The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

a lot of horrors over the centuries, but that night....

      Well. He’d been young, after all. Naturally it had affected him more.

      “As far as I can tell, she’s gone to ground,” Murphy said. “I’ve let it be known I’ve an interest in her activities. So far, nothing.”

      Cormac nodded, grim. He’d not had any result on that front, either. But he had a gut feeling. “There is quite a lot of power here. More than when I visited before.”

      “Sure, there’s been an upsurge, true enough.” Murphy shrugged. “This time of year, there’s nothing unusual in that. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that the area is a bit of a gathering place.”

      “Hard to miss.” And that would make it easy enough for anyone to slip in—not secretly, perhaps, but anonymously.

      “If she is here,” Cormac said, casually seizing the opportunity, “we can at least discuss a new time frame.”

      Murphy laughed, causing a few heads to turn. He flicked a hand and they turned back. “If she took the Bell, her being here would be convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

      “Goddamn it, I can’t protect—” Thia, he’d almost said. Not while tracking down the bell. “Goddamn it.”

      “Language,” Murphy chided. “But ‘tis the season and all that so I’m feeling kindly. Talk to me again before the two weeks are up. And maybe—maybe—we can sort something out.” He stood. “In the meantime, we’ve a few rooms open. Why don’t you get yourself one. We do a lovely breakfast.”

      The glow of power in his eyes made it clear that he was not making a suggestion. He was making an order.

      Cormac didn’t have to take those anymore. “I’ll think about it.”

      No need. He’d made a reservation days ago.

      

      Elkhorn Park, Granite Springs

      They walked the uphill path in silence. Not that she would have permitted talk had the fool shown the inclination, but he was too busy fighting the compulsion she’d crafted.

      She felt her mouth curve into a smile. Did he even realize where she was leading? He ought to appreciate it. The watcher she’d put on him had told her that, after the alley, it was his next most frequented place in town.

      There was a particular bench where he would sit for hours, she’d been told. She had ruined a new pair of Saint Laurent boots scoping it out yesterday. “Wilderness trail with the occasional bench,” was a more apt description than “park” at that point. But it would do well for privacy and, she was betting, the relaxation within him that would allow her spell to take complete hold.

      Going by the surprisingly busy playground, she returned the bland smiles from two women ostensibly watching a child in a puffy pink jacket climb the wrong way up a slide. Acknowledging them would, as she’d learned over the past week, make her less memorable, not more. The people here were odd that way.

      Which meant they would soon forget her but not the man walking several feet behind.

      Such a strange town.

      And a powerful one. Such a shame she hadn’t the time to find out why.

      The paved path changed to bark chips and she felt her annoyance flare again. She hadn’t expected to need hiking gear in a bloody city park.

      “Is it much farther?” came the voice behind her. She smiled at the strain in it. He’d wear himself out with all that internal fighting, perhaps even before they got to the bench.

      She whirled on him, sent more power into the spell. Like pulling up on a choke chain. He flinched, dropped his gaze.

      Good dog.

      She walked on. Wood chips became half-frozen dirt and fallen leaves as the path wended its way closer to the stream. Creek, as it was called here. Rushing water drowned out any sound from behind, but she sensed when he lost the battle and resumed following. The spell allowed her a vague awareness of his location and, if she strengthened her hold, his intent.

      It did not, however, tell her much else about him. She didn’t know who he was or even his name—nor did she particularly care at this point. Who or whatever he had once been, he was now broken. The power he had was erratic, weak more often than it was strong, sometimes altogether absent.

      She rounded a bend and left the main path for a thin track encroached upon by dead grasses and prickly shrubs. It ended at a small overlook with two benches. Bracketed by trees, they were utterly secluded.

      She knew which of the two he always chose. When he arrived, she moved to stand in front of it. Pointed to the other.

      “I prefer that one.” He indicated the one she blocked. His gaze darted around hers. Held.

      That was not how she intended for their relationship to proceed. Calling power to her hands, she formed a ball of white energy: wanfýr. Her irises as she did so, she knew, glowed amber.

      The man paled. His gaze dropped to the ground.

      Yet he persisted with a faint, “Please.”

      She yanked the invisible leash. He gasped, stumbled a step closer, and she extended her hand to put the fýr inches from his downturned face. At such a range, it could do as much damage as wælfýr.

      “No. Please,” he said again. He trembled.

      “Sit.” She moved the fýr so he could. Vanished it when he did as told—on the bench she had assigned. And then she took the one he’d wanted.

      “You said you’d tell me about her.”

      Weak, he was, yet stubborn. She shrugged a shoulder. “So I did. And now that we’re in no danger of being overheard, so I will.” She sent a needling jab of energy his way. He flinched.

      “Thia McDaniel,” she said. “She inherited that quaint little shop you’ve been spending time behind. Employs that girl who leaves you treats.”

      “She feels like—” He stopped, shuddered. “Her power feels like the Cailleach’s.”

      “Because it is. Thia stole it from my father after she murdered my brother.”

      He lifted his head, his blue eyes wide.

      Cassandra smiled. “You thought she was an innocent?”

      “She doesn’t use it.”

      “The power?” Interesting. She increased the compulsion. “Doesn’t—or can’t?”

      His eyes closed tight, his teeth gritting as he fought…and lost. “C-can’t. Can’t use it. She tries. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with others.”

      “But she fails?”

      The man gave a start and looked toward the trail as if he’d heard something.

      She hadn’t. Nor did she sense anything, but she prepared to disguise herself, nevertheless. “Is someone coming?”

      He was too agitated to answer.

      The trouble with broken people was exactly that: They were broken. “What the hell is it?”

      He made a small noise and then rubbed his temple. “I can’t stay.”

      “You can.” She pulled on the spell, forced him to sit when he attempted to rise. “You will.”

      “Please.” He almost made eye contact.

      Such a begging tone. Such need—and so strong and clear that