Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Shut up,” she hisses, assaulting the door further.

  “Fine. If you fancy a night in prison”—I shrug—“then by all means, carry on. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Frankly, I hope she doesn’t dig prison. When the cops show, and they will if she keeps this up, she won’t be the only one wearing silver bracelets. Last time I checked, I was still a fugitive. Carter, my boss at the FBI’s Paranormal Analysis Unit aka PAU, has no clue I’m alive and kicking. I doubt he put much effort into fixing the Francoise dilemma. The bokor who turned my brother into a real-life zombie—not the brain-eating kind, the brainless kind—and assisted pedophile Walter, abusing little kids, died in a private visitor room in prison, while I sat across from him. He called me, told me he’d help me out of my deal. Thanks to my little brother’s persistence, I was dumb enough to agree to a meeting. Next thing I know, he drops dead. Someone, or should I say something, snapped his neck right in front of my eyes. Since there was no one but me in the room, the guards added one and one, believing I offed the bastard. After everything he did, to Jesse, those kids, and Manda I would have loved to send him to hell. But I swear by my sister’s empty grave I didn’t touch the asshole. Nevertheless, I was arrested. Jesse broke me out after the hellhound tore me apart. Now, we’re both wanted men. So yeah. The cops are the last thing we need.

  Seems like the mamba doesn’t fear tiny, windowless boxes, or uncomfy cots. She keeps banging and yelling like one of the Crazies.

  “Drop it,” I bark, catching her hand before it reconnects with the door.

  She struggles to free herself, but I hold on tight. “Let go.”

  Part of me wants to throw her fragile body over my shoulder and lock her up in the car. One look in her clouded cognac eyes is enough to soften my stance. She’s horrified. So much so, I too feel her fear in my bones. “We’ve been here for over half an hour, B.” My voice is calmer than I am. “If she hasn’t opened the door yet, she probably won’t.”

  B’s gaze drifts from me to the door and back. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Enlighten me then.” I’m too cold to fight or argue. Let’s hear her out and see what put the wrath of God in her.

  She contemplates my offer. “M said she’d be home.” She tilts her chin at the Bishop house. “She’d never leave us out in the cold, Alex.” Our eyes lock. “You met her, didn’t you?” I nod. “Did she strike you as the kind of person who would risk her neighbors catching wind of the scene I’ve been making?”

  “No,” I admit, heavy hearted. Unlike Manda, Melinda cares a lot about other people’s opinions. The two sisters are like yin and yang, black and white, fire and ice, Hitler and Gandhi. And while I wouldn’t put it past Manda to let her best friend freeze to death, I highly doubt a chick who wears pearl necklaces and pumps at home would risk her neighbors calling the cops for a peace disturbance.

  “I’m telling you something is wrong,” B says, shoving her dislike for me aside. “Please, Alex. I’m begging you, if you ever cared about Amanda…do something.”

  If I cared about Manda? Never mind. I won’t grace this comment with a reply. It would just end in another hunter-witch war. “What do you expect me to do?” I ask, rubbing my tired eyes. “Breaking and entering?”

  She bats her thick lashes at me. I take that as a “yes.”

  Jesse’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Maybe she’s right, dude.” He ogles the locked door. “I mean, what if the Malleus dicks got to them? Could you live knowing we didn’t do shit?”

  My little ass of a brother knows exactly how to get what he wants. Push the guilt button, add a little concern, and et voila Alex reaches for his lock-picking tools and breaks into the Bishop’s house.

  Takes me less than twenty-seconds to open the door B assaulted mercilessly. Someone oughta give Melinda a lecture about alarm systems and safety locks. Witch or not, she’s a single mom. The world’s full of scum ready to take advantage of that.

  “Whoa.” Jesse’s eyes almost pop. “What the fuck?”

  The neat hallway I remember is gone. Vases lay shattered, flowers scattered across the hardwood floor, picture frames everywhere but the wall. Either John Wick was here, or someone broke in and ransacked the place.

  Queen B was right. Something is wrong.

  “Melinda,” B shouts, pushing past me.

  “Wait.” I catch her by her jacket, pulling her back.

  “What the—”

  “Whoever did this,” I whisper. “Could still be here.” No way in hell I’ll let her march into a death trap. Just because the mamba annoys the shit outta me, doesn’t mean I want her dead. I owe her. She stuck with me when most folks wrote me Christmas cards addressed to hell.

  “But—”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight,” I order Jesse, shoving her against his chest.

  He throws both arms around her, securing her fragile body. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  I reach for my Beretta and head inside. For tactical reasons—don’t want to spook the mother—I keep the lights out. Moonlight breaks through the large windows, illuminating my path. Damn. What I saw in the hallway is nothing compared to the living room. Holy shit, it looks like a hurricane came by to say, “Hi.” The whole room is a hot mess—white feathers, torn pillows, tossed drawers, broken chairs, and a sofa that met Freddy fucking Krueger’s claws.

  I scan every corner, expecting someone to jump me. There’s no one here, though.

  Pushing through the swinging door, I move on to the kitchen. Gun pointed at the shadows, dancing over pieces of porcelain and crushed wood. Whoever did this gave vandalism a new name. Inching closer to the knocked over cupboard, I spot pieces of paper, flying around the room. At closer inspection, I realize they’re recipes for spells and potions. Was someone looking for something magical?

  The grimoire, the hunter inside yells.

  Shit, this book in the wrong hands…Jesus, I don’t even want to think about what could happen. I remember the “To Summon a Knight of Hell” spell, scribbled in it. God knows what else is in that book.

  Rushing through the house, I search every room for Manda, Melinda, her son, the book, and the intruder. What I find is pure chaos, but not a single soul, or the grimoire.

  Adrenalin flushes my system, keeping me on high alert. I’m aware how quickly the tables can turn. One minute, you point a gun at a pedophile. The next, you feel the barrel of a shotgun at the back of your head.

  I don’t lower my precious Beretta. Not even when I waltz into the bedroom of Melinda’s son—Leandro. Compared to the rest of the Bishop residency, the room is pretty much unharmed. A rocking chair has been tipped over, but that’s about all the damage I see.

  I move closer to the cot, secretly praying I find the boy safe and sound. The bed is empty, except for a cute stuffed animal—a tiger cub.

  I’m about to head back downstairs to Jesse and B, when I catch a glimpse of crimson in my peripheral. My heart pounds harder than Joey Kramer plays his drums.

  Please don’t let it be blood… Please don’t—

  It’s blood. A few drops on the blue sheets. More on the plush tiger.

  Fuck.

  “Alex?” B’s voice carries up the stairs. “Alex, did you find them?”

  I pick up the toy, slowly retreating from Leandro’s room, and make my way down the stairs. “All clear,” I choke out, unable to take my eyes off the bloody tiger.

  Faster than a greyhound, B is inside, checking room after room, desperate to find her friends. I catch up with her in the kitchen. “They’re not here,” I say, blocking her path. “I checked the whole house. No one is here.”

  I expect something like “let me through, or I’ll castrate you.” Hell, a slap across the face would be more appreciated than what I get—tears. Buckets full of salty, desperate tears. “The Malleus Maleficarum Order,” she sobs. “Do you think—?” B can’t bring herself to finish the sentence and I get why. If they’re the ones who did this, Manda’s, Melinda’s, and Leandro
’s survival chances are zero.

  “No.” Jesse wraps his arms around her, allowing her to cry into his shirt. “Manda is a fighter. They’d never be able to take her down.”

  God, I hope he’s right.

  He runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her even closer. “Besides, Bay would have called us.” Jesse meets my gaze. “He likes Manda.”

  Yup, so much so I hate him for it. Jesse has a point though. Bay would have done something to prevent Manda from getting hurt. But if the Malleus dicks aren’t responsible for this, then who is? I know I said I’m done with the witch, but—I ogle the bloody toy—I’m beginning to wonder why she really ran. Was B right? Was Manda’s disappearing act more than simple selfishness?

  Bonnie wipes her face, trying to be strong. “That’s Leandro’s,” she whispers, catching sight of the toy sitting in my arms. “He never sleeps without it.” Meaning: Melinda wouldn’t have left it here.

  “B,” I start, aware I have to tell her what I found in the boy’s room.

  She flinches at the sound of her name. “What is it?”

  Fuck, I’d kinda prefer hell to this. “I…”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Alex,” she barks. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Man up. “There’s blood in Leandro’s bed and on his toy,” I say quickly before I change my mind.

  Jesse’s eyes widen. “You sure?”

  I nod.

  B doesn’t break down like I thought she would. Instead, her tortured eyes meet mine. “There’s something about Leandro you need to know.”

  “Oh, lord. Please, don’t tell me he’s some kind of super-witch kid, or something.” It’s possible. Manda is one helluva witch, the boy looks exactly like her, and it’s common hunter knowledge every witch generation gets stronger.

  B averts her gaze. “Leandro is—” Her gaze darts to the window. The blood drains from her face. She’s as pale as a sheet. “Oh. My. Gosh.”

  A shadowy figure rocking red, glowing eyes stares back at us. Is that—

  A demon.

  Chapter 4

  Quicker than Wyatt Earp, I draw my Beretta, rushing into the full-blown snowstorm raging outside. The demon takes off, running through the slippery backyard toward the wooden fence separating the Bishop estate from their neighbors.

  The bastard is fast.

  I pick up speed, not sure what to do when I catch him. If I catch him. Quantico taught us never to go into battle without a plan. Experience tells a very different story. Dealing with the supernatural isn’t an exact science. You can’t always come up with a grand battle plan. Sometimes you’ve got a split second to deal with those mothers. And let’s be real, our job is based on legends and myths—stake a vampire, use silver on wendigos, salt keeps evil at bay. Some of that shit is legit. The rest—like exorcising a demon with some Latin incantation—made up by dudes with pens and too much time on their hands. The ugly truth is demons are one of the few supernatural creatures that can’t be killed. Bullets may hurt their vessels, same goes for any other weapon. Their demonic essence, however, just moves on to find its next host. Hunters had to learn that the hard way. So, yeah. I’m pursuing Invincible without a clue how to stop him. Any sane person would let the mother go. Me? I’ve never claimed to be sane.

  Thick flakes, silver and dense, fall obliquely against the lamp of the motion detector. The white swirls obscuring my sight. “Freeze,” I scream, ignoring the sting of the icy snow on my heated face. Surprise, surprise, he doesn’t. Hey, can’t blame a man for trying.

  The fence is close now. It forces the creature to slow down, giving me the chance to catch up. “I said, freeze.” My voice is colder than the damn wind, lashing against my cheeks.

  Glowing, garnet eyes dart from the fence to my gun and back. Demon-Boy weighs his options. He could climb the five foot ten wood, but not before I put a bullet in him. It’s why he decides to stay and presumably fight.

  “Where are they?” I ask, holding my gun as steady as the violent winds allow.

  Dark, inhuman laughter ripples through the trees.

  “Tell me where the Bishops are,” I order him again.

  “They”—Demon-Boy comes nearer—“are gone, hunter.”

  I raise my left hand, shielding my eyes from the snow. “What did you do to them?” Deep down I’m aware he won’t give me the answers I want, the ones I need. I have to try though. It’s all I can do.

  Demon-Boy—a skinny, five foot seven, barely older than seventeen—crosses his arms above his chest. “Didn’t they teach you shit in that fancy hunter school? Weapons”—he tilts his chin at my Beretta—“as useless as a lollypop, my friend.”

  “Is it?” I aim at his left leg and pull the trigger. The ear-splitting gunshot echoes through the quiet of the stormy snow night.

  “Motherfucker.” He winces, applying pressure on the gaping hole in his shin.

  I close the gap between us. “Tell me where Manda and her family are. Or so help me God I’ll empty my magazine in you.” He may not die, but it’s gonna hurt like fuck.

  Crimson pours out of his wound, coloring the white ground a nasty shade of dark red. “You think I’m scared of you?” He straightens, eyes blazing. “You’re wrong.”

  What happens next is nothing more than a blurry chain of events. The demon lifts his hand, snaps his fingers, and my gun flies about two hundred feet backward. Words, in an alien language, are muttered. The veins in my temples expand, pressing against my skull with a force convincing me my head is about to explode.

  Searing pain paralyzes me, knocking me down. My jeans are soaking wet from the snow or my boiling blood; I can’t tell.

  “Hunters,” the possessed teenager grumbles. “What is it with you and your super annoying arrogance?”

  I’d tell him it runs through our bloodstream, but I’m a little busy dying. No kidding. Whatever he did to me is slowly blowing out my lights. My lungs and my heart are collapsing under the pain. Looks like I am going to hell after all.

  “Sispann!” Someone, I think it’s B, yells.

  In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of the demon’s frown. “Two is a party; four is a pain in the ass.”

  I spot Queen B’s black, knee-high boots next to my hand. “Sispann li, move lespri sou li.”

  Demon-Boy sighs. “Relax, mamba.” He snaps his fingers once more and just like that the pain subsides.

  I can breathe.

  Jumping to my feet, my gaze immediately lands on B. She holds her palm up, blood running down her wrist. She carved some creepy witch symbol into her palm. “You can command demons?” I ask, seriously startled. “Why didn’t you say so?” I would have let her go after the creature. Okay, not really. But still, she should have said something about her very useful abilities.

  She shrugs. “There are a lot of things I can do which you know nothing about.” Take the smoky voice and the sexy smirk plastered across her face and it’s easy to see why my little brother blushes like a fifth grader who just watched his first porn.

  Once I digested her powers, I return my focus on what’s really important. “Any chance you can force him to spill where Manda is?”

  B, never taking her hand down, shakes her head. “I wish.”

  The demon ogles the fence. He’s going to make a run for it, but B is aware of his plan. “Mwen mande nou yo rete.”

  The demon freezes. His expression is the definition of anger and hate.

  “What did you say to him?” Jesse inquires. He’s just as curious as I am.

  B doesn’t answer. She’s too focused on Demon-Boy. “Deplase tounen nan kay la. Kounye a.” I assume that means something like, “move your ass back to the house,” because that’s exactly where the demon heads.

  B treads on the creature’s heels. “Alex?”

  “Huh?” I reply, picking up my gun from where the bastard threw it earlier.

  “There’s a small black spell book in my bag,” she says. “Go find it and follow the instructi
ons on the first page to a tooth.”

  Jesse squints. “What are you up to?”

  “We’re going to trap this bitch,” she replies, disappearing inside the vandalized Bishop house.

  It’s pretty damn obvious why Manda and B are BFFs. “She’s fucking crazy.”

  “Guys,” she barks from inside. “Hurry up, would ya? I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him.”

  Jesse and I look at each other, both fearing for the mamba’s sanity. “It’s not like we have a choice,” my brother mumbles, not happy about the let’s-trap-a-demon plan.

  Someone once told me, you always have a choice. Right now, trusting B seems like the right one. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 5

  Endless sex and girls is what I associate with small black books. Blame it on my little brother. He’s owned one since junior year in high school, collecting numbers and names of every girl he’s ever screwed. Not sure why. He makes them happy, walks away, and never looks back. Going through the trouble to take their names and numbers is sorta pointless in my opinion. But hey, what do I know? I don’t own the man-whore title like he does.

  Anyway, the black book I hold now has nothing to do with easy sex or fun. It’s full of voodoo spells and incantations. Since B is a little busy commanding Demon-Boy, Jesse and I are tasked with the preparations of the “Trapping a Demon” ritual.

  Step one: construct a massive pentagram with Eucalyptus leaves. Check.

  Step two: place a chair in the midst of said pentagram and hang nine pieces of Devil’s Shoestring—long, flexible twigs that look like rattan—over the chair. Check.

  Step three: bless some ropes and tie the mother to the chair. Working on it.

  “Okay,” Jesse says, stirring the potion. “The water is boiling. Now what?”

  I skim the entry again. “You need to add Devil’s Dung to the water, stir some more, then soak the ropes in it.” Witchcraft is a lot like cooking. Follow the recipe and you’re good. At least I hope so. Because if we fail—and B can no longer keep the demon in check—it won’t end pretty.