Last Grave (9781101593172)

  Praise for

  The Thirteenth Sacrifice

  “This novel is . . . so darn well-written that, even though you may be a bit afraid to read it right before you go to sleep, it’s almost impossible to put it down. . . . Samantha is such a smart, likable, vulnerable, and yet entirely fresh heroine that, even with her extraordinary abilities and the impossible choices she must make, it’s easy for the reader to identify with her character. . . . This novel is an insanely good read. . . . Debbie Viguié just keeps getting better and better. Creepy and compelling, The Thirteenth Sacrifice is scary plot perfection. With a little something for everyone and a whole lot of awesome to hook you in, this new series is sure to shock, delight, repel, intrigue, and keep readers glued to the edge of their seats as they await the sequel.”

  —USA Today

  “One of the most beautifully written and scariest books I’ve ever read. Samantha, the main character, wrestles with fear and faith in an un-put-downable heart-stopper of a supernatural thriller. This is one of my top ten EVER.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder

  “A well-written book that harkens back to the Salem witch trials. Readers who enjoy a good mystery with historical undertones will enjoy this book. Horror readers who love books that creep them out will enjoy this book. Thriller and mystery readers will find this book full of enjoyable police procedures and suspenseful moments. The combination of all of these ideas in one book is nothing short of amazing! . . . A heart-stopping read.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  “Elements of a police procedural, with a paranormal mystery that keeps the pace moving. . . . You’ll be fascinated by Viguié’s former witch.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  “An exciting paranormal thrill ride . . . the pace is just fast enough, the evil plenty scary, and the emotional turmoil heartfelt.”

  —Dark Faerie Tales

  “Samantha is a character you can really get behind. . . . [I was] completely engrossed in the story. . . . The next installment, as well as other Debbie Viguié novels, will be definitely going on my watch list.”

  —A Book Obsession

  “In one sitting I had devoured the 368 pages and wanted more. . . . It was an incredible story. . . . Samantha is an amazing character. . . . [This] was dark and dangerous and incredibly thrilling, with tons of action, more intrigue than I knew what to do with, surprises around every corner, and psychological and theological undertones that made me as a reader think, which just immersed me in the story even further. . . . I absolutely cannot wait for the next book in the Witch Hunt series.”

  —Literal Addiction

  “Viguié’s writing in The Thirteenth Sacrifice is so sharp you could cut yourself turning the page. It’s got everything—humor, a splash of romance in the air, an undercurrent of magic, and a pure charm that fills every wonderful line of the story. . . . [This] is the kind of book you’ll read again. And again. And again.”

  —Steven Savile, author of Machineries of Silence

  “[An] excellent thriller. . . . The story draws readers in right from the start, then quickly picks up speed as murder-victim investigations and connections begin taking shape.”

  —Monsters and Critics

  “The action is well done, and the plot as a whole is exciting. I would recommend it to someone who was into thriller-mysteries with a paranormal twist.”

  —Paranormal Haven

  “A dark and intense supernatural suspense thriller . . . a haunting tale.”

  —Smexy Books Romance Reviews

  Also by Debbie Viguié

  Witch Hunt Novels

  The Thirteenth Sacrifice

  THE

  LAST GRAVE

  * * *

  A WITCH HUNT NOVEL

  * * *

  Debbie Viguié

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  New Delhi–110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Parktown North 2193, South Africa

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-59317-2

  Copyright © Debbie Viguié, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Excerpt from Circle of Blood

  To my mom, Barbara Reynolds.

  Thank you for all the times you took me to see the Big Trees in Santa Cruz!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As with all books, there are always many, many people to thank. Of course none of this would be possible without my fantastic agent, Howard Morhaim, and my amazing editor Danielle Perez. Thank you also to the family and friends who always support me. I feel, though, that it is especially important in this book for me to thank those people who work tirelessly to ensure that we remember our past and embrace our future. To all those who work to make Roaring Camp a magical experience for so many, thank you. Also, thank you to the California Academy of Sciences for inspiring
so many generations to embrace science and learning. I spent a lot of time at both places when I was a kid and have always appreciated everything I was able to see and experience because of both of them. I salute the visionaries who keep these things alive for future generations to discover and experience.

  1

  The shadows were alive, moving, slithering, crawling across the floor toward her and swarming across the ceiling above her. She stood, helpless and naked, as she watched them advance. In her right hand she held an athame, the only thing she’d been allowed to bring. She lifted it and touched the tip to the palm of her left hand. The blade felt cool against the skin. A circle. She needed to form a blood circle to protect herself from the things.

  Blood bubbled to the surface of her skin as she dug the blade in. She raised her hand, ready to drip the blood onto the floor.

  No! a voice shouted angrily.

  She knew without looking it was her mother. She could feel her disapproval like a physical weight between her shoulder blades. The shadows surged forward.

  You must, another voice said.

  She began to shake, her terror of the shadows nearly greater than her fear of the adults who were commanding her. A shadow ran like spilled blood across the final inches separating her from it.

  It touched her bare toes and she cried out and stepped back. Suddenly iron hands were holding her tight, pinning her arms to her body. She could feel them pushing her forward, her mother and the other woman. She struggled even as they hissed threats in her ears, but all she could hear was the other voice whispering in her head. That one was soft and oily and it promised . . .

  Power.

  More power than she could ever dream of. More power than she could ever use.

  And the shadow once again touched her foot, which felt as if it had been enveloped in a cold, wet blanket. She didn’t want to look, but another hand forced her head downward. She tried to close her eyes, but an invisible force held them open so she could watch.

  The shadow wrapped around her leg like a snake and moved its way up her body. She sobbed as she felt it moving against her skin and then through her skin, into her body, filling her with cold and fear and dread.

  And she could feel the promised power surging through her. But she didn’t want it. She screamed as the shadow slithered up her thighs, wrapping every inch of her as it went.

  And then it was circling her hips and stomach. Then her chest, until only her head was still her own. And when the shadow moved upward again, it filled her mouth and nose. It flowed into her ears and her eyes, turning everything to ice.

  She was drowning. She was dying. She was becoming—

  * * *

  Samantha sat up with a scream. She was shaking and drenched in sweat. She swore she could feel the icy hands of the shadow wrapped around her still. Another nightmare that was far more than a nightmare. It was a memory from the childhood she kept being forced to relive.

  Her fists were balled up so tight that her fingernails were cutting into her palms. Beside her, Freaky Kitty was blinking at her with great, round eyes. He mewed, and she reached out to cuddle him.

  Freaky wasn’t a real cat; he was an energy creation she had learned to make when she was a young witch, and had only recently remembered how. In the important ways, though, he seemed real. He had weight and warmth and was incredibly soft. He was inquisitive, mischievous, and loving. She could feel the sandpaper roughness of his tiny tongue when he licked her finger.

  There was a knock on her door, and she waved her hand and dispelled the energy making up the kitten. The great thing about his not being completely real was that he didn’t need feeding, he never got sick, and she could hide him with the flick of her wrist.

  “Come in,” she said as she swung her legs over the edge of her bed. She reached up a shaking hand and fingered the cross around her neck.

  The door opened and a blond head poked inside. It was her roommate, Jill, who was even now staring at her with wide eyes, as though she were some kind of monster.

  But I am. I’m a witch.

  She wrapped her fingers tightly around the cross necklace, anger rising to the surface swiftly. I’m not. That’s not who I want to be.

  “Everything okay?” Jill asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Sounded like a nightmare. Want to talk about it?” Jill asked, sitting down next to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. The contact only reminded Samantha of the hands that had held her, pinned her.

  “No!” Samantha said, jerking away.

  Jill shook her head. She might not like that Samantha wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of person, but at least she seemed to be getting used to it.

  “You’ve got real trust issues,” Jill said. “Especially when it comes to women.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Samantha snapped, instantly regretting her tone.

  “It would make you feel better if you talked about it,” Jill said, looking at her grimly.

  Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. “Look, I get that you’re trying to help. And I’m sorry that my nightmares are waking you up. But I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” Jill said.

  Samantha bit back the urge to laugh. Talking about her problems didn’t make them better. It only ever made them worse.

  Her phone rang, causing her to jump. She looked pointedly at Jill, who gave her a perky smile and left the room.

  “Hello?”

  “We’re up.”

  It was her partner, Lance Garris.

  She glanced at the clock. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “Crime waits for no man. Besides, what did you expect, coming to the big city? Everyone else is already on something else.”

  She gritted her teeth. Lance knew she was from Boston, but he kept acting like she was some hick from a small town. It wasn’t the only thing about him that grated on her nerves.

  “I’ll pick you up in five.”

  “Ten,” she countered.

  “Seven and I won’t look if you need to change in the backseat.”

  Samantha hung up and clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe. A moment later, she stood swiftly, threw on a pair of black slacks and a white shirt. She tucked her gun into the back of her waistband and clipped her detective’s shield to her belt. Then she put on a heavy jacket. It was mid-January, and while that didn’t mean snow in San Francisco, it didn’t mean it wouldn’t be cold.

  In the kitchen, Jill handed her a cup of a coffee and a bagel.

  “Thanks,” Samantha said, forcing herself to smile. It had been explained to her that bagels were to northern California what doughnuts were to the rest of the country. She’d have rather had a doughnut, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  She headed downstairs to wait for Lance.

  It had been three months since she’d moved from Boston, following an undercover investigation where she’d taken down a coven that was murdering young women. She’d hoped that getting some distance would help her forget, but it just seemed like every night more memories from a childhood best forgotten bubbled to the surface.

  Samantha had been raised a witch, and only the massacre of her entire coven had allowed her to escape. After being adopted by a kind couple, she had turned her back on her old life and embraced the Christian faith of her adoptive parents. She’d studied hard, joined the police force, and made detective. She’d put in a lot of effort to build a life for herself, only to have it torn apart again.

  One of the most painful losses had been that of the trust and friendship of her partner, Ed. He hadn’t been able to handle what he’d seen, what he’d learned about her and her past. None of the cops in Boston had wanted to look her in the eye after what had happened. It had been her captain’s idea to get her a job on the other side of the count
ry, a fresh start. After all, as one of the only people aware of her past, he had pushed her hard to use her powers to go in and take down the coven.

  She took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. Jill always dumped a lot of crap into coffee, and this cup was no exception.

  Is that cinnamon? she wondered.

  Having a roommate was strange and dangerous. She was constantly on edge and aware of everything she did. Which in its own way was good. Her last case in Boston had been a nightmare. It had required her to go undercover in a dark coven and use magic. Being undercover and having to use magic had led her to backsliding quite a lot into her old ways. But having someone else in her apartment assured that she couldn’t use magic as often as she wanted. She never wanted to use magic, Freaky Kitty being the one exception. She’d grown to need the little ball of fur more than she should have.

  Of course, she hadn’t planned on having a roommate, but it was so much more expensive to rent a place in San Francisco than it had been back home. A roommate had been a necessary evil. Jill was someone she’d known from college in Boston a few years before. They’d had a lot of classes together and had been study partners. Since then, Jill had been consistent in sending Christmas cards even though Samantha hadn’t.

  When Samantha had decided to move to San Francisco, before she’d met any of her new coworkers, she’d reached out to Jill just to ask her some questions about where she should try to rent a place. It turned out Jill was in graduate school now and in need of a roommate. Jill had been thrilled, still seeing Samantha as a friend from the old days. Samantha had never had many friends. Trust didn’t come easily for her—that much Jill was right about. But this way she could afford to live in the city.

  And it’s just a bonus that Jill’s presence keeps me from doing actual evil.

  A silver car pulled up to the curb. She got in, rubbing her hands briskly. “Morning, Lance.”

  He grunted in reply and pulled away from the curb.

  Lance was thirty, just two years older than she was, but his dark hair was streaked with gray. In Boston she’d been the odd one who’d had difficulty finding the right partner until Ed had come along. Here she’d quickly assumed that they were sticking Lance with her because she was the outsider. As it turned out, it was more the opposite. She was the one person he hadn’t pissed off yet, so they had stuck her with him.