“I still don’t know what that means,” I pointed out.
“Sorry. The fact that you have witchblood—one word, by the way—means that one of your ancestors was a full-blooded, extremely powerful conductor of magic,” he explained. “The ability to manipulate magic gets passed down through generations, like having blue eyes or being tall. It usually gets watered down over time, though.” He gave a little shrug. “Witches who marry witches have more powerful babies than witches who marry humans. You get the idea.”
Sam and I had been adopted when we were babies, but I saw no reason to tell either of these men about that, not until I understood what was going on. “Even if I do have . . . that,” I began, “—and I seriously doubt it—this is America. The great melting pot. Lots of people must have some witchblood.”
Simon shook his head, his hands still in his pockets. “Yes and no. Witchblood children come into their powers around puberty. Then they have a window of time to actually activate that power.”
I considered that. “And if you miss the window?”
“Then your magic lies dormant for the rest of your life,” he replied. “Probably the majority of people with witchblood never know they have it.”
Well, at least that explained what “active” meant. “But if you were one of those,” Quinn broke in, “I should have been able to press your mind. No magic, no resistance.”
“You’re suggesting I ‘used magic’ during that window,” I said skeptically, fighting the urge to make quotation marks with my fingers, which would have hurt. They were very convincing, but the whole thing was just absurd. “That’s just stupid. There’s no such thing as magic. Or vampires. There’s a lady at my job who claims she’s a witch, but I’m pretty sure it’s just so she can smoke a lot of pot.”
Quinn snorted, and Simon gave him an annoyed glare. “It is real, Lex,” he said gently.
“This has been fun and all,” Quinn said, checking his watch, “but if you’ve got it from here, Simon, I’m gonna take off. Say hey to Tracy for me.” He tipped an imaginary hat at me. “It’s been interesting, Lex.”
Overwhelmed, I just raised a hand in farewell. “Take care, man,” Simon said to him. Quinn nodded and headed for the door. “Okay if I sit?” Simon asked me.
I nodded, but before he could say anything else, Quinn’s phone rang when he was just a few feet away from the exit. He dug it out of his jacket pocket. “Hello?” he said, reaching for the door handle. Then he froze. “When was this?” Slowly, he spun to look at me, and a chill jolted through me when his eyes met mine.
At that moment I realized that I was starting to believe him. Both of them. “Ah, shit,” Quinn said into the phone. “Thanks, Luce. I’m on it.” He hung up.
“What happened?” Simon asked.
Quinn hesitated for a second, still looking at me. “My 911 dispatcher just intercepted a call from John Wheaton’s house,” he said soberly. “Wheaton thinks Victor and Darcy are sitting in a car in front of his house.” He nodded at me apologetically, then turned and vanished through the doorway.
Chapter 6
The familiar way that Quinn said “Victor and Darcy” made me suspect that he knew exactly who they were and what they wanted. But by the time that thought registered, I was already getting out of the hospital bed—or trying to, anyway. I managed to sort of sit up, but when I went to swing my legs over the side of the bed, the movement sent pain rocketing through my back. Trying to ignore it, I grabbed a tissue from the wheeled table next to me and pulled out my IV, which set off an alarm on one of the machines next to the bed. I clutched the tissue against the spurt of blood on my wrist.
“Jesus,” Simon said, shocked. He got up and hovered over me, not wanting to touch me without permission. “You need to lie back down. Quinn can handle this. It’s what he does.”
I gritted my teeth, panting through them in short bursts as the pain in my back roared in protest. Simon held out his hands like he was spotting me. Which, I suppose, he was. “You have a family, right?” I said through my teeth. Quinn had said he was part of some sort of clan.
“Yeah, so?”
“So John is my brother-in-law, and he’s home with my eighteen-month-old niece. You must know why I have to go.”
Simon’s eyes widened a little, but he didn’t back down. “You can’t even stand up!” he argued. “How do you think you’re going to help them?”
Quinn had said that the 911 operator “intercepted” the call from John’s house, which meant the police weren’t coming. Quinn was the only thing that stood between that house and Darcy and Victor, assuming that he got there in time. I lifted my head and looked Simon in the eye. “You don’t have to help me,” I said matter-of-factly. “But you’re not gonna stop me.”
“You can’t just . . . you’re not even—” he protested. Then he swallowed and took a breath. “Ah, hell. Wait a minute.”
He tore off his messenger bag and threw it onto the empty half of the bed. When he lifted the flap, the bottom of the canvas bag folded out, revealing rows and rows of plastic vials, weird little trinkets, and things that looked like bones, not to mention a bunch of stuff I didn’t recognize. It was all held in by little round straps, like a serious artist’s set. “What’s that?” I said tightly through the pain. “Eye of newt?”
Simon snorted, pulling out two vials. I couldn’t see what was inside them, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. “More like a first-aid kit. Quinn told my mom you were stabbed, so I thought I’d bring it along. I’m going to make you a healing charm.”
“Will that work?”
“Maybe,” Simon hedged. “Magic doesn’t usually work on witches, so I’m not sure how much it’ll help you”—he tipped the contents of one vial into the other, covered the end with his thumb, and shook it furiously—“but it might. Once it’s active, a witch’s magic works like breast-feeding: the more you use it, the more of it you have to use. So if you haven’t been using it . . .”
“Then I can’t be very powerful, and your thingy might not even recognize me as a magic user,” I finished for him.
He handed me the vial. The liquid inside was dark and murky and making a sound, like the fizz of carbonation. “You’re catching on. Here, drink.”
I didn’t hesitate. I was desperate to get to John and Charlie, and I would have swallowed an actual eye of newt if it meant getting there faster. I downed the contents, which left a horrible aftertaste in my mouth, like a combination of basil leaves and cherry Nyquil.
“Blech,” I said, wincing. “Assuming this whole conversation hasn’t been an exercise in bullshit, how long will your spell take?”
“Charm. Should just be a minute or two,” Simon answered. “Give it a chance.”
I leaned forward very carefully, clutching the edges of the bed and hoping I wouldn’t pass out. I was dizzy, and it hurt to breathe. Simon was watching me attentively, so I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Breast-feeding?” I managed.
He grinned. “My mom and one of my sisters are doulas. You know what that is?”
“Like a midwife who gives hugs, right?”
Simon chuckled. “Pretty much.”
I was about to ask another question when a sharp tingling spread through my torso. At first it was actually kind of pleasant, but it began to burn as it spread toward the knife wounds on my back. I cried out once from the sudden pain, my fists digging into the hospital sheets. I gritted my teeth again. “What’s happening?” I hissed.
Simon shrugged apologetically. “The same thing that was going to happen: you’re healing. The spell is just speeding it up. Kind of like time-lapse photography.”
I couldn’t answer. The tingling was spreading down to my jammed fingers, where it turned molten again, and I was way past speaking. Simon reached over and took my good hand, letting me squeeze his. I was a little touched by the gesture—after all, the guy had met me all of fifteen m
inutes ago. I didn’t meet his eyes, but I also didn’t let go of his hand.
Minutes passed, and the pain coursing through my body only intensified. I struggled not to cry out again, and involuntary tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes. Simon didn’t say a word when I clutched his fingers hard enough to make his knuckles crack. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re gonna be okay, Lex, I promise.”
Finally, the pain began to lessen, draining out of my body in increments. “Holy shit,” I breathed. It was like the pain was being rinsed away, and my injuries with it. Even my voice sounded more like me.
“Yeah, sorry. That’s the best healing charm I have, but it’s my sister Sybil’s magic. It can be . . . abrupt. Kind of like Sybil.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and let go. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m just getting over the flu.” Experimentally, I sat up straighter on the edge of the bed. My back still ached, but in a tight, manageable kind of way. “But I think I can move around. Let’s go.”
I jumped to my feet—and Simon caught me as I crumpled to the ground. “Whoa, there, tiger.” He smelled like a field of wildflowers, and his sweater was scratchy under my fingers. He propped me back up against the bed. “Why don’t you take a moment, and I’ll go find you some scrubs to wear.”
I looked down at myself and realized I was wearing only a hospital gown. A backless hospital gown. No one had thought I’d be leaving for at least another week or two. “Right. Why don’t we do that?”
A few minutes later we were bumping out of the hospital parking lot in Simon’s car, some kind of Chevy station-wagon-type thing with an annoyingly low ceiling. “Where am I going?” he asked me.
“Just head toward the airport; John lives in one of those subdivisions off Kings Ridge Boulevard.” I dug through my handbag, a small distressed-leather cross-body that had been a present from Sam. I found my cell phone and tried to call John, but after three days the battery was dead.
“Don’t worry,” Simon reassured me. “That thing about vampires needing to be invited into a house, that’s true. So I’m sure your family will be fine.”
I considered that for a second. “Then how did they manage to kidnap Charlie out of her crib two nights ago?”
“That’s . . .” Simon began, and then he paused, looking perplexed. “That’s actually a really good point.” He sighed, raking a hand through his shaggy hair. “I don’t know how they got in. Gravitational magic—that’s what we call the natural tendency for magic to collect in certain places, like a home—isn’t very well understood. When we get through this, I can ask my mom about it. She’d know more than I do.” He paused for a moment. “Is your sister at the house, too?”
“She died,” I said shortly. “Ten months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” He flew over a speed bump, an act I generally approved of, but the jostling made my back scream, and I let out a grunt of pain before I could stop myself. Simon glanced over at me. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern in his voice.
“Like my insides are still knitting together.”
“Well,” Simon said sensibly, “they probably are.”
“Still, all things considered, that potion thing was amazing. Why doesn’t your sister sell it to hospitals or something?”
Simon was silent long enough for me to look over at him. There was a faraway expression on his face. Finally he said quietly, “Because then people would find out about us. Witches, I mean.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Finding out about witches? Maybe not. But the vampires and the werewolves would cause a panic. And there’s been too much tension among the species for one of us to come out and not the rest.” He shook his head. “The Old World—that’s what we usually call the supernatural side—has existed for as long as it has by staying hidden. The first rule of Fight Club and all that.” When I didn’t reply, he glanced over. “You never saw that movie?”
“What movie?”
Simon shook his head, smiling a little. “Never mind. Anyway. The Old World doesn’t have a single governing body. Instead, it’s separated loosely into territories, each with its own rules. But one rule stays the same everywhere: you don’t tell humans about the Old World. So I can’t give the healing charm to a human—”
“And it doesn’t work typically on witches,” I finished for him. “That’s like a paradox.”
“Yes.” He shot me a small smile. “I’ll admit . . . I was kind of excited to use it.”
“But doesn’t the fact that it worked mean I’m not actually a witch?” I pointed out.
“Or you could just have a lot of power that you’re not using.”
I had nothing to say to that, so we rode along in silence for a few minutes. There weren’t many people on the streets, and without my asking, Simon was speeding through town. When we reached a red light at a deserted intersection, I told him to run it. There was probably a camera, but I wasn’t going to risk Charlie’s life over a traffic ticket.
I was trying really hard not to think about John and Charlie being at the mercy of the couple from the Depot. John was assuming the police would show up any second, but nobody else was coming. Fear twisted in my gut, and I took deep breaths.
“There’s something you need to know before we go in there,” Simon said soberly.
“What?”
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “You’re technically a witch, we think, so you’re allowed to know about the Old World. But you can’t ever tell humans what we are. Not even your family.”
“Why? What happens if I tell?”
“They’ll have to be pressed, like Quinn tried to do to you,” he warned. “But pressing someone only works if it’s done right away. If a human knows about the Old World for more than a day or so, the memory’s rooted too deep to be removed.”
There was something else in his voice, an aversion, so I pushed him. “And what if that happens?”
He stared straight out over the steering wheel. “They have to die,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“It’s not my rule, okay? It’s the one universal Old World law. Witches have a tiny bit of leeway these days—we can tell people we’re Wiccan, even use the word ‘witch,’ but we can never mention the bigger picture or use serious magic in front of people. Humans who can’t be pressed are either killed or forced to join up.”
“Forced to . . . like, become a witch?”
He shook his head again, his face grim. “Witches are born, not made. Humans who find out have to try to become a vampire or a werewolf.”
“Who enforces that rule?” I asked, frustrated. “I thought you said there was no government.”
“No governing body,” Simon corrected. “But that’s for the Old World as a whole. Individual territories are almost all controlled by one faction or another. You’re in vampire territory, so the vampires have final say on everything.”
“Okay, this is too much information.” I exhaled a long, slow breath, my thoughts reeling. “Let’s just leave it at ‘don’t tell anyone.’ I can work with that.”
He nodded, shooting me a sympathetic look.
John and Charlie lived at the end of a street of very nice single-family houses, the kind where roving packs of neighborhood kids raced from one backyard swing set to the next with no regard for property lines or decorative fences. John’s house was the smallest, a little bit down the road from the main grouping, but still part of the neighborhood. I knew he’d chosen it hoping Charlie would grow up with a lot of friends nearby, to help make up for the fact that her family was missing a key member. The house looked fine from the road—no obvious signs of a break-in. Somehow that didn’t reassure me.
There were a few cars parked in front of John’s house, but they all looked empty to me as we passed. Simon pulled his car over just ahead of them, and I was tugging at the door handl
e before he’d put it in park. As I pushed open the car door, I finally noticed the autumn chill. It was probably in the low fifties, but the icy wind made it feel colder, especially since I wasn’t wearing underwear.
But then I heard Charlie’s wails from inside the house, and I forgot all about the weather. The sound lifted my spirits—she was alive and in the house. Simon hurried around the car to join me. I’d taken all of one step toward the house when Quinn appeared next to me.
I managed not to smack him in surprise. “Hey,” he said quietly, more to Simon than to me. “I had a feeling you’d show up.”
“Where are they?” Simon said in a low voice.
Quinn nodded toward the house. “Wheaton barricaded himself in the back bedroom with the baby. The door must be pretty solid. Darcy keeps throwing herself against it, but she’s not any closer to getting in.” Quinn frowned for a second, then shrugged. “Must be one hell of a door.”
He gestured toward the left side of the yard. “Victor’s trying to figure out a way into the room from the outside. He’s the bigger threat. I was about to go after him when I heard that piece of shit Chevy you drive. Figured some backup wouldn’t hurt.” I remembered the size of Victor and figured Quinn’s comment was guy-speak for “I’m not quite sure I can take him. Please help.”
“Are we sanctioned?” Simon asked. Quinn nodded, then tossed something to him, which he easily caught. It was a stick. No, I realized, that’s a wooden stake. I almost giggled. These guys were acting like Victor and Darcy really were vampires. My miraculous recovery was one thing—I could get behind the idea that Simon had some kind of wonder drug—but I still didn’t quite buy the whole vampires-are-real business.
On the other hand, I didn’t actually care what they were. I just wanted to make sure they got the hell away from my family. “You have one of those for me?” I asked in a low voice. Sticks or not, at least they were weapons.
“No,” Quinn retorted. “You should hang back.”
“Not a chance. I’m going after Darcy while you two take Victor. That door can’t hold out forever.”
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