Cursed to Death

by L. A. Banks

  “Butch is dead,” another argued, growling. “We demand recompense.”

  A low growl filled the throat of Buchanan’s injured nephew. “This was not the outcome we paid for in the spell . . . Something went wrong and you need to pay for it!”

  Several Unseelie Gnome bouncers circled the small group of Werewolves, causing a mild stir amongst the cauldrons. Kiagehul moved in closer to the disgruntled Werewolves only after the show of force was in place.

  “Nothing went wrong with my spell,” he said, his eyes narrowing as his glamour faded. “Dark mist can show them the chain of events; we will use the war board and go back in time.

  “Escort these disgruntled clients to my private chambers. Let us review the facts before we damage our delicate treaty or someone loses their head.”

  Kiagehul nodded to his bouncers as he spun on his heels in an elegant turn and strode forward, his head held high with an aristocratic sniff of disdain while pulling on his midnight-blue sorcerer’s robe. Although haughty, he kept a cautious eye on the distance the Werewolves were from the security guards.

  Opening his private chamber with a flourish, Kiagehul waved his hand at the available Louis XVI settees, Queen Anne chairs, and the lushly embroidered sofa, but the Werewolves declined. Suits of armor guarded the windows and an array of weaponry hung on the walls. The Werewolves glanced around, snarled, and remained standing. Kiagehul nodded as the bouncers parted and closed the door.

  “Suit yourselves,” Kiagehul said, going over to a walk-in black granite fireplace. “Let us trace the past . . . We always place a trace on the black magick spells and dark deals we do or subcontract out, just for instances of buyer’s remorse like this.”

  He waved his hand and an eerie black and blue fire roared up from nothing in an instant, the living flames licking the edges of the mantel until the black wax candles on it melted, popped, and sizzled.

  Kiagehul smiled. “Give me a moment to tune to the right channel.” He waved his hand with a bored sigh. “The Bayou House, earlier this evening. Start when one of the wolves under our influence entered.”

  The Werewolf retinue moved forward, their eyes fixed on the blaze.

  “How do we know this isn’t more of your dark magick to trick us?” the leader said.

  “You don’t,” Kiagehul said through his teeth. “But this is the only record of the events any of us has . . . You can go back to your broken pack and corroborate it with any eyewitnesses that are left.”

  He snapped his fingers and the inside of the Bayou House appeared. All wolves fell silent.

  “Seems the alpha leader of the Southeast Asian Werewolf Clan entered disoriented and in quite a state,” Kiagehul said with a smile. “His men are completely distracted, true?”

  “True.” Buchanan’s nephew rubbed his neck and paced down the line of Werewolves that were in attendance. “Is that what you saw when he got there?”

  “Yeah, boss. definitely,” one wolf henchman confirmed.

  “And they each got picked off one by one, separated,” Kiagehul said, watching events play out. “The alpha is gone . . . totally consumed by need. The girl is pretty, for a Were,” he said, not caring that the snipe drew growls. “And, from the looks of things, quite talented.”

  Kiagehul chuckled when two of the wolves swallowed hard while watching the carnal act unfold across the flames. “But in the interest of time, because it does appear the man has prowess, let us fast-forward to where things began to go wrong.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that!” the Buchanan clan leader said in a low rumble, gaining sharp barks from his men.

  A snap of Kiagehul’s fingers and the images shifted. “You let the second alpha in . . . making the assumption that he came in with a weapon drawn to kill the first alpha?”

  “Yes, but your magick backfired!”

  Kiagehul held up his hand and then slowly strolled in front of the flames with his hands now gracefully clasped behind his back. “To assume makes an ass out of you and me.” He let out a breath and snapped his fingers. “Before you call foul and blame my subcontractor for wrongdoing, let’s be clear about the facts. You let Hunter go upstairs. He went to the door. The prostitute was supposed to kill Shogun in his sleep, if the Shadow Wolf didn’t find him first. Her weapon of choice was to be a Lady Derringer, point-blank range, aimed at his skull when he did what all men do when they finish—went to sleep. Her out would have been that he got insanely aggressive, threatened her life, and it was a matter of self-defense . . . A rogue Were alpha male that had already had infection issues well-documented by the UCE.”

  “Right—but he didn’t go to sleep before Hunter came,” another Werewolf argued. “Our man went up in the false wall and waited. Once Hunter blew Shogun away, we were gonna do Hunter . . . Then we’d be able to say that we did what we had to do, we stopped a murderer. No blood on our hands at the United Council of Entities, if it went to an investigation.”

  Kiagehul nervously cleared his throat and glanced at his security guards. “Yes,” he added, coolly recovering. “But your man rushed the process—didn’t allow the two big dogs to be in the same space long enough to fight.”

  “Look at your own recounting, man!” Buchanan’s nephew shouted, pointing at the flames. “Hunter was warning his brother of a setup! He was trying to get him out of there, told him to bring his men out, pronto! Our man heard that bullshit while hidden in the wall—we have better hearing as wolves, just like we can smell a deal gone bad!”

  “And you rushed your hand, blowing away your own prostitute in a botched hit that snapped his men out of their euphoria and sent them to war against you instead of each other! That was not my doing!” Kiagehul paced away from the fireplace and flung open the door. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  The four battle-ragged Werewolves transformed and went airborne. Bulky Gnomes carrying silver-bladed battle-axes rushed them. Kiagehul ended the dispute by extracting his wand and blowing out the heart of the leader in a black lightning bolt from the tip of his ancient instrument. The three other Werewolves backed off. In an instant Kiagehul spun, directing his wand toward the standing coats of armor to send silver-tipped lances into the Werewolves in a rapid-power fling.

  Blood and gore coated his floor and his hands. His henchmen snarled through glistening Gnome smiles. Kiagehul wiped his sweaty hands down his robe and flung it off, to once again stand in his pristine, moss-green shirt.

  “Your spell failed in part . . . They were right,” a disembodied voice murmured in a lethal tone from the shadows. “Hunter did not go to war with his brother over the female . . . And this is why I said wait. I cautioned patience, because, as your subcontractor, I know wolf behavior . . . But I also wanted to see if what I had paid dearly for in this collaboration would be delivered flawlessly.”

  “We will redouble our efforts . . . I don’t understand why Hunter had restraint. What could have interfered with his loss of reason?” Kiagehul said, backing up until his spine hit the frame of the mantel.

  “I don’t care what the cause was for the failure . . . I am due a young body along with immortality as payment for my contribution, just as the Buchanan Broussard clan was due their revenge. I am concerned that my needs may not be met, even after I have so dutifully assisted you.”

  “Everything that you desire will be taken care of. If you’d like, you may have Sasha Trudeau’s.”

  “You make grand bargains and grand plans . . . but so far, I have only seen botched attempts.” A long sigh hissed out, circling Kiagehul and making him follow the sound. “It was my mark that felled the two Phoenixes . . . my agility that entered the garden with a dark spell. Tell me, what have you done that has borne fruit?”

  For a moment there was silence and then an icy sound that echoed as though someone had spat. “The Buchanan clan could have been a valuable ally in this region. It was therefore a waste of blood, and I told you how we students of The Art of War detest the waste of blood. Make sure, the next time we are forced to s
pill such a precious resource, it won’t be your own.”

  CHAPTER 17

  As they moved through the outer gates and into Sir Rodney’s Fae encampment, Sasha was struck by the eerie silence. Before, the evening air had been filled with merriment, the quaint village streets lined with squabbling vendors hawking their wares. Not tonight. It was as though someone had rolled up the sidewalks. Not a soul, save Gnome patrols and Fae archers, was out. Even the air seemed different. There was no iridescent shimmer to it. The trees were a dull, normal green, not the vibrant neon colors that one would expect to see in a Crayola crayon box.

  Neat little houses had the shades and shutters tightly drawn. Their footfalls echoed as they crossed the town square and continued up a steep hill toward the castle. Huge Grif fin Dragons circled the towers, their ominous shapes casting dark shadows under the pale moonlight. Fatigue and pure disheartenment made Sasha’s shoulders slump. This wasn’t what anyone wanted—to live in fear.

  Sasha glanced at Sir Rodney, identifying with the sadness in his forlorn expression. Complete dejection was etched across his handsome face and his normally merry eyes were clouded by weariness. Albeit his back was straight and his head held high, he squared his shoulders like a man carrying the weight of the world on them. The Midsummer’s Night Fae Ball was most likely ruined. Lives were at stake, lives had been lost . . . and all for what? Greed? Power?

  Unicorn-riding guards parted as their small, discouraged entourage of weary soldiers approached. Even the second drawbridge seemed to be tired as its pulleys creaked and groaned, dropping the massive wood plank with a thud.

  No one spoke. Sir Rodney simply used hand signals to wave alert guards out of the way. The quiet, though weighed with tension, was a blessing. It gave her a chance to think. Then again, thinking only set her nerves on edge . . . There would sure be hell to pay in the human community. There were bad guys to catch, twisted Weres to bring to justice . . . and some Vampire lairs to open to daylight—starting with the baron’s, on principle.

  “Milord,” a gaunt servant said, bowing deeply upon Sir Rodney’s entrance into the castle courtyard. “We are pleased that you have arrived safely and recovered all of your guests.”

  Sir Rodney nodded. “Rupert . . . These good people have been to hell and back. Some may even require medical attention.” He turned to Shogun’s men and then looked at Shogun.

  “We are fine,” Seung Kwon said quickly, showing off his healing gashes. “If we eat, we’ll be restored by morning.”

  Woods nodded. “Same here. That and some good, old-fashioned shut-eye.”

  “Rest, perhaps even before food,” Bear Shadow said. His voice was a low rumble and his breaths dragged in and out of his chest as though he could sleep where he stood.

  “Then allow these men to relax and recover,” Sir Rodney said, as more staff rushed over to accommodate his guests. “Food will be delivered to your rooms, baths drawn, fresh clothing provided . . . anything you require. That you have to be sheltered here against external adversaries is a complete travesty.”

  The ire in Sir Rodney’s voice clipped his tone as he began walking forward again. “I need to speak with the three clan leaders, and will accommodate them equally once we’re done . . . but we must develop a strategy for the morrow.”

  No one protested about being shut out of the leadership meeting. Hell, if she could have gone straight to her room and fallen across goose down with a steak on the way and a little bit of Faery dust sprinkled over her to take away the battle aches that she was starting to feel, yeah, she would have preferred that option. Apparently both clan male alphas felt the same way. She noted that Hunter and Shogun seemed relieved that their men were being cared for and didn’t begrudge them a break in the action. She just wished that she could have gotten the rest of the team behind the walls of Forte Shannon of Inverness under Sir Rodney’s hospitality. Tomorrow that would be job one.

  The group split up at the huge marble staircase that spilled down into the grand foyer. Betas were headed up to private rooms with attentive staff while she, Hunter, and Shogun followed Sir Rodney past live coats of armor, expressionless palace guards, and strange three-dimensional portraits and tapestries that looked as though you could fall right into them.

  Two exquisitely chiseled guards opened the doors to a large anteroom when Sir Rodney stopped before it. He didn’t turn around, didn’t explain, just kept walking and assumed they’d follow him.

  Two-story cathedral windows covered in stained glass greeted them. The meadow scenes they contained were so serene and bucolic that it nearly drew her to touch them. Sir Rodney’s footfalls echoed across the wide stone floor and Sasha peered up at the vaulted ceiling that seemed to go on forever.

  Flags hung from the rafters and wall torches spit and smoldered as they passed. In the center of the room was a huge, round wooden table with strange markings on it, and standing in a row with tablets poised were bald-headed little Gnomes in monastic brown and forest-green velvet robes. Some had wiry tufts of hair in spots. Others had what she could only liken to age spots on their heads. There were five in all.

  Each one wrinkled his little hooked nose when studying them and the tips of their long, pointed ears turned ever so slightly as though tuning in to something invisible the way one would expect that a giant TV antenna might. But they all had wide, inquisitive eyes that were so clear it seemed as though one could just see forever in their depths.

  “Please, have a seat,” Sir Rodney said, as they approached the table. “The last time you were here, you never sat . . . never neared the round table . . . This meeting should be different.”

  Not accustomed to chivalry at this level, she was slightly surprised when Sir Rodney didn’t move, but her chair came away from the table on its own. It wasn’t until she was seated that the other chairs deemed it was appropriate for them to slide away.

  “This was left over from the days of old,” Sir Rodney said with a smile, looking at Sasha. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if Merlin charmed it this way himself.”

  His smile was infectious and she couldn’t help the one he brought out on her face. The fact that Hunter and Shogun were slightly bristled but also contrite quietly amused her.

  “You weren’t properly introduced before. These gentlemen are my top advisors,” Sir Rodney announced proudly. “Please show them the sigils you discovered at the death sites, as well as what was sent to you on the human contraption, otherwise known as a cell phone.”

  Sasha dug in her pocket as the dire-looking advisors gathered around, inserting themselves between each seated person so they could get a better view.

  After a moment, what appeared to be the eldest advisor spoke, pointing at each set of symbols. “These are different than the ones found on the young ladies’ bodies, milord. These be progressive spells, milord. Look at the three moons on each and how they ascend to the top of the sigil . . . how they gradually become fuller. Thus the magick darkens each night, becomes stronger and harder to cure. If it is not broken before the last night, there will be no cure.”

  “This is why we need those who be not Fae,” another, gaunter advisor said, glancing around the table and pointing a bony finger at Sasha, Hunter, and Shogun. “The cure is one we cannot carry—and whoever did this was banking on our Fae secrecy . . . that we would not, in pride, reach out for help beyond our own in matters strictly Fae. The ones who did this were very shrewd, indeed.”

  “Cold steel must cross the magick ring that holds each sigil,” the lead advisor said. “St. John’s wort with witchwood—the rowan, and enclosed with bundled bay leaf. That would break the spells set upon this castle and the places Ethan McGregor’s people be.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sasha said, looking around. “How can we carry something to a place when we don’t even know where it is?”

  The eldest advisor rubbed his chin and smiled a snaggletoothed grin. “Ah! To put a spell on a place as large as this fort, one must have the power of three.�
�� He walked around the table and produced a small wand from inside his sleeve and doodled glittering gold spirals in the air as he spoke. “For a time-sensitive, progressive spell, one that relies on the sigils knowing when the light has cast and passed into moonbeams, it must be able to be exposed to the passage of time.” He spun around and clapped his hands. “It will be in the uppermost floors, hidden in the eaves, not in the basement where daylight never passes. The first death happened in the cellar as a ruse or mayhap to stop a young woman from telling the king all that she knew—something that would incriminate the spell-caster. But the source . . . aye, lassie, is in the eaves!”

  “The power of three locations,” a third, thick-bodied advisor said, furrowing his already deeply wrinkled brow. “Dugan’s Bed & Breakfast . . . Finnegan’s Wake . . . and Ethan’s Fair Lady. The name of Forte Shannon of Inverness inscribed on the dark magick within the homes of members of the royal house is part of the root cause of this castle’s failed glamour.”

  “Once the property changed hands, it became Ethan’s . . . Thus all who slept there as his family,” the lead advisor said, pointing his wand at Sasha, “helped the spell along.”

  “All who ate there,” another said, “helped the spell along.”

  “And they put a progressive agency into it,” the leader said. “That is what has hurt the Seelie Fae.”

  “Aye,” the thin advisor muttered. “There are too many of us to do individual sigils for, but they went after the house of Sir Rodney.”

  “But what about what my grandfather and I saw,” Hunter said, folding his arms over his chest. “We saw opaque spirit selves get up from the bodies of each of us, wearing symbols on each. It went after the wolf leadership and Sasha’s familiars, even her father, as well as my lieutenants.”

  “Doppelganger attachments!” the leader said, looking around the room. “Insidious magick, the worst of its kind!” He walked away from the table and thrust his wand up his sleeve.