* * *

• • •

Elizaveta made it back in time to just miss the funeral. I think she planned it that way—I sure would have under the circumstances.

A taxi dropped her and her luggage at our door smelling of stale air and all the things that go with air travel. She looked . . . old.

“Adam,” she said, brushing by me, and launched into a spate of Russian.

Her face crumpled with grief and loss and he held her while she cried. But his face was— It was probably a good thing she couldn’t see his face. After a moment, though, he closed his eyes and grief deepened the line of his mouth.

“Elizaveta,” I said. “Come sit down. We have a situation here and I think you may be the only one who can clarify what’s going on.”

She started to come in, but took a step back before her foot landed inside the threshold. “It is lovely outside,” she said. “I have just spent most of a day inside planes and airports. Can we sit out on the porch?”

I thought of the cleansing that Sherwood had performed on the house.

“Of course,” I said. “Why don’t you two find a seat and I’ll bring out some iced tea for everyone.” Elizaveta was fond of iced tea.

Eventually we all sat in the comfortable chairs that were scattered in seating groups all over the porch. Elizaveta drank her tea. I did not doubt her grief or her fear.

It sounded like Sherwood’s cat was going to make it. But Elizaveta’s house had been full of the ghosts of people she and her family had tortured to death for power. I couldn’t look at Elizaveta without seeing the face of that half-dead cat, as if he stood for all of her victims. She grieved, and I had not the slightest bit of sympathy.

“We buried the ashes of your family in your garden,” said Adam.

And there had been a lot of bones in that garden, Warren had told us. They had reburied what they found. We were still considering what to do about that garden.

Elizaveta’s face went still. “Oh?” But when he didn’t say anything more, she said, “Thank you. They would have liked that.”

I didn’t think any of her family would like where they were now. But I didn’t generally impose my beliefs on other people—especially when they wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“About the black magic,” she said tentatively. She was watching Adam; my reaction didn’t matter to her.

Adam shook his head. “I understand. I know how witchcraft works.” “Understand” did not mean “approve.”

“They tried to take us once before,” she said, watching him narrowly. “The Hardesty witches. Some sacrifices were necessary to ensure our survival.”

“I see,” Adam said. “Why didn’t you come to us for help?”

“It was at the same time that you and your pack got taken by the government agents,” Elizaveta said. “You were a little busy. By the time matters settled down for you”—after Frost was dead—“they had backed off.” She gave Adam a grim smile. “My family was not big compared to theirs. But we had some powerful practitioners.”

I was going to have to call Stefan and see what he’d found out about Frost.

“Mercy?” Adam asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was woolgathering.”

“I asked if you could describe the witch you saw,” Elizaveta said.

“Tall,” I said. “Dark hair. Big smile that lights up her face. She sounds like she comes from Adam’s quadrant of the country, though maybe not Alabama.”

“And she makes zombies,” said Elizaveta, as if what I’d told her had given her the final bits she needed to make an identification. “Definitely the Hardesty family.”

“Why do you think she’s making so many zombies?” I asked. “We’ve had a werewolf, twenty miniature goats, a cat, and a cow.”

“She can’t help it,” said Elizaveta. “It is the curse of that kind of necromancy, this uncontrollable need to create more. I am told that the euphoria that lingers after you bring the dead to life is more addictive than morphine. That’s why there aren’t many witches who do it. Some of the African-influenced families seem to have a better handle on that, but even they have a limit. She must be valuable if they haven’t put her down yet.”

“So could we track her using the zombies?” asked Adam. “How does zombie-making work?”

“It doesn’t matter how it works,” Elizaveta said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “By the time there are zombies running around, she could be miles away. What matters is that I can track that sort of magic in my territory.” She took a deep breath. “There were two witches at my house, and one of them was this zombie-maker.”

“Yes,” I said. “Would being a Love Talker make her valuable enough to keep around?”

“Ha,” said Elizaveta. “Is that what she is?”

“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly. Then I described the incident with Salas.

Elizaveta nodded. “Your vampire is right. This man— What was his name? This man is probably witchborn—you say that he has left town?”

“Yes.” I didn’t give his name, and Elizaveta didn’t ask for it again.

“Safer for him,” she commented. “And if she is, indeed, a Love Talker, that would explain a few things I have wondered about her over the years.”

“Can she influence people over distance—like when the vampires mark one of the people they feed from?” Adam asked.

Elizaveta pursed her lips. “Possibly. Some of them have been known to do that.” Then her face cleared. “Oh, I see. You think that she might have been behind your explosion?”

“Ford died in custody,” said Adam. “And he died very much like your family did.”

“If they want to stop an alliance between the humans and the fae—and it is my understanding that they would do that—it could be the Hardestys behind the bombing.” She shrugged and waved her hands. “It might be a single incident; there are enough humans who would be appalled by this alliance. But the Hardesty family is famous for using others to do their work when they can.” She compressed her lips and nodded slowly. “It smells like something they would come up with—and given the death of this man who was supposed to be behind it all, I think it very likely to be them behind the incident. It cost them nothing and had the potential to forward their goals.”

“You think that primarily, these witches have come to take over your territory,” said Adam.