Call Paul who, despite his warnings, was on his way. Tag felt him, just below his heart, drawing closer by the second. And when he arrived, Tag wouldn’t be able to do a thing to help him because he was paralyzed.
Trickster love the Lord, Paul had better have a slew of relatives with him. He was one powerful witch, but his magic was meant for growing and healing and passion, not really for breaking heads. He could play keep-away with sorcerers all day long—he was great at illusion and defense—but giving them a good smack-down wasn’t Paul’s thing. Portia was the twin for that. She could pull the water from the air and hit you with your own personal tidal wave. But even Tag knew sorcerers and telepaths were a bad combination.
Which wouldn’t stop Portia from being the one to drive Paul right into sorcerer central. He couldn’t imagine much that might stop her. They were twins, and twins, like spouses, didn’t worry about trivial things like personal safety when their counterpart was in trouble.
He had to free himself and get to Paul. The sorcerers deserved a good smack-down, but it wasn’t worth Paul or Portia’s life.
But how? He wasn’t exactly in prime form. If the paralysis spell and the ropes weren’t bad enough, a megadose of sorcerous weirdness had left him feeling like a giant had used him for hacky sack and queasy to boot. Not that he could vomit while paralyzed, but it didn’t stop his body from trying. And Trickster’s tits, here it came again.
This wasn’t the first time Tag had been hit by the dry heaves, but it was the worst. He doubled over as best he could against his bonds, gagging. One fist beat helplessly against his back, bound too tightly to do anything else, as he tried to distract himself from the wave of nausea.
Then a very important point wormed its way through the misery: he’d doubled over. He’d moved his hand. The spell was wearing off. His fast dual metabolism must burn off sorcerers’ spells the same way it burned off food and medication.
Suddenly he felt much better. Okay, he still felt like barfing—but now he had hope.
Tag squirmed. On top of the spell, he’d been tied up so securely and prettily he had no doubt that the male sorcerer had a kink for bondage in his spare time. But he could move now, at least as much as yards of hemp rope would allow.
He squirmed again. Twitched one foot and then the other. Rolled his shoulders to relieve the cramp in them. Then he looked at his kidnappers, stared right at them, defying them to notice he wasn’t quite as helpless as they’d like.
Nope, not paying attention. Score one for the fox! The sorcerers huddled together in one corner, near a filthy window facing the road. Periodically one, usually the woman, gesticulated. A sulfur backwash filled the room each time, and the already chilly room got colder. Nothing else happened, though—which meant they were targeting Paul and whoever was with him.
Time to act. Could he…
Tag concentrated, felt the bones and sinews, fur and cunning, of the fox underneath his wordy shell. The spell hampered him. Usually shifting was graceful, almost effortless, but his sore body didn’t want to cooperate.
Paul. Think of Paul.
Paul needed him. Paul needed to not be here. He was putting himself in danger because Tag had been careless. It was Tag’s job to rescue himself and then rescue Paul.
Come on, Trickster. Help me out here. The man promised me a steak dinner, and we have to be alive for me to collect.
Tag’s bonds fell away from his suddenly smaller form.
One of the windows on his side of the room was missing a pane, an opening far too tiny for his wordy form, but the right size for a fox. A bit high, but determination and need would bear him up.
He ran, sprang, soared toward the window—
One Japanese word rang out. Sulfur filled the air. He landed with an ignominious thump, shivering with cold, but unable to move otherwise. He had to glance to down his own body to make sure he wasn’t enclosed in a block of ice.
This was so not good.
The female sorcerer picked him up. Her hands were surprisingly gentle. “You are a surprise, Mr. Fox, but we should have anticipated you. There has been a fox in this story since the beginning. It is only fitting there will be one at its ending.” She set him down on the chair he’d managed to escape, and then stroked his fur. His skin twitched with dread. She didn’t smell of evil to his fox-nose—he’d run into a few downright evil people in his life and they had a reek to them that made three-day-old garbage seem appealing—but of iron-cold, implacable will. People who smelled like that were as dangerous as the no-doubt-about-it evil ones because they’d do what they thought needed to be done and mourn the consequences later.
What she meant to do was kill Paul and, judging from the hint of regret in her voice, the way she stroked his fur like you might stroke a dying pet, him too. She wasn’t happy about it, but she’d do it anyway.
His blood chilled. A sorcerer didn’t get to be this lady’s age without developing a formidable will. If she was determined to kill them…well, she might not succeed, but she’d die trying and put them in a world of hurt before she died.
And the young guy would help because that was his job in the operation and he didn’t seem clever enough to question whether murdering two people made any sense at all. Not to mention he seemed generally pissed off at the world.
Paul couldn’t kill and probably wouldn’t let Tag do so, which put them at a stomach-twistingly serious disadvantage against people who would.
Tag’s ears twitched. A car was barreling up the road. Something big, with a powerful old engine, going very fast: Portia’s boyfriend’s magically souped-up 1957 Chevy.
Tag felt a flash of hope. Maybe they’d make it after all. Guillermo’s style of magic was developed for tossing knights around back in the Middle Ages. He was a good witch, but his fighter’s powers had to have loopholes for when a battle turned kill-or-be-killed ugly. If he’d managed to talk Portia into staying home…
The rain stopped abruptly, and a wall of water burst the door down.
So much for that hope. Portia hadn’t stayed home. With luck, Guill and Paul between them could keep her brain from turning to guacamole. With luck. These guys weren’t especially powerful sorcerers, but they had mind-fuck magics down cold.
Paul ran through the destroyed door as the rain started up again, released from Portia’s grip. He was pale and dripping wet, and his mouth was set in a grim line and Tag, despite his terror, thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“Give me my husband!” he roared.
The young sorcerer laughed and said something in Japanese that Tag guessed meant something ugly.
“Great,” Paul cracked. “You’re not just any asshole sorcerer. You’re a homophobic asshole sorcerer. This day’s just getting better and better.”
Tag’s heart swelled with pride. Paul’s wise-cracks weren’t as sharp as his yet, but he was getting better.
Paul murmured a few words in Gaelic, softly enough that a human couldn’t have heard them, but Tag did. A second later, Tag could move.
Which he did, shifting to wordy form on the fly, interposing himself between Paul and the sorcerers. “Paul, move it,” he muttered, shoving at his husband. “The car’s still running.” He hated running away from a fight, but this wasn’t the fun kind of fight or the kind you needed to finish to prove a point—not like you could prove a point to a sorcerer anyway. It was the kind of fight that might leave Portia in a padded room or fry Paul’s magic because he killed someone by mistake or worst of all, get Paul killed because he was too busy worrying about Tag and Portia to defend himself.
Definitely time to go.
A barrage of rusty hand-cut nails flew out of the cabin’s far wall, peppering the sorcerers shrapnel-style. The young man yelped in pain and alarm. He’d been in the direct line of fire. Guillermo was on the job, even if he’d opted to stay outside and shield Portia.
Everything went cold and still for a nanosecond. Then loud voices barked over the rain. Tag heard a word or two and
let his foxside take over running the wordy body, so whatever they were saying translated into la-la-la. Paul froze, his hand raised to ready a spell, as if the flood of noise distracted him.
Outside, Portia screamed, a sound that twisted in Tag’s already unsteady gut. He could only imagine how angry Paul must be, because that tortured sound was enough to make him want to rip off heads.
And there went any chance of getting Paul out of danger. What guy wouldn’t stay to fight people who were doing that to his sister?
Luckily he’d have Tag at his side.
Sorcerers had bones, and bones could be broken. And if Tag did all the breaking of bones, Paul wouldn’t have to live with the magical consequences.
“First my husband, now my sister?” Paul said, his voice a polished blade. “Lord and Lady, you guys have a death wish. You’ve fucked with the wrong family of witches.”
Whatever subtle, elegant spell Paul had planned turned into a bolt of pure energy that blasted the older sorcerer onto her butt with her sweater scorched and her white bangs fried. The air snapped and sizzled. Tag smelled ozone. Paul had only the most rudimentary weather magic, but when he was pissed off enough, he could do a few tricks.
A ball of sickly fuchsia snapped from the younger sorcerer toward them.
It sizzled in the air. That had to be bad, especially if it was strong enough he could pick it up without any magic of his own.
“Get down!” Tag hit the floor, dragging Paul with him. The ball of energy followed, drawn magnetically toward them.
And splattered, flaming, off the shields Paul had set around them. Reflected heat seared Tag’s skin, though nothing actually reached him, and Paul’s fairer skin reddened as if he’d been out in the sun too long. Tag didn’t care to think about how much it would have hurt if it had hit directly. The old lady was probably the guy’s mama. Beating on a guy’s mama, even in self-defense, was a sure way to make him fighting mad—and a fighting mad sorcerer was sixteen flavors of oh shit.
This seemed like a good time to try again to get Paul out, although Tag was sickeningly sure it wouldn’t work. “Come on, Paul.” Tag tugged as hard as he could, pulling Paul to his feet. “Time to go!”
The old lady, still sitting on the floor, shot off another spell. She didn’t bother aiming at them, knowing it wouldn’t hit, but something clanged into place. Portia screamed like she was being eviscerated.
More metal flew from the walls and floor, peppering the sorcerers and barely missing Tag and Paul.
Thank the Powers for Guillermo. The rain of nails would be good cover. Tugging on Paul’s hand—Paul seemed determined to finish the fight, and he called Tag stubborn!—Tag took three steps toward the door.
Or where the door used to be. Now there was only a wall of ice. The sorceress somehow used Portia’s water-magic against them, ripping the power from Portia’s dangerously porous mind.
Paul let loose with two more blasts that knocked the sorcerers back. “I don’t know what you bastards want,” he said through tight lips, “but leave my sister out of it.”
To Tag’s surprise, the sorcerers nodded. “Very well. If she will retreat, we will leave her alone,” the old woman said. “She is involved only because of family loyalty, and we can respect that.”
Paul closed his eyes for a second, obviously reaching to Portia.
Shit. This was not the best time for Paul to focus on anything but the sorcerers, who had no intention of leaving them alone. Forget the twin-bond. Tag simply yelled at the top of his lungs, “Portia, Guill, stand down. Now.”
He wasn’t too crazy about the way his voice shook, but with luck, everyone was too busy to notice.
“And my husband. If this is a magical matter, I’m the one you have a quarrel with, not him.” Paul’s voice was tight with closely held rage.
The old woman, on her feet again, shook her head. “I am sorry, Mr. Donovan. Your husband is a dual-natured fox, so he is very much a part of this. Two hundred years ago, one of my ancestors vanquished a great evil that came in fox form. He set a charge upon his descendants to watch in case the evil should ever be freed. It seems you and your husband have done so.” She advanced closer, close enough that Tag could take a swing at her.
All his instincts screamed at her to do just that: punch her out, grab his husband and get him to safety while she was dazed. Powerful or not, she was small and elderly and a good punch to the face would hurt her.
And Powers, it would be satisfying, and never mind his rules about hitting women. She was planning to kill them and had already done something awful to Portia, and that changed everything.
He swung—and punched Paul instead. Luckily, he realized at the last second what was happening and pulled the blow so he didn’t break his husband’s jaw.
He flinched at the impact more than Paul did.
Point taken. “Sorry,” he muttered, wanting to say so much more, but unable to find words.
“Not your fault, lover. Fucking sorcerers. Leave this one to me. I can see the spells coming.”
Right. Leave fighting off would-be killers to the guy who’d spent his entire life practicing non-violence.
On the other hand, his own efforts weren’t exactly helping.
Tag breathed a quick, desperate prayer to Trickster, begging for inspiration for a clever plan. Because it was Trickster, he specified a clever plan that didn’t kill anyone, especially him or Paul, or make Portia’s brain explode.
The sorceress circled them as she continued to talk. “I know your family’s fine reputation, Mr. Donovan, so I believe you acted in ignorance. Your husband is a fox, so he was only upsetting order as his nature dictates. I deeply regret that honor demands you must both die for the ancient evil you have unleashed on the world.”
Their shields wavered.
Shit, had the pattern she walked been a spell?
They wavered again.
The air rippled.
“Ancient evil? You say the sweetest things.”
That voice…
Tag whooped. When he’d prayed to Trickster, he’d never expected such a wonderful response.
Akane materialized in the middle of the cabin, in the form that seemed most natural for her to wear: a woman’s shape with a fox’s ears and three magnificent tails. She was dressed in Japanese clothes of an earlier century, in carefully layered silk all the colors of winter: snow white, ice blue, deep forest green, and a hint of crimson teasing underneath it all.
She wielded a katana in each hand.
And she was about three times the size of the petite fox-woman Tag remembered, her ears brushing the crumbling plaster of the ruined ceiling.
Chapter Seventeen
Akane’s heart swelled to see Paul and Tag again, and to see them defiant and basically unharmed. Paul had a bruise blossoming on his face and Tag looked like he’d been in a fight, but not necessarily like he’d lost. Considering they were fighting sorcerers, that was doing well.
While the sorcerers were distracted by her dramatic arrival, Paul had recast his defensive spells. Excellent. So far her plan was working.
All right, calling it a plan might be overly generous, but kitsune worked best on the fly.
She blew each of them a kiss. With the swords in her hand, all she could do was purse her lips at them and then direct her energy, putting her feelings—and a little of the erotic energy that would charge Paul’s magic—into the gesture.
Then she danced with the katanas and laughed, a throaty, abandoned sound that warmed the rancid air in the abandoned house. With each chuckle she visualized the sensual sound as a force that drove the two sorcerers back, so they ended up huddled in the corner.
Inch by inch, stubbornly fighting but unable to resist completely, they retreated. Each inch they yielded made her laugh more.
The younger one, the man, stood in front of the woman. Despite herself, Akane was touched. The woman’s power pulsed in the air, trying to push back at hers and almost succeeding, while the man’s was muc
h weaker. Yet he protected the one who was his mentor and most likely his mother.
Akane bowed deeply to the young man, honoring his courage.
He spoiled the effect by spitting out, “Whore!” in Japanese. He might not have much power, but he had enough to give the ugly word physical weight, so it hit the floor with a thud. He’d probably meant it to hit her, but she was strong, powered by love and the rightness of her cause, and it would take far more than that puny display of mortal magic to harm her.
“Nonsense. I never lost my amateur status,” she said, keeping her voice light and sweet and feminine. The contrast with her swords and her stature would make it sound intimidating rather than weak, as though she was so sure of her power she didn’t need to roar.
“You’re a whore and a killer,” he repeated, so vehemently the windows rattled. “A wanton destroyer of men. My ancestor defeated you, but you tricked these revolting fags…”
He sounded like he planned to rant on, getting more vulgar as he went, but his mother, forgetting the subtleties of sorcery, slapped him and muttered fiercely, “Watch your mouth. The men are Donovans, whatever else they may be, and she’s far stronger than we realized.”
Akane laughed again and gave the laughter blades. A thin trickle of blood trickled down the man’s cheek. “It’s a pity to scar such a handsome face,” she said, switching to English so Paul and Tag could understand, “but now it will match your spirit. Within, you are an ugly and petty man, just like your not-so-revered ancestor, who was also, as you so elegantly put it, a fag. I seduced his lover, so he cursed me. Paul and Tag Donovan freed me. Sordid and foolish on my part and your ancestor’s, but not evil. At least not on my part. I question the honor of one who carries revenge from beyond the grave and isn’t even honest about its cause.”
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