The woman sighed, glancing at Angie's face and then at Ixtil. Ixtil stared down. "What are you doing, daughter?" she asked in English, not the Spanglish the others had spoken.
"She ... she was rude, Mother Smoke Heart," Ixtil answered in English. "Insolent. I wanted to teach her to respect the Tzitzime."
"There shall be no need for that," the woman called Mother Smoke Heart said. "This is the adopted daughter of Chararah Succubus. It would be rude to hurt her daughter needlessly."
"I ... she ... how would the succubus ever know?"
"She won't," the woman said, frowning as if at a petulant child. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't show her the courtesy just the same. The Fey grandmaster is older even than I and has earned respect." She reached out a perfectly manicured hand, the fingers long and graceful and adorned with bejeweled rings, and ran her fingertips over Angie's bruised face. "You're in pain, child. There's no need for that. We can't risk unbinding you, of course, not after whatever it is you did to my servant last night, but we can ease your suffering and behave like civilized people."
"Please, just let me go," Angie pleaded. "I don't know where Erin is, and I won't say anything to anyone about you."
The woman cocked her head and sighed, a smile on her lips. Then she placed a hand on Angie's ribs, gently, but pain still coursed through her, and she cried out. A moment later, heat flushed through her body, spreading from her ribs out. Angie gasped in astonishment. The pain in her ribs was gone; they were completely healed. The woman then touched her broken nose, sending the same healing energy through it. This time she felt the cartilage knit itself. This is amazing. Once, she had seen Char heal a wounded lion, but it had taken hours, almost an entire night, and Char had been exhausted afterward. No one knew this kind of magic, certainly not humans. Who was this woman? And what does she want with me?
"There," the woman said, smiling like a pleased mother. "Now we can have a chat. Where is Erin Seagrave?"
"I told you last night," Angie pleaded. "I don't know."
The woman nodded, smiling serenely. "We will see." Then she held her hand out to Ixtil. Ixtil handed her the obsidian blade, carefully placing the handle in the woman's palm.
"Please, please," Angie whispered.
The woman shushed her, placing the tips of her fingers against Angie's lips. Then she used the knife to cut the skin of Angie's abdomen, just a small cut, barely more than a prick, really, but the blood flowed quickly. The woman handed the knife back to Ixtil and then ran both of her palms over the bloody cut, smearing them with Angie's blood.
Angie stared down at her, not understanding. Then the woman called Mother Smoke Heart reached up and placed both bloody palms against the sides of Angie's head. Magic filled the chamber as her exotic copper eyes turned bright crimson—all parts: pupil, iris, and sclera. This time the heat in the woman's palms flashed through Angie's skull like waves of fire, and she felt the flows of magic wrap tendrils about her brain, probing into her very consciousness, laying everything bare. Her body arched, all the muscles going rigid at once, and her mouth fell open in a silent scream.
She didn't how long it lasted, didn't hear any words, couldn't speak, but she knew she was being questioned, and although she tried to resist, she soon answered every single question as honestly as she could, desperately eager to please this woman with red eyes. One question she did remember. The woman kept asking it again and again: Where was the Knight?
Afterward, Rayan Zar Davi, the woman known as Mother Smoke Heart, washed her hands with a wet rag Ixtil handed her. The rag was clean, as was the water Ixtil poured over it. Ixtil was bloodthirsty, impulsive, and almost certainly a psychopath, but she was no fool; she'd never have handed Rayan a dirty rag. Not twice at any rate. The other two Children, little more than brutes really, hung back at what their sad excuses for brains likely considered a respectful distance, pretending they weren't gazing at the girl's naked form where she hung, passed out from the interrogation.
"Did it ... work, Mother?"
"The girl knows nothing of the Seagrave woman. She was telling the truth, it seems. Three dead Children, those you had to kill at the hospital, and now the daughter of Chararah Succubus—all for nothing. Nor had she even heard of the Knight until yesterday. What a waste."
Rayan thrust the rag at Ixtil. It wasn't the killing that bothered her as much as useless killings. Those the Children sacrificed gave their lives for a cause, to further the agenda of the blessed twins. Power and dark magic flowed from such rituals, furthering the twins' agenda, or even to augment Rayan's own growing power, but never killing for killing's sake. Even animals didn’t butcher needlessly. She sighed, glancing at Ixtil and the other two. They are worse than animals.
Rayan had been chosen by divine destiny to save the remnants of humanity. But in order to do so, she needed to employ baser tools like these. Rayan wasn't so far gone from the young girl she had once been to not feel pity for the daughter of the succubus. Angela Ritter had been brave and resisted the mind probing, if only for a bit. To be fair, no one could resist long.
"The other night, Mother. How did she do ... what she did to Hondil, taking his life with a touch?"
"I don't know. Neither does she. She's a puzzle, this one. And there are barricades in her memory, barriers that stopped even my probing. What do they hide, I wonder?"
"She's holding back secrets, Mother. Maybe she does know where—"
"She doesn't. The barriers are old, at least a decade or more, and very strong. I could break them in time, but to what end? The she-wolf is what matters. Not this young woman, as interesting as she is."
And Angie Ritter was interesting. Whatever secret the barriers in her mind hid, they had almost certainly been put there by Chararah Succubus. The girl stank of Fey magic. But she was also a loose end. And Rayan needed to find the other one before the next full moon.
"Your command, Mother?" Ixtil asked, her head lowered in respect.
Rayan removed one of the silk scarves around her neck, a pink one with silver thread woven into it, creating a smooth pattern of two serpents coiled about one another. She handed the scarf to Ixtil. "I promised she wouldn't suffer. Strangle her with this and then dispose of her body. Best she's never found. Chararah is dangerous enough, but I have no desire to make a foe of her sister Ephix, not if I can avoid it."
"Yes, Mother."
Rayan stalked away but paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder at Ixtil. "When it is done, see that you return the scarf. I am fond of it."
Chapter 9
The constant throbbing in her shoulders woke Angie. She still hung suspended by her wrists, but she kept her head down, feigning sleep, as the strange mage, Mother Smoke Heart, spoke softly to Ixtil. She couldn’t hear what they said, but she did see the older woman hand Ixtil a long pink scarf. Light shot through the windows more brightly now as the sun rose. The grunts she heard from outside she now recognized as coming from pigs, hundreds of them. When the older woman abruptly left, a chill coursed through Angie, and she felt their eyes on her.
They’re going to kill me.
She needed to do something, but what? She could try to kick out at them, but what would that accomplish other than amuse them? Even if she weren’t tied, she couldn’t fight all three of them. Could she trick them into releasing her? In the books she read, the old movies she watched during movie night at the Bunker, the hero always came up with a clever plan. But she had nothing. No, she was alive. If she was alive, there was hope. She needed to bide her time, wait for her moment.
If it came.
As Ixtil approached, Angie closed her eyes tighter. She felt the other woman's presence before her, watching her. "You're awake, aren't you, concha?"
Angie groaned but opened her eyes to see Ixtil considering her from several feet away, her hand resting on her hip.
Ixtil grinned, but her smile was without a trace of humanity, the smile of a psychopath. "Turn the machine on," she told the men, now standing behind h
er, their eyes glazed as they leered at Angie.
Angie's terror surged. Any restraint they might have felt before had gone out the door with the older woman.
The men turned away and primed the old deboning machine behind them. It took some time, but when it came to life, it did so with a throaty roar and a belching of diesel fumes. Gears turned, and she heard a high-pitched whining noise that terrified her more than anything Ixtil had said. She bit back a moan, forcing herself to be brave.
One of the men opened a hatch that extended out from the machine, a feeding tube of some kind large enough to accommodate even the huge pig carcasses hanging from hooks. More than large enough for a person, she realized in horror.
"Show her," Ixtil ordered.
The men stripped the corpse of the dead watchman, throwing the discarded clothing to the side. When it was done, they carried the body to the feeding tube. Angie looked away, but Ixtil slipped behind her, grabbing her hair and forcing her to look. "You watch, or I am going to take one of your eyes."
The men laughed as they shoved the corpse headfirst into the feeding tube. The moment the body dropped out of sight inside the machine, the whining gears changed tempo, screaming in protest. The wet slop that came out the tube that led to the pigs outside was unrecognizable. Angie sobbed in terror.
Ixtil laughed, her eyes shining. "Now it's a party."
She stepped out of sight and was back a moment later, this time snapping the pink scarf between her fists with two feet of fabric pulled taut between them. The two men joined her. Ixtil smiled cruelly, shaking her head, and then handed the scarf to one of the men. "No, I don't think so," she said. "I think we're going to be naughty." They laughed. "Cut her down, but watch her hands."
When the thin man cut her wrists free, she fell forward, her limbs too numb to move. Helpless, she could do nothing as they tied her hands behind her back, any chance for an escape slipping away. This wasn't like the old movies at all. It was surreal, another nightmare.
Only it wasn't.
The two men picked her up, the skinny one holding her feet, the fat one her upper body, and between them, they easily carried her to the machine.
"Wait," she begged, her hysteria rising. "Don't do this. Not this. Please. I'll do anything." And she would, she knew. She wasn't brave, wasn't a hero.
All three cackled with joy. The one holding her feet positioned them near the feeding tube. From the position in which they held her, she could see the gears and blades spinning wetly within the machine. She bucked and screamed but to no avail.
"Not only are we not gonna kill you before, but you're going in toes first, concha," Ixtil purred into her ear.
Terror gave Angie strength, and one of her legs broke free of the man's grip. She flailed it about, slamming it against the hatch to push back from the tube, but Ixtil darted down and grabbed her free foot and set it with her other inside the tube, where there was no purchase. Now the thin man easily held her legs.
"Take your time," Ixtil ordered them. "Make it last."
She desperately wished she'd pass out, but every part of her was energized. Her vision tunneled in on the gears, less than two feet from her toes.
They're going to do this! They're going to do this! They're going to do this! Someone was screaming, and it was her.
"Slowly," Ixtil said breathlessly, her eyes shining. "Slowly."
Her feet slid another foot down the tube. Any moment now, her toes would reach the gears.
The fat man holding her upper body leaned over her and grinned. Then he jerked back, surprise in his wide eyes as a bloody arrowhead and half a foot of wooden shaft jutted from his Adam's apple. He released Angie as he spun away, and she fell back—away from the feeding tube, kicking her feet wildly to break free of the thin man's grip. Her back slammed onto the concrete floor.
Ixtil yelled, "Behind us!"
Angie kicked out, scissoring her legs around the thin man's ankles, and then, rolling over, sent him toppling to the ground in front of her. She heard running feet, saw the sparks as another arrow smashed against the shield Ixtil's shade had just created over her chest, protecting her. The thin man tried to rise, but Angie wrapped her thighs around his neck from behind, crossing her ankles and doing her damned best to choke him with her legs. Adrenaline surged through her, giving her strength. When he tried to rise to his knees, she snapped him back down again, surprising herself. He pawed at her thighs, ripping through the skin.
Angie saw a flash of movement as a figure charged at Ixtil, sprinting impossibly fast past the hanging pig carcasses. It was a woman with long red hair and a white cast on her left forearm—Erin! It was Erin Seagrave. She must have come through the open windows, her approach muffled by the pigs.
Angie felt Ixtil began to cast a spell, but Erin, without missing a beat, threw her bow at the mage, and the other woman instinctively ducked. A second later, Erin collided with her. The air flashed with eldritch light as Ixtil's shade once again attempted to protect her, but the impact sent the other woman smashing into the horrific machine before flying forward again, right into Erin's arms. The werewolf picked the other woman up, lifted her easily overhead, and slammed her face first through the open hatchway of the machine, stuffing her entire body into it.
Ixtil screamed, her feet beating an impossibly fast cadence as Erin slammed the hatch shut with a clang.
Magical light leaked past the hatch's seal as Ixtil's shade attempted to protect her from the machine's gears and blades, but the end was a foregone conclusion against the nonstop metallic assault. Ixtil's screams ended in moments.
The thin man broke free of Angie's thighs, clutching at his throat as he staggered to his feet. She kicked out at him from her back, but he caught her ankle and held it in the air, immobilizing her. With his other hand, he drew a long hunting knife from his belt, murder in his eyes. Still holding her ankle in the air, he stabbed down at her stomach.
But Erin was already there, catching the blade on her cast. Then she backhanded the man, and the cast exploded in a cloud of white dust and broken shards, sending him flying back, his nose and teeth shattered ruins. Erin threw herself on him. Angie heard a strangled wheeze, and when Erin rose again, the man was propped up on his elbows, staring in confusion at his own knife jutting from his heart. Erin bent over him, gripped the handle, and twisted it.
The man fell back, dead. Ixtil was dead. The fat man was dead.
But Angie was alive.
Her mind reeled as Erin rolled her over, cutting her wrists free. Angie wrapped her arms around Erin, tears flowing, and Erin hugged her back, held her head against her chest. Angie's breathing was too quick, her vision going dark.
"I'm so sorry," Erin whispered. "Sorry I didn't get here sooner. I tried. I really tried."
"Watch."
“Watch what?” Erin’s eyes tightened.
“No. Get my watch.”
And then she slipped away.
Chapter 10
"I said, who are you? Answer me."
Angie spun about in the darkness, the fires growing in the stable.
No answer. Of course there was no answer. Shades didn't communicate, couldn't communicate. They didn't perceive reality the same way people did, being creatures of ether and magic. Even the Other, as old and powerful as Char claimed it was, was still just a type of shade. I'm going crazy.
She stared at the dead stable hand, fixated on how young and innocent he looked now.
After she had ...
Had what? She stared at her hands, at his blood on her fingertips where she had scratched his face, the same blood that oozed from his cheeks. She had never killed someone before, never even hurt someone. Power like she had never felt before flowed through her. She wouldn't have been surprised if she were glowing with arcane energy.
After you took his life, Angie, drew it from him. Pulled it into yourself.
"No!" She shook her head violently. She bent down and retrieved her pistol, her hands shaking. "It's stress. Get a grip,
soldier."
A long, drawn-out burst of heavy machine-gun fire broke her from her stupor, and her head jerked toward the villa. Nathan! It's Nathan. He's come for me.
The fire in the stable was growing, becoming unbearable. She worked the action on her pistol, chambering a round, and touched Nightfall's hilt with her free hand, making sure it was still there. Then she hurried away from the burning stable, running toward the sound of battle, her stomach heavy with fear.
And ran right into Ixtil, her face a mask of glee. Pain lanced through Angie's chest, and she stared in confusion at the hilt of the obsidian dagger, now jutting from her chest. Ixtil grinned.
Angie woke from the dream, gasping and crying out as she jerked upright in bed, her hand flying to her chest. No knife, no wounds. A dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
No, not just a dream, never just a dream.
She looked about. She was alone in a dark room, a crack of light coming from curtains behind her. She was in bed, the sheets twisted about her legs. It wasn't her bed, she realized, not her bedroom, and she wore sweatpants and a T-shirt, both far too large for her, and no underwear. Through the window, she heard the laughter of teenagers. Her mouth was dry, and her head hurt.
Then, in a terror-filled flash of insight, she remembered: the slaughterhouse, Mother Smoke Heart's probing, Ixtil's cruelty, her legs going into the machine, the wet gristle that had been the night watchman. She gasped for air, beginning to hyperventilate once more. She moaned, her fist pressing at her heart, trying to massage it as it threatened to burst from her chest.
The bedroom door opened, highlighting Erin Seagrave. Erin rushed over to the bed and held Angie in her arms, holding Angie’s head against her bosom, whispering into her hair that Angie was safe, that everything was all right. It took some time, long minutes, before Angie’s breathing eased, her heart rate slowed once more. But when she could speak, Angie asked for water.
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