by Cecy Robson
The words just come out. Celia angles her chin, scrutinizing me in the same way she does when I’ve suggested something crazy. “If you think this is your fault, you’re wrong, Taran. Johnny is the one sending all these Nytes.”
“Only because he’s alive to do so,” I add. I take a chance and remove my shoes. It’s a mistake. My feet swell instantly. No way will I be able to slip them back on.
Shayna changes posts, this one slightly closer to us. “No worries, T,” she says quietly.
My brows quirk up to my hairline. “No worries? You’re kidding, right? Do you see the mess we’re in? Have you calculated the body count? All these powerful beings in one place, I should have just tied a bow around our necks and turned us over to Johnny.”
“That’s not what I mean, dude,” Shayna tells me. She cracks her neck from side to side. “Back then, Johnny wasn’t the same Johnny he is now. Yeah, he murdered his fans, cost us our people, and tried to take us out.” She shrugs. “But he was a desperate little ol’ Fate. Desperate people do desperate things, you feel me? Who knows what we would have done in his place? If things were different, if we didn’t have each other? Maybe we’d have chosen different paths.”
I smirk, knowing she’s trying to make me feel better. “You don’t mean that.”
Shayna winks. “Nope. But it’s not easy to kill someone you called a friend. I’m glad I wasn’t in your stilettos, T. I like to see the good in others. Whether you want to admit it, you do too.” She smiles, for the first time giving me a glimpse of the wolf residing inside of her. “Except now you know there’s no good left. Not after all this. No one will blame you for what comes next.” She blows a breath hard enough to flutter her bangs. “He’s made his own deathbed. Time for us to tuck him in.”
Shayna is granting me permission to kill. It’s not something someone as perky and goodhearted as her would typically do. But I need to hear it.
Silence crawls along the area, allowing us to hear the gentle breeze sweep through the pines and Celia’s growling stomach.
She groans, her features reflecting that same tension again. “Sorry.”
I frown. “You didn’t get a chance to eat, did you?”
She rests her head against the door. “I had some snacks before we left and in the car on the way over.”
Celia is constantly “snacking” on burgers, epic milkshakes, and slabs of venison. Her inner tigress always gave her the appetite and metabolism of a few linebackers, but since the start of her pregnancy, I’ve started keeping bacon in my purse. Let’s just say Celia gets a tad bit hangry.
The tension darkening Celia’s delicate features return. Okay. Now I know what’s what.
Emme rises, backing away. “You want me to scrounge up some berries or something?”
I slip away too. Celia is famished. A hungry Celia is a scary Celia. “There aren’t any fruit trees in the greenhouse,” I say. “Just herbs and such.”
It sucks to share this not so great news. Especially when Celia meets me with a glare that demands bacon.
“Would you like me to gather some mint, possibly basil, or maybe cilantro?” Emme asks.
It occurs to me Emme has forgotten where we are. “They’ll choke you,” I mumble.
Emme tilts her head. “What will?” she asks. “The mint?”
“And the basil, and probably the cilantro too if the broom humpers grew it.” I recall how badly those little saplings hate being bothered.
Emme glances from me to Celia. “Please tell me you’re joking,” she says.
“I wish I was,” I say, cautiously. Any trace of Celia slowly dissolves in her features. Behind her eyes lurks her beast, and that beast is licking her chops.
I keep talking, hoping to distract her. “Herbs dedicated to potions only allow you to pick them when they reach thirteen inches and beneath a quarter moon. Even then, the rules require you bring backup. They’ll choke your ass and bury you if they catch you alone, and it’ll be days or weeks before anyone finds you.”
Emme breathes a sigh of relief when Celia lowers her head to rest against her knees. “Taran,” she says gently. “I apologize, but I was left with the impression Plant Day was the easiest part of witch school.”
“Compared to Anti-Possession class and Séance and Sciences, it was.” I huff. “And don’t get me started on the snapdragons. Bastards.”
Celia’s stomach growls like a motor.
And then, so does Celia.
She lifts her head, her tigress eyes glowing in the moonlight. “There’s a rat, ten yards away, drinking water from a puddle.” She swallows hard. “I can hear it. I can smell it.”
Emme’s eyes widen. Shayna slowly turns her head and gapes at her. I don’t move at all, scared I’ll draw her attention away from the rat and onto me.
Celia resumes that odd staccato breathing I noticed earlier. Again, her ravaged stomach growls. If that’s not bad enough, Junior kicks, demanding to be fed.
“Celia,” Emme says, her voice cautious. “Would you like us to get you the rat?”
Celia’s gaze turns primal. Slowly, she nods, what’s left of her civility dwindling fast.
“To um, eat?” Emme clarifies.
Celia makes a noise. Not quite an affirmative grunt. Not quite a growl. And, oh, man, not quite human either.
“Ceel,” Shayna says. “Do you really think this is a good idea? Think about what you’re saying. I get you’re a tad hungry—”
Shayna startles when Celia fixes her deadly gaze on her. Celia does think it’s a good idea. In fact, at this moment, it’s the greatest idea ever.
I veer on Shayna. “She wants the rat. Get her the damn rat.”
Shayna gasps. “Me? Why me?”
I wave a hand at her. “You’re the one with the weapons, and you have the essence of a freaking werewolf lurking inside of you for hell’s sake.”
“You have fire, T,” Shayna shoots back. “As in, let’s fire up the barbie, matey.”
I scowl at her. “Are you going for Australian or pirate, here? Either way, both suck.”
Shayna’s jaw pops open. “You can kill the little varmint and cook it in one shot.”
I scoff. “Oh, and now we’re from Texas.”
If it sounds like I’m trying to stall, I am.
Emme crinkles her nose. “I hate to say this, but Shayna has a point. It’s like the old saying, two birds with one stone, Taran.”
I ram my fists against my hips. “Figures you’d take her side,” I accuse.
Emme regards me all offended-like. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I point a rather irate finger at her. “You always back Shayna up. Every time. All the time.”
“Ah, T,” Shayna says. She motions to Celia.
Celia is smiling, in all the wrong ways possible. She glides her tongue across a row of now pointy fangs.
“Now’s not a good time to argue, dude,” Shayna insists. “Just get her the rat. We won’t watch, and nobody has to know. Oh, except Koda. You know I tell him everything. Oh, and maybe Aric, too, so he knows we took care of her and fed her in his absence. And Gemini, too, since if Aric knows, he’ll know and—”
“I’m not killing a rat, and I’m especially not feeding one to Celia,” I say. Shit. Hungry or not, I can’t be the one to offer my sister rat fricassee. A rabbit, maybe. Probably even a raccoon. Who am I kidding? I’m still not over the toad I ran over when I was learning to drive.
Celia’s next growl is more terrifying than the last and promises death. We scramble away, placing ourselves as far as we can get from her in the crowded space.
“It mocks me,” Celia thunders.
Shayna sighs. “Does it, Ceel? Does it really?”
Celia’s maw protrudes, and she hisses. Shayna’s eyelids practically peel back and over her head. She holds out her sword. “T. Just kill it before Celia eats us.”
“She’s not going to eat us.” Yeah, Celia’s more than a little feral. But aren’t we all when we’re hungry and
—
I almost scream when she rises and prowls forward.
Celia is no longer my sister. She’s an extremely hungry and famished predator.
Chapter Thirteen
I knock over a stand of flowerpots when Celia stalks forward, her keen gaze set at my throat. The pots land in a booming crash that doesn’t quite muffle the sound of my pounding heart.
Celia charges, leaping over me and barreling down the path between the plants. The rest of us exchange stunned, yet relieved glances, and take off after her. Shayna easily takes the lead, and even barefoot, I make longer strides than Emme.
We ground to a halt when we find Celia crouched low, her long nails protruding into long, thin claws. I don’t initially notice the snapdragons until they click their little mouths open and closed, demanding a sprinkling of magical water. The closest ones stretch out their leaves, tugging at what remains of my dress.
I slap them away. “Knock it off,” I bite out.
Their clicking intensifies, drawing too much attention for my comfort. Except right now, they’re not my priority. My hangry sister is.
Directly in front of Celia stoops the rat. It swipes at its face, disregarding the growling tigress watching her. I expect Celia to gobble the pathetic-looking thing right up. My sister is just that hungry. Instead, Celia tilts her head, examining her meal a little too closely.
I start toward her when a sense of wrongness and death fills the air. The intensity is strong and tries to shove me away. I lift my hands, ready to act. Like with all things tonight, this rat is not what it seems.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
The rat glides its beady eyes from me to Celia and sneers, a pretty ballsy move given its withering state. Its response alone would give me pause, but it’s that extra whiff of sickness and gloom that fires sparks from my fingertips.
“Celia, Taran,” Emme warns. “Don’t approach it. There’s something wrong with it.”
“Oh, yeah, there is,” Shayna agrees. “The little critter is sick, and I’m guessing a bit evil.”
I hold up a hand when Shayna yanks a knife from its sheath and takes aim. “Wait,” I say. “Not yet.”
“You sure?” Shayna asks. She holds tight to her knife. “Master Splinter it’s not, T.”
A horrible cracking sound interrupts the nasty hiss building in the rat’s throat. Its back bows in the wrong direction, snapping the spine as it crumbles to the ground.
“Oh, this isn’t good,” I say.
Celia backs away, so do we. She scans our surroundings. “Is something else here?” she asks.
“No,” I reply. “It did that to itself.”
The rodent lifts its head, its body trembling in pain. The small bones along its back shift and move in odd and grotesque patterns beneath patches of scraggly gray fur. Slowly, its limbs expand. Tendons and joints stretch and pop into place. What remains of its fur dissolves inward into dirty and grossly wide pores.
The rat’s form alternates back and forth between animal and subhuman, whimpering in torment. It takes time for the body to stop changing from what we found to what it ultimately becomes.
The whole thing…is damn hard to watch. More than once, I look away, the sickening effort churning my insides and making me nauseous. When a were changes, the process is almost instantaneous. When Celia alters parts of her body into her tigress counterpart, it’s mesmerizing. This, what’s happing before us, is disturbing. There’s no strong beast resuming its equally strong human counterpart, nor is there beauty like with my sister’s unique magic. The animal we found was sick and injured, and the naked woman who reveals herself is even more so.
Large lumps of torn and matted hair droop over emaciated shoulders. Deep cuts are sliced into the skin covering her breasts, stomach, and inner thighs. Whoever had her had fun making her bleed. Some of her injuries are old, others fresh enough to trickle blood.
This woman is a relatively young witch despite the harsh lines wrinkling her face. I recognize the spell she used—Mirror. Either she was close to graduating the program, or strong enough to pull off a spell this advanced.
Her long head of greasy blonde hair is a mix of tangles and bald patches. Her eyes—Jesus—are sunken in the way that happens when the tears run out and that horrible numbness sets in.
She wipes her mouth and rises, exposing several spots where teeth are missing. The lack of bruises to her face suggest the teeth were pulled out. I know she sees us. Instead of explaining her presence and, well, her condition, she staggers to the water pump, her dirty feet stepping through the puddle she drank from.
An old bucket remains perched beneath the pump. The witch doesn’t bother pumping fresh water. She cups her hands and dips them into the bucket, relishing the long sip she takes.
“Oh, my goodness,” Emme says. “Please don’t do that. I-I can help you.”
Emme recognizes her lack of strength. She likely can’t pump the water.
“No,” the witch tells Emme. Her irate tone stops Emme in place. “I’m thirsty.”
Her voice is dry. The water is filthy. Neither matter. She knows she’s dying.
“I-I can heal you,” Emme says. She steps forward, gathering the gentle pale light of her healing powers around her hands.
Emme means well. She always does. Except this witch’s injuries are beyond repair. Her residual magic is the only thing keeping her standing. Still, I don’t stop Emme. This witch doesn’t pose the threat she once did.
The witch shakes her head. “Even if you could, you don’t want to heal me. I’m the cause of your pain.” She sniffs, her fingertips passing along her defeated features as if she doesn’t remember her face. “I let him in. The Fate. It took a great deal from me, but I did it. I walked this compound long before he stepped foot, and I made it so he could take his place among us.”
It explains the sense of evil that surrounds her.
“Is that possible?” Shayna asks me. “The witches spent, like, months strengthening the wards.”
I don’t listen to Shayna as much as I study the witch’s words. “You walked the compound long before he stepped foot,” I repeat. She doesn’t just mean walked. This is a spell. “You created a path for him. With magic.”
The witch glares at me, annoyed that I somehow spoiled her big reveal. That’s when I’m certain I’m right. Maybe I did learn a thing or two in witch school.
“I don’t understand,” Emme says.
“You can’t weaken the wards,” I say. “They’re set up in layers. It’s what makes them so strong.”
Shayna motions to the witch. “Then how did she get little ol’ Johnny in, T?”
“She was one of many who helped strengthen the wards. I’m right, aren’t I?” She shuts her mouth and stares at me. It’s a genius plan, really. If I didn’t have the urge to slap her upside the head, I might actually give her some credit. “You knew where they were, so you cut out a path, like a zigzag or something similar that would be hard to detect through all those layers.”
“Or more likely a maze,” Emme reasons. Her attention turns to Shayna. “Should a different witch securing the ward come across an opening to the path, she would meet a wall, misleading her into thinking the wards remained intact.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “It provided a false sense of security. The only way to detect the breach was if it were made visible either on the ground or by air.” It’s brilliant. Then again, we never mistook the bad guys for stupid.
“How did Johnny see it?” Celia asks. Her face is a mask of wary predator and pity as she regards the ragged soul standing before us. Celia feels for the witch’s fragile state, not that it will be enough to spare her. Bottom line, she screwed us over.
For all the witch seemed to brag about her brilliance, she turns tight-lipped, taking another gulp of dirty water instead of answering Celia.
“A blood sacrifice would make it visible,” I answer for her. I take another long look at her frail condition. It’s too easy to feel so
rry for her, given how close to death she is. Except, I learned a long time ago how manipulative supernaturals can be. This witch is no exception. Hell, look at who she let into Camp Genevieve. “Did you kill her? Or did someone do it for you?”
“I’m stronger than I look,” she spits out.
I’ve clearly insulted her without trying. Might as well keep going. “Strong or not, you didn’t act alone,” I tell her.
This is the moment to figure out who else betrayed us, and I’m not letting it go. I won’t know for sure if she’s lying. But maybe I’ll find out enough.
The witch runs her dirty hand along the spout. “We tested the path on the creatures first.” She laughs in a way that projects rising hysteria than humor. “You wouldn’t believe how many died trying to find the right ways in. But the Fate made them plentiful and beautiful. There was no end to his power or his creativity.”
Shayna quirks a brow. “You sound a little impressed there, dudette.”
Shayna isn’t one to be cruel. Like me, she’s stunned by how taken the witch is with Johnny. It says a lot about her character. This is a person who’s likely always sought power and prestige.
The witch narrows her eyes at Shayna. “He is everything.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
My dismissal earns me the death glare. Wow. She was tortured. While Johnny, at least the Johnny I knew, is incapable of harming a woman like this, he had to be aware of what was happening. Yet here she is, bragging and seemingly rapt by his mojo.
I’m not certain if she feels the need to convince me of Johnny’s awesomeness, or if she thinks we’re her last chance to confess her sins before she keels over. Whatever it is, she spills the details without any prompting.
“Once I created the way in, we were able to hide the creatures inside the manor. That was my idea,” she says, the barest hint of pride in her voice. “They dissolved into the shadows, falling into a dream state in the classrooms where the stupid witches whispered their dirty thoughts and where they toyed with their inferior magic.” A smile lifts the corner of her dry, cracked lips. “His pets hid in plain sight, beneath their beds, and where they bathed, their bodies naked and gloriously exposed to the Fate.”