by Melissa Marr
“They do, but then none of them will be left to tell other covens like theirs that the sacrifice of innocents stops now,” I said in as strong a tone as I could manage. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could speak, let alone stand, so I had to make this count. “We found this group through their magic. In the same way, we can find the others, too, so they all need to know that we’ll be checking up on them to make sure that covens only sacrifice the worst of the worst of humanity from now on.”
Bones’s face was set in hard, unreadable planes, but for an instant, his shields cracked again, and I felt admiration threading through his vengeance-fueled rage. He recognized the logic of letting them live to warn the others about changing their ways even though he really, really wanted to kill them.
“Very well.” If death had dripped from his other words, now reluctance coated his tone. “With these terms, you may live.”
The witches’ necks stopped stretching. The ones that were vampires recovered in a few seconds, but the few humans among them dropped to the ground, dead. Then, the black-haired witch gave a solemn nod first at me, and then at Bones.
“We’ll do things differently from now on, and we’ll make sure that we’re not the only coven, or you won’t have to find the others through magic because I’ll tell you where they are.”
With that, a cloud of smoke poofed out. In the moments it took to clear, all of the witches had disappeared. Even their dead were now gone, and I blinked in disbelief.
“If they had the ability to teleport themselves out of here, why didn’t they leave before now?”
“Because that’s not teleportation,” drawled a familiar voice.
No one had been sitting on the edge of the makeshift stone bonfire seconds ago. Now, Ashael perched there as comfortably as if he were getting ready to toast some marshmallows.
“That’s a parlor trick,” he went on. “It stuns the senses for a few seconds so it looks as if they’ve teleported away when in reality, they scurried out of here as fast as they could run. Still, it takes a bit of doing to momentarily daze vampire senses. Before they absorbed residual power from their goddess’ feeding, they couldn’t have pulled off such a trick.”
That explained why they hadn’t done it before, but I got why they did it now. “Fake” teleportation or no, it had still worked in getting them out of here before Bones changed his mind about letting them live.
“Ashael.” Bones said his name as if it tasted sour. “Been loitering about, watching this whole time, have you?”
“Of course not,” Ashael said with mock indignation. “My presence would have violated my race’s treaty with the other gods. I would never do that, just as I would never add a dollop of magic to the witches’ hex-dissolving-spell because the silly birds couldn’t conjure up enough power to do it on their own.”
My jaw dropped. Ashael had topped off the witches’ undoing spell in time to save us?
Denise ran across the bluffs and threw her arms around him. “You beautiful, beautiful demon!” she choked out.
Ashael laughed as he patted her back. “I am, but as I said, I would never do such a thing. That’s against the rules, and an obedient fellow like me always follows the rules.”
“Of course you do,” Denise said, laughing as she pulled away. “My mistake.”
Ashael winked at her, and then held out a tiny glass bottle to me. “Drink this before they cut the silver out of you. It’ll help.”
I grimaced. “Thanks, but if that’s more of your blood—”
Ashael was gone before I finished the sentence. Bones and Spade exchanged a look, and then Bones flew over to the stone bonfire and plucked the bottle off its ledge.
“Not blood,” he said after pulling out the stopper and sniffing the bottle’s contents. “Smells like flowers.”
It could smell like fresh manure, and I’d still drink it if it wasn’t more demon blood. Nothing against their kind, but I’d had enough of being high. Still, maybe I’d be lucky and Ashael had brought me the vampire version of Novocaine. If so, I’d never forget his birthday, assuming demons celebrated birthdays.
“If this stuff makes me pass out, or if the silver extraction does, the kid that the witches brought here is down the path in the bushes,” I said. “He’s bruised, but otherwise fine, and I gave him a new memory of what happened tonight.”
“We’ll see him home safely,” Spade said. “Now, let Crispin tend to you. You look ghastly, Cat.”
I let out a pained huff. “Thanks.”
“Cat.”
Denise came over and knelt in front of me. She didn’t speak, and neither did I. We just stared at each other, and then we started to laugh because otherwise, we might have cried. We’d both been through so much these past few days that it would take time to fully process everything. All I knew right now was that I had the best friend in the world. Oh, and that I’d never forget this girls’ getaway.
“Same time next year?” I quipped.
“Over my dead body,” Spade muttered, but Denise laughed again.
“Sure, only next time, I pick the location and venue.”
“Deal,” I said and hugged her, ignoring her protest that she didn’t want to hurt me.
“Everything’s at maximum pain anyway, so don’t worry.”
“Speaking of that.” Bones knelt next to me. “We need to get that silver out of you, luv. Want to try Ashael’s potion first?”
I took the bottle and downed it. It tasted like rosewater and I didn’t feel high, so Bones was right: it wasn’t more demon blood. Hmm. Wonder what it was and how it was supposed to help. So far, I didn’t feel anything…
Hey, I didn’t feel anything. I poked myself in the ribs, which should have doubled me over since most of them still hadn’t healed, but all I felt was the give where my finger pressed in.
“It’s the magical version of anesthesia,” I said with relief. “I can’t feel anything, so go ahead and cut away.”
Bones’s cell phone started vibrating. So did Spade’s. Bones ignored his, but Spade pulled his cell out and glanced at it. Then, he let out a sardonic grunt.
“It’s Ian, texting over and over to say something’s wrong with Cat and Denise, and to call him at once.”
“It took him three days to listen to our messages?” Denise shook her head. “Remind me not to call him in an emergency again.”
I only laughed. Sure, I’d almost died, plus I had a gruesome supernatural surgery in front of me, but now that I was free of pain, free of a deadly spell, free of the fear that I’d doomed my best friend, and free to go home with the man I loved, I was in the best mood ever.
“Yeah, well, better late than never, right?”
Epilogue
Three days later, I walked through the woods bordering our house in the southwestern-most part of Canada. Pine needles crunched beneath my feet, announcing my presence well before Katie could see me through the thick trees, but this time, I wanted her to hear me approach. I was done spying on her.
“Hey,” I said when I reached the clearing where she was.
Katie’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly as she glanced at the felled trees around her before meeting my eyes. They hadn’t fallen from natural means, which would be obvious even if I hadn’t known what she had been doing out here.
“Hi.”
She sounded unsure, which wasn’t like her. Katie normally had the poise of someone three times her age, which was another reminder of how her childhood had been robbed from her.
I nudged one of the fallen saplings with my foot. “Clean break all the way through. One kick did it, huh?”
“You know?” Katie whispered, turning a shade paler.
“Yeah, honey,” I said softly. “I know. I’m not mad at you, either. I just want to know why you were hiding it from me.”
She didn’t say anything for several moments. I waited, schooling my features not to show anything except love and acceptance. I needed her to know that she could tell me anything, no matte
r what it was because nothing would ever, ever make me stop loving her.
“I didn’t want you to see me this way,” she finally mumbled while looking at her feet instead of me.
“What way?” I asked as gently as I could.
“The way I looked when I killed people.”
Now she looked up at me, and her dark gray eyes contained more pain than any child’s gaze should have.
“I never used to think about them, but now, I see them in my dreams, and it isn’t like before because now I care.”
Her voice rose at that last word, and if her speech had been carefully measured before, now she rushed through what she said as if she couldn’t get it out fast enough.
“I only saw them as targets before. Messy ones because of all the blood, but just targets. So, when they begged, it was only noise, and when they died, I was glad because that meant I’d passed the test, and they were only targets and tests to me back then. But now, I know they were people who wanted to live, and I remember what they said when they begged me, and I know what I took from them when they died because now, I love people, too, and I want to take back what I did but I can’t.”
My eyes burned and my throat felt like a hot coal was stuck in it, but I refused to cry. This wasn’t about me. It was about Katie, and I needed to let her get all of this out because there was so much more here than I’d realized.
“You’re not to blame for their deaths,” I said, my voice a little hoarse from the emotions I was holding back. “The people who turned you into a weapon are. You didn’t know any better because you were only a child. They did know better and they used you anyway, so they’re the real murderers. Not you.”
Katie swiped a hand across her eyes, catching the single tear that had fallen. Then, she nodded sharply.
“Most days, I understand this. But then I see them in my dreams, and it brings it all back. Training is the only thing that makes them go away, so I keep coming out here to train.”
My poor little girl! How she’d suffered, and worse, she’d suffered alone even though I’d been right there the whole time.
“How does training make them go away?” I asked, squelching my need to hug her and tell her I’d make it all better. I had to let her talk. She’d carried this inside her long enough.
“Because they know I’m doing this for them,” she said, gesturing at the pile of felled trees. “I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I’m going to make sure I’m strong enough and fast enough to stop other people from hurting those like them in the future. So, instead of being the weapon that kills people who need help, I’ll be the person who saves them. Like you.”
Like…me?
That was it; I was going to ugly cry. There would be rivers of snot. I might never recover from it. But first…
“Just be who you are.” My voice was husky because that lump in my throat felt like it had detonated. “Not who you think you should be. Who you are is enough, Katie. It will always be enough. And you don’t have to hide your training from me anymore. You don’t have to hide any part of yourself, ever. I love all of you, and I always will. In fact, if you want to”—I shifted positions until I was in a classic fighting stance—“I’ll even train with you. If you’re going to do this, let’s make it a little fun.”
Katie’s eyes had shone, hearing the first part of what I’d said, but at my training offer, her gaze clouded with skepticism.
“Thank you,” she said, now sounding almost comically polite. “But I don’t know if that would be a good idea. I’m a very skilled fighter. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I almost burst out laughing in addition to still wanting to cry myself into a state of snotasia. Oh, she had a lot to learn. First was that I’d always love her and be there for her, no matter what. Second was that her mama might not be able to cook, sew, or hold a conversation without dropping at least one f-bomb, but she could fight until the cows came home.
Or, at least tonight, I could fight until Bones finished with dinner in about an hour.
“Come on, sweetie,” I said, circling her while I cracked my knuckles and rolled my head around my shoulders to loosen up. “This is what your mama does best.”
* * *
The End
Excerpt of Cursed Luck
by
Kelley Armstrong
* * *
AVAILABLE now!
Aiden Connolly is making me an offer I can’t refuse, even when I know I should.
For the past two years, I’ve run a small antiques showroom in Boston. Business isn’t exactly booming. I recently downgraded to a micro-apartment tiny enough that my cat is ready to serve me an eviction notice. So when this guy walks in and offers me a “unique opportunity,” it’s hard to say no, though if my gut warns me his job is a million miles out of my league.
Also, in the last five minutes, I’ve formed a very definite opinion of Mr. Connolly. He’s kind of an asshole. He strode past my By Appointment Only signs as if they didn’t apply to him, marched up and said, “I’m Aiden Connolly,” as if I should recognize the name. I do not.
He stands there, looking down at me. Way down. He’s not overly tall—maybe five eight or nine—but Connolly is one of those guys who could manage to look down their nose at someone standing at eye level. The smell of old Boston money wafts from him like fine cologne, and from his expression, my perfume is clearly eau de working class.
It doesn’t help that Connolly is a ginger. I know that’s usually an insult, but I have a thing for redheads, especially ones like this with red-gold hair and eyes the color of new grass and just the barest suggestion of freckles across the nose.
Combine “rich asshole” plus “hot young guy” plus “job that’s beyond my skill set,” and I should send him packing. I really should. And yet, well, I’m reaching the point where I drool every time I pass the fresh fruit stand but have to count my pennies to see whether I can buy my apple a day.
“My office needs redecorating,” he announces.
I look around my dimly lit showroom, crammed with antiques. “That . . . isn’t really—”
“You are not an interior designer,” he says. “But I believe you could be, of a sort. I’m envisioning a different process, one that begins with set pieces and builds around them.”
It takes a moment to understand his meaning. “Start with antiques and design an office to suit?”
“Yes. Someone else would do that design, of course. What I want is an expert to select the base pieces. Roger Thornton tells me you have a unique collection and an eye for quality.”
I brighten at that as Connolly’s odd offer begins to make sense. Roger Thornton is one of my best customers.
“My collection is indeed unique,” I say. “Every piece is one of a kind. Not a single factory-produced item.”
“I will take your word for that. I’ve collected a few antiques over the years, but I wouldn’t even know their period of origin.”
This admission could come with chagrin or self-deprecation. It could also come with pride, someone wanting to be clear their brain has no space for such mundanities. From Connolly, it’s a simple statement of fact, and I grant him a point for that.
“Now what I’d like—” he begins.
My front door opens, bell tinkling. I wait for the intruder to notice the By Appointment Only signs. Instead, a man strides in clutching a box. He looks like a professor. Maybe forty, tall and slender with wire-rimmed glasses and silver-streaked hair. He even wears a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
“I’m sorry,” I call. “We’re open by appointment only.”
He keeps heading straight for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, a little firmer now. “If you have a piece to sell, you’ll need to make an appointment. I’m busy with—”
The man thrusts the wooden box at me. “Fix this.”
I glance down at a hanging hinge. “I’m afraid I don’t offer repair . . .”
I trail off. The box is
a tea caddy. Regency period. Rosewood. Perched on four cat paws, with a mother-of-pearl inlaid top showing a kitten playing with yarn. That yarn seems to slide off the box and snake toward me, whispering a soft siren’s call of devilry. Joker’s jinx.
I clear my throat. “I do purchase damaged items, but if you want me to take a look at this, you’ll need an appointment—”
He thrusts the box into my stomach. “I mean the curse. Fix that. Take it off.”
I force a light laugh and try not to cast a nervous look at Connolly. “I’m afraid that’s a whole other level of repair. I’m not sure why you think this is ‘cursed’”—I air-quote the word with my tone—“but that is definitely not my department. Maybe you have the wrong address? There’s a psychic two doors down, upper apartment.”
“Are you Kennedy Bennett?”
“Er, yes, but—”
“From the Bennett family of Unstable, Massachusetts?”
“It’s pronounced Unst-a-bull,” I murmur reflexively.
“Owners of ‘Unhex Me Here,’ also in Unstable?”
“Er, yes.” I tug at my button-down shirtfront, straightening it. “But I . . . I’m not part of the family business.”
“Your sisters sent me. They say this curse is a joker’s jinx, and that’s your area of expertise. Now unhex my damn box, or I’ll leave a one-star review.”
“Go,” Connolly says.
The man turns and blinks as if Connolly teleported in from an alternate dimension.
“I said, go,” Connolly says. “Ms. Bennett clearly has no idea what you are talking about. Just as clearly, she has another client. Now take that”—his lip curls—“piece of kitschy trash and leave.”
The man’s face flushes in outrage. “Who the hell are you?”
“The person Ms. Bennett is currently dealing with. The client with an appointment.”