Witch's Pyre (Worldwalker 3)

“Sure,” Miller said. His face was tight with bitterness.

As Breakfast pulled the mom van out of the driveway, Lily waved good-bye to him in a friendly way. He didn’t wave back.

Carrick finally found the house they were staying at in time to watch the coven pack up their vehicle and drive off, leaving a forlorn young man in their wake.

Carrick turned to his side and retched into the bushes. His vision was blurry and his head throbbed with every pulse of his heart. The blow he’d suffered from the Warrior Sister had left him unconscious for half a day. The Hive had left him for dead, and he might have slipped into the unwakeable sleep but for Lillian’s constant calling and prodding inside his mind.

She would not let him die. Not while she needed him. She reminded him over and over that he was hers to kill, and no other’s.

Carrick had pulled himself up, the ground tilting and reeling, to find that Lillian had worldjumped him to Lily’s universe to follow and to watch. The glade around him bore the signs of the coven’s overnight stay and it showed him their path as easily as if it had been illuminated, but once the coven had reached the main road they had been much harder to track.

His vision was damaged, adding annoyance to his list of problems. Carrick used all his senses when he tracked and didn’t rely solely on his vision, but it certainly helped. Unable to focus his eyes, Carrick had started to wander in the dark last night, perilously close to the edge of the cliffs. The throbbing in his head was so bad it had tempted him to give up, lie down, and die, but again Lillian would not allow it.

She and Lily had finally come to an agreement about some things, but Lily was still too idealistic for Lillian’s peace of mind. Lily didn’t want innocents to die. How quaint. Lillian sent Carrick along behind them to make sure that if there was something distasteful that Lillian wanted done, she need not negotiate with Lily. Carrick would do the dirty work, if there was any to be found. And there was always dirty work.

Her insistence that he continue on after the coven was an exquisite torture. Never had he been so called to sleep and so unable to attain it. When he tried to let himself slip off into the roaring dark, she had taken possession of his body, forcing it to stand, and denying him his release. Never had he been so cruelly driven. He had learned to love his witch for that, and could only hope Lily would be just as harsh with him as Lillian had been after she died.

That time was approaching fast. The loss of Juliet had made Lillian’s inner fire burn twice as bright with vengeance. But twice as bright meant twice as fast, and soon, Carrick knew, she would be burnt out. He just hoped he was far away from her when she went. A witch that strong always took out others with her when she died, especially if she died in the middle of a battle, and Carrick couldn’t imagine his witch dying any other way.

Carrick watched the large, tan-colored vehicle carry the coven away toward the main road and sank down on his knees next to his puddle of sick. He’d lost them again. For now. The numbers on the plate were sealed in his memory. The throbbing in his head turned to blackness.

Carrick. Wake up. Carrick . . .

Lillian roused his mind back to pain. He focused on the dull agony and took a long breath to savor it before opening his eyes.

It was night. Blue and red lights flashed in the driveway and on the street surrounding the house where Lily’s coven had stayed. Men and women in uniforms paced about the grounds, searching. He saw a woman get out of a plain black car. Her boxy body and wiry, graying hair were famili

ar. It was the agent who had hounded Lily and her family on Lily’s last sojourn in this world. Simms.

Find out what that woman knows, Lillian ordered.

Carrick stumbled through the dark to fulfill her wish, but his body was weak. Lillian sent her strength to revive him. The throbbing was still there—Lillian hadn’t eased that—but now that it was mixed with power, the pain morphed into pleasure for him. His witch understood him so well.

Carrick vaulted up the side of the house, a mere blur to the eye, and opened a window on the second floor. He crept through the house until he could position himself best to hear the agent’s voice. She was questioning the tenant.

“No, I already told you,” said a hassled man. “I didn’t know any of them. One of them cooked me breakfast. I assumed he was a chef. Roger? Ronald? I can’t remember his name. I don’t interview the people who come to my parties, you know.” The man sounded like he was used to talking down to people. “There were two hot girls with them. That’s all I know.”

“They just showed up and you let them in?” Simms asked, sounding skeptical. “All someone needs are two hot girls to get into your house?”

“I brought them,” said another male voice. “I brought all of them.”

“Mister . . .” There was a pause as Simms flipped through a small notepad. “Miller. How did you know the suspects?”

“I didn’t,” he said. His voice sounded small and hollow. “I saw them walking down Route One and I picked them up.”

“Are you accustomed to picking up hitchhikers and letting them into your friends’ houses?” Simms asked.

“No. No, I never pick up people.”

“So why did you?”

Carrick heard him take a long, drawn-in breath. “It was her. Lily. She looked at me and I just stopped my truck. I don’t know why I did it. They didn’t even try to wave me down or anything. I just wanted to . . .” His voice trailed off. “Are you going after her?”

“They told you they were going to Yosemite?” Simms asked, ignoring his question.

“Yes. That’s all I know.”

“Yosemite is a big place. Were they specific about any particular site? Were they meeting someone? Did they have camping gear with them?” Simms’s questions came fast.