The mamba cocks a brow, assessing my brother’s frowny face. “I sense an inferiority complex.”
“Yeah?” Jesse sighs. “And I sense bullshit.”
I’m not in the mood for drama. “Did you hear back from Bay and JJ?” When Jesse called them, they’d just crossed the state line into Florida. He advised them to head to Cassadaga first. Solving the Madame Josephine mystery is a top priority. Her murder is somehow connected to Manda. We all know it. I mean, c’mon, it can’t be a coincidence she was offed when we were looking for her, right?
He checks his phone. “Nothing yet.”
Fuck.
Patience, Remington. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Maybe so. Yet I can’t get over this emptiness in the pit of my stomach, continuously whispering time is of the essence.
“Et voilà.” B proudly presents the coffee shop of her choice. From the outside, it looks like a small antique shop—round, old-fashioned tables, old trunks in the shop window, and plenty of other useless junk.
I push the door open, rushing into the cozy warmth. Snow crystals fall from my jacket, melting before they hit the hardwood floor. I scan the square room. An original Italian coffee machine sits behind a small counter. The barista, most likely one of the less fortunate students at NYU, steams milk for his only customer. The man, in his late fifties, constantly glances at his watch. He’s definitely a takeaway kinda guy.
B is next to me. “Perfect, huh?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Nice and quiet.” A great location to talk supernatural.
“Be right there,” the barista assures us, looking over the silvery metal of the coffee machine. B gives him a polite smile, nods, and moves us to the table farthest away from the counter.
“So,” she starts once we’re seated. “Your boss, is he the witch hating kind?”
“Carter?” Jesse laughs. “Nah, he’s the goofy, nerdy kind.” Yup. Carter loves Star Wars—almost all of his sentences start with a reference to the cult classic—talks way too much, and has absolutely no filter. Basically, he’s a sixteen-year-old in the body of a twenty-eight-year-old.
B’s brows fly up. “Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” The mamba sounds a bit scared. Maybe she fears Carter travels with green wood.
“Don’t worry.” I lean back in my chair. “Carter is cool.” Unlike old Alex, he distinguishes between good and evil witches. Back when Jesse and I started at the PAU, I had issues with his attitude. Old Alex believed witches were universally evil—creatures stealing little sisters couldn’t be anything but. After several heated discussions, I asked him why he thought some witches were good. He told me a story about his grandmother who was hexed by a striga and saved by a white witch. Prime example of irony.
She taps her slender fingers against the table. “If you say so.”
“Relax.” Jesse squeezes her shoulder. “He’s not going to hurt you.”
She shrugs his hand away. “I didn’t say he would.”
No, you just thought it. But hey, I get it. She has to keep face.
“Welcome to little Naples,” the barista greets us. “What can I get for you?”
We order three Americanos and two cookies for B. Then he ambles back to the counter, and gets started on our drinks.
The small bell above the door rings. The first thing I spot is the Marvel’s Avengers laptop case tucked under Carter’s arm. Several agents tried to tell him it’s not very FBI to walk around with comic figures. He couldn’t care less.
B’s gaze drifts over our boss. He wears a standard FBI suit, a long black trench coat, and white Chucks. “Nerd, huh?” Something tells me she doesn’t quite agree with Jesse’s assessment.
Jesse grins. “You’ll love him.”
“Alex.” Carter waves at us. Why, I’m not quite sure. It’s not like you could overlook a dude like him. He’s tall, slender but well-built, wears horn-rimmed glasses, has an edgy rather than baby-face, and is loved by the ladies. Well, until he talks about his Star Wars figures, which cost him more than a new Porsche.
He stomps toward us, shaking fresh snowflakes out of his light brown man bun. Oh, yeah, I never mentioned that, did I? Carter loves his hair. In fact, we believe he has a slight obsession with his long thatch. The only time I ever saw him lose his shit—apart from the succubus dilemma—was when Jesse playfully threatened to cut his bun off.
“Man”—he throws his arms around me—“I can’t believe you found a way out of hell.”
I’m about to clarify I did no such thing. Hell decided it didn’t want me at the end of the day. But what’s the point?
“You look like crap,” Jesse says when Carter lets go of me. It might be rude, but it’s the truth. He’s paler than usual. Dark shadows linger beneath his eyes. His bun is what chicks call “messy perfection,” and his beard hasn’t been groomed in days. Did I mention Carter’s hairy obsession extends to his face?
Carter pulls out the chair next to B. “You would, too,” he says, plummeting down, “had you walked into a damn massacre last night.”
“Massacre?” B’s curiosity is obviously stronger than her fear of our boss.
Carter drinks her in. He’s not the drooling kind. Beauty like B’s, however, is hard to ignore. The instant Jesse casts him his best killer look he swallows his appreciation and smiles. “You must be Bonnie?” She nods. “From the New Orleans Lacroixs?”
Her spine turns to steel. “I am.”
Carter extends his hand, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bonnie Marie Lacroix.”
A real smile touches her cognac eyes. “Call me B.”
Seriously? Up until a few seconds ago, she was petrified he might burn her at the stake. Now, he gets to call her by her nickname? I’m more and more convinced she doesn’t have a hunter problem per se. More like an Alexander Remington issue instead.
I frown, frustrated by life itself. “Carter?”
He looks at me. “Huh?” He’s so easily distracted. I wonder how he managed to get his PhD. Yup, it’s Dr. Landon Carter. He’s the youngest Harvard metaphysics PhD alumnus.
“The massacre?” I jog his memory. “You were saying?”
His smile fades into oblivion. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t pretty.” As if the dread in his voice hasn’t told me already. “Promise me,” he urges, his light blue eyes piercing mine. “Promise you’ll keep it together.”
I had the sneaking suspicion whatever made Carter leave the safety of his office would shatter my world into pieces. As he sits there, pleading with me to keep calm, I understand it won’t just shatter it. It’ll irrevocably alter it.
“Alexander?” Last time he called me by my full name, he was on the brink of death. “Promise me. Please?”
“Just spill it, dude.” Making promises I’m not sure I can keep isn’t my style. And beating around the bushes only agitates me. All things considered, it might not be such a great idea to fuck with me moments before he delivers a sucker punch.
A long stretch of silence poisons the air. At every inhale, my lungs burn with…fear? Despair? Hopelessness? Jesus, I wish I could ignore the dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that’s been torturing me since Manda vanished. But I’m neither dumb nor naïve. It’s time I faced reality. However cruel it may be.
“Do you guys remember the WW-mission?” he says, glaring at the napkin holder.
Jesse furrows his brows. “Kinda hard to forget, don’t you think?” It’s not every day the PAU sends you to Wewelsburg Castle, Germany to catalog the occult book collection of the notorious Nazi bastard Himmler.
“I told you the mission was about Himmler’s whole collection, but—”
“Three Americanos.” The barista puts the cups on the table. “And two cookies.”
“Thanks,” B says on behalf of all of us.
“Sure.” He faces Carter. “What can I get for you, sir?”
Carter eyeballs our steaming coffees. “The same.”
The barist
a nods. “Coming right up.”
“Where was I?” Carter continues after he gets his coffee and the barista is out of hearing range. As I said, he’s easily distracted.
“You told us the mission was about Himmler’s whole collection,” I jog his memory.
“Right.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I lied.”
“Why?” Jesse asks. Carter never lied to us. He’s always been an open book. So what was it about that mission that changed his honest nature?
He won’t look at any of us. “Director’s orders.”
Surprise, surprise. The government has secrets.
“We were looking for a specific book,” he goes on, adding a ton of sugar to his Americano.
He sent twenty agents halfway around the globe for one lousy book? We had to go over the German’s heads to get our hands on Himmler’s collection. They had no clue we were there, acquiring—or rather stealing—books from the Black Sun room. The secret chamber, hidden behind the walls of the old castle, was an almost exact replica of King Arthur’s infamous round table. Only Himmler had a black sun wheel carved into the stone table—pretty sure King Arthur didn’t have one of those.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Must be one helluva book.”
“It is.” There’s no hesitation on his part.
B cocks a brow. “And why’s that?”
Our boss sighs heavily. “Because it’s the First Grimoire.”
The color drains from B’s face. “T-The First G-Grimoire?” she stammers. “That’s impossible. It’s been lost for over two thousand years.”
“It was lost,” Carter corrects. “But the Germans found it when they invaded Egypt in 1941. The mission was called Sonnenblume.”
B leans over the table. “That means Sunflower, right?”
Carter’s appreciation of the mamba grows steadily. “Correct. Himmler convinced Hitler the ancient tome could help him build a new world order. He promised him the world would return to its former glory, blossoming like a sunflower. Ergo, Hitler named the mission Sonnenblume.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” I grumble, slightly annoyed we’re so far off topic. “But can we get back to the part where you tell us what this book has to do with Manda?” He clearly stated this was about her, didn’t he?
“The First Grimoire,” Carter says, hiding his trembling hands beneath the table. “Is the most powerful grimoire that ever existed. According to old legends, it was written by the First Witch.”
“The First Witch?” Jesse sounds as clueless as I feel. Our mom used to tell us all sorts of stories. She’d sit Jesse, Natasha, and me down before bedtime, disguising old legends as fairytales. She never mentioned the First Witch.
Carter peeks over his shoulder. “We don’t know much about her,” he says, when he’s sure no one is nearby. “There are a gazillion myths circulating around her. Some say she was half human, half demon. Others claim she was part goddess. The only two things everyone agrees on is she was the most powerful witch that ever walked the earth, and she went completely insane.”
B nods. “From what I heard, she was betrayed by her one, true love. My mom said the pain froze her heart and drove her to darkness.”
Yup, love can do that. Drive you insane, I mean. “All right, so a powerful witch went ballistic and wrote a book. I still—”
“A book?” B’s eyes widen; her breathing becomes ragged. “You have no idea, Alex.”
“She’s right,” Carter adds. “The First Grimoire in the hands of the wrong people? Worse than Hitler armed with nukes.” An implication like that sounds beyond crazy.
“Are you saying the spell book of some lovesick witch can end the damn world?” My belly cramps. That’s never a good sign.
“If there’s any truth to the things my mom told me about it”—B massages her temples, her eyes growing wearier by the second—“then yes. That book has the capacity to start the damn apocalypse.”
Jesse’s jaw drops. “For real?”
“Yes,” Carter replies. “For reals.”
“One story says the First Witch made a deal with hell. She would do their bidding in exchange for more power and access to the oldest secrets,” B explains. “Hell agreed. And she quickly became their best asset, a fearless solider. Unfortunately, they didn’t reckon what revenge could do. While the witch worked for them, she used the forgotten knowledge to find a way to punish her traitorous lover.”
“But soon that wasn’t enough for her,” Carter continues the tale. “She looked at mankind and saw nothing but heartache and pain. That’s when she decided to end it all. Legend has it, she was about to bring hell on earth.”
“Hell on earth? Literally?” I sure hope that’s a metaphor for something.
Carter shrugs. “We don’t know.”
Jesse scrubs his fingers through his hair. “You didn’t read it?”
B props her elbows onto the table. “The First Grimoire was written in hell’s language. Neither witches nor humans can read it.”
“She’s right,” Carter says. “We had our best men trying to translate it. But it was impossible. They couldn’t decipher it.”
All right, Carter lied to us and sent us on an unauthorized mission to Germany to get the grimoire of a revenge-seeking, mankind-hating witch. A book no one can use because it’s written in hellish. That part I understand. “I still fail to see how any of this is connected to Manda.”
“The book was stolen last night.” Carter’s shoulders sink. “They marched into the J. Edgar Hoover building, killed at least fifty-six agents, and broke into the high-security facility below ground.”
“They?” The instant the word comes out I regret I asked.
Carter opens his laptop bag, pulling out his MacBook. “Here”—he shoves it my way—“see for yourself.”
The screen flickers to life. The video playing belongs to a night vision camera right outside the main entrance. Two dead agents lie beside the revolving door. They wear their faces on their backs. Literally. Their heads turned 180-degrees.
“Shit,” B hisses behind me. “That must have hurt.” Like Carter, the girl has absolutely no filter.
Paying no attention to her and my little brother—both look over my shoulders—I keep my gaze glued to the screen. The timestamp below reads eleven twenty-two p.m. when a woman with long blonde hair marches out of the building. A large book tucked under her arm. She sorta looks like—
She turns to the camera.
“Manda?” I bark.
I was about to say that’s impossible, but Carter zooms in on her. Flaming green eyes gaze back at me. They are unmistakably hers.
Carter squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alex. I wish things were different.”
I jerk my head his way. “What are you saying?”
“The director saw the video.” He pauses. “Manda is on the Hunter’s Most Wanted list. Every single agent and freelance hunter is out looking for her. And if they find her, they will…” He trails off.
“Kill her,” I finish for him.
He nods.
The next few minutes are a blur. Someone screams. Someone whispers. Someone paces. And I? I get up and walk the fuck away.
Chapter 18
I footslog through the blistering cold. Aimless. Clueless. Hopeless. I used to preach to Jesse that running is not an option. That someday, somewhere, shit comes back to bite you in the ass. Now, look at me. Marching through the snow, not the slightest idea where I’m headed, all because I couldn’t man up and face the reality Carter presented.
I’m a fucking hypocrite.
But my mind is blank. I need time to think, to—fuck. Can I believe what I saw? Was it real or just a twisted fantasy? Did Amanda Bishop, the girl that would have died to save the kids of strangers, stomp into the J. Edgar Hoover building? Did she slaughter those agents? Did she steal a book with the power to end the world?
On the first day, she saved his soul. On the sixth day, she’ll climb the throne. I can’t forget that damn note.
The night is black, my soul dead. There’s no use holding the contradicting voices in my head back. They speak louder than any AC/DC song ever could. She’s gone dark. No, she hasn’t. She murdered federal agents. She wouldn’t. She walked out of there with the First Grimoire. There has to be an explanation for it. Maybe Maria Bishop had been right all along. Maybe Manda was born evil. Maybe she is the bringer of the damn apocalypse. Bullshit. I fixed fate. Did you? Then why are you still alive when you should be in hell? I…I don’t know.
All I know is I want to forget. I need to forget.
A couple of feet ahead, I spot a sports bar—Dorian Gray Grill. I don’t care for burgers, or shit. Booze is what I want.
“What can I get you, handsome?” a middle aged, pixie-haired waitress asks.
I climb onto the barstool. “Bourbon. Bottle.”
She studies me. “Tough day?”
Tough year. I shrug.
She gets the I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-a-bartender-therapy hint and moves behind the bar to get what I so desperately crave. He’s called Jim, surname Beam.
The bottle is empty. There’s nothing left but me, myself, and a future reeking of darkness and pain. Drunk or sober, witch or no witch, evil or good—I love her. I, Alexander Ethan Remington, am in love with Amanda Bishop. A witch destined for darkness. A witch that might have killed over fifty people to steal a damn book.
You think that’s bad? Here’s what’s worse; I don’t care about those agents, the First Grimoire, or the pending apocalypse. All I want is Manda to be safe.
I can’t explain why her life is more important to me than that of every other human being on this planet. I don’t understand why all I’m worried about is her. But even when we’re apart, I feel her pull. She’s a magnet, attracting and repelling me at the same time. The reason I tried to push her away. Why I turned into a fucking asshole every time she was around. Don’t just assume for a second I’m not aware of how awful I treated her. The things I said to her—though she took a bullet for me and my brother—were wrong and shameful. The hurt in her eyes when I told her I only ever felt sorry for any guy dumb enough to fall for her? I saw it. Felt it. As if I had committed hara-kiri, stabbing a damn samurai sword through my own beating and bleeding heart. I deserved the pain, though. I mean who the fuck brings up the mommy issues of the girl he loves when he’s aware her mom is out there looking for a way to put her in the grave?
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