In a far corner, seated in a wing-back chair with her long legs crossed, a slit in her dress all the way up her thigh, was the one witch Killian had hoped to never see again.
Jezebel Winters. She drummed her perfectly manicured fingernails on the side table, a bored expression plastered on her heart-shaped face. “About damn time, Killian,” she said as he approached.
Of course it would be her.
Rising, she offered him her hand, and he brought it to his lips. “Jezebel. I suppose I have you to thank for this generous invitation?”
Oliver’s sister had wanted Killian burned alive for his crimes, but Beatrix had intervened. The favors many in the magical community owed her had saved Killian’s life.
“Puh-leeze. You think I wanted you here? I’d just as soon never see your face again. Delphine ordered me to meet you. Something about learning to hold my tongue in a public place.” She snorted. “My tongue isn’t the problem.”
Raising her hand, she slid her fingers over the pad of her thumb. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time, faster. A tiny glow started in the palm of her hand, and as she kept up the movement, it brightened until Killian had to look away or lose his sight.
“Jezebel, please,” he hissed as he glanced around the empty hotel lobby. “Someone could see you.”
“Do you think I care, Killian? You killed my twin. My other half. The only being I hate more in this world than you is the vampire who turned him in the first place. I want the both of you to burn. Instead, I’m playing errand-girl for Delphine because for some idiotic reason, you’re here.” The disdain dripped from every word, and with the ball of magic still hovering above her palm, Killian’s heart started to pound so hard, he could feel it all the way up his neck and into his temples.
With her free hand, she shoved a small envelope at him. “Room 13. Clothes, toiletries, everything you need is in there. Now…run.”
She didn’t need to tell him twice. He took off at a sprint down the hall, but he wasn’t fast enough. The blast of magic hit him in the shoulder, sending him tumbling face first onto the thick carpet.
For a few panicked seconds, he couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to slow and took on a faint shimmer. And then she stood over him. Looking down like he was something to be pitied. Or hated. He couldn’t tell.
“Next time, run faster,” she said, then snapped her fingers, breaking whatever spell she’d cast over him, and disappeared.
In New Orleans for less than ten minutes, and already he’d almost died. What other fucked up Hell did the Universe have in store for him tonight? Trudging towards his room, he shook his head. He didn’t want to know.
A little over an hour later, Killian examined himself in the full-length mirror. He’d shaven the stubble he favored, even styled his hair a bit so it no longer hung over his forehead. The black bespoke suit fit him perfectly, but then again, everything in this suite was tailored expressly for him.
His favorite soap. The expensive Savile Row shampoo. A straight razor, sharpened to lethality. The black, button-down shirt with the flattened collar, the black tie, even the shoes, polished so he could see his reflection in them.
On the dresser, he found a platinum Rolex, a fully charged mobile, and his wallet, but no passport.
“Bugger.” Getting him here was one thing. He hoped whoever was pulling his strings had some way to return him home. Because without his passport, he wasn’t leaving the States. Not unless he relied on his magic. And using magic? That was out of the question.
Maddox
New Orleans was wet. The air felt thick, like Maddox was breathing underwater. It was also warm. He’d been here all of one human hour and already he had to mop his brow. The white suit, black loafers, and feathered mask the Traveler had assigned to him felt restrictive compared to his usual attire of robes and sandals.
He could not decide if he liked this place. It was real. Gritty. There were smells everywhere. Food. Sweat. Cologne. Piss. So many they were almost overwhelming.
“Your human side will take over while you are in the earthen realm, Maddox. While you should retain your immortality for the short period you are there, you can be injured, and you will take time to heal. You will hunger and thirst, want for things you have never imagined before. You remember this from your visit with your brother?” The Traveler crossed his arms over his chest as he looked Maddox up and down.
“Yes. I very much enjoyed food. And bourbon.” Maddox buttoned his white coat and stretched his wings to their fullest. The clothing was specially designed to allow them to move, to be free, but the Traveler waved his finger at Maddox.
“You are not to use your wings in front of humans. They will not understand. Your time in the earthen realm should be short, so you will not need to hide them completely. It is Samhain, and all of the humans will be in costumes. Simply keep them folded at your back.”
“Of course.” Maddox fingered the token in his pocket. “I won’t disappoint Azrael. I will retrieve the vial and return as quickly as I can. But…after that, will I be allowed to contact Sinclair and tell him—”
The Traveler arched a brow. “Azrael will decide that upon your return.”
A crowd passed him by, singing and dancing in a long line as they made their way down the sidewalk. Maddox reached out with his gifts to sense them. He was a lesser angel. Incapable of working miracles. But he could sample a human’s emotions. Joy. Happiness. Relief. As he wove his way through the throngs of people toward Magnolia House, the location of the vial he was supposed to retrieve, he found everyone he touched—in the spiritual sense—carried these same emotions.
And the colors. So many colors. He’d researched Samhain, and this behavior was typical. People dressed up in costumes and masks, fanciful dresses, as terrifying creatures, and even animals, yet they were all still enjoying themselves.
“Nice wings, bro!” A man slapped him on the shoulder, and Maddox almost lost control and took off into the sky to get away, but after he caught sight of the reveler—who wore a bright red suit with white trim and a fat, black belt—he relaxed.
“Thank you…Santa.” Despite Maddox’s lack of experience on earth, he knew of Santa Claus. The real St. Nicholas would never step foot in New Orleans, but this Santa was obviously inebriated, and while his slap had stung, it had done no permanent harm.
Perhaps he should have chosen to hide his wings. He could fold them tightly against his back, use his gifts to hide them from view, even withdraw them into his body completely, though that was uncomfortable for long periods of time. Except he was headed into a gathering of the earthen realm’s most powerful witches, and he would need all of his strength should anything go wrong.
With every step he took closer to Magnolia House, he could sense more of the magic the New Orleans coven used to protect themselves. It was an overly sweet taste in his mouth. The spells weren’t purely evil, but they weren’t completely good either. Something felt…wrong about the undercurrents some of the spells carried.
How in all of the many realms had the coven obtained celestial sand? The Sea of Redemption was always calm, always the perfect temperature, and the sand could heal any injury. Any pain. That was one of the reasons the sand was valued. It was powerful enough to bring humans back to life.
No angel would ever have simply offered a vial to a human. Any human. One of the witches must have visited the celestial realm somehow.
After turning down another block, Maddox stopped and gawked up at Magnolia House.
A short, iron fence wrapped around the large property, and every inch of the building glowed with thousands of lights hung from the eaves, attached to every tree, and lining the massive veranda in front of the structure.
A few witches already milled about, but Maddox had timed his arrival so he would be inside before the official start of the ball. Azrael had told him stories of what happened here. Drinking, dancing, debauchery…all were allowed on Samhain. Encouraged, even.
Maddox wished he could stay
for the festivities. Experience something real. Something fun. Then again, he was breaking into a locked crypt, in the basement of a place where any of the witches he encountered could and would cause him great pain.
Or worse. They could prevent him from ever returning to the celestial realm. The Traveler had warned him. Torture. Imprisonment. Endless agony.
“Do not linger, Maddox. Get the vial and get out.”
Slipping around the back of the mansion, he found an unattended door. From the aromas that escaped, it led directly to the kitchen.
Staff rushed around, filling platters with appetizers, chilling Champagne, and icing cakes. Mad sent a small burst of his angelic power through the room, ensuring none of the humans would notice him as he crept through and into a richly appointed hallway.
Creamy paint, dark wood, and fine art lined the walls. His shoes made light tapping sounds on the shiny wooden floors. With his palm trailing along the smooth rail, he hurried down the stairs to the basement, through another door, along a more utilitarian hallway this time, and around a corner.
The crypt.
Runes, both carved and burned, covered the thick wooden doors, and Maddox held out his hand, sensing the magic. It pushed against him, resisting, until he withdrew the celestial token Azrael had given him. Sending his energy into the golden coin, he watched as the runes shifted and transformed. The heavy door opened with an eerie creaking sound, and the scent of old bones invaded his nose.
Candles flickered all around the room, and in alcoves built into every wall rested ornate glass and gold chests, vials, and relics, both religious and secular, Wiccan and Pagan. Maddox crossed the threshold, and a spell wrapped around him, threatening his steps, but he shook it off and started searching for the celestial sand.
Every minute that passed ratcheted his nerves.
Go faster.
But he couldn’t. The relics called to him, demanded his respect and awe. So much so that they must have been spelled. He lost track of time until he caught a sparkle out of the corner of his eye. In three steps, he stood in front of a small alcove no more than seven inches tall with the vial of sand resting on a red satin pillow.
The moment his fingers curled around the small glass vessel, he felt its power, and he tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, turned, and fled from the room.
Chapter Three
Killian
The New Orleans Coven knew how to throw a party. He’d give them that. Magnolia House, with its old world opulence of marble and carved wood railings, richly colored wallpaper, and polished floors that must have been spelled, for even with hundreds of witches in attendance, there wasn’t a speck of dust or dirt on them, welcomed all.
Fires burned in every hearth, and the antique light fixtures sparkled. Conversations bubbled up around him, and Killian caught snippets from time to time, including several young female witches who wanted a snog—or a roll in the sheets—with him.
“Champagne, sir?” A server in a black suit held a tray of glasses, and Killian snagged a flute before wandering towards the ballroom. An empty alcove provided a convenient place for him to stay out of the way and scan the crowds. Something about this night sat ill with him—beyond the oddness of his invitation—and he fingered the cuff around his wrist, ensuring it was firmly in place. The last thing he needed was his magic going sideways on him before he could figure out why Delphine had demanded his presence.
From this vantage point, he could see all the way out to the garden, which was filled with cocktail tables draped with dark blue cloths, a spelled ball of golden light hovering above each one. Impervious to the wind whispering through the trees, the light danced, illuminating the witches, mortals, and otherworldly creatures in attendance.
Lingering close to the edge of the garden, Natalie spotted him, and Killian groaned to himself. The witch had made a play for him the only other time they’d been in the same room, and he’d been so flustered, he’d failed to mention that he played for the other team. If he brought it up now, she’d think him a proper dolt.
As if gliding on a cloud of air, Delphine, the New Orleans Coven High Priestess passed by his hiding place, and Killian raised his glass, hoping a healthy sip of the bubbly would give him the courage to confront her.
Until the wind turned cold, bitter, and harsh, and Killian stopped with the flute of champagne halfway to his lips. Under the din of conversation, he heard a harsh, cruel voice chanting.
“‘Neath silver moon or dark of night.
“In shadow deep or brightest light.
“From this hex none shall be spared.
“For wrath knows not peace nor care.
“Betrayers! Gather close and hear.
“I damn you to your darkest fear.
“I bind you to dread’s cold embrace.
“Until your truth you boldly face.”
Greenish curls of smoke rolled in from the garden, winding around Killian’s ankles and cementing him in place. His heart seemed to freeze as well, his breath caught in his chest. In the doorway, Delphine swayed on her feet, her mouth open slightly in shock.
Endless seconds passed, the terror rising inside of him, until a percussive force shook the entire mansion, knocking him to the ground where he fell on top of his champagne flute.
A sharp stab of pain lanced through his abdomen, and his ears rang, the screams and shouts all around him muffled as he tried to right himself. Delphine staggered to her feet and took off for the stairs, lurching with every step.
Something sticky dripped from his ears, and when he touched his cheek, his fingers came away wet with blood. Burning pain stretched across his chest, a thin line of agony he clutched at while he tried to stand.
His first step sent his shoulder slamming into the wall. His arms and legs were heavy and leaden, and as he fumbled for the piece of glass that had impaled him just above his belt, a chill of foreboding washed over him. Along with pain in his wrist like he’d never felt before.
He tugged the sleeve of his jacket up.
Fuck me.
His cuff turned to dust that floated to the ground in a slow-motion spiral. Magic crackled over his skin, electric and hot, and he pushed himself off the wall and started to run.
If he stayed in this mansion another moment, he was a danger to everyone. Hell, the entire city of New Orleans should be as afraid of his magic as he was.
Maddox
He stumbled up the stairs, blind, his wings flapping uselessly as he tried to get his bearings. Where was he? Nothing made any sense. His head hurt like someone had driven a spike through it, and he banged into more than one person as he tried to fight his way to where he thought the door might be.
He’d been so close. Almost halfway up the stairs, but then his entire world had stopped, and he hadn’t been able to breathe, to move. Nothing.
When the mansion had shook like God herself was trying to bring it down, the paralysis had disappeared, but it had taken his vision and most of his hearing with it.
His feathers bent, and a bone in his left wing snapped as he tried to escape. The pain stole his breath, but then fresh air hit his cheeks. He still couldn’t see, could only hear a dull roar in his ears. More than once, he fell, scraping his hands on the stone steps just outside the mansion.
The scent of his own blood turned his stomach, and as he pushed to his feet, bright lights broke up the darkness. Several of the humans screamed and shoved at him, and Maddox found himself turned around, dizzy and disoriented.
His foot slipped off the curb, and he flapped his wings again, but with one of them broken, he only managed to spin himself around in a circle. A car horn blared, white-hot light seared his eyes, and then he flew.
But not in the way he’d intended. Pure, unadulterated agony ran through his limbs, his back, and his chest from an impact like he’d never felt before, and when he hit the ground after a screech of tires and a man’s curse, he tried to get back up, but he couldn’t move. It wasn’t only his wing now. His arm,
several ribs, even his collarbone were broken too. His legs. He tried to shift them, but let out an agonized cry when he could do nothing but flop around helplessly.
The last vestiges of darkness cleared from his eyes, and he stared up at the inky sky, at the full moon overhead.
He didn’t think he could die—not after only a few hours in the earthen realm, but his body hurt—so much—that he feared he was wrong. And even if he lived...he couldn’t move. If the witches found him with the sand, they’d torture him for the rest of his existence.
Footsteps. So many footsteps. All around him. Maddox reached out with his good arm and wrapped his fingers around an ankle. “Help,” he whispered.
The owner of the ankle tried to shake off his hold, but then stopped. “Fuck.” A second later, the most perfect face he’d ever seen hovered over him, and the man pressed warm fingers to his neck. A spark ran through Maddox from his head to his toes, and his entire body started to tremble. “You’re hurt, mate. Don’t move. I can’t stay, but I’ll call an ambulance for you. They’ll be here soon.”
“N-no,” Maddox begged, snagging the stranger’s wrist in a weak grip. “P-please. Do not…leave me.”
Piercing blue-gray eyes held his, and Maddox tried to use his gifts, tried to sense the man’s emotions, but he felt nothing. No warmth deep inside of him. No connection to the Divine. To the celestial realm.
“Can’t…go to hospital. Look.” Maddox moved his right shoulder, extending the tip of his wing.
“Bloody hell,” the stranger muttered. “I can’t get involved in this, angel. If I do, I’ll be the death of you, and I am not going to have an angel’s end on my hands.” He started to rise, and an arc of light and power leapt from the man’s heart and hit Maddox in the chest.
The shock sent Mad’s body into convulsions, and he tasted blood. Warm hands cupped his cheeks. “Breathe, angel. Slowly. In and out.” As Maddox focused on the man’s voice and the kindness in his eyes, he managed to calm his body, but he still couldn’t move.
Wicked Omens (Cursed Coven Book 5) Page 2