There are three ways to traditionally kill a Witch. Hang her, drown her or burn her.
The fire in the tower had raged all night. He recalled another fire that had happened before he’d come here, in the 100-year-old Bower Building just off University Avenue. The building had been completely destroyed, including a great deal of research material.
Maybe that had been his inspiration?
But like then, as apparently now, there had been no fatalities reported, so the chances were the Witch hadn’t died.
His anger rose to burn in his throat.
He was in the section on the occult and had asked not to be disturbed. In truth, he was amending the catalogue to take account of the missing items, including the book on runic alphabets he’d taken to the old library on Saturday evening.
He couldn’t imagine it had survived.
He had his story straight for whoever came to speak to him. And someone would come. He had nothing to hide. He had helped a colleague out by supplying a book she required. A little against the rules as the book in question should never have left this building, but then the main building was still on campus as he’d said jokingly in his conversation with Freya.
There was the small concern regarding the signet ring and the likelihood that he would be questioned about Dr Charles. He could only answer in good faith. The man had presented himself as a benefactor of the Special Collection and asked to speak to their current PhD student whose thesis was on Witchcraft, a strong interest of his.
That much was true. The fact that he and Dr Charles also shared a worldwide interest in the trade in ancient tomes and pamphlets on the occult need not be revealed.
At this point in the thought process, a small niggling doubt arose. Should he land in trouble over this, he doubted whether he would have the back-up of Dr Charles or anyone else in the group. As such, he had material hidden away that he knew they would be interested in, to trade with. It was all a matter of planning and organization.
He withdrew a book to gaze again on the illustrations which featured the many and varied methods used to torture and dispose of Witches. The colours were still as bright as when they’d been painted. The terror and cruelty as vivid on the page as in the minds of those who had devised them.
People imagined that Witchcraft was no more and that the enlightened mind had taken its place. He knew differently. Witchcraft was as powerful and established as it had always been. Its ancient artefacts and writings were eagerly sought by those in power, throughout the world. Like fine wine, it only rose in value.
He would have preferred to have retained Leila’s Book of Shadows as a reminder of all that had happened, but because of what it was suspected to contain, it had needed to be destroyed.
He was a little sorry about that.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, he returned the book to its allotted place and went to see who had disturbed him.
As he passed the main gates, McNab registered that the smoke and the acrid smell of the fire had gone, yet he could still taste it on his lips and feel its effect in his lungs. He stopped before attempting the hill to the main library and tried to take a deep breath, which only resulted in a fit of coughing. He checked his mobile for any message from Danny. When there wasn’t one, he decided to assume all was well with him and Freya.
There were questions he required answering and Grant Buchanan, he believed, was the only man who could do so.
When he asked for Mr Buchanan at the front desk, he was informed that he was working and had asked not to be disturbed. McNab showed them his badge and insisted.
The man behind the desk made a call which wasn’t answered.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not picking up.’
‘Then someone can deliver me to him.’
‘We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment.’
‘Tell me where to go and I’ll find him myself.’
Grant waited for his visitor to appear, ready with an admonishment for disturbing him after strict instructions not to.
At that moment something strange happened. He thought he saw Leila’s auburn head pass by on the other side of the bookshelves. It was both familiar, yet disquieting. Then the face appeared, her face and yet not her face. He stared, slightly unnerved, as his brain finally reminded him that this was Leila’s younger brother who stood looking at him.
His first instinct was to be angry, both for having been frightened by the similarity and by his sudden appearance, but instinct warned him that this was not the reaction required. He must remain solicitous, just as he had been before when he’d found Danny and Freya here with the Book of Shadows.
‘Danny. I’m so pleased you’re here. I’ve been calling the hospital and the police trying to find out if Freya was still in the building when the fire—’
‘Freya’s in hospital. She’s fine. The Book of Shadows was destroyed in the fire.’
Grant adopted a suitably sad expression. ‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘But then, as you reminded me, a Witch’s Book of Shadows should be burned on their passing.’
‘That was a throwaway remark. I apologize for it. As long as Freya’s all right.’
How like his sister, he looks, Grant thought. Those green eyes, the hair, even the shape of the face and the flashing anger when challenged.
‘How did you know the suspect had confessed to my sister’s murder?’
A cloud appeared on his horizon, a dark cloud that suggested a storm was brewing.
‘I didn’t,’ was all he could muster.
‘Are you calling Freya a liar?’
Leila’s male equivalent had moved towards him with, he thought, the stealth and quietness of a cat about to spring.
He took a step backwards and met the desk where he’d been viewing the images of tortured Witches.
‘Do you know what Leila’s instructions were about her book?’ Danny spat at him.
He shook his head, no longer trusting his voice.
‘That by burning it, her death would be avenged.’
He composed himself. Things were not as acute as they had at first seemed. The brother knew nothing. He was merely angry and upset. Before he could find a suitable retort however . . .
‘I don’t believe that Wiccan stuff. I prefer my own version of revenge.’
The yag-dirk now in Danny’s hand was undoubtedly Leila’s, taken like the Book of Shadows from her altar. He accepted in the seconds that followed that he should have cleared her temple when he’d had the chance. The night he’d met with the suspect in that building, he had chosen not to, because it would have aroused suspicion.
He was paying the price now for that error of judgement.
He contemplated shouting, but the basement was soundproof, as was most of the library, the idea being that you shouldn’t be disturbed. He might wrestle with the young man but he would surely lose. Then again, if the young man harmed him, he became the criminal.
He therefore chose to say what he really thought about Leila Hardy. ‘Your sister overstepped the mark. She thought herself more important than she was. She actually believed the stuff she peddled, but she wasn’t selling magick, she was selling sex.’
The remark hit home as he knew it would. Danny made a lunge at him, which he’d prepared himself for. What he hadn’t anticipated was an addition to the fray. The policeman appeared from nowhere, like an avenging angel, grabbing the blade in his bandaged hand.
There was a brief struggle as the two men fought for supremacy, but there was no doubt in his mind who would win. Eventually order was restored.
‘As you saw, this mad man attacked me—’ he began. The look the detective threw him stopped him midsentence.
‘I’d like you to come with me to the station, Mr Buchanan. We have some questions to put to you regarding the deaths of Leila Hardy, Shannon Jones and Barry Fraser.’