by Chloe Neill
And there in front of the crucible stood Sorcha and Adrien Reed.
He wore a black suit that would have befit a presidential candidate.
Sorcha stood beside him in her signature color, an emerald green sleeveless jumpsuit with a formed and fitted bodice in bias-cut emerald silk, with an enormous, structural ruffle over one shoulder. On her left biceps was a four-inch-long gold scarab atop a gold cuff. And atop her head was a cannily perched fedora in matching green, a satin ribbon around the brim. Magic swirled around her in pale green tendrils that matched those in the sky. Three of them danced together in her cupped palm.
“Son of a bitch,” Ethan and I muttered simultaneously.
Our sorcerer was a sorceress. And a damn stylish one.
Sorcha Reed had been the “man” at La Douleur, the “man” Annabelle had seen at the cemetery. The sup we’d seen at La Douleur—the one I believed had ratted us out—had been relatively small of stature. But because of the suit, the fedora, I’d assumed the sup had been a man. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she—or any other woman—had been Reed’s sorcerer. And in retrospect, I couldn’t have been more stupid. Who else would Reed have trusted so completely with his master plan, with the magic he figured would give him control of the city? Who else would he have allowed into the inner circle?
This wasn’t the vacuous Sorcha I’d seen at Reed’s side. This was the woman I’d seen peeking through—working busily on her phone, surprised that we’d shown up at the Botanic Garden but seemingly excited by the fact that we’d been arrested.
Tonight, she showed poise and power, and her eyes shone as coldly as Reed’s.
“Oh, look,” she said blandly, with an eyebrow arch that nearly rivaled Ethan’s. “They’ve made their way up.”
If her tone was any indication, she didn’t think we posed much of a threat.
“And they’re staring,” she said to Reed. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re surprised. Most are, but then, that’s the point.
“I was born into a family not unlike yours,” Sorcha continued, apparently eager to offer up a soliloquy. “Older, and more genteel, of course. From Salem, originally,” she said with a widening grin. “But when I discovered my magic, they made me shut it down, made me reject my true nature. And then I became a debutante, like I was a horse to be shown off.” Her gaze slipped to her husband. “And then I met Adrien. He has his games, his pleasures, and I have mine.” Her eyes shone with purpose. “I’ve turned the system on its head.”
“You’re biding your time,” I said. “You play the perfect wife, help Reed establish his legit connections. And when he’s powerful enough, has control of enough, you can both rule the kingdom.”
She clapped her hands together, condescension in her expression and her movements. “Bravo, Caroline Evelyn Merit.” Her gaze skipped to Ethan. “I see you’ve adopted a similar plan.”
Anger pierced me, the fact that she believed I’d used Ethan in some kind of rebellion against my family. The recognition that she probably knew better—that she was baiting me just as Reed liked to do—kept me in my place.
“We have a countermagic,” Ethan said, getting us back to the point. “Your alchemy is being unraveled as we speak, and the CPD is waiting for you below. Your bluff has been called, Reed. It’s time to step away from the table.”
“You misunderstand,” Reed said. “Your magic’s failing.” He gestured to the airspace above us, where the QE still hung in the sky. It did look more stable than it had seemed before we came up here, but I refused to believe Mallory and Catcher weren’t beating it back, reversing the magic they’d created. I believed in her as much as I believed in anyone. And good had to win sometimes.
“It’s your sorcerer against mine,” Reed said, “and mine wins every time. She’s exquisitely powerful.” He slid his hands into his pockets, just casually enough to rankle. “I assume the magic’s effect on you has been dampened by those trinkets you’re wearing. A clever, if unsophisticated, measure. Not that it will matter. We appreciate a good game, but our magic is winning. When we have Chicagoland’s vampires—and everyone else—under our control, you’ll become nothing more than rounding errors in our empire.”
He doesn’t know about the House, I told Ethan. About the ward.
And let’s keep it that way, he said.
“And, of course,” Reed continued, because the man loved to hear himself talk, “we have a vampire.” He looked back at me, and his gaze crept over my body like a spider. “I understand you’re acquainted.”
I would have lunged for him, if Ethan hadn’t held me back.
Reed’s smile widened. “As I expected. That had been a bit of luck. I hadn’t known Logan when he was in Celina’s employ. And wasn’t it fortuitous that we met again, and he told me of his exploits?”
It was too late for fear. I’d already done that. “He’s failed to kill me three times. I’d say I have the upper hand there.”
“And speaking of the upper hand . . . ,” she said. Her gaze slipped to my left just as I heard Ethan’s warning in my head.
He came out of nowhere, slamming me to the floor and covering me with his weight. And then his hands were around my neck, squeezing.
“Fourth time’s a charm,” he said.
I tried to suck in air, kicked to dislodge him, but he kept his seat, kept his weight forward, his big fingers pressing, pushing. His eyes stayed flat and brown, a man for whom killing had become routine, just another task to check off the list.
My eyes sought Ethan, looked for hope and help, and found him frozen in front of Sorcha, a hand outstretched as if he’d moved toward me. His cheeks looked faintly blue, and his body shivered. It was the same magic she’d used on Robert, some cheat not reached by the bracelet Mallory had provided. It wouldn’t have, I thought. Those were geared to the alchemy, to the magic. Sorcha had used old-fashioned magic, probably of the dark variety. I had no respect for a woman who cheated her way out of a fight.
And worse, if Logan killed me, she’d kill Ethan. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. She’d probably let him suffer first. Let him mourn before taking his life.
I was our best hope. Which meant I had to get out of Logan’s grasp. I stopped struggling, went momentarily still, and felt his grip loosen in what he believed was victory. Chest heaving, he sat back.
I took my chance. I grabbed his neck with my hand, pushed fingers into the tender skin just beneath his jaw. He sputtered, tried to move away. I scissored my legs to push him off me, jumped to my feet, and snatched up the sword I’d dropped when he slammed me to the ground.
Logan coughed, rose to his feet, pulled a dagger from his waistband. “I’ve always wanted to fight you with a katana.”
I didn’t let myself think about Ethan, and kept the smile on my face. “Same here, my friend. Let’s make it happen.”
I struck first, slicing to the left with a double-handled strike. He blocked the strike with his dagger, but the blow unbalanced him. He hadn’t been prepared for my being aggressive. Good. That was a strategy I enjoyed.
I didn’t give him time to think twice. I kicked back, nailing him in the kidney. He stayed on his feet, caught the tip of his dagger on the back of my calf. But adrenaline had numbed me to pain. I stepped into the kick and pivoted, aiming a punch from the left at his unguarded head. He dodged, the shot glancing off his chin. But his head still popped back, and when I kicked him in the stomach, he hit the roof.
And then I was on his chest, one foot propped at his side, my knee in his abdomen, my katana across his neck.
And as he looked up at me, surprise in his gaze, I pulled out the aspen stake I’d slipped into my waistband before leaving the House.
It was one of the stakes Jeff had given me for protection shortly after we met—and if stabbed through the heart, it was one of the surefire ways to kill a vampire.
; Logan lifted his eyebrows. “So that’s how it’s gonna be? I gave you immortality, and you want to send me to hell?”
My voice was hard. “You gave me nothing. You took, or tried to. Turns out, you weren’t very good at it.”
I held my katana in one hand, the stake in the other, poised above his heart. My hand shook with need, with hatred, with the fear of having this man, this monster, haunt me for the rest of my life.
He did this. Caused all of it. He was the prime mover, the reason I was a vampire, and the reason my family had been endangered as a result. He’d hurt my brother, injured my friends, and apparently had no qualms about using his magic to make us puppets, to turn us into minions in the sociopathic kingdom he probably believed he’d rule with Reed.
I wanted him dead. I wanted Logan Hill—his name, his magic, his essence, his existence—erased from the earth by my hand. I wanted to plunge the stake into his heart, and see him turn to ash. Because this was his fault.
But even so . . . nothing I could do would change any of that. Nothing I could do with the stake in my hand, nothing that his death would accomplish. I would still be alive, a vampire. Caleb Franklin would still be dead, as would the other girls Logan had killed at Celina’s command.
I understood justice, but if he died by my hand, if he died like this, it would haunt me forever. I didn’t deserve that. And neither did he.
Gabriel had acknowledged that I had a claim on Logan Hill’s life. I wasn’t the only one now, and probably wouldn’t be the last. But I got to decide how to play my chit.
“Logan Hill,” I said, staring into those malicious eyes. “You aren’t worth any more of my goddamn time.”
I reared back and plunged the stake into his thigh. Blood spilled, hit the roof, and spread in a pool beneath him. I stood up as he howled in pain, screaming as he wrenched himself up, gripped the stake, tried to pull it from his leg.
Yeah, that had been small of me. But damn, did it feel good. “Now we’re even, you raging asshole.”
“You bitch!” he said, spittle at the corner of his mouth as pain racked him. “You fucking bitch.”
I leaned down, smiled at him. “Bitch or not, I just kicked your ass.”
And then, because we had bigger battles to fight, I tranq’d him.
I stood up and turned back to look at Sorcha and Adrien. She stood proudly in front of her creation, an amused smile on her face.
“That was entertaining,” she said, “if less entertaining than it might have been if you’d actually killed him. And why didn’t you?” She cocked her head to the side like she honestly couldn’t fathom why I wouldn’t have killed him.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Her grin widened. “Doubtful,” she said as magic crackled above us. She glanced at the sky, eyes narrowed like she was reading portents there. And she didn’t seem to like what she saw.
She looked at Reed. “Can we get them out of the way?”
“As you wish,” Reed said, his gaze on the sky. At one time, he’d relished the idea that he was playing a game with us. But not now; we weren’t important anymore. The magic, the QE, and the control it would give him—those were the important things. He wanted control, was waiting for the magic to snap into place. That hadn’t happened yet . . . but whatever Mallory and Catcher were doing, it also hadn’t erased the green smears of magic from the sky. Was it going to work?
Sorcha looked back at me and grinned, and then threw out a hand. Magic—a bright green sphere of it—launched toward me.
I didn’t want any part of that.
I lifted my katana, turning the blade flat, and aimed. The mirrored surface deflected the shot, sent it spinning toward the building, bursting out a chunk of the concrete wall. I was glad that hadn’t been me.
She made a frustrated noise, tossed another ball, then another. I spun the sword, the blade catching the light of her alchemical machine before deflecting both shots. One spun off the roof and burst into sparks in midair. The other skidded across the roof, leaving a ten-foot-long char line as it burned out.
“Dull, dull, dull,” she said, and turned her malicious gaze to Ethan. She lifted her hands, fingers canted to aim, and let magic fly.
I raced toward him, using every ounce of speed I could muster, dove in front of him, and braced myself for impact.
But the shot burst into crystalline sparks of magic.
On the floor, and not missing any chunks, I looked back.
Mallory stepped off the elevator, her blue hair blowing around her head. Catcher must have been minding the magic downstairs, which was fine by me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been so glad to see her.
She walked forward, surveyed the roof, the machine. And her gaze momentarily widened with surprise as she took in Sorcha before spreading into a smile.
“Should have figured it was you,” she said, looking over Sorcha’s outfit. “The magic’s as overdone as the fashion.”
The shot struck home. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a worthless little hack.” She pointed to the sky with a delicate and manicured finger. “You’ve already lost.”
Mallory walked forward. Petite and blue-haired, in a stained shirt and jeans, she faced down Sorcha, tall and lithe and wearing a jumpsuit that probably cost more than Mallory had ever made in a month. They were an unlikely pair, which I guessed was part of the point.
“Actually,” Mallory said, “that’s not true. Our countermagic has stunted yours. Unfortunately, because your raggedy-ass alchemy was ten times more complicated than it needed to be, the entire situation has locked up.”
Sorcha looked absolutely confounded by the possibility.
“Long story short,” Mallory said, “we blue-screened your magic, bitch. And in order to break this little tie”—she turned her gaze to the metal tree—“I’m going to need to go to the source.”
Sorcha’s expression didn’t change, but she moved to stand in front of her creation. “If you’d like to test your mettle, let’s do it.”
Mallory dipped her chin, her eyes fierce. “Bring it.”
Now magic filled not just the sky, but the air, as Mallory and Sorcha launched volleys against each other. I shifted to stand in front of Ethan, katana in front of me in case I needed to shield him from the shots of magic, or in case Reed became suddenly interested in what was happening around him.
But they’d all but forgotten we were there. While Reed watched the city and the sky, Sorcha fought back with one flaming ball after another, and the grin on her face never wavered.
She underestimated Mallory, who’d mixed up the direction of her volleys, but each had moved Sorcha a few inches away from the machine, until she was completely clear of it.
“No!” Sorcha screamed as Mallory gathered up her reserves until a flaming blue ball of magic floated above her hand. And, with a windup as good as any major league pitcher’s, threw it toward the tree.
For a split second, nothing happened—no sound, no movement, as if the tree had absorbed the magic and hadn’t been affected by it.
Sorcha grinned, but she’d celebrated too early.
Because then there was a deafening groan of metal on metal, and the tree burst down the middle. Light and magic poured upward like a volcano, spreading a thousand feet into the sky and casting blue-green light across the city. We could hear the screams of humans below, afraid the apocalypse had finally befallen their city. The magic that rushed from the machine grew louder, faster, until the tree was vibrating with it.
“Down!” Mallory said, an order the Bells were getting good at delivering tonight. I wrapped an arm around Ethan’s head, squeezed my eyes closed.
The explosion felt as if the sun had settled onto the roof, and shook the building so hard I nearly lost my footing and was afraid it would crumble to the ground beneath us.
Sh
rapnel flew across the roof, stabbing into the walls and showering over the sides of the roof. As rock and metal shards rained down around us, I looked up. The sky was clear and dark, the lines of the QE gone.
Freed from the magic Sorcha had wrought, Ethan stumbled forward. I caught him, waited until he’d blinked confusion from his eyes.
“You’re all right?” I asked, helping him find his footing again.
“I’m fine.” He lifted a hand to my face. “You’re all right?”
I thought of Logan, of the decision I’d made. “I will be.”
We were interrupted by screams of frustration.
“No!” Reed shrieked, staring at the remains of the machine that his money had built, and which had ultimately failed him.
He walked to Sorcha, cracked a hand across her face. “What have you done? What have you done? You’ve ruined everything!”
Ethan growled and, before I could stop him, moved toward Reed with the gaze of a very pissed-off alpha male.
Mallory pulled Sorcha away from the fray, her cheek flaming red from Reed’s violence, and kept her still with the threat of magic that percolated in her hand.
As Ethan approached him, Reed looked gratifyingly unsure of his steps. I decided Ethan needed to handle him, and it didn’t take him long. Adrien Reed was a man who’d gained power through others’ work: others’ misery, others’ criminality, others’ fights. When push came to shove, and he had no minions to protect him or magic to back him up, the facade crumbled.
He offered Ethan a couple of testing jabs, but those seemed to be for form. And when Ethan used a right cross—one of his favorite moves—Reed hit the deck.
“And that,” Mallory said, “is how we do it in Chicago.”
• • •