I set the manila folder on the Toyota’s hood and opened the file. Beneath my wavering flashlight beam was a faded newspaper clipping with a photo of a gap-toothed baseball team. DOYLE ELEMENTARY WINS PLAYOFFS.
I scanned the newspaper photo. Daniel stood front and center, grinning in his uniform and cap.
Putting the article aside, I ran the light across a typed letter.
Trevor,
As promised, here are this year's school pictures. If our agreement is still on—and it had better be—you won't respond to this. I know I shouldn't have to remind you, but you need to stay away. Daniel is doing well in school. He'll get through this. You coming back would only make things worse, especially if your situation hasn't changed.
- P
My breath released in a noisy whoosh. Whoa. Puck had written to Trevor.
I checked the date on the newspaper article. It was from after Trevor’s disappearance.
She'd known he was alive and where to find him all along. And if he'd been with a Black Lodge...
I skimmed through the remaining pages. More photos of Daniel, more letters from Puck that basically said the same thing.
Replacing the pages in the file, I returned it to its spot behind the driver's seat. I called the sheriff.
“Ms. Bonheim?” she asked, caution lacing her voice.
“I found Trevor's car.” I told her about the field.
“Don't move. I'll be right there.” She hung up.
I shifted uneasily. She hadn't asked how or why I'd found the car. Sheriff McCourt in an easygoing mood was never a good sign, because she was never in an easygoing mood.
Ten minutes later, two sheriff's SUVs jounced across the rutted field. They coasted to a halt beside the abandoned Corolla.
The sheriff and two deputies stepped from the cars.
She braced her hands on her hips and gazed at the Toyota. “Dare I ask how you know it's Trevor's car?”
“I checked inside. There's a file. He was keeping track of his son.” And Daniel had mentioned there’d been life insurance. If Puck had known he was alive, that was fraud.
The sheriff’s neck muscles corded. “You disturbed evidence.”
I raised my hands. “I wore gloves. And how was I to know it was his car unless I checked?”
She cursed. “I don't want to know how you found it. I don't want to know why you were looking. And don't tell me you weren't looking.”
“I... Wait. If I don't tell you I wasn't looking, then you do want to know?”
The back of my scalp prickled. I glanced over my shoulder.
A tall, masculine figure lurked at the edge of the clearing.
Her jaw clenched. “Go. Just go.”
“Okay. I mean sorry. I mean, you know where to find me.” I strode toward the man.
Maybe I’d lost it. Maybe it was the presence of the cops that emboldened me. Maybe I was just sick of being followed. But enough was enough.
He took a step backward at my approach, then stilled.
“You,” I said. “You've been following me. Why?”
“I think you know why,” he said.
And then I remembered the backpack on my back, heavy with the book in its box of salt. My mouth went dry. What was I thinking, trying to be spontaneous? That was how Jayce rolled, not me.
“Who are you?” I rapped out, faking tough.
“They call me Castor.”
“As in oil?”
“As in Castor and—”
“Pollux, from the myth of the founding of Rome. I get it.” Play it cool. Don't think about the book on your back. “Are you in the Black Lodge?”
“I'm in a Black Lodge.” His thin lips pursed. “How did you guess?”
“With a name like Castor? Really? I mean, I guess you could have gone with something slightly more obvious, like Merlin or Baphomet.”
He twitched. “Okay. Geez. They didn't tell me you were so mouthy.”
“You drop all sorts of hang-ups after giving birth.” Motherhood doesn’t leave much room for niceties.
His mouth wrinkled in distaste.
“So,” I prompted, “what do you want?”
He rubbed his hand across his sleek, brown hair. “It's a long story.” He glanced toward the deputies, searching the car. “Want to get a drink?” He glanced at my stomach. “Or coffee or something.”
I stiffened. He thought I was pregnant? Oh, hex him! “I can have a drink.” I checked my watch. “But I can't miss my daughter's bath. It will have to be quick. My husband’s expecting me. Antoine's?”
“That weird western bar?”
“There's nothing weird about a good western bar.” Annoyed, I marched into the pines, the headlights from the sheriff department’s SUVs at my back. He followed me through the parking lot.
I climbed the wooden steps and pushed through the batwing doors of the old-west bar. The place was packed, music blaring from the jukebox. I scanned the room for a free table.
Jayce popped up from a booth and waved.
“There,” I said, relieved. “Come on.” I wove across the sawdust-covered floor to my sister.
“Who's this?” Jayce asked, eyeing my companion.
“Baphomet,” I said.
His mouth pinched. “Castor,” he corrected.
“You do look more like a Baphomet,” Jayce said. “And this is Brayden.” She motioned to her husband, seated in the booth across from her, and took a sip from her mug of beer.
He studied Castor through narrowed eyes.
“Castor's in the Black Lodge,” I explained.
Jayce choked on her beer.
“Are you all right?” Brayden asked me, his blue-gray eyes intent. I knew what he was asking—was I in danger, was I with Castor of my own free will?
“I'm fine,” I said. “He's been following me all over town, and I thought it would be easier if we laid our cards on the table.”
I sat beside Jayce.
Castor perched on the edge of Brayden's bench as if poised to run.
“So,” Brayden said. “You're in the lodge.”
“A lodge,” he corrected.
“In San Francisco,” I said.
Castor started. “How did you know that?”
“I know all sorts of things,” I said darkly. Okay, I'd sort of been guessing, but I'd guessed right. “For example, Trevor. He was in your lodge too.”
“Trevor?” Castor's pale brow furrowed, then cleared. “Ah, you mean Desmond. He changed his name when he came to us.”
“Fine, Desmond,” I said. “Why did he come to you?”
“The usual reasons. Knowledge. Power. Magic. Protection.”
“And he left his family behind,” I said.
“Of course. We all do.”
“Why did he return to Doyle now?” Jayce asked.
“We sent him here to recruit you.”
“Recruit?” Jayce shot a startled glance at her husband.
“After you destroyed that Lovecraftian spell book, disabled one of our members, and caused three others to defect, we thought it made sense. Trevor knew you—”
“What?” Jayce jolted forward.
Castor frowned. “He said he knew you, that you played with his son when you were children.”
“I did,” I said. “Though I don't remember Daniel’s father very well. It was a long time ago.”
“Still, there was the Doyle connection. He knew the town, knew you. He convinced us to let him come. And then someone killed him. We presumed you were responsible, and so they sent me.”
The George Strait song on the jukebox ended. Patsy Cline took up the slack and warbled about falling to pieces.
“We didn't kill Trevor,” I said. “We didn't even know he was in town.”
“You found the body.” Castor’s dark gaze bored into mine. “You must know how suspicious that looks, under the circumstances.”
“Why exactly did they send you?” Brayden asked, his voice hard.
“To determine what happened and take any necessary action.”
“What sort of action?” Brayden asked.
He shrugged. “I still think recruitment is a good idea. Clearly, you two and your sister are formidable. It doesn't make sense for us to be at odds.”
“There's an easy solution for that.” Jayce's knuckles whitened on her beer mug. “Stay out of Doyle.”
“No can do. Too much power running through here.” He smiled. “We can't let you ladies have it all to yourselves.”
“I think you can,” Brayden said.
Castor shook his head. “These ladies have racked up an impressive body count. But the people they killed weren't magic, were they?” He looked to Jayce. “Are you sure you're ready to defend against an entire lodge?”
I hated him.
“The people who died weren’t all magic,” Brayden growled.
Castor blanched.
Hold on, what did that mean? That some were? This was getting out of control. We’d never killed anyone, magic or otherwise. I shook my head. “We didn't—”
Jayce grasped my arm. “What makes you think we killed those people?”
He nodded to Jayce. “You practice black magic, manipulating people with love and happiness spells.”
I sucked in my breath. I’d told her to lay off those spells. It wasn’t exactly black magic, but—
“Your sister Lenore works with dark books,” he continued.
Jayce stiffened. “And Karin?”
“Well, she is a lawyer.”
Brayden huffed out a breath, and I squinted at him. It had sounded a lot like a laugh.
“Lawyers provide a necessary service,” I said. “At least estate attorneys do.”
“All right,” Jayce said. “Let's say we join your club. What do we get out of it?”
“Support. Knowledge. Strength in numbers.”
“You mean protection,” Brayden said. “This is a protection racket.”
“That's it?” Jayce asked.
Castor raised a brow. “Isn't it enough?”
“When did you arrive in Doyle?” I asked.
“Two days ago. Desmond stopped reporting in. It didn't take long for us to realize he was dead. And here I am.”
“Here you are,” Brayden said, expression unfriendly. “All right. You've made your case. We'll think it over.”
Castor smirked. “We?”
Brayden shifted, his hands fisting on the table.
Castor stood so quickly his hip banged the table’s edge. The beers sloshed over their mugs. A rivulet of amber liquid trickled to the sawdust-covered floor.
The magician eyed Brayden warily. “I'll be at the Historic Doyle Hotel until Tuesday.” Castor laid a business card on the table. “Make your decision before then.” He strode from the bar, the batwing doors swinging in his wake.
“Let's say we join?” I hissed at Jayce. “We're not joining a Black Lodge! Our parents fought Black Lodges.”
“Magic killed our parents,” she said. “Not a lodge. But I wasn’t serious. I was buying time.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
“And I'm not casting love spells,” she quickly added. “Not anymore. You were right. They're manipulative, even when I'm well intentioned. Or think I'm well intentioned.”
Brayden picked up Castor’s business card and turned it over.
“On the positive side,” Jayce said, “at least they believe we destroyed the book.”
“Right,” I said, “and they think we're murderers who have to either join up or...” Or what? I shivered. He’d said everyone who joined the lodge had left their family behind. I couldn’t do that.
Brayden handed the business card to Jayce. She studied it and passed it to me. There was no name or phone number on the card, just an odd, occult-looking symbol I didn't recognize.
“This isn't good,” Brayden said bluntly.
No. No, it wasn't.