He stood in the darkened room, the cold damp smell of disuse enveloping him. Gone was the warm scent of incense, the glint of candlelight and the soft music of her chanting.
In vain he searched the shadows for any sense of her presence, and found none.
Then it hit him. If Leila’s spirit was absent from this place, then she had truly gone.
The finality of this struck with a terrible intensity that stopped both his breath and his heart. Seeing her lying in the mortuary, white and cold, the shining hair already dull, the green eyes closed, he hadn’t recognized that lifeless mannequin as his sister. He’d been angry to have been forced to look at it. To pronounce it as his sister.
At that point hate had taken possession of him and he’d directed that hate at the detective, because Danny couldn’t face the truth – that Leila was probably dead because of him.
In this place, surrounded by her altar and candlesticks, her robe and wall hangings, her God and Goddess statues, he knew it was true.
His beautiful, wonderful sister had gone from him.
Where are you?
He shouted his thoughts and his voice hit the concrete walls and echoed back at him unanswered.
What use is your magick now?
Danny sat down on the circular mat, with his back against her altar, put his arms about his knees and wept.
Sometime later, he stood up and lit all the candles and the incense burner, then topped up the dishes, one of salt and one for water. Finally, he filled the goblet with wine.
Her book of spells he placed at the back between the statues of the God and Goddess. Danny thought of the red cingulum, which should have been here, but was being kept by the police as forensic evidence.
I don’t need forensic evidence to find out who killed my sister.
He lifted the green Goddess and turned her upside down. Made of china, the figure had a small hole in the base. Below the hole, the name Freya was etched. He lifted it to the candlelight and tried to see inside.
If the other Freya was right, this was where he might find it.
Danny stepped back a little and, swinging the hand that held the statue, struck it hard against the surface. It shattered, sending sharp shards to litter the altar. One sliced the palm of his hand, breaking the skin, sending a trickle of blood to fall on the salt dish, quickly colouring its contents red.
There was nothing hidden in there.
Freya had been wrong. There was no contact list. Nothing to help him track down Leila’s killer or killers. All he had were three video clips and without being able to identify the men in them, he had failed.
In Wicca there was no retribution after death. No hell and damnation awaiting the wicked. Witches believed you got your rewards and punishments during your life, according to how you lived it. Do good and you will get good back. But do evil and evil will return.
What had Leila done to deserve such evil?
‘Give of yourself – your love; your life – and you will be thrice rewarded. But send forth harm and that too will return thrice over,’ Danny intoned.
That part of the Wiccan Rede, he did agree with.
Danny lifted the sacrificial knife and the Book of Shadows from the altar and blew out the candles.