Right beside a large basket stuffed with glossy leaves and bright white flowers.
Oleanders.
The sprigs already twisted into the beginnings of a wreath like the one we found in the alley.
“I don’t have to ask why you’re here.” The woman sank into a chair. “Jilo has been telling tales.”
“Black Hat has rather grim views on murder sprees that bring attention to paranormals.”
On occasion, it paid to be upfront. Especially with a murderous faction of people peelers.
After this debacle, the boo hags needed to know Black Hat existed, that we were aware of them, and we allowed their continued existence. On our terms. Which I was all too happy to enforce.
“Black Hat.” She sat up straighter. “You’re really one of them?”
“Afraid so.” I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Tell me about the spell on Fort Sumter.”
It was a shot in the dark, but I hit the target with startling accuracy based on the jerk of her shoulders.
“Our grasp on magic isn’t so different from yours. We did what we could to mitigate the damage.”
She meant to imply she and I were alike, that black arts bound us, but I had broken free of those chains.
“Does that include having one of your people take a desk clerk at the hotel we stayed in our first night in Charleston? The same hotel where the rest of the agents have set up camp for the duration? Or a cashier at Bridge’s Biscuits? What about her? Her ‘dad’? Park rangers? Teachers? Spa owners?”
“We don’t exactly track one another’s avatars. What would be the point? We can scent our own kind.”
Ah, the vague answer of a seasoned politician. Always open to interpretation.
“The wreaths were your handiwork.”
She wanted me to know that. Appreciate it. Maybe even to thank her for it.
To memorialize the victims spoke of regret, but it struck me as staged for our benefit.
“Yes.” She dipped her gaze to her basket. “A token of remorse.”
“I’ve heard Jilo’s side of things.” I tuned out her attempts to humanize herself. “Tell me yours.”
“There’s a creation myth,” she began, and settled in to tell her story. “The first boo hag, Sorie, was…”
The cadence was practiced, as if she told it often, and she didn’t deviate from Jilo’s tale by a single word.
Curious how she would spin it, I asked, “How does that tie into Jilo?”
“She believed the story was true.” Marah tucked her legs under her. “She was convinced it was the way to save our kind. We only had to be brave enough to try.” She made herself smaller. “We refused to risk even one life with so few of us left, so Jilo swore to do it alone. I don’t know the specifics, but she did it.” She dug her fingers into the arm of her chair. “She always was a little on the nose. She named him Sorie. He is an all-consuming hunger that is never sated, no matter how many times she kills and feeds him. He is proof of her beliefs, and she is willing to let the grume face a different kind of extinction to keep him.”
Based on her stricken expression, she meant death by Black Hat, which was, after all, why we were here.
“Sorie caused the divide between you and Jilo.” I tamed my temper to say, “You cast them both out.”
To wreak havoc on their own.
“We are forbidden to harm one another, so our only recourse was to cast them out. It broke our hearts, to lose that spark of hope for a new generation, and our old friend, but we had to protect ourselves. We knew someone would come, eventually, when we quit cleaning up behind them. We’ve been waiting.”
…when we quit cleaning up behind them.
Our killer at turns appeared both eager and reluctant to get caught, and I was starting to see why.