by Layla Nash
Mercy narrated it all in a cheerful unending and one-sided conversation that exhausted me more than if I’d been saying it all myself. I wondered how the girl breathed; she must have had gills or taken in oxygen through her skin or something. She introduced me to at least a dozen people but didn’t give them or me a chance to get a word in edgewise, instead linking her arm through mine to keep towing me along in her bubbly wake.
Although when I thought back, none of the other pack members had tried to talk around or over or instead of Mercy. I’d been the only idiot foolish enough to open my mouth and attempt to say hi to the pack members. They were a bunch of misfits, that was true enough. I watched them all through the lens of my magic, scanning not just for threats but also for weakness, and found only one thing in common—a shared red flare of a bond in their auras, all of it linking back to Evershaw. Nothing else brought them all together—not ties of blood nor other linkages. Just Evershaw.
Henry insisted on showing me Evershaw’s quarters so I could search for clues there, though I resisted since I didn’t want to see Evershaw again until we were on more equal footing. Luckily he wasn’t there; someone muttered about a meeting. I’d asked where he grew sick and where his food came from, but neither Henry nor Mercy could let me into the office where Evershaw apparently collapsed. The kitchens saw too much traffic to be the source of the poison, since no one else in the pack fell ill or displayed even hints of the same symptoms.
There were no plants or even makeshift gardens inside the massive renovated warehouse that constituted the packhouse, the pseudo-industrial aesthetic no doubt very trendy and appealing but more like an asylum than any place I could imagine living. It was too cold and dead, stifling and cut off from nature. It was probably a good thing Smith’s ward kept me from doing magic, since I wasn’t able to do much within the tangle of steel and glass and brick. There wasn’t even a potted plant in the bland guest quarters.
I’d used enough magic and energy in healing Evershaw and trying to fight the pack that it didn’t take long for my eyes to droop and the yawning to start. Mercy would have no doubt kept talking at me even after I fell asleep, but Henry led us back to the guest quarters and then shooed Mercy away. Henry lingered in the doorway, watching me as I turned in a circle and studied the living room, wondering what I could possibly do next.
“She’s right, you know. We need you to fix Evershaw.”
I covered my eyes and bit back a groan. “What’s with you people? He’s one man. He’s replaceable. We’re all replaceable.” I knew it first-hand, at least where covens were concerned. No one even mourned when my mother passed away. They hardly blinked except to ask why I’d missed so many coven meetings. The thought tied a knot in my throat.
“He’s not,” Henry said. “Not here. Not for us. He saved my life and gave me a place to stay and a... a... a reason to stay.”
The big shifter looked just a touch uncomfortable, maybe bashful. No doubt they didn’t encourage burly-ass wolves to start talking about their feelings.
“But apparently he’s pissed off enough people that someone dosed him with belladonna,” I said.
Henry sighed. “No, he’s a total asshole. No one else gave us a chance, and no one really gives him a chance.”
I knew what that felt like, not getting a real chance to be who I wanted and do what felt was right. I’d dreamed of walking away and starting over somewhere fresh. What if Henry and the others in the pack tried to start over fresh and only Evershaw gave them a chance?
Still, though, it wasn’t my problem. Their pack and Evershaw’s shitty reputation and everything else was most decidedly not my fault nor my problem. I folded my arms over my chest. “Maybe he shouldn’t kidnap the people who could help him, then. Maybe the rest of the city would be more willing to give you all a chance if he wasn’t such an asshole. So maybe talk to him about that and we’ll regroup in the morning.”
The wolf shook his head and started to pull the door closed. “Right. Well, don’t try to leave. The door is locked and the thing that Smith gave us is in place to prevent you from escaping. We’ll get you for breakfast around eight.”
“And what am I supposed to do about a toothbrush and pajamas and clean clothes?” Not that I meant to stay there a second longer than necessary. And once I had time to plan and stretch out a little, I could get around whatever bullshit archaic magic Smith thought would contain me.
Henry blinked owlishly. “New toothbrush and toothpaste under the sink in the bathroom; clean sweatpants and T-shirts and stuff in the dresser drawers. Just take what you need. If you want something specific, I can have Mercy come back and—“
“I’ll be fine,” I said, trying not to be too quick about it.
But he still smiled, since clearly I wouldn’t get any rest if Mercy reappeared, and nodded. “Good night, then.”
He closed and locked the door, at least five clicks and bolts setting, and for a long time I stood there and stared at it. I rested my palm flat against the metal, exhaling tension and trying to draw in a better sense of what stood between me and freedom. The only thing that answered was more metal—iron and steel and aluminum, all things that witch magic couldn’t easily affect.
So I searched the rooms, investigating every drawer and closet and cushion, peering under the furniture and climbing to the top to examine the various heating and cooling ducts in the ceiling. When I tested the door and what might have been a wide-enough duct, static crackled through the air in warning and zapped a shock through my magic that set my ears ringing. Whatever Smith gave them had some oomph behind it, that was for sure.
By two in the morning, I sat on the floor in the middle of the room and gave up. I wasn’t going to escape from that room. If I wanted to escape, I’d have to get out of the packhouse and out to nature, somewhere that Evershaw and Smith could not control. The more variables in the environment, the more that chaotic witch magic strengthened.
Not even a shower cleared my thoughts, and I spent quite a while pacing the length of the room as my hair dried, muttering and moving my hands as I went through the words of power and other useful spells I could pull out to deal with my predicament. I found a glass bowl in the kitchenette without any major flaws and filled it with water, setting it on the floor in the bathroom where nothing could catch fire. It took far too long to center myself and find enough calm to try to scry for answers. I couldn’t send a message to the coven asking for help, as I’d already tried and run into the dangerous static from Smith’s ward, but maybe I could at least figure out who wanted Evershaw dead.
I cupped my hand and centered it over the bowl of water, exhaling whatever worry and stress still gripped me, and focused on my hand. A small flame snapped to life and burned from the center of my palm, the small and welcoming yellow flicker of a candle’s fire. I waited a few counts for the flame to strengthen and then flattened my palm before gingerly sliding my hand out from under the fire.
The flame continued to burn over the bowl of water, reflecting down into the mirrored surface of the glass bowl, and smoke gathered on the surface of the water in a dense fog.
I waited until the pale tendrils darkened before I made my first request. It was dangerous to ask more than three, as it risked sapping my energy and potentially unbalancing what was paid and what was owed. “Show me what sickened Miles Evershaw.”
The smoke stirred and stirred, and eventually a faint shape formed on the surface of the water, lit with the flame. Belladonna flowers and long stems, small leaves—a whole garden of them. As I’d suspected. Belladonna poison.
“Show me how he encountered this.”
The smoke swirled for far longer before it started to take shape, and I’d begun to sweat with the effort of maintaining the flame and my concentration. A mug or cup with a handle formed in a slow cloud.
He drank it. It might have come in any form, but the drinking vessel indicated it was ingested. So we could not blame it on accidental exposure from the skin or walking through
a garden and running into it. Someone prepared the nightshade in a beverage and provided it to Evershaw to drink. There was intent behind it. Someone definitely wanted him dead, as the dose required to kill a shifter was almost twice what would have killed a human.
I exhaled as the smoke dissipated and gripped my knees, trying to hold on long enough to make the third request before my magic gave out. I’d wasted quite a bit fighting the wolves off in the warehouse and in challenging Smith. I hadn’t been a good steward of my power, but it felt like life and death in the middle of it.
“Show me who is responsible for this.”
The flame flickered and weakened, as if something created a draft that threatened to blow out the light completely, and I held my breath. It gradually stilled, though it did not strengthen to what it had been, and most of the smoke had disappeared by the time it moved to form a shape. The water clouded beneath it, and I fought down panic. I’d never seen that before. What if a powerful witch or fae tried to poison him and I’d just exposed myself to them? It could have been a trap. There were certainly plenty of curses and hexes that could mimic the symptoms of nightshade poisoning.
For a brief moment, I wondered if maybe Smith had done it as a way to trap me, to even the balance sheet between us. Poisoning Evershaw would draw me out, as would the possibility of another favor owed to me, and gave Smith the opportunity to bind me in a geas to the wolf’s life. He only had to kill the wolf in order to kill me, and would never get his hands dirty at all.
The coven would have no recourse to challenge him. Chances were they wouldn’t even know.
The form that built up out of the reluctant smoke looked like a dog or a wolf or some other kind of canine, and unlike the other images, the animal was moving. Running. Leaping and racing in place as it kicked up more smoke under its heels, and even created ripples in the bowl of water. I sucked in a breath and clapped my hands together flat, my palms making a loud noise in the stillness.
The flame extinguished, the smoke evaporated, and the bowl shattered. Water flooded across the floor and soaked into my borrowed sweatpants, and I cursed as I scrambled back. The water scalded me, sticking to my skin and boiling against me. I scrambled out of the bathroom and kicked off the sweatpants to try to avoid the clinging fabric.
Red weals shot up across my skin and I bit back the pained cries that wanted to escape, since the last thing I needed was a bunch of wolves running in while I was hopping around in my underwear and trying to get rid of invisible fire. Magic didn’t even help douse the burning sensation that clung to me. I tried to breathe through it, tried to clench my jaw and deal with it, but not even cold water from the sink helped douse the misery.
And it didn’t get better with time. No, it burned more—deeper, hotter, crueler—until I thought my very bones would turn to ash and disappear and I’d be left as a boneless heap of muscle and misery.
I couldn’t take it and finally let out a strangled sound that hollered out of my lungs and bounced around inside the container of that damn room, and at least it made me feel better.
The effect didn’t last long, so I tried it again. And grabbed up a blanket from the sofa to try and smother the invisible fire on my legs. I gritted my teeth and screamed, whacking at my legs with the blanket and bouncing off the walls as I hopped from foot to foot and danced around for the temporary relief.
Something moved in the hall and someone called out, some kind of question that was lost in the noise in my head and the misery of the burning. My thoughts fragmented and I shrieked. I’d never imagined I would die alone and locked up, consumed by magical fire, at the mercy of a bunch of animals.
The door crashed open just as my knees gave out and I plummeted to the floor, and all I could think of was Cricket.
Chapter 11
Evershaw
Evershaw woke up out of a dead sleep feeling like he was on fire. On fucking fire. He kicked the covers off the bed and lurched upright, staring down at himself and then around the room, searching for the smoke. Waiting for the alarms. Trying to feel the flames.
Nothing.
Not even the scent of smoke or fire lingered.
And yet—he knew he’d been on fire. He’d never had a dream feel so real. It couldn’t have just been a hallucination, even with all the fucked-up stuff from that day.
His wolf side wouldn’t let him lie back down or just ignore it. It was a sign. Being on fire was a sign of something. He just had to figure out what.
He pulled on sweatpants and started pacing, and soon his room was too constricting and small. He strode into the halls of his private wing, the suite of rooms that were reserved just for him, and circled wider, searching for a hint of what drove him to move. Nothing. More and more nothing.
He moved into the family side of the building, where Todd stayed and a few distant cousins periodically bedded down. Still nothing. Still burning. His calves ached and his knees shook, threatening to give out, but when he paused to take stock of whether he was actually about to collapse, the symptoms faded. They grew stronger as he moved into the packhouse, down the silent halls, and made his way through the common rooms and into the protected wing where they kept questionable guests, crazy wolves, and newcomers.
Guest quarters.
His skin practically curled and blistered as he thought of the guest quarters, and a growl built up in his chest. The guest. The witch.
It had to be her doing. That hateful crone hexed him.
He snarled and stormed toward the guest quarters where she was kept. He almost barreled right into Henry as the younger wolf staggered, half-asleep, toward the same room. Evershaw glared and Henry immediately ducked his head. “Sorry, sir.”
“What the fuck are you doing up?”
“Checking on the witch,” Henry said, still not making eye contact. He gestured in the direction of the secured guest quarters. “There was an alarm. She’s doing something, so I wanted to make sure she’s—“
They both froze as a strangled yell, decidedly feminine and pained, reached them through the reinforced door. Evershaw’s chest compressed and he lurched forward. Maybe it wasn’t the witch hexing him; maybe it was her call for help. How the fuck she managed to affect him like that, he didn’t know, and he’d make sure she didn’t do it again—but since he was already there, fine.
He jerked his chin at the door and surreptitiously shifted his feet to deal with the agony in his legs. “Open it. Fast.”
Henry immediately removed the chains and undid the bolts, and the urgency increased as the witch stopped trying to stifle her cries and instead wailed so plaintively that it set his hair on end. He growled more. “Faster. Faster.”
“It’s almost…there,” Henry said, and then the door was open.
Evershaw shouldered his way through the door and found that damn witch in her underwear collapsing on top of a blanket, her legs red and blistered from thighs to toes. He picked her up as she howled and writhed, fighting whatever it was that burned her, and carried her into the bathroom. Broken glass cut his feet as his feet slid in blood, snapping over his shoulder at Henry to get one of the trained medics in the pack to get their asses up to deal with the girl’s burns, and walked into the shower with the witch.
Irritation kept him pissed off and heated as he smashed his fist against the shower controls and cold water beat down on them. The witch’s nails gouged into his chest and arms and even his face, and he had to admit she was a determined little thing even if she couldn’t fight for shit.
He snapped, “You’re not on fire, just calm the fuck down.”
“I kn-kn-know that, you fucking moron,” she said, though the fierceness of her anger was mitigated by the fact that she was shaking and still trying to hop from foot to foot. “It was boiling water, not fire.”
“Great,” Evershaw muttered. He angled the shower heads to aim more at her, so he didn’t get as much ice water in his face, and took just a bit of satisfaction in her shivering and cursing. “You woke me up with th
is bullshit. Is this some kind of scheme to get back at me or something?’
“F-F-Fuck you,” she said. She twisted to try and get free, and Evershaw was tempted to just let her fall on her face. Would serve her right for all the gratitude she’d shown.
But instead he looked down and saw the T-shirt clinging to her body under the stream of water, her breasts full and heavy under the thin fabric and her nipples hard from the icy bath. Well. His brain short-circuited and his thoughts drifted and it was suddenly a very good thing that he was in the cold shower, too.
The girl stopped fighting and braced her hands on the tile. In a brief flash, Evershaw imagined her completely naked, bent over in the same position but with him behind her, and the shower full of steam instead of cursing.
The wolf thought it was a great idea and there wasn’t any reason to wait. She only wore panties. It would have been so easy to tear them off and slide up behind her and...
“Let me go,” she said.
He blinked and the image disappeared, and he released the girl immediately—to save himself from the distraction, of course, and not because she asked. Her breath no longer sounded so ragged and pained, and she didn’t hop from foot to foot. The skin of her legs and ass—he checked specifically, just for safety reasons—remained red and angry and blistered in areas.
He stepped back and frowned as he looked at the shards of broken glass that had cut his feet and left bloody footprints on the tile. “What the hell were you doing in here?”
“Trying to figure out who poisoned you,” she muttered.
“By dropping boiling water on yourself?”
“I fucking hate you so much,” she said, and abruptly turned and shoved him into the wall.
She took him by surprise just enough that his feet slipped on the blood and wet tile, and Evershaw found himself on the floor. He was up pretty fucking fast, since he was the kind of alpha who didn’t let anyone stand over him, but it still took his head a few seconds to reorient. From the look on the witch’s face, she was pretty fucking perplexed about how she managed to knock him over, too.