Chapter 26

A murder is the collective noun for a group of crows, but Quinn always thought the word described a gathering of the Covens’ guardians far more appropriately. Despite his misgivings that they would listen to him, he showed up with Temperance at the old grange hall out at Sisco Heights.

The big meeting room was traditional neutral ground for the two Covens. It was dominated by a massive, varnished heart-pine table that Quinn had fond memories of helping build the summer he turned fifteen. He had done the pegged breadboard ends and old man Finn had nodded one of his rare blessings—one of the best days ever. The man was a tyrant and worked Gus and him hard, but they had learned craftsmanship; Gus, better than Quinn, he had the magic.

His glyphs flared as he crossed a large pentagram chalked onto the worn pine floor. Paranoid to their core when it came to their secrets, they had the whole room warded.

Except for his tutors, the old man had sheltered Quinn from having much to do with Emory’s witch-crafters. His time was spent with a few carefully selected crafters along with occasional lessons from Mistresses Althea and Anna.

The witches insisted on being called witch-crafters, but Quinn called them witches (in his head) because as far as he was concerned the term outlined their true nature. All of them had varying degrees of Talent and according to Mr. MacLeish the more powerful the witch, the more danger that mysteries and magic would twist the mind.

The other problem was the history of The Burning Time, the centuries of witch hunt, had laid a scar of suspicion across their collective conscious. Never again was their motto and that was the reason every Coven had their deadly guardians to protect them.

Both Covens had an ongoing feud. West Virginia had the Hatfield’s and McCoys, Emory had the McNeil and Sabina Covens. They were all close as sisters and fought like it. The feuding wasn’t Game of Thrones level, but it was close. Especially when it came time to decide who was going to lead the Council and therefore the town.

Twenty of the most influential made up the ruling Council of Guardians. Ten elders, known as the Aunties, sat around the table. Ten assistants, Mandy, Charming and Katie among them, leaned against the wall. No doubt, the word was out about the meeting at the judge’s office. Quinn figured most all of them would take a break from running the town, put their long-standing feuds aside and schedule a party if they found he had been hit by a truck—and it was a toss up to decide which side would have arranged the truck.

Politics. This situation needed the skill sets of a politician, not someone like him. Quinn paused by the entrance and watched them. They all seemed to be talking at once. Angry magic swirled the room despite the women’s shields. The glyphs the old troll women had burned in him kept flaring and subsiding as they sensed the vibrations of anger and fear. The other stirred and began to alertly scan for on coming threats.

Quinn cleared his throat. The room quieted as all eyes swiveled like gun turrets to look at him.

A woman he didn’t recognize sat at the top end of the table. She had pure white hair but an unlined face—mid forties, maybe. She gave him a smile, but her blue-gray eyes had all the warmth of a steel plate. She gestured him to come to the front of the room.

“Please sisters,” she said. “If everyone will settle down, we’ll find out what this young man thinks is so important.”

“Why is the changeling bitch here,” rasped a voice from the group.

Quinn stiffened. He looked around. Saria stood relaxed by the door.

What the hell was Sari doing here?

She mind-spoke:

“Ignore them. They seek to unbalance you.”

He nodded.

“Young man,” the strange woman said. “Maybe you could introduce yourself, tell us what this is all about. We’re in the middle of our busy time here, as you might remember. These two weeks of Festival can make or break the town.”

“Lachlan Quinn,” he said coldly.

Mandy cleared her throat and gave him a warning glance.

Quinn was quite sure this woman knew his name. The subtle one-upping dominance games were second nature to them. They were lost on him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize them. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it, but he had grown up around their passive aggressive slanting verbal cuts. Give ‘em an inch and they’d keep moving into your space until they owned your spirit.

“Mother of All, Sari, just being in the same room with them is exhausting.”

“You’re doing fine, watch your temper.”

The room quietened as they stared at him.

Waiting for something, he guessed. He had no idea what.

They were aware of his background. They were probably cautious about getting into any sort of open conflict with him. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t push their luck. They couldn’t help themselves. They weren’t comfortable with things they couldn’t control. That was why they had disliked Mr. MacLeish so much.

To make matters worse, Mandy had no doubt informed them that her spells had had no effect on him.

“Who are you?” Quinn bluntly asked the woman who had greeted him. “I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

“Damn it, Lachlan,” Mandy said.

The woman waved her off.

“My name is Elaine O’Neil. I’m here from London. I’m here to help deal with an extraordinarily difficult situation.”

Sweet Mother of All, they’d had to call in one of the Red Queens for assistance to deal with an Emory issue. The Red Queens were the ruling council of the covens worldwide. Fifteenth circle chanters, they were powerful and ruthless.

“Sari, they had to call a Red Queen to help. I bet Satan and his demons are ice skating on the River Styx.”

“Focus.” Saria shot back tartly.

“Look, we don’t need this,” shouted Agatha Beckett right on cue. I can’t believe you allowed HIM here. I can’t believe you allowed this ... person into our meeting.”

Agatha was a tall rawboned sixty-ish woman, hard as the marble she carved. Quinn knew her well. She was sure that if he wasn’t the Anti-Christ, he was a close minion. She’d told him so about a hundred times when he was young. But now her passion was suspiciously over the top.

“We have our first Hag suspect. Come on down.” Saria watched a lot of television.

“I agree—but that may be because I don’t like her.”

“Agatha,” said Elspeth sharply. “Sit down, shut up and listen.”

“So, sisters,” Ms. O’Neil said. “He is the one.”

“Yes,” said Mandy. “Lachlan is the Heir.”

“Lachlan,” she paused and gave him a politician’s smile, “May I call you Lachlan?”

“You bet, Elaine,” Quinn said.

A flash of rage flickered, then disappeared, and her eyes resumed their reassuring warmth. “Mr. Quinn, you no doubt have heard by now of the situation with Althea Hayden. She’s in a coma and even though we’re all saddened by the news, it could not have happened at a worse time.”

“That’s odd. You would think someone of her rank would have better control.”

“Maybe the second suspect?”

Charity Babbitt interrupted. “Look, Emory is an Arts Town. We have all sorts of crafts-folk and artisans—metal workers, glass blowers, knitters and dressmakers, artists. The fair is our centerpiece, people come from all over the state and out of state. We need to keep things quiet. What good will he do?”