Taking Back Sunday

by Cristy Rey

  Without a thought to censor herself, Sunday blurted out, “I want to get to know Michelle!” Kayla and Sammy pulled out of their hugs and raised questioning eyebrows to Sunday.

  “All right, I guess,” Kayla responded, biting her cheek. “I mean, sure, Sunday but… are you sure you’re okay?” Kayla kept her eyebrows raised and her forehead wrinkled as she examined Sunday from head to toe.

  “You’re wearing ripped jean shorts, combat boots, and a shirt that’s wrinkled. Your hair needs some serious taming. Did you just roll out of bed or something?” she asked. Beside her, sharing an almost identical expression, Sammy pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Yeah, swear, guys, I’m fine.” Sunday’s response came with as authentic a smile as she could manage. “Can I talk to Michelle now?”

  As soon as she’d asked the question, a knock came from behind them. Sunday’s eyes darted around the room to see who was missing from the gathering. Every witch was accounted for except Constance and Eunice. Vicky walked around the three women still gathered in the foyer, pecking a kiss to Sunday’s cheek as she passed, and opened the door to greet Constance. The two witches exchanged hugs and some words of goodwill when Sunday overheard Vicky tell Constance that Eunice had called at the last minute to say she was sick and wouldn’t be attending.

  “Eunice isn’t coming?” Sunday yelped. Her question caught Vicky and Constance off guard and they looked at her with the same bafflement that Sammy and Kayla frozen with.

  “It’s just,” she started, “can we do the circle if Eunice isn’t here?” Quickly searching for Elisabeth’s face, she directed the question to her again.

  “Of course!” Elisabeth clapped. “Come on in, sisters, and let’s get this show on the road. You ladies were late.”

  “Who else arrived late?” Constance asked. Her voice and her face were the perfect masks of sincerity. Constance was petite and her small voice, her puckered lips, and her rosy cheeks were the greatest tools of her deception. Of all the witches, she was the only one that Sunday could call “cute.” Constance was a doll-woman. She was probably all giggles and glee when she wasn’t killing people. Sunday’s stomach flipped and she fought the urge to be sick.

  “Sunday got in just a minute before you,” Sammy answered.

  “Oh,” Constance responded, smiling and wrinkling her nose cutely at Sunday. “Well, let’s not you and I hold things up.” Constance virtually skipped to the dining room where Vicky and Michelle had already begun clearing the table.

  “Are you linking hands with us this time, Sunday?” Michelle asked, turning her face to smile at Sunday as her friends guided her to the dining room. Michelle carried an armful of chips and salsa, and Sunday rushed to help, but Michelle shooed her away and urged her to take a seat already. “This is your first time really. You’re our guest.”

  Sunday stood by the table awaiting the witches to make their preparations and take their positions. Vicky set the table just as she had during the previous week and the witches all gathered around it taking their predetermined seats. Without Eunice, there was an unoccupied spot, and before Sunday could ask where they’d wanted her, Elisabeth offered her Eunice’s empty chair. When Vicky had completed the ritual candle lighting, she went around the house shutting off all the lights.

  “Tonight, we welcome a new sister to our circle,” Elisabeth began. Her eyes glittered with flickering candlelight as she directed a welcome to Sunday.

  Beside her, Constance and Michelle both offered their hands for Sunday to hold. Sunday held her breath as she restricted her aura when her hands touched the women beside her. When she connected with the circle, a gentle buzz hummed in her head. Electricity flowed through her body. It tickled, and she couldn’t contain the grin of satisfaction. Even under such guards, she could breathe fire with the energy she was receiving. Michelle looked over her shoulder at Sunday and shared a knowing smile.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Michelle whispered.

  Just the touch of her skin told Sunday that Elisabeth was correct last week when she’d assessed Michelle’s lack of innate ability. Even so, Michelle’s body carried the flow of power that the stronger witches created. Constance, on the other hand, was much stronger. Her aura was kinetic. She wasn’t merely providing a link between the witches like Michelle. She was contributing to it. Had Sunday joined the circle last week, she would have picked up on it immediately, even if she hadn’t been paying Constance as much attention as she was now. But Sunday also sensed Constance’s resistance. Her spirit was holding back. Just like her duplicitous appearance, Constance maintained a mask over her ability.

  Upon the conclusion of the naming ritual, Elisabeth commenced the ceremony.

  “This coven convenes and this circle is formed so that we may raise our spirits as one. I allow my aura to extend from my being and join with my sisters.”

  Each witch followed suit just as they had in the naming. First, Kayla; then, Vicky; and so on. Once they each acknowledged the circle, they shared a moment of silence. As it had before, the mystical energy in the room became palpable. It was infectious, and Sunday welcomed it. When an influx of stimulus was expected like this, she could maneuver it. She could dictate its movement through her awareness and orchestrate it at her will.

  As the familiar buzz lifted the hairs on her skin, Sunday invited it. Closing her eyes, she pictured a cool, blue light pulsing around her. She drew long, deliberate breaths, pulling the energy into her body. She invited it in a little bit at a time, let it dance around inside of her, and then calmly escorted it out as she exhaled. The corner of her lips pinched her cheek with a cat-like grin. She was lapping it up, every bit of it she could take.

  “And now,” Elisabeth addressed them, “we will speak the words of our mothers in the tongue of our sisters.”

  Turning to Sunday, Elisabeth said, “Because you do not know the words that we are saying, you can stay silent. If you choose to pray when it is time for our sisters to repeat my words, you can mimic our speech. So long as your intention is good, you will be joining in our adulation.”

  Sunday nodded and allowed the women to continue.

  As the power in the room increased with the witches’ uniform chanting, Sunday reached into the mist and separated Constance’s energy from the others. In response, Constance’s hand jerked. The reaction made Sunday smile. She pushed through Constance’s resistance. As Sunday navigated the ever-building power, a malignant, hungry snake slithered toward her. The spell Constance cast found the real source of power in the room. It collected around Sunday and curled around the walls of her perception, trying to find a way in.

  Without warning, Sunday dove into it, and as she did it, Constance jerked her hand away and emitted a shrill scream. She jumped out of her seat beside Sunday and stood wide-eyed with shock. The room was silent as everyone turned their attention to her.

  “Are you all right, Constance?” Elisabeth asked, rising from her seat and starting toward her.

  “No!” Constance glowered at each of the witches. “Is anyone going to tell me what just happened?” she demanded.

  “Constance, dear, we don’t–” Elizabeth began when Constance cut her off.

  “’Constance dear’ what, Elisabeth?” she countered. She looked at each of the witches again, this time with a look of spite and seething anger. “I’m leaving!” Constance stalked out the living room, found her purse, and tore out of the house, leaving the front door swinging behind her.

  Not a moment later, Sunday hopped to her feet and followed suit. Behind her, Kayla and Sammy called Sunday’s name, but she raced to the car, ignoring them. Not having seen which direction Constance headed, she let her instinct decide which way to go.

  Racing to catch up, Sunday sped out of Vicky and Elisabeth’s neighborhood when the refrain from a song started playing in her head. Immediately, she reached for the tuning buttons on the radio and scanned all the stations it would pick up, looking for the song. She still couldn’t see Constance�
��s car ahead of hers. She scoured the streets, all the while going back and forth between stations. The song was near its end when Sunday finally found it.

  “Crap,” she muttered to herself.

  That was the moment the truck cut in front of her, and after speeding up to put some space between them, the driver slammed on the brakes, giving Sunday no other option than to do the same, and inevitably crash into it as the song ended.

  “And that was Fleetwood Mac’s “Little Lies,” lead vocals by Christine McVie, a track off the band’s album, Tango in the Night…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Brace for impact,” Cyrus said as his seatbelt clicked into its buckle. He turned down the volume of the radio so that he could set his mind entirely on the task at hand: intercepting the Incarnate. With both hands on the wheel, Cyrus sped the SUV well past Sunday’s car and careened sharply into the lane ahead of it. He slowed down giving her ample room to do the same, but she didn’t. As the wolves’ vehicle reached the intersection ahead, Cyrus came to a screeching halt that sent both men bounding forward in their seats. Grabbing the steering wheel in rock-hard fists, he looked over to Marcus in the passenger seat.

  “You’re crazy,” Marcus said, battle-ready with a smile fueled by the exhilaration of adrenaline.

  They heard the screeching wheels of Sunday’s car as it fishtailed behind until it was overtaken by the sound of crushing metal. Their hearts stopped the half-second before her car crashed into theirs. The force of impact pushed the truck a few feet forward before both vehicles finally stopped skidding.

  Half-expecting a psychic blowout from the stress the car accident had put on Sunday, both wolves held their breaths. Eyes shut tightly, they awaited her impending wrath. It wasn’t until they heard her yelling obscenities as she kicked the back end of their truck that either man opened his eyes or let go of his breath.

  Marcus rubbed his elbows and dropped his head, mumbling something about how stupid he thought Cyrus’ plan had been. Cyrus was already taking the temperature of Sunday’s fury, watching her through the rearview mirror as she smacked the back windshield of their truck with her open hands and yelled to the obscured driver beyond it.

  “Stay here,” Cyrus ordered Marcus as he unhooked his seatbelt and started out of the car.

  “It would be my pleasure, brother,” Marcus replied with a chuckle.

  Cyrus closed his eyes to the onslaught of rage that was sure to meet him when Sunday finally realized who she’d crashed into. He opened them to catch the calm before the storm, a moment during which Sunday had stilled entirely and stood, mouth agape and eyes wide, staring at him with utter confusion. In a flash, she lunged at him and pounded her fists into his chest.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” she yelled. “Are you stalking me? You decide making me crash into you in the middle of a car chase is the way to get me to talk to you? Are you mental?! You know what I am! I was in your head, remember? Did you forget what I can do to you right now?”

  She was shoving him, meeting an immovable object given the inequity of their bodily strengths. The Incarnate was only human after all. No amount of shoving or charging him would get him to move if he didn’t want to.

  “Calm down, Sunday,” Cyrus began. His tone soothing and too calm to be natural after the accident they’d had and the outburst he was witnessing. “You have to–”

  “What, Cyrus? What!” She stood huffing with balled up fists smacking the tops of her thighs. “You need to get your damn SUV out of the way and get the hell away from me.”

  Sunday started back to the car when the passenger door of the SUV opened, and Marcus finally stepped out to ask Cyrus if everything was all right. When she heard the door open, she turned sharply in its direction. Her face flushed bright red, and she clenched her jaw as she recognized the other man as a werewolf. She leered at Cyrus.

  “Another one?!” she yelled. Exasperated and in disbelief that things could possibly get any worse, she kicked the door of her car shut with the bottom of her boot. “Is there a whole pack of werewolves out to get me now, Cyrus? Or did the entire state of Alaska suddenly decide to relocate to South Carolina for a more temperate climate?”

  “Sunday, you need to listen to m–” Cyrus started again, this time taking a step toward where Sunday stood huffing and puffing until she looked like she could explode.

  “What do I need to know, Cyrus? I was–” Sunday was about to let out a stream of unfiltered speech about them having interfered at a very inopportune time when Cyrus, finally reaching her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her to get her attention. His stare bore into her with such authority that she had no choice but to stop thrashing and yelling and submit to his demand.

  “You were chasing Constance Smith,” Cyrus finished for her. Sunday’s eyes went wide and the color drained from her face as he continued speaking.

  “But you weren’t following her,” Cyrus continued. “Constance Smith is headed in a different direction, and she’s being followed by two other members of our team. Right now, however, we are in the middle of the street, and soon, police cars are going to show up and they are going to question us,” he said, gesturing to Marcus over his shoulder without taking his eyes from Sunday’s. “Neither you nor we have the time to make our statements and let them file their reports. What you’re going to do now is get in our car and let us take you someplace safe. We’ll show you what we have on Constance and we’ll help further your investigation. Are we clear?”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere with you or your werewolf friend,” Sunday snapped, shaking herself and trying to wriggle free of Cyrus’ firm, steady grip.

  “If you think I’m going to let you out of my sight,” Cyrus retorted through clenched jaw and with an ever-looming glare, “then you’re seriously mistaken.”

  “We’ve got to hit it,” Marcus shouted. Even though she couldn’t hear them yet, sirens blared in the distance, and police cars were nearing the accident site.

  “I’m not getting in your truck, wolf,” Sunday snapped at Marcus.

  “That’s fine,” Cyrus answered. “I’ll go with you. Marcus, drive to the motel. We’re right behind you.”

  Taking his cue, Marcus immediately shut the passenger door and jogged to the driver’s side where he promptly got in. Without a moment’s hesitation, he drove off into the cross street. Sunday remained bound by Cyrus’ strong hands and impossibly solid grip.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she shouted through grinding molars and flared nostrils.

  “You need to. You need information on Constance and we have it. You want to know where she is and I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re not taking me anywhere,” she snapped, pounding her foot into the pavement.

  “You listen to me, Sunday,” Cyrus began. “No one, and I repeat, no one, is taking you anywhere without your consent. Do you understand?”

  Cyrus paused and took a step closer into Sunday so that she could feel the heat of his body an inch from hers. He was forcing her to understand the gravity of what he was saying, the meaning of it. Heat rolled over his body as Sunday’s skin tingled.

  “I swear to you, Sunday… and I’ll let you fiddle with my brain and figure it out for yourself once we’re off this street… that no one, not me, and not anyone else, is going to take you anywhere you don’t want to go ever again. Are we clear?”

  Sunday heard the sirens approaching now. Ultimately, she had no choice. If Cyrus was telling her the truth, then he had a team of wolves working on this thing with Constance. She needed every bit of information they had, and if she played her cards right, she could get them to help her. Cyrus’ hands dropped from her shoulders as her body eased. She bit her lip and looked sideways out of the corner of her eyes. She was relenting.

  Without another word between them, Cyrus walked to the passenger door and opened it. Sunday waited until he’d closed it to get behind the wheel. They drove off in the direction the
other werewolf had taken.

  Neal entered the motel room to find the Incarnate lying on one of the beds, reviewing the police report on the murder at Bearers of Mystical Fruit. Her knee-high knit socks gathered loosely along her shins while a pair of unlaced, black combat boots that had seen better days lay on opposite sides of the room. An hour earlier, Sunday had ripped off her boots and launched one at Marcus and the other at Cyrus. She didn’t even look up when Neal had arrived. Instead, she’d grunted and forced her attention to reading the reports. Her face twisted in a scowl, and she turned each page forcibly.

  At the table under the window, Marcus and Cyrus sat with a laptop between them trying to learn as much as possible about Malay black magic. It was evident to Neal that the woman wasn’t happy to be there. The way that Cyrus described the situation, the Incarnate had argued against going with them. After a short briefing by on the werewolves’ findings on Constance, she refused to talk to either man. She told them to learn about Malay witchcraft and set about ignoring them.

  It was after nine o’clock and Neal had ridden a taxi to the hotel while Angel stayed tailing Constance. Every few minutes, Angel called with updates on her whereabouts and activities. Neal stood at the end of the bed on which Sunday lay. He stood akimbo and puffed his chest, maintaining a grim expression as he glowered at her. Ignoring him, Sunday flipped another page of the report to one that contained a detailed description of the victim’s wounds. After a minute of his staring, Sunday clapped the file shut and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “This one’s threatening me. Anyone gonna stop him?” she asked.

  “So this is the Incarnate, eh?” Neal finally said. “She’s nothing but a brat with a bad attitude.”

  Sunday slowly raised her gaze to meet Neal’s, letting him know that she was neither afraid of nor amused by his posturing. Setting the papers aside, she pushed up on the bed and sat. Tilting her head to the side and grinning, she inspected him top-to-bottom. He was a big one, the biggest of the three werewolves, and certainly bigger than Sunday, but he wasn’t fooling her. He was afraid, and his natural warrior’s response to fear was assuming control and staring down the threat.