Devil’s Blood: Shade of Devil Book 3

by Shayne Silvers

  I frowned, glancing at Nero. He looked just as uneasy. Did that mean we were overlooking something? Were they spread out across different buildings in the city?

  “How did Nosh get away from you?” I asked, turning to Lucian.

  The wolf lifted his nose to me and sniffed pointedly. Then he shook his head, sneezing. He lifted his nose back in the air, sniffing left and right. Then he continued sniffing, slowly spinning the opposite direction and took a few steps, wagging his tail. He glanced over his shoulder at me, nodding one time.

  “He cast his scent in a different direction?” I asked.

  Lucian nodded with a frustrated growl.

  Renfield eyed Lucian, and I could tell he had at least a dozen questions about how the king of the werewolves was not dead like we had all thought this morning. But he knew that now was not the time. “Some type of shaman magic?” he asked, turning to Nero.

  The necromancer considered the question, his eyes growing distant as he stared at the corner of the intersection ahead. He slowly lifted his new skeletal hand, causing Renfield’s eyes to bulge in surprise. The purple tendons and joints began to glow faintly, and Nero let out a surprised grunt—as if he hadn’t anticipated such a thing. “I’m surprised he didn’t set off the dozen wards surrounding the theater. I’ve never been able to pick up wards from so far away before,” he murmured, studying his bone hand with an excited smile. Sensing everyone staring at him, he looked up at us. He shifted his attention back to Renfield and Lucian, lowering his bone hand. “Good thing you didn’t try invading or everyone would have died. The wards are nasty.”

  I punched my fist into my palm. “Can you take them down without alerting anyone?”

  Nero stared down at his new bone hand with a dark grin. “You know, I think this is the type of job for a man and his hand. I can probably bang out a pleasant outcome with the right elbow grease, but I’m not sure how quick it will be.”

  Renfield coughed into his fist, making Nero grin proudly. I rolled my eyes at his crass joke, wondering what else his new hand was capable of doing.

  “What are the wards designed to do?” I asked him, knowing we didn’t have time to sit around.

  “Destroy anything denser than a piece of paper.”

  “What about my mist?” I asked.

  Nero grimaced, not liking my suggestion one bit after how poorly it had worked with Artemis, but I shot him a defiant glare. “That will work,” he finally admitted. “But you can’t take them all on by yourself,” he said carefully, not wanting to point out my injury. I’d already seen Renfield glancing at my side with a suspicious frown, so it wasn’t exactly a secret.

  I was standing on the street with a gang of monsters who hunted by scent, and blood was one of the most enticing scents available. But I didn’t want Nero talking about exactly how serious my wound was. Not minutes before an assault.

  “Then you better take down those wards fast. I’ll get in there and keep an eye on everything at least. But Nosh is walking out of that building one way or another,” I promised in a solemn tone.

  Nero motioned for Lucian to lead him towards the intersection so he would have a better view as he began tearing down the wards. Renfield glanced at my side, even though the wound was covered. “It smells serious, Master Ambrogio,” he murmured in a very soft tone.

  “It is, Renfield. It is.” His face paled at my honest answer. I shrugged. “So, I would appreciate you sending in reinforcements as quickly as possible. I might need you to save me, too.”

  I became mist, wincing at even that slight usage of my power. But I had to save my son, consequences be damned. I shifted past Lucian and Nero, crossing the street to approach the old three-story theater. The doors were boarded up with a foreclosure sign, but doors and walls were no impediment to my mist. Some wards could have prevented me from crossing them—even when in my mist form—but the witches must not have known them.

  I chose the high ground in case any of the witches were using their eyes to complement their wards. I might be mist, but it was a crimson shade that would be very noticeable if I appeared within clear view of anyone. I drifted through the lobby and then through a set of double doors leading to the rows of seating with a stage at the far end of the space. Red, tattered curtains hung from the wings, and the wooden stage was warped and uneven. I hung back against the wall, concealing my mist as best as I could.

  Nosh was already on the stage, facing a semi-circle of twelve witches. Thankfully, no one was trying to kill anyone. Yet.

  The witches all looked to be in their middling years, but with witches, that could mean nothing. Especially dark witches who could steal years of their youth back from helpless humans.

  Twelve wasn’t an overwhelming number of witches, but it wasn’t an underwhelming number of witches either. Plenty enough to be dangerous. But Renfield made a good point. It wasn’t enough to risk picking a fight with me. What was I missing?

  Izzy was chained and gagged off to the side, held by two additional witches, her face streaked with dried blood from the fight earlier tonight. I recalled how it had only been two hours ago, at most. To me, it felt like it had happened a few days ago, what with my trip to the Underworld. This night had contained some of the longest hours of my life.

  They had been long hours for Izzy as well, because I could tell that some of the blood on her face was fresh. They hadn’t been kind to their captive. Not overly cruel, but not kind.

  Also, everyone had a bleeding nose since light and dark witches had that effect on each other. It was all rather messy.

  I saw no way for me to move fast enough to protect both Nosh and Izzy. If I went for either, the other would likely die as a result—and neither would forgive me for making them the lone survivor. And my magic was fading alarmingly fast, even though I was barely doing anything.

  The main advantage in my favor was that the witches looked as run-down and ragged as I felt. Many of them were wounded, bandaged, and filthy, wearing tattered coats and rags. But they all wielded long knives or vials of deadly potions in their hands. It didn’t matter so much that most of those blades were warped, chipped, and rusted—that just meant they would hurt more than absolutely necessary when piercing flesh. They must have lost more of their number in the fight outside the museum than I’d thought. Why did they want these tomahawks so badly? They were clearly risking everything to get them.

  Nosh glared at one witch in particular who was standing in the center of the semi-circle. “I am here, witch. Let her go, and you can have me.” He hesitated. “And next time, get your shit together with your ransom notes. You didn’t tell me where to find you.”

  The witches all watched the shaman, glancing furtively about the theater, verifying that he truly was alone and that this wasn’t some trick. One of the witches backhanded another witch, chastising her for her note-writing skills. My mist quivered with disappointment at their incompetence.

  “I am alone. Sorin has much bigger problems to deal with than cleaning up his shaman’s mess,” he said tiredly. “In case you have forgotten, your extended family is also in town.”

  A woman in the center of the gathering of witches stepped forward. She was tall and thin, with inky black hair, looking like more of a scarecrow than a woman. A once pretty scarecrow, to be fair. A plump witch behind her tugged at her sleeve and then whispered something into her ear before stepping back. The tall witch cleared her throat, speaking in an officious tone. “My name is Rowan, leader of the Cauldron. It is fortunate that you…passed our test with the note.” The plump witch nodded her approval. “Only a true shaman would have been able to find us.”

  Nosh stared at Rowan and then at the plump witch who had provided the cover story. “Is that right?” he said, deadpan. “Go, me. I’m a true shaman.” He yawned. Loudly.

  If mist could laugh, I would have been shaking and crying like a thunderstorm. If I had to pick one Cauldron witch to survive, I would have picked the plump one with the quick—but dull—wit. She l
ooked fun. A real go-getter.

  Rowan nodded primly. “We were about to begin torturing this one in case she was the true skinwalker,” she said, pointing a bony claw at the ex-communicated Sister of Mercy. “She refuses to hand over her blade.” Izzy strained furiously, trying to shout through her gag. One of the witches guarding her cuffed her upside the head hard enough to make her groan and sway.

  Nosh kept his face composed—somehow, because I had wanted to give up my secret and rip the guards in half. “I merely let her hold onto it for safekeeping. You saw right through it, Rowan, which is rather impressive. The Sisters of Mercy did not notice it,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Only a truly powerful witch could have seen through it,” he said tightly, as if struggling to keep a straight face.

  Rowan nodded appreciatively, obviously not picking up on his blatant sarcasm. But the plump one had cocked her head thoughtfully, furrowing her brow. I could almost hear her brain squealing with effort to solve the mental puzzle before her. “Show us the other skinwalker blade, shaman,” Rowan said.

  The witches were nitwits. Nit-witches.

  But as much as I wanted to burst out laughing at the lack of criminal geniuses in the room, there was one very important rule that should never be overlooked or dismissed.

  Genuine idiots made up for a paucity of intelligence with a plethora of violence.

  Nosh held up his hand and his tomahawk of light flared to life, casting the stage in a dim blue glow that made the witches look even more sickly and pale. He lowered it to his side, and the tomahawk lengthened to resemble a long-handled axe—no doubt to subtly prove that it was the real deal and not some other magic axe, in case there were several of those floating around the city.

  “How do we retrieve the other?” Rowan demanded, shifting her glare towards Izzy. Because that was how this whole altercation had started—them kidnapping Izzy when they sensed that she had one of the blades. Because I had given it to her.

  Which was another reason I couldn’t let Nosh handle this on his own, although I hadn’t said it out loud to anyone; I knew they would have bent over backwards to reassure me that I was not at fault.

  But I was at fault. Heartfelt lies to appease my guilt were as useless as nipples on a sword.

  Nosh studied Rowan openly, no longer teasing the nit-witches. “Are you the sacrificial lamb? Do you know what you’re really asking for? Not just the benefits, but the price?”

  She nodded resolutely, not looking triumphant but resigned instead. What was Nosh talking about? What was the price? And how did this transfer of power even work?

  “Before I turn myself in, tell me why this is so important to you,” Nosh said curiously. “I often wish I didn’t have this curse. Why would you go out of your way to acquire it? I can assure you that it’s not a gift.”

  Rowan curled her lips venomously. “The Sisters of Mercy must fall. They claim they pursue goodness, but their deeds would make even me blush. It’s all a façade.” I blinked. The Sisters definitely had a dark side, but she almost made them sound…evil.

  Had the nit-witch been drinking too much of her own brew?

  I hoped reinforcements were coming quickly, because the blood was about to spill.

  36

  Nosh looked just as baffled as I felt. “The Sisters of Mercy are evil?” he asked doubtfully. “You don’t need to lie to me. I’m obviously not walking away from this—not if one of you truly desires to become a skinwalker. I’m genuinely curious. Speak the truth.”

  Rowan spat on the ground. “They lie. The High Priestess is a poison. She used to be one of us before she switched sides! Who do you think helped us establish the Cauldron in the first place? She established our quest for the pursuit of power so that weak women everywhere could never be defenseless again!” she seethed, spittle flying from her lips. “Then she abandoned us and turned her new, pious, gullible Sisters of Mercy against us—her real sisters!”

  I stared, dumbfounded. Nosh looked just as stunned. Izzy’s eyes were practically bulging out of her sockets—not in anger, but as if suddenly concerned for her captors’ sanity.

  “Which is why we need the skinwalker blades,” Rowan snarled. “She will die for her crimes. Die for her backstabbing nature. To hold her accountable for what she has done. To show the world what she truly is. That she led us down our current path and then abandoned us, forming her new coven and turning her old family into the enemy. We were forced to keep studying our dark arts—hiding in caves like rodents—so we could withstand their constant attacks. Especially after she gained the favor of the church! The dark arts were all we had left to protect ourselves! The dark arts she taught us!”

  Izzy was shaking her head adamantly, denying the claims with muffled protests.

  Nosh cocked his head. “What does your vengeance have to do with the skinwalker blades? Why not just kill her?” he asked, frowning.

  Rowan smiled eagerly, happy to oblige his question and vent. “Your skinwalker blades will allow me to slip into her precious coven unseen, appearing before her as Dracula, bound and chained. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  My mist shuddered in alarm. That…could ruin everything. I needed to hand over Dracula in order to save Victoria and Natalie. If Rowan succeeded with her insane plan…

  Natalie and Victoria were as good as dead.

  Nosh grunted. “Are you saying that the High Priestess was once in love with Dracula?”

  Rowan nodded. “Yes. But then he shamed her and cast her aside. She’s been trying to destroy him ever since.”

  I stared incredulously. This whole thing…was a lover’s spat? It had nothing to do with custody over him, like Hazel had told me. It was straight retribution over an old flame tossing her to the curb.

  A woman who couldn’t move on was a deadly foe.

  Rowan continued. “Dracula is the only target important enough to draw her out—or maybe this new vampire working for Dracula.” I gritted my teeth. If I heard one more goddamned person claim I was working for Dracula, I was going to lose it. Not only had he stolen my reputation, but even after I woke from my slumber, people thought I was his new minion.

  And they still didn’t know my name.

  “I hear she hides from everyone, even her own sisters,” Rowan continued. “No doubt so that no one’s nose begins to bleed in her presence,” she snorted. “Appearing as Dracula with the aid of your skinwalker blades, I will finally get close enough to kill her before all of her precious Sisters. I will bathe in her blood, laughing even as her Sisters torture me for my crime. Justice will be served.”

  “What about the others?” Nosh asked, glancing at the row of witches.

  Rowan smiled lovingly at them. “We are the downtrodden—women from different countries, cultures, beliefs, and walks of life. Women who merely wanted to learn and experiment with our powers. But our communities shunned us, so we banded together for protection to prevent them from hunting us down and killing us. And the woman who helped us see that was lying to us the whole time. She must pay. At any cost.”

  “You were the good witches?” Nosh asked, trying very hard not to sound cynical.

  Rowan scoffed. “Neutral. Not necessarily good or bad. We just wanted to work without judgment. A fair chance at freedom rather than a life of running from superstitious allegations. The High Priestess,” she emphasized the title with a sneer, “offered us that. She didn’t demand obedience to any set way of life, she simply fed our hunger for knowledge and power so that we could never be dismissed by the world again. We wanted respect, even if we had to claw our way up the mountain to get it.”

  “You hate men?” Nosh asked, in an overly cautious tone.

  Rowan laughed. “We adore men. As many as we can get our hands on,” she said, eyeing her fellow witches. They were all nodding eagerly, licking their lips. “The women were worse than any of the men. Their jealousy of our powers and the attraction we garnered from the men emboldened their hatred. They united, declaring us demons and wors
e. You’ve heard it all before,” she gestured dismissively. Nosh nodded knowingly. “Without the women, the men wouldn’t have cared one way or another about our private experiments and magics. Back then, men only cared about war, whores, and warhorses. The terms have since changed, but the underlying subjects remain the same. Men are overly emotional creatures, easily swayed by popular sentiment.”

  I considered Rowan’s claims. She wasn’t entirely right, but she was pretty damned close. This High Priestess was shaping up to be a real piece of work, and I had already begun to think so before hearing the Cauldron’s opinion on the woman. The fact that she never visited with her own coven actually lent credence to the claim that she had started off as a dark witch and hadn’t wanted her fellow Sisters to catch on when their noses constantly bled around her.

  She had already convinced Benjamin to kidnap Victoria and Natalie—when I had done nothing to directly offend her. Well, nothing unprovoked anyway. They had attacked the museum. We had just defended ourselves. But if she thought I was aiding her old lover…

  That would be enough to set her off.

  “Enough of this. Hand over the blades or your woman dies. This only ends one way.”

  Nosh hesitated, holding up his free hand. “Wait! What if I agree to kill her for you? This High Priestess has done me no favors, and she has definitely caused problems for more than a few of my friends. Your story rings of truth, despite…popular sentiment,” he said with a guilty smile, hoping that a little humility could turn the tide.

  Several of the witches chuckled, buying it. But not Rowan.

  She sneered at Nosh. “As if we would ever trust a shaman again. No. This is family business. I wouldn’t trust you not to betray us at the last moment.” She stormed over, snatching a dagger from Izzy’s captor and holding it to the ex-Sister’s throat.

  Nosh held out his hand in a surrendering gesture. “Okay! Take me. Just let her go, first. It’s obvious that she is just as much of a victim in this as the Cauldron is. And the Sisters ex-communicated her this morning anyway, once she refused to toe the line and blindly follow the zealous demands of the High Priestess you despise. She’s closer to your coven than the Sisters of Mercy. Look at her face. It’s obvious that she didn’t know about the true history of your order before now, and she was already kicked out of their circle of trust. That has to count for something, right?”