Aiden pushed to his feet. “What the hell sort of spell was that red sphere?”
“A nasty one.”
“Which you destroyed with one of equal power,” he said. “And that is yet another indicator you’re not what you claim.”
“Except it wasn’t all me. The wild magic subverted my spell and created something I had not intended.” I paused as instinct suggested that whatever had happened here tonight was just the start of things—but the start of what, it wouldn’t say. I rubbed my arms, though it did little against the gathering chill. “I did warn you it was dangerous.”
He briefly scanned the graveyard. I had the suspicion he was searching for the magic he didn’t have the capacity to see or feel. “I thought you said the wellspring was in the O’Connor compound?”
“The wellspring is, but the wild magic itself isn’t restricted to that area. As I said, it’s everywhere on this reservation.”
“Ah.” He offered me his hand. “I have to tell you, I’m struggling to believe any of this.”
“Which is hardly surprising given your less than stellar opinion of both magic and witches.” I placed my hand in his and let him pull me up. “We’d better go see what he was doing.”
He didn’t immediately release me. “You look rather pale—are you all right?”
I nodded. He hesitated, and then stepped to one side to allow me to pass. But his grip moved from my hand to my elbow, as if in readiness to catch me should I stumble or fall. I didn’t object—my legs were more than a little wobbly. It had been a long time since anyone of power had tried to kill me—over twelve years in fact—and this bastard had now tried twice.
“Is it really possible to raise the dead?” Aiden asked.
“If you know the right spells, yes.” I glanced at him. “I don’t know those spells, in case you’re wondering.”
A slight smile touched his lips. “Are you sure you’re not telepathic like your friend?”
“Trust me, your thoughts are totally safe from me, Ranger.”
“Aiden, please, especially given I’m going to need your help to catch this bastard.”
That raised my eyebrows. “So hell really has frozen over??
?
“Possibly.” His voice held just a touch of self-deprecation. “Certainly it’s something I would have thought impossible a year ago.”
The candles were still burning up ahead, which meant our vampire either hadn’t closed off his pentagram or he hadn’t used one. Even for those of us who followed the path of light, their usage often depended on what sort of spell was being created or on what sort of magic or spirits were being called forth.
“I can smell blood,” Aiden said. “It’s fresh.”
“He would have had to make a sacrifice if he was raising the dead.” I paused. “How strong a scent are we talking about?”
He glanced at me, his expression one of curiosity rather than anything else. “Why?”
“The longer a body is in the ground, the bigger the sacrifice has to be. Reconstituting flesh isn’t easy.”
“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not by that statement.”
“Opt for the former,” I replied. “It means he should be out of action for the next day or so.”
“Should is also not a word I find comforting in this sort of situation.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “This bastard does keep doing things he shouldn’t be able to.”
As we drew closer to the grave, it became evident that the two candles I could see were it—and that, in turn, meant there was no pentagram.
My gaze slipped from the candles to the grave itself. It was open, and the earth had been flung in all directions, suggesting the vampire’s magic had simply punched through it to get to the body. With more than a little trepidation, I looked at the gravestone.
Mason Redfern, son of Emma and Morris Redfern. He’d been buried thirteen days ago, and had only been sixteen years old.