This time Baldwin groaned aloud. “Damn it, that case has been closed for years. I was cleared of all wrongdoing. Why are they bringing it up again?”
“You know why.”
Baldwin breathed deeply through his nose, surprised that all he could smell was burned leaves tinged with fresh blood. He’d spent years trying to forget, to move on. To erase the dank scent of basement rot, the vision of shattered lives. The self-fulfilling prophecy that was Charlotte Douglas. God, Taylor couldn’t know. He needed to make sure of that.
Garrett was speaking again.
“I need to warn you. Apparently, Charlotte’s files had some extras that weren’t in your original reports. They want…clarification.”
“Clarifications that include lawyers and hearings. Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
“Yes. Obviously, the phone…”
Baldwin felt himself shutting down, the rigid professionalism that got him through the most heinous of crime scenes filtering into his system. His detachment was his gift, and he readily employed it now. To think, to speculate about what might be waiting for him in Quantico would surely derail him before they asked the first question. He’d need all his powers of stability to face this issue all over again. The last time it had nearly cost him his life. He had much more to lose now.
“I’ll be there. Thanks for trying, Garrett. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. We’re just going to have to take our chances and see how things shake out.”
Baldwin hung up his cell phone and slumped back against the deck. The woods behind the house were dark and foreboding, alive with crickets and the rustlings of small rodents. He thought he heard thunder roiling in the distance. This was not good news. Two thousand-four had been a horrible year, and reliving it, as he was sure to have to do, wasn’t going to be a good experience. He’d fought hard to clear his name back then, and he’d do it again now. Surely Charlotte’s notes were exaggerations of the truth. That was her forte.
He could only hope that it didn’t go any deeper.
Six
Nashville
8:00 p.m.
Taylor shut the door on the Norwoods and leaned back against the frame. She needed to see the last two crime scenes—the second double especially—but she needed a break. She wondered where Baldwin had gone.
She had just flipped open her cell phone to call him when he rounded the corner of the house, hands in his hair. The ends were sticking up in the back. She stepped off the porch and met him in the yard. He was white, obviously furious.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He look startled for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve just got to go back up to Quantico. Garrett needs me on a case.”
There was something in his voice, a note of doubt that she immediately seized on. He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She reached out and touched his chin, turning his face to hers.
“A case?”
He gave her a halfhearted grin. “An old case. They need some testimony about it. I’m so sorry to have to run out on you.”
“We’ll be fine. Are you leaving in the morning?”
“Now, actually. Garrett sent the plane. I’ll have to review my notes and the hearing starts at 7:00.”
She could feel his distraction, decided not to force it. One thing she’d learned about Baldwin, he would eventually tell her what was going on. Pushing him when he was still working things out wouldn’t get her anywhere. And she had enough on her hands here.
“Do you need a ride? I can get a patrol to take you to the airport.”
