by Cecy Robson
“Jesus Christ, Bren,” I say.
Emme is rendered speechless, her hands clasping her mouth tight.
Regret and a lot more than that splays across Bren’s features, lessening his anger if only for a moment. “Emme needs to keep her strength, in case Celia or anyone else needs her. You saw all the shit we suffered. Not all of us made it, T, and more still might not.”
“I saw,” Emme says. “And it was terrible.”
Something about her soft voice overpowers my yelling and telling Bren how much we need him and everyone else still willing to fight to save Celia.
“I’ve replenished my strength,” Emme insists. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”
Bren swallows hard. “Too late for that, kid,” he tells her.
Tears well in Emme’s eyes. My lips part. She blinks several times, allowing them to spill. Bren bows his head, burying his face in his hands. God help me, I can’t take this.
He jerks when more of the knitting muscle tears open with an audible pop. I sigh and wipe a few tears of my own. “Just let her help you, Bren,” I beg. “If nothing else, do it for Celia and her baby.”
Bren lifts his head. “Fine,” he mumbles, pointing. “But I better be that kid’s godfather.”
I don’t bother telling him Aric’s already asked Gemini. I prop myself up on the cold counter and yawn. This bathroom has a modern flair. Square, elevated teal glass sinks sit atop a large cool slab of white quartz. Dark cabinetry line each side. Seafoam gel, soap, lotion, I don’t know, seafoam something penetrates through my nose permitting me to relax just a little. I start to lift the dispenser beside me to take a good whiff when I catch Emme’s state.
For all she insisted on healing Bren, her hands quiver, and she stays firmly in place. Roles have reversed, and now she’s the one afraid to touch him.
I slip away from the sink, wincing when my heels smack against the tile and throb. “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?” I clasp her hands and turn them, examining her palms. They don’t carry that same redness displayed earlier, and while clearly tired, she appears well enough. Except Johnny’s magic has screwed with mine, it could have very well affected Emme’s.
“Taran, I’m all right.”
She’s speaking to me, but again her attention is on Bren.
“Is it hurting you to heal others?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” she admits. “The tainted magic within the manor is affecting me, and I’m feeling every injury I touch—it doesn’t hurt,” she insists when Bren’s head snaps up. “I just feel more of the person I touch.”
Emme rushes to Bren when he tries to stand, her small hands smoothing over his shoulders and keeping him in place. Bren grunts, his face twisting in agony the moment their skin connects.
I whirl around, yanking open drawers and searching for something that may help his pain. God damn it. Is it too much for the broom humpers to keep some ibuprofen up in this bitch?
Emme gasps, her eyes closing and her head falling back. I hurl myself on her, certain she’s passing out only to stop short.
Emme’s body trembles with the impact of their connection. Light spreads through her hands, cocooning him in her pale light. The light amplifies, swirling back to her and through her body, joining them both in brilliant light.
Emme is not simply healing Bren. Oh, hell to the no. She’s doing a lot more than that.
Their shoulders rise and fall in sync, their breathing tortured and increasing in speed. Emme moans, her head lolling from side to side.
Her lips part, and another quiver rocks her body. “I’m almost there,” she says.
Oh, shit, and so is Bren.
I drop the damn bottle of basil, peppermint, and lavender oil I managed to find for headaches, and my chin becomes one with the floor. Bren is pitching a massive tent. Massive! I almost expect people to come running out.
Emme cries out, her moans increasing, and her small brows knitting tight. Bren growls, low, deep, pained.
Emme’s head tips forward, and she presses her forehead against his. Bren grasps her wrists, holding her in place and keeping her close.
Bren’s skin seals closed, what remains of his wolf’s healing powers pushing out the infection he developed onto the floor. I toss a few towels on top of the mess because what the fuck else I’m going to do? That’s my sister, damn it.
As the last drop of tainted blood trickles down his leg, Bren wrenches away from Emme and grips the side of the sink. I catch Emme when she teeters back. She wipes the perspiration from her brow, her eyes glassy and her lashes fluttering madly.
She tries to speak. Her agonized breathing makes it hard. “I think I got all of it.”
Bren nods and blasts the cold water from the sink, splashing his face as hard as he can.
Emme straightens and edges toward him. “Are you all right?” she asks him. “Bren?” she says. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you.”
I’m ready to blast his balls into oblivion, but when he turns and looks at her, I can’t. There’s no erection. No evidence of pleasure. Only sadness plagues his features. His blue eyes shift from side to side as he takes Emme in. He nods once and leaves, his limp is gone, but misery weighs him down in a way I’ve never seen.
Emme watches him as if he will somehow return. When he doesn’t, she leaves without a word, passing Gemini as he enters with a stack of fresh towels.
“Hi,” he says, shutting the door.
I glance at the closed door briefly. “Hi,” I say.
The sadness Emme and Bren left me with isn’t an emotion I want to feel. It’s draining, and I need all the bite remaining within me. I turn on the water to the shower and strip out of my clothes. Gemini is already erect when he pulls me into the shower.
We play, lathering our bodies in slow seductive strokes. My breasts remain covered with suds as he thrusts into me from behind. My nipples slide against the glass enclosure as he pounds, the tips straining, and my body begging for more of him. We don’t bother being quiet, neither do any of the weres and witches and vampires in the surrounding rooms. We need to feel good, if only for a small section of time.
Gemini leads me back to the bedroom where Celia and Aric wait. A twin mattress was placed inside the confines of a walk-in closet. Aric curls against Celia where she lays with her back pressed against his chest, still wearing that torn black dress she had appeared so elegant in.
I’m wearing a long T-shirt Gemini found for me. Celia stirs awake and tries to lift her head. “You all right?” she asks, struggling to open her eyelids.
“Yes,” I assure her. “Go back to sleep.”
Celia’s head bops up and down. She’s trying to tell me more. Aric murmurs a sound closer to an animal than man. It soothes her, allowing her to return to sleep. Aric nods in my direction. He’s wide awake. The intensity behind his demeanor is telling, he’ll guard Celia and what remains of his allies. Others will sleep; he won’t be one of them.
Koda sits up at our approach. He and Shayna share a larger mattress. He motions to the opposite side. “Found you a bed,” he says.
“Thanks,” we tell him.
I look to the mattress beneath the window Shayna likely set up for us. It’s a queen, which is nice, but it could have been a pile of straw, and I would have welcomed it. Gemini smirks when Shayna snores softly.
Koda grins, too, gathering her close and kissing her shoulder. Emme lies in the corner of the room wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Bren is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s better.
“How long do we have?” Koda says, losing his smile.
“An hour to sleep,” Gemini tells him. “Then we continue the hunt.”
An hour, I repeat in my head. An hour to rest. An hour to heal. An hour before the nightmare continues and blood spills once more.
Chapter Twenty-One
One of the many screwed-up things about the manor is the lack of sense these damn halls make. You don’t know what you’ll encounter or where you’ll end up. The she-vamps were headed
to Genevieve’s office to clear it and ended up in the kitchen with mutant Ewoks wielding knives.
“The fucking brown furball bit my tit,” Edith Anne gripes. She holds out her hand. “Don’t get me wrong, it felt kinda good. It’s the stab to my throat I took offense to.”
“I take offense to all of it,” I admit, watching them strut their way back to their bedroom. Seriously, I’m ready to beg Shayna to make me the chastity belt equivalent for boobs. These stupid Nytes don’t stop at anything.
My eyes are on fire from lack of sleep. I glance at the window and glare at the moon. It remains in the same position despite that it’s daytime and close to noon by now. Time is not on our side, and it’s become another enemy to fight.
I roll my neck and shift my attention to the door. Our wolves and Misha, along with Misha’s bodyguards, left to start the hunt what feels like hours ago. It probably wasn’t, though, based on this screwed-up time warp we’re in.
My sisters and I were instructed to rest, recoup, and protect. The witches from various covens and different packs within the confines of Genevieve’s quarters are also taking shifts to clean the rooms and scrounge for food. They’re having an effect. We’re not. We’re doing something else.
Shayna dubbed our time as #CeliaDuty, and yes, Celia hates the reference almost as much as she hates “The Mate” title bequeathed to her.
“Do you think they’ll find Johnny?” Emme asks. She’s sitting beside Celia, trying to teach her to knit. It’s not going well, and I think Celia would be more inclined to play with the yarn than make a sweater.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Bren has the best nose and can usually find anything. But none of the boys can track here as well as they can outside this mess.”
Emme glances down. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Bren, but he’s a part of our lives. I take another look at Emme. At least, he is for the time being. He was our furry big brother we never had. But Emme’s our sister. I’m not sure what he’ll be if he continues to hurt her.
I cross my arms over another long T-shirt Gemini found for me. Emme did her best to wash our clothes in the sink, and I did my best to dry them without setting them on fire. They were still crunchy when we tried them on, and at best, we looked ready to grace the cover of Survivor Afghanistan, if there was such a thing. So, yeah, here I am in a T-shirt and shorts that hang past my knees.
“You all right, T?” Shayna asks. She looks up from where she’s manipulating utensils into killer sharp knives with her gift. A group of weres from Liberia watch her, examining her work and nodding their approval.
I shrug. “They’re supposed to be back by now.”
“Unless they actually found Johnny,” Celia says. The room quiets. Celia hasn’t spoken much. Aric wants to find Johnny and finish him. I guess if any wolf can, it’s Aric. He’s become so much more. But Johnny has, too, and it scares the hell out of me.
Something falls against the door. The Liberian weres pocket the knives Shayna made them and hurry to investigate.
My sisters and I rise. “Stay with Celia,” I tell Shayna. She nods, and I hurry after Emme.
The Liberian weres shadow the guards at the door. They open it, and several witches pile in. “We found more food,” an older witch says, her European accent light with excitement. “Little treats for children but better than nothing.”
“And beat the jingle balls out of some creepy Santa,” another witch says. “It wasn’t as hard this time. I think Fate is getting weaker.”
Cheers follow their entrance. Another couple of weres and witches march in. Emme starts to close a door when I see a box of cheesy crackers on the floor.
“I’ll get it,” Emme says.
I barely snag the skirt of her dress when she falls forward, and we slam dunk into another part of the house.
“Son of a bitch,” I say.
I wrench my head up toward the ceiling, wondering if we just fell several floors or if it just feels that way.
“Oh, crud,” Emme says. She uses the wall to help her stand and rubs her ass. “Did you get the crackers?”
“No, I didn’t get the crackers. I’m not even sure if the fucking crackers were really there or if they were placed there by that prickles bastard.”
Emme sighs and helps me to my feet. “I understand your frustration. It’s not a good idea to be on our own.”
Emme should have been a therapist. She interprets “Taran speak” well.
“Do you know where we are?” she asks.
“Yeah. First floor.”
Emme makes a face. “No. Not again.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. I shake out my hand. “C’mon, Sparky. Time to get us out of here, girlfriend.”
With a jerk, Sparky drags me forward, leading the way. “Oh, she seems to know where she’s going,” Emme says.
“Yeah, she does.” I reach out and hold Emme’s hand. No way am I losing her this time. God knows I can’t fight the little bitch and his pesky minions alone. “We’re getting out of here, damn it.”
It’s what I think, except every time I think we’re heading in the right direction, Sparky guides us somewhere new.
We stop short in front of what looks like a meeting room.
“This isn’t anywhere close to Genevieve’s quarters,” Emme points out.
“No kidding,” I say. I examine the ornate door and the frame. Protection runes are etched into the door and what I make out as protection spells. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Emme asks.
I point upward. “These runes and spells are designed to bind things within the space.”
Emme pauses. “Like ghosts?”
I curse again. “And phantoms and demons and anything else the witches conjure. If I’m right, it’s a classroom. Similar to Anti-Possession Class but not quite.”
“Um. Pardon?”
I grimace, remembering. “Anti-Possession class is usually held in the basement where brass protection circles can be secured to the stone floor, and shackles can be fixed to the stone walls.”
Emme’s hand goes limp. “Shackles?”
I huff. “Oh, yeah. You want something in place in case you fail the practicum and are actually possessed.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Emme agrees, slowly. “Um. So, are we going in?”
She’s begging me to say no.
“It is where Sparky wants us to be.”
Emme gasps. “Oh, my goodness, Taran.”
I whip around, thinking she sees something. “What?”
“Maybe Johnny is in there,” she whispers.
“How do you figure?”
“Why else would your hand lead us here, to a place where the bad things need to stay in. It’s a good place for him to hide since it’s not a place we’d choose first to look.”
“Maybe,” I say. “There’s one way to find out.” I didn’t want to face Johnny like this. But if Emme’s right, we can’t give up an opportunity to fight him.
Emme’s light shines in my hands. She’s ready. I’m ready. I nod to her. “Let’s do it.”
I open the door and step inside the ladies’ bathroom. The door, which looks nothing like the door I opened, closes gently shut behind us.
“This isn’t a classroom,” Emme whispers in my ear.
“I know,” I mutter. “Johnny is really getting on my last nerve.” With a resolved sigh and another curse, I lead her forward. “We might as well check it out.”
As quiet as I try to be, the squeak of my borrowed sneakers echoes along the pink monstrosity. Pink bathrooms, in my experience, are gaudy and overdone. I’ll give it to Genevieve, that witch has taste.
The sandstone floors alternate in shades of light to dark pink. Gold veins branch through each tile, and illuminated scented candles float along the open space casting a subtle glow that creates a blissful ambiance. More spa than restroom, bubbling fountains replace sinks, where pink and lavender rose petals spin as they float along each tier.
Emme st
eals a peek into the sinks. “Is this sanitary?” she asks.
“They are,” I say. “The flowers are cultivated with magic and dusted with silver from seedlings. They sanitize the water and possess healing properties. During witch school, I was in charge of them for like, a day.”
Emme pauses. “You set them on fire, didn’t you?”
My spine stiffens with my tone. “It was an accident, and they started it.”
Shayna would just laugh at me and probably point. Emme makes a small face. “Did they really, Taran?”
“Yes, Emme. The little bastards would lengthen when they saw me and stab me in the ankles with their thorns. So, yeah, I torched one or eight of them to show them who was boss. Can you believe that innocent act of self-defense cost me four demerits?”
She crinkles her small nose. “Only four?”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
She holds out her hands. “I’m just saying the witches tend to be strict. I’m surprised the incident didn’t earn you time on the torture rack.”
“It’s the modern world, Emme,” I remind her. “The rack is only used for witches who accidentally sprout hooves.” I frown. “And antlers, if memory serves. Damn, no wonder I was kicked out.”
The candles flutter as we pass, casting shadows of us against the wall. “What are those?” Emme asks. She motions to the row of stands whose walls curve inward.
“Toilet stalls.”
I watch my shadow as we continue forward. If someone were to snap a picture and show me at a later time, I’d know who is who. Gemini has described me as voluptuous more than once. I’m thin, but I inherited the Latina ass and boobs from my mother’s side.
Emme’s figure is more of a young woman fresh out of her teens. Her figure walks that fine line between youth and womanhood, feminine with still more change to come. She’s petite, more so than me. While I know she’s a force to be reckoned with, her smaller figure keeps us from accepting how strong she is. Celia is pregnant, yet something about the way Emme carries herself makes her appear more vulnerable.