by Anne Malcom
Sophie gently shoved the teenage witch out of the doorway so she could step into the place she’d vowed she’d never return to. The smells and magicks rubbed over her skin like ragged wire, drawing blood from the emotional scars she’d been so sure had healed and then disappeared.
Nothing like going home again to show you how fucked up you pretended not to be.
There was a growl from the outside as Conall fought against the spell at the top of the stairs. She grinned. At least one thing was going to be fun—watching the wolf struggle.
She glanced back to the girl, who was most likely in her late teens, pretty, fresh-faced, naïve. Sophie gently probed her aura. The girl was powerful. Very powerful, if the not-so-gentle probe back was anything to go by.
Sophie grinned again. “Well, the kitten has claws,” she observed. “Good for you. Make sure the stiffs here don’t try to file them down or yank them from you for their own personal use. They’ve been known to do that.” She winked.
Though she’d outwardly been focused on the young witch in front of her, she’d been prepared for the spell that was flung at her back, wiping it away with a quick counter spell as she turned.
She faced the three women responsible for her suffering and most likely responsible for this little witch’s suffering—either past or present. It would happen. They liked to be the most powerful in the coven, and they weren’t about to let the next generation change that.
“Spelling a girl while her back’s turned?” Sophie tutted. “Now that’s just bad form.” Her eyes went up and down Hazel’s slightly haggard appearance. “Not looking so hot, Haze,” she teased. “Please tell me I have everything to do with that.”
Weak bursts of fury cut through Hazel’s aura. Nothing more bothersome than a gnat. She was juiced out after dealing with Sophie.
Sophie, on the other hand, was all riled up.
“You come into our sacred place, with a wolf of all things. You go too far, Sophie,” Nora hissed.
Ah, so the heat at her back and the low growl was not a figment of her imagination. The wolf was right beside her, in the witch’s den. She waved off the spells her former mentors shot at him.
“I know he’s a dog and all that, but hitting him with spells that he can’t even deflect is just plain rude,” Sophie replied with a bored tone, though fury at their attacks boiled in her blood. “Where’s your hospitality?”
Power circled around her and Conall as other witches in the coven joined the party. Some recognized Sophie, some did not. Some of them glared at her with hatred fueled by Hazel, Nora and Morgan, some because she’d slept with their boyfriends and cursed them with acne when they pissed her off. None of them could match her power.
She was surprised to sense something else other than hatred from a handful of the witches. Something akin to… pride? Acceptance? Respect?
She couldn’t pinpoint it because she’d never sensed it from fellow witches before. And distinguishing it from the unnatural and angry hate was rather hard.
Not the time to inspect it.
She focused on Nora, the boss bitch of the New York coven. She was outwardly beautiful, with a severe silver bob and lineless skin that contrasted with the age her hair color denoted. She was wearing earth tones, a brown sweater and darker brown corduroys—yes, you heard it—with chunky heeled boots peeking from below them. Crimes to the craft were not the only thing she committed. The fashion police really needed to lock her up.
Though she was beautiful, Sophie knew it was a glamor, her new powers seeing straight through it to the frizzed, waist-length hair, the liver spots, the crinkled skin. Love handles.
Sophie found herself wondering if she was always like that or if her sins against witchcraft had sucked away the almost eternal youth magic granted them.
It didn’t really matter at that point. She had a book to steal and, as it happened, a werewolf to protect.
Despite her words, more pointed spells were directed at the snarling wolf. Though he hadn’t changed yet, the air shimmered with his beast. Even the combined power of the coven would be no match for a turned werewolf. She hadn’t seen him fully turned yet and she was curious. She was also tempted to let him rip them all to pieces.
But that wouldn’t be very witchly of her.
She’d rather do it herself.
Anger rippled around her like a cape as she stepped in front of Conall and sent out a flare that blanketed the room in warning. The witches responsible for the attack all flinched in pain as Sophie’s hits landed on their marks. “I said stop cursing the motherfucking wolf!” she yelled, her voice deepening and doubling like she had some kind of Darth Vader mask on.
Silence stretched through the room after her words. Nora even looked shocked.
Sophie smiled placidly. “Now,” she said in a more even tone, “can we not all just get along?”
Nora recovered quickly. “We will not accept a witch who does not align herself with the coven’s interest, Sophie,” she spat. “You have betrayed every one of us. Unless you listen to your elders and rectify your ways, we are forced to take action.” Threat punctured every one of the words, and once again, Conall growled.
Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m the one doing the protecting here, wolf, remember? You just stand there and be quiet. Use a piece of furniture as a chew toy if you must.” She pointed to the patterned antique sofa in the corner. “Go wild. I’ve always hated that.”
Her focus moved to the three witches in front of her.
“Sorry, you don’t tell me how to be a witch,” she snapped. “If I wanted a dictatorship, I’d go to China. Or church. So I’m going to have to take a hard no on the whole ‘toe the line or we’ll lock you up’ thing you’ve got going on.” Sophie stepped forward, calling upon the magic she knew they’d be terrified by. To be fair, it terrified her too. “You think I’ve spattered our legacy? No, that’s you. You’ve disrespected the freedoms granted to us by The Four in order to bastardize our gift and try to make it a power you can wield.” She smiled again as she knocked away a strike with the wave of her hand. Conall growled at the attack, baring his teeth aggressively. She ignored this too.
“What was brought down upon me, be it returned times three,” she began to chant, her words weaving through the air, paralyzing the coven that was trying to use the powers of her bloodline against her. “Head to toe, skin and nerve, may you get exactly what you deserve.” The spell spun through the air like a mini tornado, sucking up every inch of bad intention that had been brought against her and hurling it toward her enemies.
Enemies she used to consider sisters.
But not anymore.
Sophie ignored this pang.
“I’m not a huge fan of spells that rhyme,” she said lightly. “I usually find them so… tacky.” She screwed up her nose. “But on this occasion, I’ll make an exception, since it’s likely to be so very effective.”
Then she turned on her heel and left karma and a little bit of magic—okay, a whole lotta magic—to do its worst.
The wolf followed her in her descent down the stairs, the crashes and shrieks from above calming Sophie. She’d done nothing deadly or permanent—to her great disappointment—just created enough disorder to make sure she got what she came for without any more drama.
The rooms below ground were almost as sprawling as the house itself. They contained ancient relics, herbs, countless grimoires, and the odd cage or two, for when a witch misbehaved.
Sophie touched the bars of the middle one, grinning at where she’d carved her name and left lewd drawings. “Ah, the teenage years,” she muttered.
Again she ignored the pure rage emanating from Conall at his realization that she used to hang out in those bars.
“Chill, wolf,” she said, sauntering into the bowels of the basement, flicking the locks open with a small spell. “It’s not like I’m a stranger to a jail cell. It actually really helped me during my first drunk and disorderly.” She turned and winked. Then she put her attenti
on on the book in the middle of the room.
It was the only thing in the room, sitting atop a large wooden table. The air was heavy in there, damp and vibrating with power from the oldest and most sacred books of her coven. She flinched as the power stung her skin. Her head whipped around again, to the wolf about to follow her into the room.
“Stop!” she yelled, with a little more desperation than she intended. It worked though because the wolf froze. She pushed him safely out of the doorway with a spell.
He growled at that, eyes wide in accusation.
“Beings without magic cannot venture in here,” she said. “Unless they want to die a really shitty death.” She paused. “But come right ahead if that means it’ll stop you following me.”
The wolf looked from her to the room, as if he was tasting the truth in her words. He splayed his feet and crossed his arms, cementing himself in place. So he was going to listen to her, but not go anywhere. Awesome.
“Okay, whatever, I thought you lived to protect my happiness,” she muttered, turning to face the book.
It had been strictly forbidden to venture in there as a child, so naturally she crept in every other day. She had only ever gotten to touch the front of the ancient book before she was caught and thrown in a cell for a witch version of time-out. But the sheer power and knowledge that came from the simple touch intoxicated and terrified a young Sophie. She’d sensed it then, even when her powers were still growing, that there was a responsibility that came to anyone who opened that book.
So naturally she stopped trying to read it. She wanted responsibility like she wanted to share an elevator with Justin Bieber. In other words, not on her life.
But there she was, grabbing the book that would well and truly make her a witch grownup. Her hand hovered across the pentagram carved into the leather of the book.
She almost left, walked right out and let someone else be the one to have to deal with whatever magical worms jumped out of the proverbial can.
But then she thought of Isla, of the memory of her almost dying, of the death that still clung to her aura. Without blinking, she snatched the book and strode out, breezing past the wolf as she did so.
And so it begins.
Chapter Five
“You’re not riding with me,” Sophie hissed as the werewolf opened the passenger door.
He glanced back to the ruined SUV, obviously undriveable.
“That’s not on me,” she said. “You chose to follow me. You should’ve expected your form of transportation to be ruined.” She paused. “Just be glad it wasn’t your legs.” She placed the grimoire on the passenger seat when she sensed he was about to ignore her.
He stalled immediately; even a wolf could sense the power coming from it.
“You sit on that, see what happens,” she invited. “Or better yet, try to move it. I dare you.”
He did not move.
Sophie grinned. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” She glanced to the house, which was now quiet. “Ah, perfect timing. For once, the witches are going to help me by ensuring my tail, who coincidently has a tail, is too distracted by their magical murder attempts to follow me.” She shoved him back with a spell once more, using the last of her strength. She was pretty close to tapped out right now. “Toodles.” She finger-waved and screeched off, the door slamming shut with the force of her acceleration.
She glanced in the rearview mirror as he growled and made to give chase, but a swift spell by Nora nipped that in the bud.
She felt a pang of something akin to guilt mingled with worry. She shook it off. The witches wouldn’t actually be able to kill her wolf—he was much too strong for that. They would merely slow him down and ensure that he wasn’t sitting in an enclosed space with her.
She would not have survived the car ride back into the city with him right next to her. She would’ve pulled over and begged him to take her right there and then, ancient grimoire, death spells, and ancient evil be damned.
Destruction was already all around, and she was fighting it. The last thing she needed to be doing was beg for it.
She glanced at the book that seemed to be staring at her.
A strong premonition seized her. This was the end of life as she knew it.
She gritted her teeth and focused on the road.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she muttered.
She obviously didn’t go home, because that would’ve been the first place the wolf would look. And because he’d already ruined her elevator, her dining room table—okay, that was Hazel—her curtains—that may have been her—and her bed.
Luckily she had her office. Though that had taken a beaten lately too, when slayers and evil vampires had burst into it to steal the human turned vampire Frankenstein Sophie had captured.
It had been an eventful year.
Luckily she had an amazing contractor who she may have put the tiniest spell on to ensure he worked faster and more efficiently. How else were you meant to get a contractor to show up on time?
The second she’d opened the book, it had yanked her in, as if hands had emerged from the pages, taken hold of her brain and imprinted it in the pages.
There was no other explanation for the reason why, when she glanced up seconds later, the midday sun shone through the windows of her office when it was the waxing moon shining through seconds before.
She glanced at the clock, took stock of her near-exploding bladder and screaming hungry stomach.
“Shit,” she muttered. “This book is legit.”
She glanced down at the runes covering the aged paper. All written in a dead language that Sophie couldn’t even freaking read, but somehow the entire book was burned into her brain, as if she’d memorized it.
That was either extremely good or extremely bad.
That was something for another time. Sophie needed coffee, shower, and a cheeseburger.
Evil could wait.
Werewolves, apparently, could not.
Fighting the witches off had taken much of his strength. Especially when he’d had to make the effort not to kill them.
He had ached to do so because of their violence toward Sophie, the obvious hurt they’d caused her.
That cage in the bowels of the sweet and foul-smelling house was burned into his brain. They had put her there.
As a child.
Even his clan were not as brutal to their young.
My former clan, he corrected himself.
Ugly, brutal, and evil they might be, but they were her kin. She deserved to exact her own vengeance over them as she saw fit. Plus there were young there who had no part in this war yet. He would not spill their blood.
The silver-haired witch with the double face, on the other hand, he had to battle not to rip her throat out. But he did not. And it always took more strength to spare a foe than it did to kill them.
Then he’d had to run much of the way into the city before he could find a car to steal. His body had required nourishment, yet another thing to slow him down. But likely when he found his witch, he’d find her in trouble, so he needed his strength to protect her.
Not that she needed protecting.
He was quickly learning that.
In the witches’ manor, she’d stood in front of him, using her magic as a shield against her own kin and then as a sword to avenge him.
That should have ground against his nature, a female doing the protecting that was reserved for him.
It did not. It made him proud. His witch was a warrior.
But that did not mean she did not need help. In the days since he’d made his vow to protect her until she begged to be claimed, Conall had felled at least a dozen assassins lying in wait for his witch.
Vampires, demons, even wolves. He hadn’t given any of them mercy nor escape. Cold recognition had painted the faces of the wolves who’d glimpsed him in his true form.
“It can’t be,” one of them had uttered.
But then he’d uttered no more because Conall rip
ped his heart out.
Sophie was a target for the rebels mounting an assault against all established immortal leadership.
How she was in the middle of such a thing, Conall did not know. She was powerful, yes. And had a smart mouth that would likely piss a lot of immortals off and harden their cocks at the same time. But even his witch didn’t have a smart enough mouth to make her one of the top targets in the biggest war he had seen in his time on earth.
And that book had sent his hackles up, the wolf inside him telling him it housed great power. Not necessarily evil, but something that could be molded to be whatever a powerful sorcerer wanted.
A weapon in the right hands.
And Sophie had it in her fucking hands. She had been spent when she’d driven off; he’d scented it on her, the waning strength.
So she was weakened, walking around with a weapon that the rebellion would kill for, already on their list of targets and he didn’t fucking know why.
Never had he cursed his forced solitary existence until now. His desperation was almost wild enough to do something he’d vowed never to do while he drew breath: contact his clan for information.
The thought curdled the food in his stomach as he prowled the rancid city searching for her scent. But he vowed to himself that he would do it if he did not find her soon.
He had heard she was some kind of investigator, some kind of mercenary, and it had taken him longer than he liked to locate her offices. He scented her three blocks away.
She was there.
And she was going to be sorry.
Luckily, Sophie had a rudimentary apartment upstairs, since she owned the whole building—being a mercenary was profitable, and she’d mastered spells to manipulate the stock market. Highly against the witch code of ethics.
Hey, a witch couldn’t be perfect, but she could be rich.
Once she’d gotten herself caffeinated and somewhat fed on some Lucky Charms she kept in case of emergency, she showered.
The hot water was heaven on her taut muscles, screaming out from the time spent in the same position. She could scant believe it, but there were few things impossible in the magical world, so she just accepted it.