Page 77 of Demon and the Raven

His eyes met Lorne’s in the rearview mirror. “You must have the patience of a saint.”

The man I loved, who was also very smart, said nothing.

“Listen, I was giving you a compliment,” I grumbled.

“Yes, yes, fine. Tell me about the rift on Corvus.”

“That’s what I do, Father. I’m the guardian. My land is warded so that anything evil, including a demon who stepped foot on it, would be destroyed. We think the demon might have tried to walk onto Corvus already and was unable to.”

“Extraordinary,” he mused as Lorne stopped the police utility vehicle in front of the new entrance to the Phoenix Farm.

When Lorne and I were here last November, there had only been ruins and a lot of immaculately preserved corpses—that had turned instantly to bones once I broke the barrier—in a hole in the ground. Now it looked like the entrance to an amusement park. The landscaping was extensive, with manicured grass, shrubs, and flowers. The signage was done in all orange and gold—used to be the Cult of the Phoenix, after all—and the bird soared above the words. Its open wingspan and beak looked fairly terrifying. Nixie, the Cult of the Phoenix’s new mascot, resembled a bedraggled parrot more than a phoenix in my humble opinion, and its handler’s suit was just as bad. But I clearly knew nothing, as the bird plushies sold well, as did the stainless steel and plastic tumblers.

Lorne thought it all in the worst taste ever. People had died there. He felt it should have been treated with respect, like a grave site, as the cemetery in town was, and that as such, the historical society should have been running the Phoenix Farm. Taylor Hernandez and Dominic Aoki—who had put their book about the cult, Whispers in Time, out early based on public interest in the project—had agreed with Lorne and said so on their popular podcast.

The city council had, of course, voted for the city to take charge of the farm and its steady revenue stream, and since the bones had all been removed and dressed-up mannequins had replaced them, it was fine to make it less somber and more a place for family fun.

In the summer, the site closed at eight. But in the fall and winter, when the days would shorten and it would get dark earlier, the plan was for it to remain open until ten. Ghost tours in the dark around the property would be, the city council was certain, highly profitable. Simply from what we’d seen in the last eight months, even before all the improvements were made, there was no doubt that interest would remain high. The discovery of the doomsday cult was both the best and the worst thing to happen to the town.

There were tourists still leaving when we arrived, walking to the parking lot, getting into their cars. Security guards saw us when we drove in, but instead of yelling that the farm was closed, seeing the vehicle, as well as Lorne getting out, they only waved.

I saw a couple of girls exiting the gift shop, carrying the expensive leather-bound diary of Hillary Newcastle with its gold-sprayed edges. Hillary and Spencer Phelps had a doomed love story, brought to life by none other than Taylor and Dominic in their second novel-length collaboration. There was talk that it might be made into a movie.

“Do you know where the rift was?” Lorne asked me.

“No, but I think I can find remnants of it, if there’s anything left, once we walk into the trees.”

“How?” Father Dennis asked.

“He’s gonna use his magic, Father, but not out here where everyone can see.”

“Which begs the question,” I rushed out, turning to Father Dennis, “are you comfortable seeing my magic, or would you prefer to go back?”

“I would love to,” he assured me.

Lorne led, I followed, and Father Dennis in his lightweight black pants, shoes, and white short-sleeve shirt with collar, brought up the rear. Strange to see him without his suit jacket, casually walking through the wooded area with us.

Once we were at a small clearing, I stopped and faced him. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

I got the feeling he still didn’t a hundred percent believe me, but that was all right. Because once I lifted my hand and turned it palm up and fire filled it, his eyes widened in wonder rather than terror.

“Show me what remains of the rift,” I instructed the flames, “and any that came through.”

As usual, they shot from my hand in every direction, flying to do my bidding, searching for any trace.

“Very impressive,” Father Dennis told me. “I thought you were an herbalist, a gardener, a maker of potions and tinctures, and that you perhaps dabbled in divination. I didn’t think your gifts extended to controlling elemental energies. Can you do the same with water?”

“I don’t normally need water for anything but purification, and I actually suck at gardening.”

Lorne nodded in agreement, and Father Dennis chuckled.

“Raven of the Woods indeed.”

It took a few minutes, and then I felt the pull, the tug deep inside to move forward. “There’s something over there.” I pointed to one of my flames that was hovering over what looked like a bush from where we were.

As the three of us closed in, the smell hit us first. Father Dennis whispered beside me, crossing himself, and the two of us hung back as Lorne charged ahead. He pulled out his flashlight and his cell phone at the same time.