Night Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book Two

by Juliana Spink Mills

  Camille gave him one of her sweetest smiles. “We’re taking a little road trip, John.”

  He opened his eyes wide at that, fully awake. “You. What did you do to me, bitch?”

  “Now, now,” said Deacon, his voice a deep rumble. “Is that any way to treat a lady?”

  The witch spluttered in indignation. “Lady? She sucker-punched me. Fucking demon voodoo.” He struggled to sit up on the narrow backseat, no easy task with bound wrists and ankles. He gave Camille a sour look and then glared at the back of Deacon’s head. “And you’re a bloody sentinel, what are you doing with pack scum like this?”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Deacon. “Or we’ll tape it shut. And she’s not pack, she’s Guild.”

  There was a brief silence as the witch considered this. He started to shake his head and then stopped, wincing. “Shit, my head is killing me.” He slumped back against the seat and squinted at Camille, eyes half-closed. “You kissed me,” he told her, his voice accusing. “I remember. After, it’s all white noise. What the hell was that?”

  Like all half-demons, Camille was driven by an Immortal Hunger. Hers happened to be desire, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She wasn’t going to remind him of how he’d melted at the touch of her lips, all self-preservation gone once she’d cast out and hooked into his feelings, or tell him how she’d fed upon his want. She winked at him with her right eye, the silver half-demon one. “Trade secret.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Deacon’s eye flickered to the rearview mirror. “We’re going somewhere quiet,” he said, “where we can have a nice chat. John Shepherd, you’re in a lot of trouble. You’re wanted by the Court of the Covenant for crimes against preternatural law. My name is James Deacon, and I’m Scion of the New England Chapter of Sentinels. You’re under arrest, but depending on how well you collaborate with my parallel investigation, I may be able to help reduce your penalties.”

  “Parallel investigation? Huh.” The witch smirked. “You need information. Fine, I can trade. But can we get these restraints off my hands?”

  Camille waggled a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. Big nope. Word on the street is, you cast a mean hex. You can keep your hands to yourself.” She turned to Deacon, lowering her voice. “How much longer?”

  “The safe house is only a couple of miles away now.”

  Camille looked over her shoulder at the witch. He was no longer smirking — he looked terrified. Camille narrowed her eyes. “We’re not going to hur—”

  She turned just in time to see a van career off the incoming lane and smash against them, hard. The next few seconds were all noise and pain, and bright lights that faded as darkness took her. Then she jerked awake, head pounding and the taste of blood in her mouth.

  The truck had spun off the road and into a field. Next to her, Deacon’s door was open and he was gone. The back door was also wide open, and the witch had disappeared. The door alarm pinged loudly, complaining, as the cold rushed in. She tugged off her seatbelt in panic, opening her own door and tumbling out, too disoriented to stand at first. She took a moment to steady herself, and then ran around the truck to Deacon’s side.

  He was lying on his back in the light layer of snow that glimmered under the starlit sky. He must have staggered from the truck, and then collapsed. Blood trickled from a gash on his cheek. There was no sign of the witch, but a mess of footprints led to the van that had hit them, parked haphazardly at the side of the road and making a gasping whine as the driver tried to get it started.

  Camille knelt by Deacon. He was breathing, and as she touched his cheek, his eyelids fluttered open. “Can you hear me?” she asked. “Deacon!”

  “I’m okay,” he muttered, rolling to one side and then hauling himself to a sitting position. “I’ll be fine. What happened?”

  She pointed at the van. “Rescue attempt.” She clambered to her feet, breathing in the cold to clear her mind. She pressed a hand to her chest and drew her soul blade. The sword, forged from her own remaining sliver of humanity, was a pale silver flame in the night, and the hilt fit her hand perfectly. She looked down at Deacon. “Stay here.” Before he could protest, she was gone. She stalked toward the van, feet crunching on the icy crust as she skirted the strange lumps formed by the stubble of last season’s corn under the sprinkling of winter white.

  As she neared the van, a voice barked out, “Come on, come on!” Camille froze. She heard the key turn in the van’s ignition once more. The van stuttered, and died out again.

  “Worst rescue ever.” It was a different voice, John’s voice. “That was the stupidest idea I’ve ever seen.” He was trying to sound flippant, but Camille could hear the undertone of fear.

  “You know damn well this isn’t a rescue,” snapped the first voice, as the engine turned over once again. “The Baroness was right not to trust you.”

  “Hey!” John protested. “Not my fault I got captured.”

  “You want to explain what you were doing in Vermont? Like, perhaps you weren’t doing a runner?” There was no answer from John. Van man turned the key again. The van whined once more as he shouted, “Oh, come on, you piece of crap!”

  Camille reached the driver’s side just as the engine spluttered to life. She smashed the glass with the pommel of her sword and then flipped it around to set the blade at the driver’s throat. There was no sign of John.

  The driver leered at her. “A soul blade? My, how pretty.”

  She had a split second to register the man’s aura. Not witch green, as she’d expected, but the burnt-umber orange of a troll. And then a muscle-packed forearm grabbed her hand, cracking bone and drawing a gasp of pain from Camille as she dropped her sword and it shimmered out.

  He pulled her in hard, slamming her against the side of the van. Her vision swam with black spots, but she managed not to lose focus. As she struggled in his grip, coat tearing on the shards of glass, she reached in with the other hand and snatched the keys from the ignition. The troll let go of her right hand and went for her left, but she was already whipping her fingers out with demon speed. She threw the keys as far as she could and they landed with a faint clink in the cornfield.

  The troll let out a howl of anger and threw open the van door, smacking Camille out of the way to land sprawling on her back.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” he spat. He was big, even bigger than the last troll she’d met, all hulking shoulders and broad chest, handsome face screwed up in an ugly snarl. Camille scooted backward in the snow, drawing her soul blade once again with her uninjured hand. She rolled to one side to avoid a kick and got up, sword at the ready.

  The troll laughed. “Your shiny piece of demon hardware isn’t going to help much. You’ll need more than that to pierce troll hide.” He drew a gun. “On the other hand, I won’t need too much to take you down. Maim you a little, and then stab you through that silver eye of yours. And then lights out, girlie.”

  There was a flicker of movement behind the troll. Camille wet her lips, hope flaring in the pit of her stomach. She had to keep his attention on her. She tossed her hair and blew him a kiss. “Honestly, darling, that whole caveman vibe? So passé,” she taunted, keeping her sword between them. “Really not doing anything for me. Maybe you should try a different approach? A little wining, a little dining, a little bit of cha-cha-cha…”

  “Ha, ha,” he said sourly. “You’re funny. Now where did you toss those ke—”

  He never finished the sentence. There was a crackle of electricity and his body shuddered, falling heavily to the ground. Behind him, Deacon grinned a little shakily at her.

  Camille raised her eyebrows. “A cattle prod? Really?”

  “Stun baton. Altered for maximum damage. I had reports that the Kirkland brothers were operating on the East Coast. Mercenaries. Nasty piece of work.” He bounced the baton in one hand. “Been carrying this around ever since. Come on, let’s get our guy before the troll wakes up.”

  Deacon opened the back doors of t
he van and they found the witch, still bound hand and foot. Camille climbed inside to slash the zip ties from his ankles. “Miss me, babe?”

  John grimaced. “Much as I hate to admit it, I did. That’s only bloody Clement Kirkland on the ground there, which means his brother can’t be far. Get me away, and I’ll share anything you need to know. But I want to claim Sanctuary! At least until I get formally charged by the Court.”

  Deacon hauled the witch out by his arms. “Fine,” he said. “That can be arranged. Now let’s go.”

  The walk back to the pickup truck was more drunken stumble than orderly march. Deacon pushed John into the back and got in. Camille held her breath as he turned the key, but the truck roared to life immediately. He pulled out of the field, and pretty soon the van was far behind.

  “So,” said John, voice breaking the silence. “What’s this precious information you’re so keen on getting out of me?”

  Camille looked at Deacon, and he nodded. She turned in her seat so she could look the witch in the face. “We heard you might have news about a little something called the Night Blade…”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Raze

  They were waiting for her in the gym, Dan and Alex. It was like being called to the principal’s office in the old abbey school, but with a lingering smell of sweat and floor wax instead of the dusty odor of books. Raze had been expecting the summons ever since she’d been caught sneaking back in that night. It had taken them a full week, the longest in her life.

  She paused at the door, eyeing the two men. Her godfather was in his usual getup: no white clerical collar or cassock, the badge of his office simply a plain silver cross twinkling against his sweater. Alex was also in civilian attire, wearing black Docs as battered as her own. He looked her up and down and turned to Dan.

  “Daniel, look at her. She’s perfect. Well, almost. A leather jacket, perhaps? Or would that be overkill? Yes, perhaps that would be too much.”

  Raze frowned. “Sorry, perfect? What is this? And why are we meeting out here instead of in your office, Alex?”

  “It’s quieter. Not as many interruptions.” The vampire grinned, enjoying her discomfort. “Oh, relax. We’re not here to talk about your nighttime expeditions. We’re here to offer you a job.”

  Dan looked thunderous. “I’m still not pleased with this decision, Alex.”

  “We talked about this,” said Alex. “She’s unhappy. She’s bored. She’s ready to be pushed. Give her a chance to prove herself. Her mother was already running missions for the Guild at her age.”

  Raze coughed exaggeratedly. “She’s standing right here. So, what’s this about, then?”

  Dan sighed and gestured at Alex. “Go ahead. Your party.”

  The vampire smiled at Raze. “How do you feel about a little undercover work?”

  “Undercover work? What kind?”

  “The dangerous kind. The sort of work that should suit Raze perfectly, since you’re so determined to leave Rose behind,” he said. “A challenge. You’re infiltrating a heist. I think you’ll make an excellent cat burglar.”

  Raze gaped. Whatever she’d expected, this wasn’t it. “A heist?”

  Alex’s smile sharpened, and she was reminded of that night by the wall. Behind the carefully restrained exterior, there was something fierce and wild about the vampire. She stilled, waiting, scenting his mood. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them.

  “What do you know about the Night Blade?”

  ***

  Raze mentally went over her new character as she packed. Rose wasn’t invited; she would have to be Raze 24-7. The Raze who had spent the last six years sneaking out of her bedroom at night to roam first New York City, and then the empty lands around the Toronto Chapterhouse. She would have to be the wolf, the predator, someone a little darker, a little on the edge. She discarded a blue t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and instead added black leggings and her Ramones tee to the pile on her bed.

  She shoved all her stuff into her bag and scanned the room, looking for anything she might have forgotten. Her eyes slid over the few possessions she had: some books; a handful of pictures pinned to a corkboard by her bed; a box of mementos from her parents that Dan had kept for her all those years she’d lived at the orphanage. All that could stay — Alex had said not to pack anything personal.

  Sunlight rippled across the wall, chased by cloud shadows. Her gaze fell on the photo of her and Del, taken just after they’d moved into the Chapterhouse. They stood together, arms linked, the scars on Del’s arm clearly defined. Never.

  She shivered, feeling the edges of her perception blur. Ever since Alex had removed the warding that had protected her most of her life, she’d been getting vision flashes. Fragments of the past, gone in an instant. She knew this came from her dad, who had been a witch, a powerful seer. He was as much a part of her bloodline as her werewolf mother.

  Her sight wavered and dimmed. The dorm room faded out of existence and became a simple wooden house with a floor of beaten earth. A young woman knelt in a pool of rough woolen skirts, green witch’s aura shimmering around her.

  “Mercy!” the woman called out to the other witches surrounding her. But one of the witches raised a knife, glowing hot from the coals.

  “We curse you, Rowan, by blood and by fire.”

  The vision changed, and Raze found herself standing in a green valley upon sheep-cropped grass studded with daisies. A tall blonde stood beside her, and Raze realized with a start that it was the woman who’d been holding the knife.

  “What am I doing here?” Raze asked, her voice dream-heavy. It took all her effort to talk. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ailith,” the woman answered. “And you’re here because you need to understand, Rosa.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Who you are, to Rowan. Who you’ll need to be, so that Rowan can finish the task I set her.”

  The vision went as suddenly as it had come, leaving Raze gasping and dizzy. She clutched the edge of her desk hard. Rowan. That was the name Del was trying to trace; the name that she was convinced was tied to her forgotten past, and the letters carved upon her skin. But the message had definitely been meant for her, and not for Del. The vision-witch had called her by her birth name, Rosa. Why? It made no sense.

  There was a knock on the door. Raze dragged a shaking hand through her golden-brown curls. “Come in.”

  “Ready?” Alex pointed at her duffel. “Is this it? Well, come on, then. We have a long drive ahead of us if we want to get to New York today.”

  ***

  On the drive south from Toronto, Alex went over everything with her. Again. But Raze didn’t complain. This was her chance to prove she could do more than just hang around in a fancy boarding school.

  “Tomorrow you’ll meet my contact, and he’ll take it from there,” Alex told her. “The Saint, they call him. He’s a fence, but he’s a good informant too. We’ve done favors for each other in the past. He’ll connect you with the person who’s leading the whole thing.”

  “Who we know nothing about?”

  “Who we know nothing about.” Alex’s mouth was a tight line. He didn’t like it, she realized, didn’t like sending her in blind. “However,” he continued, “we have an advantage. We do know the buyer. I’m not sure even the gang members you’ll be dealing with know that particular bit of information.”

  “The buyer. Baroness Livia Reis,” she said, thinking back to the conversation in the gym. “The witches’ elected representative at Court. Uh, isn’t she the one who ordered Del and Ash kidnapped and tortured last summer?”

  “The same. Not that we were able to prove it. Reis is the head of a powerful clan of Brazilian-American witches. She’s the biggest player within the Court of the Covenant, barring Shade Raven herself. She has her fingers in as many grubby pies as Shade. She’s dangerous. But she prefers to be discreet, so hopefully you won’t come into contact with her.”

  “And she’s after the Night
Blade itself.” Raze closed her eyes, picturing the sword in her mind. From her hasty research, she knew that the Night Blade was an actual steel sword with a well-documented past, different from the Heart Blade, which was a construct. There had been dozens of sightings of the Night Blade over the centuries, and the weapon had left a long, bloody trail of ownership.

  “Remember,” Alex said, “you don’t know what you’re going after. And you don’t know the buyer. You can’t let any of that slip in public, not once. Not even to your partner.”

  Raze frowned at the mention of a partner. This was the one thing that had been bothering her. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me go through with the job. Don’t you trust me?” She tried to make her voice steady, reasonable. But she could hear the quiver in her words, the hurt beneath them. Alex evidently could, too. He looked over at her briefly, his expression hard to read.

  “Raze,” he said softly. “Of course I trust you. But it’s your first mission. I’m not putting you at risk more than I have to. Like I told you, you’ll go in, get the information we need, and get out. Only your partner will go through with the actual heist. We’ll come up with a good excuse, a broken leg or something.”

  “So I’m what, backup?”

  “No. The two of you will be a team. You’ll be each other’s backup. The only difference is, you’ll pull out before the job takes place, and he’ll go in with them.”

  “Will I at least meet him before?”

  “You’ve already met.” Alex smiled, a slow smile that started at the corners of his mouth and lit up his whole face with mischief. “Remember Finn, the pixie from the New Haven safe house?”

  Finn. Shock of green hair and a cheerful smile that was all needle-sharp teeth and attitude to match. She grinned, despite herself.

  “I remember Finn. I can work with him.”

  “Good. And I do trust you. I wouldn’t be sending you if I didn’t. Okay?”