Entangled Secrets. Pat Esden
extended her hand as he walked up to her. “You’re Lionel, right?”
“Lionel Parker.” He took her hand, his long fingers wrapping hers in an earnest grip. “I am—a huge fan. Your sculptures are remarkable.”
“Thank you.” She kept hold of his hand and met his gaze full-on, buying herself time to assess his energy. He had a creative fire, kindness, empathy… His energy warped, wringing so tight she couldn’t read it anymore. Whatever spell Rhianna had worked on him, it was powerful, multilayered, and fiercely debilitating. It was a miracle that Lionel was able to hold a somewhat normal conversation, let alone survive day to day with an upheaval like that going on inside him. How brilliant had he been before the spell?
As bright as the light from a welding torch, her instincts whispered.
His smile widened and his lips parted. A spark twinkled in the depths of his dark eyes.
Chandler released his hand as fast as if it were a greased cobra. Heat flushed up her cheeks. She knew that twinkle. He’d mistaken her lingering touch for romantic interest, and he wasn’t rejecting it. She wouldn’t have been as certain or taken aback, except she rarely saw that spark in a man’s eyes. Women, yes—though she had no interest beyond friendship with them.
Gar cleared his throat. “Well, Lionel, what do you say we drop the pretenses and get to the point of this visit?”
Chandler moved away from Lionel, retreating to stand behind the coffee table with Chloe. It made sense to let Gar lead the conversation. Lionel didn’t know it, but Gar was more than just a tough-looking guy in worn jeans and a camo baseball cap. He worked as a special investigator for the High Council of Witches. In fact, the coven had first met Gar when he’d been sent to assess them for possible disbandment after Lionel’s rant on TV—not to mention that the Circle had awakened Merlin’s Shade while under Rhianna’s influence, and in turn the Shade had brought a bunch of her flying monkey sculptures to life. The important thing was, when push came to shove, Gar had proven to be the Circle’s staunch ally.
Lionel’s voice quieted. “I—I am not fond of games. I would prefer to get to the point.”
Gar glanced toward Chandler and Chloe. “When we were touring the teahouse, Lionel admitted he isn’t certain he saw a loup-garou.”
“He thinks he might have seen a dog,” Devlin added.
Lionel straightened to his full height, a good several inches over six feet. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with care. “That is not right. I said I wasn’t sure I saw a person transform into a loup-garou. But I did see a person—a street performer, posing as a statue of The Thinker—change into a wolflike animal. Um—I know shapeshifters and magic are real. I am not mistaken. And you all know it.”
“What makes you so sure?” Chloe said, before Lionel could take a breath.
Chandler hated the idea of ganging up on anyone. She’d told Peregrine a million times that bullying was wrong. But browbeating Lionel into thinking things like magic, powerful witches, and shifters didn’t exist was vital for the coven’s welfare, and for Lionel’s safety, too. Why did he have to be so determined to expose them? For that matter, what made him so willing to believe things other people dismissed as unreal?
She narrowed her eyes and took over the badgering where Chloe had left off. “Did you get a photograph of this street performer changing? A video? What proof do you have that it wasn’t just part of the performer’s act?”
Lionel’s voice went as taut as brass strings on a harp. “Why—why are all of you so interested in convincing me that I am wrong?” His gaze darted around the room. “Where—where is your high priestess? I expected to talk to her.”
Chloe stepped toward him, skirting the coffee table. “First of all, let me clarify that we aren’t the Grimm’s fairy tale coven you’re imagining.” She gave him a second to mull that over. “That said, I’m the coven’s high priestess.” It wasn’t a lie. Chloe had agreed to temporarily take the position after they discovered Athena’s murder.
“Bullshit.” Lionel raised his hand, showing his wrist. The outline of a barely healed cut stood out against his skin. “The real high priestess slashed my wrist with a dagger. She took my blood. She chopped off my hair and cut my fingernails. She cast a spell on me. In this room.” He shoved his misshapen glasses up higher on his nose, preparing to add an important detail. His expression pinched, like he’d lost his train of thought. Then it brightened again. “She said, ‘Sacrifice willingly given. Hair and blood…’”
As he continued repeating the words of the spell, the air in the room began to vibrate with energy. It prickled against the nape of Chandler’s neck and made her tattoos tingle. Lionel wasn’t a witch. He didn’t have any ability to work magic. But the spell Rhianna had worked on him had imprinted itself on the room.
“That’s enough,” Devlin snapped.
Lionel stopped reciting. “I—I am right, aren’t I? You are more than Wiccan or Pagan.”
“What you are is confused,” Gar said flatly.
Chandler nodded in agreement. She slanted a look at Devlin. As high priest, he technically was the one in charge of dealing with things like this along with Chloe.
Devlin folded his arms across his chest. He rocked back on his heels. “What if you are right about us? How could you expect us to be honest with you? It’s no secret that you stole an invitation in order to infiltrate one of our parties. You pretended to be a potential coven initiate. Who did you steal the invitation from? What happened to that person?”
Lionel swiveled away. He paced toward the door to the gardens. Staring out, he rubbed his hands down his arms as if the question had given him the chills. He turned around and paced back to them. “You have to understand. All my life, I’ve sensed magic was real. I need to prove it. I have to.”
Chloe harrumphed. “You stole the invitation and lied to us in order to write an article that would expose our personal lives and whatever you think our coven does to the entire world.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was going to do that. But that’s not how it went down. A clairvoyant gave me the invitation. He said my life is as entwined with witches as his was with death.”
Cold dread crept over Chandler. A clairvoyant. She had a suspicion who this person was and where this conversation was about to go, and the darkness of it was something she’d hoped never to revisit.
Chloe hugged herself. “What did this clairvoyant look like?”
“He was a goth. I met him in a bar. He was reciting poetry.” Lionel’s voice became almost too low to hear. “S-someone killed him. The police called it a suicide. They said he cut strips of skin from his own body. But that is not the truth, is it?” His gaze pinned Chloe, as if he were a psychic capable of compelling the truth from her.
She paled. Her mouth opened. Finally, she relented. “No, it isn’t.”
A sick feeling lodged in Chandler’s stomach. She’d never met the clairvoyant goth, like Chloe had. But she knew the fake story the police believed and the more gruesome truth about the missing skin.
Lionel tapped a finger against his temple. “That spell may have screwed with my head. To be honest, I have never been totally normal. But I know I saw other things, too.”
“Like what?” Gar asked.
“I found the clairvoyant’s body in the cemetery. I am the one who called the police.” Lionel’s voice was as solid as bedrock, not the slightest hint of hesitation or confusion. “I wrote the article about him skinning himself that went viral online, but it wasn’t the truth. I saw who really killed the goth and cut the skin from his body. Your high priestess. She made a charm from it in the shape of a bracelet. It looked a lot like the necklace she wore to make herself appear younger. Your high priestess wrote the goth’s suicide note, too. I saw her do it.”
Chandler