by Nancy Holder
“From fighting,” Summer said. “Am I right?”
Skye looked into her eyes and saw anger there, and fear.
“Escaping,” Skye said. “But it wasn’t because of—”
“We don’t take sides in the conflict, and we don’t recognize those who do.”
“Then you’re lying when you say you’re not taking sides,” Skye snapped. “Please, just some water—”
Summer slammed the door in her face. Miserable, and worried that she wouldn’t be able to make it much farther before she collapsed, Skye took a deep breath and stepped off the porch. She stared into the forest and hoped that her parents would be more understanding, or at least forgiving.
She began to walk. She’d gone only about fifty feet when a sudden sound behind her caused her to turn. Standing there was Summer’s husband, Nigel. He held out a glass of water and a brown sack.
“Thank you,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. She took the glass of water and drank it down, wishing there were more of it. She handed it back, and Nigel gave her the bag. She opened it and saw a few slices of bread and a chunk of Stilton cheese.
“Thank you,” she said again, realizing that he hadn’t said a word.
He nodded and turned to go.
“Wait!”
He turned to look at Skye.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
“It would be doing you harm not to help you. But there’ll be the devil to pay if she finds out,” he murmured, then walked away.
Skye’s legs trembled. She devoured the food. She was still dehydrated, but she felt a little better after she had finished eating. She folded the bag and slid it into her boot. Witches respected the earth in all ways.
The whole world’s gone to hell. My cousin has disowned me, I could die at any moment, and I’m worried about littering, she thought, smiling slightly. Some things never change.
Two hours later, as Skye stood staring at her family’s cottage, she realized that some things had changed too much. The cottage had once been a simple structure, one large room that they all shared. She could remember many a night choosing her spot on the floor and rolling out her sleeping bag.
Now several new additions completely obscured the original building. Enormous and rambling, it no longer seemed to spring out of the earth, but rather to ride upon its back. The new construction was glass and metal. There was nothing natural or beautiful about it, and it made her sick to see it. The grand old pollarded tree, which had once held a swing, had been cut down to make way for the expansion.
She trudged forward slowly, mindful of the reaction that she had gotten from Summer. When she was almost to the door, it opened, and Melody, her sister, flew out.
“Skye!” she cried, and hugged her.
Skye hugged her back, sobbing with relief at the welcome. When she pulled free at last, she looked at Melody closely. Her sister had a baby bump under her embroidered peasant blouse.
“You’re pregnant!” Skye exclaimed.
“Six months. This will be our second,” Melody said with a proud grin as she laid a protective hand on her belly.
Second.
The word made Skye feel as if she were falling. She was an aunt and she’d never known it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Gathering up her loose, caramel-colored curls, Melody made a little face. “Llewellyn takes the whole underground thing seriously,” she said.
Fear bubbled up in Skye. What else had she missed in the three years she’d been gone? Was everyone all right?
“Everyone’s fine,” Melody assured her warmly. Melody had always been able to read her like a book. “Come inside and see for yourself.”
Skye followed Melody into the cottage. She remembered what Jenn had said after she’d returned home for her grandfather’s funeral. She prayed to the Goddess that she would get a warmer reception than Jenn had.
She blinked as she looked around, trying to match her memories to what she was seeing. She saw absolutely no evidence that witches owned the place. Gone were the rows of fragrant dried herbs that had hung from the rafters. The York family charms—White magick sigils hand-painted on the walls, dating from the Middle Ages and even earlier—had been replaced by landscapes of rolling English hills and light-blue wallpaper. Furnished with an oak dinette set, a daybed in blue chintz, and some scattered chairs, the room looked like a pleasant room in a hotel.
A second story had been added, accessed by wooden stairs and a white metal handrail, which was ugly, yet functional. From the sounds above, the rest of the family were about to join them. Skye took a deep, nervous breath.
A playpen in the corner caught her eye. Skye’s heart jumped. A toddler a little more than a year old solemnly gazed at her from over the top of the bars. The little one was dressed in brown corduroy pants and a tan shirt decorated with puppies.
“My son,” Melody said.
Tears stung Skye’s eyes. She had a nephew. She had missed his birth. She didn’t even know his name.
Melody’s husband, Llewellyn, and Skye’s parents descended the stairs. Skye’s father, always very handsome, looked old. Both her parents smiled hesitantly at her but didn’t move to embrace her.
Skye bit her lip and forced herself not to run to them. “Blessed be,” she said, hearing the emotion in her voice.
“Blessed be,” the rest intoned.
“Merrily met,” Melody added in a whisper.
“How . . . it’s good to see all of you.”
“It’s a surprise to see you,” her mother replied faintly.
Skye tried to decipher her tone but couldn’t. No one moved. The toddler babbled, and Melody picked him up. Skye got the impression that her sister was trying to avoid the tension in the room.
“I’ve missed you all,” Skye whispered. “I was wounded, and I thought to come home.”
“And you’ve come to your senses?” Skye’s mother asked in a tight voice. “You’re done with it?”
“And you’re sorry?” her father said. He stood unmoving, and she realized that leaving the team was the price for their help.
No. Not their help. Their love.
Skye’s heart broke. She wanted to collapse on the floor. She had been through so much—too much—to stand there and face their judgment.
But then she thought of Holgar. He had walked away from his family, his pack, everyone he cared about. He had done it because fighting the Cursed Ones was the right thing to do.
Skye had run to the academy to escape Estefan. Only fourteen, she hadn’t wanted to tell her family that she had an evil stalker. With sudden clarity Skye realized that she hadn’t told her parents about Estefan not because she believed they couldn’t help her, but because deep down she had believed that they wouldn’t. They would have just hidden her away from him. They never would have trained her how to stand on her own and defend herself.
And staring at their faces now, she knew she had been right to go. In a flash, the guilt she had felt for leaving her family for Salamanca vanished. She had done what she had to do in order to save her life. There was no shame in that.
“I’m injured,” she said slowly. “I would appreciate some food and water.”
There was a moment of silence that seemed to last an eternity.
“So, you didn’t come because of us?” Melody asked. “You came because you’re hungry? I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “That was unkind.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Skye said. They used to be so close. Lying about Estefan, then running away, had changed all that.
Skye looked at her mother. “I can’t, not just yet.”
“If not now, then when?” her mother asked quietly. There was a challenge in her voice. Skye was the prodigal daughter returned home, but she would only be forgiven if she stayed.
“Mummy, I can’t,” she whispered.
“Then you should go now,” Llewellyn said. “And we’ll forget that you were here.”
>
Skye cleared her throat. “Followers of the Goddess take care of strangers. Don’t I rate that much?”
“That much,” her mother affirmed. She gestured to the dining table. It was a cheesy modern thing made of fake wood, not their old table, the one Yorks had carved their initials in for over a century.
“Sit and eat,” her mother said coolly.
Skye knew she needed the strength to travel to rejoin the others; otherwise she would have left. She sat down stiffly and refused to look again at the little boy who was jabbering away in Melody’s arms. She had always wanted to be an aunt, but even that was denied her. If her family wasn’t going to help her any more than they would a stranger, then she would offer them no more than a stranger would.
Her mother set down an earthenware pitcher and a cup. It was teatime, and Skye smelled steeping lavender and jasmine, her mother’s special blend. But no tea was offered, only water. By the time her mother brought Skye two cucumber-and-watercress sandwiches, Skye had drunk all the water. She could feel her injuries begin to repair themselves. She aided them with a whispered spell.
She ate quickly, eager to be gone. When she was done, she stood slowly, aware that this was the last time she was likely to ever see her family.
“Thank you,” she said. “Blessed be.” She turned to her sister. “Merrily met, and merrily parted.”
A tear ran down Melody’s cheek. No one else answered as she let herself out the front door.
TOLEDO, SPAIN
FATHER JUAN, FATHER SEBASTIAN, JENN, ANTONIO, JAMIE, HOLGAR, SADE, AND ESTHER AND LESLIE LEITNER
“I’m going,” Jamie announced. “Now.”
They were sitting in a little anteroom off the monastery’s chapel. They’d been about to leave when Father Sebastian had glided in like a short, skinny angel of the Lord Himself and taken Father Juan off for a chat. Now the priests were back, and two tenser men Jamie had never seen. Which meant . . . more talking.
And not fighting.
Talking didn’t solve anything. All the plotting and planning in the world hadn’t saved Eriko, and it wouldn’t save Skye. Staking vampires would, and killing sympathizers would. Blowing up the enemy’s stronghold would.
But not talking.
If the hunters of Salamanca were the last best hope of mankind, maybe it was time to restore his Catholic schoolboy faith in miracles.
Although that would be a miracle in itself.
Jamie pulled on his black duster and picked up his duffel, which clanked with weapons. He’d packed his two special guns—the one with silver bullets and the one he was building that would fire wooden ones. Talking was shite, and it was time to take action. With one foot past the threshold, he froze as Father Juan called to him.
“Jamie, one moment, por favor,” he said, carrying his own small gym bag. Because Father Juan asked politely and—oh, hell—because he was Jamie’s priest, Jamie huffed loudly and shifted his weight on his hip.
“Gracias, my son. Thank you.” Father Juan set the bag on the marble floor. “My friends, please listen.”
Jamie blew air out of his cheeks. Jenn’s ma and that African bint so fond of garlic—Sade—sank down on a red velvet sofa like refugees, the ma’s eyes all bloodshot and Sade patting her hand, her own eyes vacant, like a doll’s. Holgar had been fixing the zipper on Jenn’s grandmother’s flak jacket, and he turned to give the two fathers his full attention. Such a nice little werewolf. Give him a pat on the head and get him some goat entrails.
“We’ve had a message from the Brotherhood of Saint Andrew,” Father Sebastian announced. His eyes and cheeks were sunken. Despite the fact that he’d made it clear he was on their side, he gave Jamie the shudders. “They’re Romanian. They’ve heard of you, Antonio, and they admire you deeply. With Father Juan’s permission, I told them something of your struggles, and they’ve offered their help.”
The vampire was all ears on that.
“They’ve helped many souls overcome the devil’s temptations,” Father Sebastian said. “They’re located deep in the family seat of the legendary Vlad Tepes—you would know him by his other name, Dracula. They know much about vampiric evil.”
“Dracula?” Jenn’s mother cried.
“Myth,” Jamie assured her impatiently. “Well, the real Dracula was a warrior and he impaled people, but he wasn’t a vampire.” He pointedly cleared his throat. “But is this the right time for that?”
“Jamie’s right,” Antonio said, shocking Jamie by agreeing with him. “We have more important things to do.”
Yeah. We should stake you and be done with it, Jamie thought.
“But . . . could they make him not a vampire?” Jenn asked in a soft voice. Her cheeks were blazing red as coals.
Oh, yeah, she still loves the sucker. American girls—who can understand them?
“No, unfortunately not,” Father Sebastian said gently. “As for Dracula being a myth, I wish that were true.”
“The lad’s real? Get on with you,” Jamie said, incredulous. “But to get back to the point: We should be looking for Skye.”
Jamie was a son of the Church, a cradle Catholic, but his obedience only went so far. If Father Juan wanted to hit the road, well and good. But Jamie would be damned if he was going to do anything to help Antonio while Skye was unaccounted for. Jamie’s entire reason for going to the bloody academy to learn to fight vampires in the first place was to become the Hunter. He’d trained in hopes of receiving the elixir that bestowed heightened strength. He’d planned to then hightail it back to Northern Ireland to settle a few scores and take care of his own folk.
And if there was anyone among this sorry crew he called his own, with Eriko gone, it was Skye York. English, yeah, but for the love of Mike, why the hell wasn’t Holgar tearing the world apart to find her? Holgar was Skye’s fighting partner.
Because of Antonio, that was bleedin’ why. Sodding bastard. It was clear everyone thought he was more important than Skye. And more important than any of the rest of them. But he was a vampire, and he would always be a vampire—evil, disgusting, soulless. Damned in every sense of the word.
Antonio had fooled Father Juan with his seminary studies and his prayers, but Jamie knew that sooner or later the Curser would drop the act. And Antonio de la Cruz had finally shown his true fangs. He’d lured everyone to “rescue” him in Las Vegas, where’d he gone on a killing spree and nearly drained a baby at its own christening. That was who was getting all the attention. Meanwhile, the warlock stalker who was in league with the very same vampire who had kidnapped Antonio had hold of Skye. And no one was doing shite about it.
Jamie clenched his jaw. Arse-backwards, the lot. If he could take out Antonio with his wood-bullet gun once it was finished, he’d be doing their side a favor.
“Thank you, Father Sebastian,” Father Juan said, dismissing the other priest. “I’ll give you an answer for the Brotherhood after I’ve had a chance to talk with my team.”
Father Sebastian lowered his head. Then he made the sign of the cross over each person in the room. Father Juan and Antonio crossed themselves as well. It was an abomination, Antonio doing that. Jamie hated him down to the soles of his boots.
Father Juan glanced at Jamie, and Jamie pursed his lips and made a show of obediently crossing himself. Bloody hell.
After Father Sebastian left, everyone looked expectantly at Father Juan.
“I’ve cast the runes,” Father Juan said. “And some things have been revealed to me.”
Skye, Jamie thought, holding his breath.
“Runes? What’s he talking about?” Jenn’s mother asked. “What are those? What about Heather?”
“Shh, Leslie,” Jenn’s gran murmured. “Let him speak.”
Father Juan began, “I have prayed about them.” He gazed directly at Jenn. “Your leader is right. It’s time to take the fight to our enemies. Antonio must go to Romania to protect himself from—let us call it—a relapse.”
Jamie opened his mouth to say all the
things he was thinking. Father Juan held up a hand for silence. Jamie grudgingly stayed silent.
“And each one of you—of us—must be as strong as we can be. I have been casting magicks since your graduation, and I believe I can create more doses of the Hunter’s elixir. Enough for all of you hunters.”
“Too right!” Jamie shouted.
When he hadn’t received the elixir, he’d nearly packed it in and left. But to have a second crack at it . . . his faith in miracles was restored.
Holgar grunted. “Hunter elixir on top of werewolf strength? That would make me hard to beat.”
“The same is true for Antonio,” Father Juan said. “Which is why we must be sure of him.”
“You said you could only make the one dose,” Jenn cautiously reminded the good father. “Because of the ingredients. And all your other supplies were burned up in the fire.”
Father Juan nodded at Jenn. “It’s true that my things were destroyed. Including the single most important ingredient: the petals of a rose that grew in the garden at Salamanca—a rose called las Lagrimas de Cristo, the Tears of Christ. It took two years of cultivating the rosebush to harvest enough petals for one dose. But I’ve had word that a similar flower grows along the French and Spanish border, in the maquis.”
“I was changed into a vampire in the maquis,” Antonio said, his voice subdued. “I know the terrain. I should go with you, Father.”
“No,” Father Juan said. “You need to go to Romania. And I want Jenn to go with you. And as backup, Jamie.”
“Holgar can be backup,” Jamie insisted. “I’m looking for Skye.”
“My son,” Father Juan began, “let’s think this through. We’ve no way to get in touch with Skye. I tried to reach the Circuit to ask them for news, but they’re not responding. We need more information—”
“Damn it to hell!” Jamie shouted. “We need to track her down.”
“I’ll go with you to get the rose,” Esther told Father Juan.
“No,” Jenn’s ma protested, but Esther patted her hand.
“Yes, dear,” Esther murmured. “We all have to do our part. You look after Sade.”
Yeah, so much for that one helping out. Sade was a freak and a wreck.