Deadly Sweet

by Lola Dodge

  I hit the sidewalk face first. Plastic containers burst under my weight, and a line of fire roared in my cheek, sparking nausea and the first flash of panic. Why?

  Something zipped past where I’d been standing.

  Then clank. So close it sounded like a gong in my eardrum.

  The end of a feathered shaft stuck out of the mailbox it had just impaled.

  A guy with a crossbow sprinted toward me, already setting up a second shot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I should cast a spell.

  The thought occurred to me, but lying flat on the sidewalk, nothing came to mind. A spell to stop the guy running? To make his crossbow disappear?

  That was what bothered me the most. A gun would be reasonable. Bullets I could understand.

  But a crossbow? Seriously?

  Wynn was back on his feet almost as soon as he hit the ground. Good thing, because I was still frozen in a pile of burst-open leftovers. His legs pumped as he sprinted for the attacker, but the guy dodged around him and a second bolt twanged. How was he loading them that fast?

  And what could I do about it? Because inch-worming on the sidewalk wasn’t a long-term survival strategy.

  Burn it.

  Fire was home. My element. Usually, it ran toward cozier hearth flames.

  Not today. Not with barbed steel targeting my heart. And I didn’t need a fancy incantation to call to fire. Just my will.

  Burn.

  Red sparks burst.

  The bolt exploded mid-air. Liquid metal splattered, and whatever carbon fiber junk the shaft was made of burst into thick, steaming drops.

  See? I wanted to shout to Wynn. Not a glass cannon.

  But I was still flat on the ground with a face full of noodles, and he was kind of busy.

  He ripped the guy’s crossbow from his hands and started beating him with it, which was violent enough that I looked away, but not so bad that I’d tell him to stop. This guy was trying to kill me.

  Was this my fault for tasting the karma cupcakes?

  No. I’d made as many mistakes as anyone, but I didn’t deserve death by crossbow. I crawled my way up to stand on wobbly feet.

  The bad guy must be down because Wynn pounded back over to me.

  “Where did it hit you?” His voice spilled out low and fast.

  “Hit…?” I wasn’t that numb, was I? Because I didn’t feel—

  A giant red spot spread over my chest. Shock jolted, thinning my vision to a single point as I lifted a hand to feel the wound. The blood was cool and thick. Shaking, I lifted the bloodied fingers closer to my face.

  So much blood.

  With…

  Seeds?

  Relief made me deflate, and my liquidy knees gave out. Wynn caught me before I hit the sidewalk a second time.

  I laughed, crazy like. “It’s jam.” To prove it, I wiped a long streak of it across his T-shirt. Gotcha.

  He let out breath—had he actually been worried? But gruff Wynn stepped right back up to drive. “Take cover inside.” He shoved me toward the nearest Syndicate shop—the little soap store. “There could be more of them.”

  Once I had my balance back, I kept my feet firmly in place. If more guys came, Wynn would be handling them alone. Plus, I didn’t really want to be alone if more guys came. “I don’t think—”

  Before we could argue, magic flared.

  A splotch of black and red smoke congealed above the guy’s chest and the energy of it squiggled down my arms like cockroaches. His nightmare eyes flew open wide—the whites weren’t white but were red with blood surrounding too-wide black pupils.

  A croak strangled from his throat as his spine arched off the sidewalk.

  When he fell back to the earth, he was limp and lifeless.

  Dead.

  A chill sank into my bones.

  I’d never felt magic like that before, but just like I’d recognized the vortex, I knew what this was.

  Warlock magic.

  That blob of energy being drawn out like poison from a wound couldn’t be anything else. The dead guy was a Hand. A warlock’s minion.

  The master had just called back her power and helped herself to the Hand’s life force.

  I wobbled. A warlock was sending assassins after me?

  Why? And how? Warlocks were crazy rare. And for one to exist here? Under the Syndicate’s nose?

  I grabbed Wynn’s sleeve and started pulling him toward the bakery. “We need Agatha. Now.”

  Wynn didn’t argue. Instead, he blew past me, grabbing my wrist and breaking into a sprint, tugging me along behind him. I was totally okay with it. The shop door was closest, so we careened inside the bakery, Wynn almost ripping the door off its hinges and making the tiny bell clang like we were mid-tornado. When the wards crackled over my shoulders, I let out a shaky breath. Wynn wasn’t ready to relax. He yanked me past the gaping customers and counter staff, through the kitchen door. But Agatha wasn’t in working this time of day and neither was anyone else. When Wynn started dragging again, my wrist joint throbbed. “Wynn. That hurts. Can you—”

  He shouldered through the swinging door to the house and didn’t drop my hand until we passed through the second layer of wards, their power tingling against my scalp. I rubbed my wrist, but before I could do more than glare, Wynn grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me square to him. His gaze raked up and down, taking in the jam I could feel on my shirt and face. My heart still thought we were running away, pounding at double-time, but it stuttered as he looked me over, checking for injuries.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  Since it seemed like he actually cared, I resisted the urge to shove my wrist in his face. “The only thing I need right now is a shower.” And to clean up all the teatime leftovers that were now sidewalk roadkill. Ms. Wu would probably send me the other half of her buffet if she heard about this. Which she would.

  A warlock on the loose was the most important kind of Syndicate business.

  He whirled away from me, boots thumping the hardwood on his way toward the side door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” The words slipped from my lips in a panicked rush. Why was my bodyguard so eager to leave me alone when there were legit assassins after my blood?

  “To secure the body.” He kept walking.

  “I can help.” I hurried the few steps to him. Bodyguard or not, he shouldn’t be out there alone. “Let me—”

  “Upstairs. Now.” He twisted to block the doorway.

  “You can’t—”

  “Upstairs.” Wynn stepped closer, looming over me. The heat of his anger hit me in a wave that made me stumble back.

  He was mad? At me? For almost dying? “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Next time you’re attacked, you cast a shield charm and hang back. You don’t attack. Ever.” His hazel eyes boiled with fury.

  I loosed a scowl of my own. “If I’d cast a shield, I would’ve cast it over you.” That was what I should’ve done, but I’d forgotten my earrings in the panic of the moment. If there was a next attack, I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “I’m not going to stand there and watch you die.”

  “I protect. You get protected.” Wynn bit off his words. “Now haul your stubborn ass upstairs and tell Agatha to call for backup.”

  Anger boiled over the reality of the attack. There was a warlock after me and Wynn still couldn’t spare one breath of compassion. One word of comfort. Instead, he got meaner.

  Fine. Let him go out there by himself and fight a thousand Hands alone.

  But as much as I needed to hurry to Agatha, I didn’t want Wynn thinking he could boss me around. I ran my palm through the sticky mess of jam on my chest and wiped it off on his T-shirt in a long, hard stroke. His torso vibrated with angry tension, but seeing him slathered in jam was the most satisfying thing I could imagine.

  Good. “I’ll tell Agatha. Shouldn’t you be outside already?” I didn’t try to hold back the smug grin that slipped out.

  A muscle
in his jaw clenched and he whirled off, letting the door slam hard behind him. I couldn’t fathom what went on in his head. Did he think I wanted to be assassinated?

  By a warlock’s Hand?

  Alone, I padded upstairs, keeping my hands out straight so they wouldn’t spread any more jam. I’d scraped my palms without realizing—plus my cheek—and the sting was setting in now that I had a moment to breathe.

  But with no one to be angry at, my brain froze on WARLOCK.

  I knew enough about them to leave me dizzy. Warlocks were twisted witches. They’d killed and liked it, which snapped something in their makeup. The change left them superpowered and nursing a serious grudge. They could control Hands like puppets, using their bodies as extensions of their own magic. The bond wasn’t quite like the connection between a necromancer and her Servants.

  A warlock’s Hands were alive. Or they started out that way.

  Being turned into a Hand was a death sentence. Warlock magic was pure hatred and compulsion. It burned a person up from the inside and stripped away their will, freeing the warlock drain their life force whenever it was convenient.

  That was the point. The more Hands a warlock created and drained, the more her power grew. Not that a warlock couldn’t be a man, but with the male-to-female witch ratio so low, male warlocks didn’t come around often.

  None of them did. It was a once-a-generation threat.

  I shivered in Agatha’s doorway. She was back on her computer with earbuds in and didn’t turn to look at me right away. I let her keep typing, happy to ignore the problem for a few more seconds.

  When she finally noticed me, Agatha did a double-take. “Anise? Did you lose a fight with a jelly donut?”

  If only. I moved to perch on the lip of one of the chairs in front of Agatha’s desk and forced my hands to fold, half to avoid spreading jam and half to stop from twitching with the fear piping through my veins. I took in a deep breath—probably the last one I’d get for a while. “I was attacked.”

  “What?” Agatha ripped out her earbuds. “By who?”

  “A Hand.” I wanted to sink back into the chair and hug my knees, but I had to tell everything I knew if we were going to find whoever wanted me dead. “He came after me with a crossbow.” It still confused me. I’d probably be dead if he’d had a gun, and there was no reason the next guy wouldn’t. A warlock and his minions could be armed after ten minutes at Wal-Mart, just like everyone else.

  “Wynn?” Agatha’s voice stayed neutral and the lines of her face didn’t hint what she was feeling yet.

  “He tackled the guy and kicked his ass but left him alive. The warlock called back her power.” I rubbed my arms, wishing I could shake the image out of my head—the Hand rising off the pavement, contorting… I’d have nightmares about the man’s twisted face. “Wynn’s securing the body, but he needs backup.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Just scraped. The soap shop’s mailbox took a bolt for me.”

  “You’ll be safe in the house.” Agatha was already on her phone but she paused messaging to wave me away. “Get yourself cleaned up. Let the Syndicate take care of the warlock hunt.”

  Fine by me. If someone needed a birthday cake, I was the woman for the job. When it came to hunting, fighting, and possibly killing a rogue caster… It wasn’t my area. Maybe if I had a few hours warning and could whip up some sort of instant-death torte? But even that magic was beyond me.

  Trudging up to the third floor, exhaustion made it hard to go from step to step. Maybe the poison was still in my system? Or had I gone too overboard burning that arrow?

  For whatever reason, my well was bone-powder dry.

  A purring noise gave me the hit of adrenaline I needed to clear that last step. Fondant sat curled up against my door, a white spot against the purple carpeting.

  I hesitated. I could collapse in the downstairs sitting room and try to wait her out? Too bad there was only a half bath on that level. If I washed off in the kitchen sink…

  But no. My hair was sticky and I was going to have my shower, not rinse off in the sink like some weird coward.

  I tiptoed down the hall. I was halfway when I realized there was a shortcut. If I dared to use it.

  Wynn’s room.

  He definitely wasn’t in. If he’d left it unlocked…

  I tested the knob and it gave. Before I could think too much about it—or be pounced on by the demon cat—I slipped inside and eased it closed behind me. The room was darker than 90% cacao. As much as I didn’t want to turn on a light, if I tripped in the dark, I’d impale myself on one of Wynn’s weapons.

  I’d already had my impalement scare for the day.

  I fumbled against the wall, searching for the switch. It took a sec, but I finally bumped it with my thumb. I’d been right to not sneak.

  Three naked swords lay on the narrow stretch of carpet next to a wrinkled-up cloth and open jar of polish. There was no way I could’ve made it to the bathroom without slicing my feet bloody. It looked like Wynn had been caught mid-sword-maintenance. I probably shouldn’t touch his stuff, but that polish would dry out in a hot second in the New Mexico air. I crouched to grab the lid and gently twisted it back in place, careful not to smudge any jam. Hopefully, Wynn would do the same if I ever left my moisturizer uncovered in the bathroom.

  Doubted it, but still. I crept over the swords and turned the light off behind me.

  I didn’t bother going back into my room. Didn’t have the energy. Instead, I whipped off my clothes and let the shower roar. When I tested the water, pain sliced through my palms again. The scrapes. I turned down the temp and went for it.

  My cheek burned, and I had to shampoo with the very tips of my fingers, but all in all, I couldn’t complain. Today could’ve ended with me experiencing the business end of the Wu funeral parlor.

  Would they have woken me up? Or just let me corpse away? As much as I didn’t want to die, being undead seemed worse.

  I shivered and turned the temp hotter, cuts be damned.

  I’d had a lot of fears about coming to Taos, but I’d been convinced I’d be safe as long as I kept my head down. There was literally no one I could’ve pissed off. No reason anyone would want me dead.

  So why was I standing here washing jam down the drain, feeling relieved it wasn’t blood?

  Chapter Fourteen

  They Syndicate—or at least Agatha—banished me to lockdown. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house until the warlock was toast. That left me stuck in my room, minus morning prep sessions.

  As a special favor to Agatha, Stef Oates agreed to give me a private lesson to make up for all the labs I’d missed—and would probably keep missing now that my life was for sure in danger. We met in the afternoon after we’d both had a chance to rest from morning prep. She leaned against the kitchen’s center island, wearing her chef whites and a nasty scowl.

  We’d been prepping together every morning and she’d never greeted me, let alone asked about school. Or mentioned she was my teacher. I wouldn’t have made the connection until our first class together if not for the heads-up from Seth. So far all I knew about her was that she took perverse joy in making me redo my work twenty times per morning without giving a reason why.

  Please don’t let today be the same. I still felt drained from yesterday’s attack, possibly because I hadn’t slept more than ten minutes all night. I’d twisted in my sheets worrying about the warlock. The few times I dozed, I’d bolted up, feeling the echo of that creepy-crawly magic in my bones.

  “We’re making quick breads. Follow the recipes.” Stef slapped a piece of paper onto the stainless-steel surface in front of me.

  Cornbread and buttermilk biscuits. Both of which I’d made a million times. I glanced at her specific ingredient list before heading for the pantry. It would be nice if Stef was a little gentler, but I’d deal. At least having a project gave me something to think about besides the threat.

  The recipes themselves weren’
t difficult, especially considering that they were straight baking—no magic involved. I didn’t have to pick potions or check any weird charts. All I really needed was flour, love, and a little altitude adjustment. Still, I took care as I measured out the ingredients and chose my utensils, treating the prep as part of a spell. Agatha had knocked the smugness out of me with two bites of my cake, and I wasn’t taking it for granted that these were easy bakes. I wanted to impress Stef as much as I wanted to impress Agatha.

  Jaya and Kamala were busy piping eclairs on the other side of the kitchen, but the clanging noises and soft chatter faded to nothing while I worked. I leveled off measuring cups, mixed dry and wet ingredients, cut my breads into triangles, and finally loaded up the oven. As I wiped my hands on my apron towel, I realized Stef had been watching the whole time. Her nose was wrinkled and her brow furrowed between her eyebrows, a sure sign she was looking at something—or someone?—she didn’t like.

  What had I ever done to her?

  “I’ll clean up while they’re in the oven?” I said, giving her an opening if she wanted to tell me something. I’d at least expected her to correct me. Maybe even to offer a few tips? Otherwise, why were we doing this?

  “Make it snappy.”

  That was her only pearl of wisdom? Okay. I tried to ignore her while I scrubbed down my station, but I felt her poison green gaze on the back of my neck like she was shooting off hate lasers.

  When my goodies were out of the oven and cooled enough to taste, Stef sliced one of each in half. She crouched to get eye-level with the biscuit and her nose scrunched up yet again. I swallowed. Had I blown it?

  I couldn’t have. The biscuit had perfect flaky layers thanks to all the butter I’d folded into the dough. The whole sheet of them was golden brown and as tall as a bunched fist. They were Martha Stewart status. I would’ve liked the cornbread to be a little browner, but it was moist and otherwise looked delicious.

  So why was Stef Oates still scowling? She muttered under her breath as she mushed the cornbread with a fork.

  The back of my neck prickled. I was almost assassinated for no reason, and now she was giving me a hard time for no reason? “Do I need to make them again?”