Wicked Wings (Lizzie Grace 5)

“You want to check the sheds?” he said. “I’ll see if the doors are locked.”

I nodded and, once he was safely on the driveway’s smoother ground, headed across to the first of the old sheds. As I reached out to open the old wooden door, the vague sensation of being watched stirred.

My heart rate instantly leaped several notches and I glanced around sharply. Monty was making his way down the left side of the house, and there was nothing or no one else moving about. Nor was there any hint of evil to suggest my watcher was either the shifter or the flesh-stripping demon.

But something was out there.

My grip tightened on the door handle and the faint threads of a repelling spell began to stir across my fingers—the instinctiveness of the reaction was almost as scary as whatever watched me.

Then my ‘other’ senses caught a wisp of energy and my gut tightened as recognition stirred. That energy belonged to the White Lady.

She was here.

And watching.

Waiting.

Six

I took a deep breath and released it slowly. It didn’t do a whole lot to ease the rapid pounding of my pulse. While I doubted the White Lady intended me immediate harm, the fact she continued to haunt my steps was rather unnerving.

“If you want something,” I whispered, certain she’d hear it, “you really should let my friend speak to you.”

She didn’t move and—naturally—didn’t reply.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.”

Again, silence.

I hesitated, and then opened the shed’s door. It creaked loudly, and wings fluttered in response. I looked up and saw a couple of sparrows staring balefully at me from cobwebbed metal rafters—they’d obviously flown in here through the cracked side window to escape the afternoon’s heat.

I stepped further inside and looked around; the old wooden workbenches and various gardening tools were covered in dust and yet more cobwebs, an indication they hadn’t been used in a while. The ride-on lawnmower parked to my right was free of both, though, suggesting it had at least been used in the last couple of days. There was little else here beyond the usual assortment of garden tools, hoses, and buckets.

I left the sparrows to their shadows and headed across to the next shed. My watcher drifted with me, her distance neither increasing nor decreasing. I flexed my fingers, a move that sent tiny sparks spiraling. Unease stirred anew, and I quickly drew the energy pressing against my fingertips back into my soul. The means of controlling innate power was something every blueblood witch learned almost as soon as they could walk, but with the wild magic becoming a stronger force within me, it was pretty obvious I’d have to revisit those earlier lessons. Otherwise—as teachers and parents constantly hammered into every young witch—the results could be calamitous for those I cared about.

There was a rusted old Ford wagon with flat tires parked on one side of the next shed, and a newer-looking sedan on the other. I walked over to the latter. The doors were unlocked, so I opened the passenger side and leaned in, checking the middle console. It contained little more than a packet of Minties and a half-consumed block of chocolate. I moved on to the glove compartment. Aside from more snacks, it held the vehicle’s service book and a couple of old bills. A quick sort through the latter revealed the car’s owner was a Mrs. T. Vaughn; at least we had a name to work with if she had become a victim of the shifter. If nothing else, Belle might be able to recall her spirit and see what had happened.

I checked the rest of the vehicle, but couldn’t find anything that made my psychic radar tingle. Once I’d checked the station wagon, I headed back out. The White Lady continued to drift along with me; there was no sense of urgency in her movements, no indication that she wanted me to find something… and yet I had a growing suspicion that there was something here to find.

Monty appeared around the other end of the house and hobbled toward me.

“Anything?” he said.

“The house belongs to a Mrs. Vaughn, and we’re being watched by a White Lady. Other than that, no. You?”

He did something of a double take. “The White Lady is here?”

I nodded. “Watching from a safe distance over to my left.”

His gaze narrowed, and after a moment, he grunted. “I’m not sensing anything.”

“That’s because you’re using magical radar, not psychic. Trust me, she’s there.”

“Oh, I’m not doubting it, but it’s damn unusual for a White Lady to be proficient enough at magic to hide her form like that. Even if we are dealing with a former witch, I’ve never read anything that says your power can cross over when your soul does.”

“Which means there’s no indication that it can’t, either.”

“True.” He glanced toward the house. “All the windows are curtained, the doors are locked, and there’s no indication of magic around the exterior. But given the presence of our specter, I’m inclined to think we should go inside and investigate.”