Only her.
Seph looks down at me, her hair a bright golden cloud around a face streaked with tears, though a faint smile hovers over her lips. She thinks she’s saving me. Saving us all.
My magic explodes outward with all the force of my will, trying to freeze hers. The onyx stone at her throat flickers silver, red then blue at its heart, absorbing everything I have to give. I can feel the power start to twist and burn, sliding from my grasp like an oiled rope, reaching for her again, not to neutralize this time. But to destroy.
As Seph leans over to kiss me, I yank harder at the magic, digging in with a furious desperation, forcing it back inside me, inch by slippery inch. I won’t let it kill her.
I.
Won’t.
Just when I think I have it contained, Seph flinches.
Her body jerks once in my arms, her warm, sweet gasp against my lips. We look down at the same time. Something sparkles against her skin, between her bare breasts, something sharp and streaked with blood. I think I’m screaming, but I can’t hear the sound. I can’t hear anything. It’s deathly quiet in my head as I watch her blink once, then sigh. Her head falling back, golden hair pooling on one shoulder, that delicate strand of pink drifting in front of eyes slowly going dark. The silhouette of a person disappearing down a long and winding tunnel.
No. Don’t go, baby. Don’t leave me.
That vivacious spark that first drew me in fades from her face, leaving it blank and empty. I cup her cheeks with both my hands, shaking her. She’s so small my fingers cover her almost like a mask, but the real mask is death.
Seph’s gone.
For the first time in my long, long life, I feel cold. So fucking cold.
All at once she seems to shudder in my arms. I hold my breath, hope choking my throat. But it’s no miracle, only the quick, efficient movements of the person standing behind my dead lover. The one holding the hilt of a crystal sword in both her hands.
She pulls the blade free of Seph’s limp body, familiar blue eyes meeting and holding mine for a terrible instant before she vanishes again.
I wake up cold and covered in sweat. Just as I have every time before. Staring wildly around the darkened, dusty office, full of a rage so bright and brittle I can taste it like blood on my tongue.
I know everyone thinks I killed Seph. But I didn’t.
It was her fucking sister.
Jett.
2
This being dead crap is no fun at all.
I watch Jack fall back into a restless sleep. It’s the only way he sleeps anymore.
When he closes his eyes at all.
I try to touch him, but I can’t. My fingers slip through his skin, just like they did when I went after his soul. Except this time there’s no heat, no sharp edges cutting into me, just a dull, constant ache.
He stirs as I move away, his hand reaching for mine. It stops my heart, or would if I had one anymore. I move away before I wake him up. Jack needs his sleep.
Yup, being a ghost fucking sucks. After almost four months of this shit, I’m convinced there is no actual hell. No fire and brimstone or the proverbial horned guy with a pointy stick. There’s only this, which is far, far worse. Seeing the people you love struggling, floundering and unable to offer anything, even a comforting touch. Along with the impotent frustration that has been building day by endless day, there is a rage that sometimes burns so hot I almost feel alive again.
Almost.
I don’t have a clue why Jett killed me. When I saw her—that instant my soul left my body—it was like being stabbed all over again. And the metaphorical wound has only been festering with every month that passes. I’d accepted my death at the hands of Jack’s magic, even welcomed it as a way of saving him from a fate like Georg’s, but being murdered by my sister?
That shit was not okay. And I don’t get it. My sister may be as scary as anything alive—and some things that aren’t—but she’s always been loyal. To the bone.
I also thought she loved me, but clearly I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.
I thought Jack was going to lose his mind for a while there. I’m still not real sure he hasn’t, but then I’ve never seen him so quiet and cold, drawn tight around those already rough edges. This must be how he was before me. What he meant when he said I’d changed him. Now I’m gone. And even in sleep, that hard purpose of his never softens, never warms, never slips. I want to scream with the need to help him. I can scream all I like, though. No one will hear me.
It hurt like a son of a bitch. Dying. But not nearly as much as watching everyone deal with it.
I was there when Jack buried me. Well, you know, there meaning both in the dead body sense and the existential sense. Not that he could actually bring himself to put me in a hole in the ground. Oh no. My man had something more fairy-tale-esque in mind.
Jack carried me to one of the half-submerged caves on the South Shore, laid me down on the rocks and covered me in a two-foot-thick sheet of crystal clear ice. Snow blows into the cave now and then, dusting my coffin, making it look like I’m covered with diamonds.
Honestly, it looks hella cool, me as a blond Snow White with a strand of pink permanently curling over one ear—minus the dwarves, of course. Then there’s the fact that I’m actually dead, not just sleeping.
Which sucks.
The bit of magic he worked is so powerful even my sisters can’t budge it, and believe me they tried. It hurt my heart to watch Ana struggle again and again, finally dropping her hands and whirling away in fury and tears, clutching the necklace Jack had left for them on the ice in her fingers, the one my mother left with Carly, thinking to protect me.
Carly. She kissed the ice above my face with tears running down her cheeks before letting Styx’s big hand cradle her head to his chest as they followed Ana out of the cave. Jett stood there for a long while after the others left, just staring, her face almost as cold and blank as my dead one. Then she, too, walked out.
It’s all my fault. I thought I was saving everyone. Woo-hoo, look at me—I’m so noble. Fucking bullshit. No one’s happy or okay or even saved. I only made things worse by letting guilt and fear mess with my head.
Real sacrifice is digging in and fixing shit.
I finally get it—now, when I can’t lift so much as a finger to help.
Figures.
I flop down (well, hover) over the desk and look up at the small window above the couch. Jack takes over my office like this quite a bit. It seems to be the only place he can actually sleep.
Benji, who’s been checking on things now and then—like he keeps hoping I’ll show up from some extended vacation—is terrified of Jack and I don’t think anyone else knows.
Except Jett. I’ve seen her watching him sometimes when he leaves. But so far as I can tell she hasn’t told a soul. Why would she? After all, she’s the only one who knows he didn’t kill me.
The only one alive, anyway. I can’t get the look on her face out of my head, that expression when she pulled her sword from my body. I was too shocked to process much at the time, the whole dying-and-becoming-a-ghost-and-it’s-your-sister-who-murdered-you thing effectively short-circuited my reasoning skills. But I haven’t been able to figure out what she was feeling. It wasn’t happy or satisfied or even sad. I kinda think she was furious—like really, really pissed.
My lips press together, and my nails dig into my thighs. Or they would, if I had a damn body. You never realize the satisfaction inherent in the tiniest physical sensations until they’re gone.
“Why would she be so angry? What the hell did I do?” I whisper to myself, not expecting or getting an answer. I still haven’t got a clue. I’m the baby sister. I can be annoying, I get that. Hell, sometimes I’ve reveled in it. We’ve had our differences over the years, but a sword in the fucking back? I can’t imagine anything I did was worth that.
God, I’d kill for a drink. Ghost problem number 666, you can’t get drunk. If anyone should be able to get
drunk with impunity, it’s a fucking ghost. I sigh and glance again at Jack.
He looks haggard, even in sleep. I know he’s lost weight. The sexy hollows in his face have deepened, giving him a dark, almost sinister air. But he’s still my Jack. Those thick chestnut waves fall over his forehead, the blond bits highlighted blue from the light coming in through the windows. Snow is still on the ground, even though it’s nearing the end of April. I’ve been dead for damn near four months.
I try to think of a way out. For the thousandth time.
Logically.
Calmly.
But I can’t. Hell, I used to think fairies were flighty. Ghosts are like fairies with insane ADHD. Constantly distracted by every random feeling, thought and memory. I get up and pace, but everything in this office calls to me. Case in point, as my fingers drift through the edge of my coat still hanging over the couch, I suddenly miss being able to feel the soft collar against my throat. In the blink of an eye…
I’m tiny, a plush velour blanket tucked up to my chin. My mother is singing me to sleep, something about a magic man and coming home, the tune haunting and low. Her normally merry eyes looking sad just before I fall asleep, all that blue like a rainy summer day…
I run outside, into an afternoon washed fresh and clean by a quick storm. Splashing in a puddle in my shiny-new red rain boots. Minutes later, a water sprite is shoving my head underwater, my eyes and lungs burning as she mutters something about monsters. I kick my feet, new boots forgotten as I try to shake her off, a strange magic building over my skin…
Years later, whispering my rhyme, soft and low, hoping no one can hear me. Because I don’t want them to see what I’m doing. I can’t take the pity anymore.
“…the maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes.”
The light is all green and gold and I can smell the cut grass from our lawn. Even see the emerald softness through the black lines of the trees. I’m just beyond the edge of the backyard, within the urban forest that curves around our property line and Mrs. Rudd’s.
I’ve practiced with my sisters over and over again, but nothing helps. The memory of the last time I worked with Jett still makes my cheeks burn. I suck so hard-core.
There’s a reason they call it ‘casting.’ Reaching for the magic, weaving the rhyme, it’s exactly like throwing out a net. You cast it deep and wide and scoop up the energy and turn it into magic. My net usually comes back with a few dozen fair-sized fish and one or two real beauties. A nice haul. Not so bad, right? But then Jett’s net comes back heavy with fish, bulging, silver and fat, bursting at the damn seams.
That’s the difference between me and my sisters.
My stomach burns at the memory with an uncomfortable mixture of awe and envy. Why is it so much easier for them?
For her especially.
Jett, striding across the yard in the light, looking so badass and strong as she pulls her sword from its sheath and sends it singing through the air. I watch from my hiding place, barely breathing. There’s something about her I have to remember. What was it? A pain in my back, searing and hot, taking my breath away…
My hands tighten as I pull myself out of the relentless tide of memories. I almost fool myself into thinking I hear the scrape of my fingernails over the wood. But Jack’s breathing is the only sound disturbing the silence of my old office.
He’s starting to stir.
I lean over and brush my lips over his before he wakes. I can’t feel him, or smell him, and the loss is beyond awful. You don’t know what lonely is until you’re a ghost. At least I can still hear him. That rough suede voice that whispers my name. Then his eyes snap open. I see the exact moment it hits him all over again, the realization that I’m dead.
This moment right here is why Jack dreads sleeping past the nightmare, why he fights it so. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it any better.
The pain crackles in his beautiful eyes, then he shoves it away and gets to his feet. He’s barely slept three hours. If I could knock his ass out and force him to rest, I would, but I got nothing. I’d give anything to have back that weak power I was so ashamed of as a kid.
Ghosts don’t have magic. Ghosts don’t have shit.
Except the memories.
With a sigh, I get off the desk to follow him.
It’s not as if I have anything better to do.
3
I leave the bar, my head aching. I could’ve sworn I smelled Seph when I woke up, that light scent of rain and flowers dancing in the air for just a moment. I could almost taste her. Then it was gone. Back to the musty hint of a fading memory.
That kind of thing has been happening a lot lately. More proof that I’m losing it. Or maybe it’s just that spring is approaching…or trying to. I’m not inclined to allow it this year.
With a hard smile, I pass the towering piles of dirty snow on my way up the hill. But no matter what I do, spring is inevitable.
I’ll fight it as long as I can. Because when winter fades this time, it’ll be like saying good-bye to her all over again. Time should stop when someone you love dies, goddammit. No more changing of the seasons, no more turns around the sun. Unfortunately, one thing that is beyond even my power is stopping time. I stomp up the hill. It would be easier to take my bike, but I don’t want the noise, and this body needs the work out. I’m keyed up, with good reason. It’s finally happened.
It may look to the casual observer like I’m wandering, but I know exactly where I’m headed. I’ve been patiently waiting for this for months. Perhaps I should replace ‘patiently’ with ‘quietly seething.’ Thomas Animkii finally left the Gosse house last night. Rochka’s been watching it almost round the clock for me these past few weeks. Now the one person I need to get my hands on to set my plans in motion is within my reach. Finally.
With Seph gone, so is my way into that house. And there’s something in there I need. The wards Oriane raised against me slammed shut again like the mythical gates of hell. And while Rochka can get in through Carly’s murals, she can’t get what I need out. I’ve been stuck waiting for Thomas to get better and leave. I have a sneaking suspicion he was fully healed months ago and it’s simply been Ana’s caution holding him hostage, but in any case, the man has left.
Thomas doesn’t live in Fond du Lac, the Ojibwe reservation, though as far as I know, he’s entitled to. He has a small house on the outskirts of Duluth. Seconds later, I’m looking at a single lighted window in the darkness. I should know what I’m going to say, I’ve been rehearsing this for months. But suddenly my throat is tight.
Thomas is my only chance for an ally outside of Rochka. I can’t go to the Gosse sisters directly and ask for what I want, obviously.
Going to the Council is also out. Cerunnos rules them almost as completely as he does the Dark one now. I’ve no desire for him to learn what actually happened on Yule’s eve. Not yet.
Kivistö is dead, even if he would have listened, which is debatable. But Krueger might and it’s him I plan to go to, but I need at least one other person on my side first.
Someone who was close to Seph who will speak up for me.
And who owes me enough to take the risk.
I stare at the door in front of me, head pounding. Thomas definitely owes me, but will he believe me?
Only one way to find out.
I raise my hand and knock.
Twenty minutes later, Thomas is looking at me over a cup of black coffee, his face slack. He’s a big man, and a striking one, with that streak of white in his long black hair and those pitted red scars the werewolves left him with. His most recent brush with death at the hands of a crazed female alpha hasn’t done him any favors. He’s thinner, almost gaunt. For the first time since I met him, Thomas looks older than me. Damn humans. This is part of why I stopped living among them all those centuries ago. I hate their mortality. The stupid things die too easily. Like Seph.
Of course, she had help. My hands clench under the table. I see the ice cr
eaking up Thomas’s kitchen window out of the corner of my eye. Restless, I get to my feet, needing to pace, to do something to keep my magic in check. I don’t need to scare him on top of everything else. I’m enough of a scary guy lately.
“Exactly what are you saying here, Jack?”
He isn’t going to want to believe this. But I need him to. Not just for the damn plan, but because I need someone to believe that it wasn’t me. Someone besides Rochka. Somebody who loved Seph, too.
“I’m saying they’re wrong, Thomas. It was Jett. Not me.”
Thomas drops his coffee. The crash of ceramic hitting tile is drowned out by the window at my back exploding in a screeching hail of glass. A chill wind swirls into the room along with a sparkling flurry of snow. Something hard slams against my windpipe, lifting me off my feet as I choke and kick. Before I can get away a sharp pain stabs deep into my shoulder along with the incongruous smell of black licorice. Vampire. The world fades to black in a way that is all too familiar.
I have no idea how long it is before I come to again.
I’m slumped in a chair at the table, the night wind and the broken window still at my back. Tyr, assassin of the realm and all-around bastard, is facing me, his naked sword across his knees and murder in his oil-black eyes.
I’m unrestrained, and I think I know why, though from the corner of my eyes, I see that Thomas is tied tightly to a chair over in the corner. Out of harm’s way? Interesting.
As if reading my thought, the assassin speaks up.
“Don’t concern yourself with the human; he’s not to be harmed.”
That’s also interesting. Who is Tyr’s employer that they’d take such pains to ensure a human’s safety? Certainly not Cerunnos.
Roses & Rye (Toil & Trouble Book 3) Page 3