by Faith Hunter
Evan stepped into the circle and sat, rolling the vamps close and digging in the bag I had carried for his supplies. This would be Big Evan’s show, not mine. I was just the helper. Bruiser was the muscle, standing guard at the bottom of the steps below the closed trapdoor. He was silent, watching us, his face impassive, his body loose and ready for anything that might land in the circle above us and come through the door.
Walking sunwise—or, in this case, literally clockwise—I walked the witch circle, setting out twelve candles, one beside each buried witch. I lit them according to my instructions, beginning with the witch wearing the pocket watch set at the number one. When I was done, Evan asked, “Anything else you need to tell me?” When I shook my head, he said, “Say it again.”
I restrained a sigh and a retort. I wasn’t a witch, I wasn’t used to memorizing spells, and I had never crafted one. He wanted to make sure I hadn’t left anything out that would help him with the spell and had made me repeat Kathyayini’s words over and over. “Long years past was cold iron, blood, three cursed trees, and lightning. Red iron will set you free.” I opened my hands as if holding a tea tray flat on my palms, as if saying, See? Just like last time, and telling him with my eyes, as I had told him with words, that all this part had been figured out.
He nodded for me to continue.
“Shadow and blood are a dark light, buried beneath the ground.” I pointed to the witch nearest. “The one you seek,” I said, pointing to Misha, “she is bound to the Earth. She didn’t mean to be bound, but she cannot get away now.”
“We still don’t know what is being used as a focus for the spell?” Evan asked. I shook my head. “Time?”
“Eleven fifty-two,” Bruiser said.
“Good.” Evan drew a knife, an athame. The whole thing, handle and blade, was purest sterling silver. He pointed the tip at the circle, and I closed it with the black marker. I drew a blade. Mine was steel with silver plating, but, really, even plastic would have done. I went to kneel near the witch who was almost buried. It was my job to scrape away the sand the moment the working was broken.
Big Evan Trueblood was an air witch, meaning he worked with air currents, sometimes with weather, with wind, with storms. But most often Evan worked with sound. He pulled a box from the bag he had brought and opened it with quick metallic-sounding snaps of the latches. Within was a flute. The witch placed it to his mouth and blew a long, slow note. This wasn’t a wooden flute, with a hollow sound and a limited range, but a large, silver flute, larger than any flute I remember seeing used in the high school band. The tone was haunting and low as single notes became a melody.
Beneath my feet and knees, I felt the sand shiver with the deep vibration of the music. It was sweet one moment, discordant the next, melancholy and joyful by turns. Moment by moment, the sand beneath me grew more and more disturbed, until I could hear its disquiet over the music, a scratching, dry abrasion, the surface sand worrying across the deeper-packed earth.
It moved as if alive, shook as if frightened, slid as if sentient. And as I watched, a bead of sand crept closer to the mouth of the buried witch. I looked to Evan, sitting in the center of the circle, playing his flute, his form placid, his melody serene.
Another bead of sand slid within her mouth. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. But my heart rate spiked. The music sped, its tempo rising, the notes climbing high, only to fall into the deeps. I glanced at Misha and started to rise. She was sinking, sinking fast, into the sandy earth. As if she were in quicksand, her body sank, note by note.
The two female vamps in the center of the circle with Big Evan sat up. Lotus shook, her body moving with a tremor like a seizure. My hand holding the vamp-killer started to sweat. I changed my grip, and changed it again. Something was wrong. I looked to Bruiser, and he shook his head. He didn’t understand what was happening either. But what wasn’t happening was an ending to the spell.
Which meant something else was happening. The spell was speeding up. Whatever was supposed to happen slowly was suddenly happening faster.
Silandre lifted her head, her mouth open, and she took a breath so deep it made the candle flames waver. She sang a note. Only in that moment, with the single, strident note vibrating against my eardrums, did I recall Bodat’s comment back when we first started researching Silandre. She had been into opera. She and Lotus had sung opera. And the note she sang was interfering with both the spell and Evan’s attempt to break it.
The woman beside me shuddered and slid beneath the earth. All around the circle, the witches were sliding deeper, their faces stoic and unyielding as the dead.
Lotus took a breath, as long and slow as Silandre’s, about to join in the singing. I was out of time.
And that was the spell. Time. Immortality. Not the enhanced life span of the vampire, tied to the night and to the taking of blood, but true immortality—dependent on nothing, with the speed and power and physical perfection of the flawless predator. I raced forward, my arm swinging back, my grip changing with my purpose. Settling and firming. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bruiser draw his own blade, following my lead.
Lotus’ note sounded, a clarion call to eternity. And I stepped over the circle. The ground shook. Lightning danced over my skin. Striking deep as my foot landed on the inner side of the circle. Pain shot through me, but my foot landed true. My body pivoted, all my weight behind my arm. My blade followed, sweeping ahead of me. Taking off Lotus’ head. The note stopped the instant her head left her neck. There was little blood. A drop that flew upward, a trickle that followed gravity. Her head spun, her silken hair flying in an arc, obscuring eyes that looked, for a moment, startled.
Silandre’s head left her body an instant later, falling toward the sheet. Evan pulled the flute from his lips, stopping his melody. The silence was awful for three rapid heartbeats that fluttered against my eardrums. The heads landed, soft thuds. The bodies slid down.
The earth moved. The clock-working fell in a shower of sparks. With a roar of sound, like a sandstorm, the earth disgorged the witches. Bodies erupted from the grave.
I fell. Bruiser’s feet slid, his balance gone. Evan caught himself on one hand.
On hands and knees, feeling my way in every respect, I crawled across the moving earth to Misha. When I reached her side, I grabbed the amulet on her chest. Gave it a mighty jerk. Misha’s eyes opened. She gasped.
“The amulets,” I shouted. “Rip them away!”
The next moments were never clear in my mind, seen in snapshot instants of memories, as Big Evan raced widdershins and Bruiser raced sunwise, ripping the amulets from the witches, including the one who had been swallowed alive by the earth and regurgitated, gasping and vomiting sand.
Then the house above us began to groan and shudder, dust and debris raining from the old floor. There wasn’t time to get us all up through the trapdoor. Evan Trueblood took up his flute and, with a working he had ready, stored for use, he blew a hole through the foundation wall.
We grabbed every live being and threw them out the hole into the icy, wet night. I had a feeling that Evan held the house up through force of will and every spell he had stored, because it fell just as Bruiser and I dragged the last witch to the curb.
• • •
Two days later, Big Evan sat in his pickup truck, his head bowed, his hands draped over the steering wheel, fingers dangling. He had been avoiding me, so I had ambushed him in his truck. I waited till he had the key in the ignition, opened the passenger’s door, and leaped in. “Not before we chat,” I said.
He heaved a sigh that moved the air through the cab—or maybe that was just his magics settling. “First,” I said, “You worked with me when you might have sent me packing and tried to do this job on your own. Thank you.”
When Evan didn’t look up from his hands and only pursed his lips, I went on, realizing later that he might have been pursing his lips to kill me with a whistle. “Second, I tried, I really tried, to do it the witch way. And I’m sorry I inter
fered with your spell—”
“It wasn’t working.”
I closed my mouth. I wasn’t sure what wasn’t working, but these were the first words Evan Trueblood had spoken in my presence in two days and I wasn’t going to get in the way.
“I thought I had all the math in my head. I can do math around ten other witches, I can see it in the air around a working. I thought I had it. But I messed up.”
I was staring at his hands now too, not sure where this was going, but it sounded perilously close to an apology.
“If you hadn’t been there, the fangheads would have gotten totally free of the temporary binding and attacked me, and I’d have been part of the circle. And they would have finished the working. All of the witches would have died. Molly would have killed me.”
I smiled at that, but Big Evan wasn’t watching me. He turned his hands over and stared at the empty palms. “In the past hundred years, the witch population in the Southeast dropped by seventy percent.” He turned his head to take me in. I was sitting there in my jeans and sweater, my hands pale from the cold, attempting to keep my face unemotional, nonreactive. “Vamps are responsible. We knew it, but we couldn’t prove it. The European council of Mithrans wasn’t interested in anything we said, though we petitioned them for decades at every convocation, or whatever the fangheads call their gathering of the chief bloodsuckers.
“Because of you,” he nearly snarled the word, “because of the investigation you did into the Damours, the holder of the blood diamond, Leo Pellissier had to admit there was a problem, had to admit to the kidnappings, the murders, the whole nine yards. He had to report it to the European vamps.”
Evan shook his head and, frowning sourly, looked out into the day. “The Witch Council had been trying to get the MOC involved in the investigation for decades and he wasn’t interested. Not till you got involved and discovered the answer to something that we had been investigating for more than twenty years. And you did it all in a matter of weeks, without getting my children killed.”
“Nearly.”
“Shut up. I’m not done.”
I sat back and shut up.
“You saved my wife. You saved my kids. Admittedly, you put them in danger in the first place, but I know my wife, and she was right in the middle of the trouble anyway. Then you killed one of us who had been caught up in the darkness of demon calling. You saw it and you dealt with it, and I didn’t see it and I did nothing. You saved us all. And I have treated you like shit. And, yeah, I know how you feel about that word, but that’s what I treated you like.”
Evan laughed again, this one through his nose and almost real. “You can talk now.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of self-flagellating hooey.”
“I am— It is not— You are so fuc—”—he paused, fisting his hands—“dang polite, it’s sometimes hard to remember you carry an arsenal and have a posse to do your bidding.” He looked from his fists to me and said, “Stop grinning and go ahead. Talk. I’m listening.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Evan glared at me, and I shrugged. “Seriously. Thank you. I love Molly. I love your children. I even love you, though that shocks the heck outta me. And I have missed you all so much. I want back the family we once had, but I know that Molly may never again let me. It makes a huge difference to know that you aren’t sabotaging that in any way.”
“I know it wasn’t sensible to have been so angry at you for everything that happened,” he said. “Evangelina was out of control, so steeped in demon magic and blood magic that the entire Witch Council working together might not have been able to bring her down. You did us all a huge favor taking her on. You put your life on the line.”
I shuddered, remembering the way her flesh gave to the pointed blade. The feel of her blood, hot and thick, as it erupted over my hand. “I would take it back, if I could,” I whispered.
Evan sighed. “I knew all along that my feelings weren’t logical and that I should just deal and get over it. I knew that. But . . . there’s stuff you don’t know. About me and my history. And it makes it hard to let people in, close to my family.”
He took a breath that sounded relieved and shaky and determined all at once, which was a lot for most people, but probably not for an air witch like Evan Trueblood. “I’ll let you talk to Angelina. And I won’t say anything when Molly is finally ready to call you. She forgives you, by the way. For killing her sister.”
Joy swept through me at the words. I nodded and wiped away a stray tear that had escaped down my cheek.
“It’s just hard yet. I think she’ll come around soon and— Are you crying?”
I nodded, miserable. “I’m not sure, because I’m not good at this stuff, but I think it’s supposed to be happy tears, though that always sounded stupid to me. Why cry when you’re happy. You know?”
Evan said nothing to that, but I could smell his scent change. He was horrified. Which made me laugh and cry at the same time. “Okay. We need to talk business,” I said.
“Good. This was a little touchy-feely for me.” I could hear the relief in his tone.
“Three things. One: I’d like for you to listen to Rick’s spell. He nearly turned on the first night of the full moon. He was hurting and worried that he’d get stuck in his cat form. Can you tweak his spells?” Evan nodded, and I went on. “Two: The vamp in the garage that Soul told you about? It admitted to being present when Bryson Ryder and his family were killed. And though I can’t prove it, I’m betting he was the vamp who talked to Misha, claiming to be Ryder, a primo of a nonexistent vamp clan. He liked playing games with females, and when Misha described the voice, it fit—old, elegant, Southern. If so, then he was the one who gave Misha to Lotus, Silandre, and Esther.”
“So you killed him,” Evan said flatly.
“No. I turned the thing he’d become over to Big H, carapace, tiny little wings, bug-ugly face, and all.”
Evan’s beard curled into a smile. “Losing that much money musta hurt.”
I smiled back. “The MOC paid me part of my fee even though his head was still attached. And it was worth the loss of the rest to keep you magic-using types happy.
“And three: I know you and Molly offered to show your healing spells to Misha for Charly. I know you’re going to work with her as soon as she’s able to travel. But I want you to consider what might happen to your spells if you added a vamp’s blood in.”
Evan went still as a vamp. For a long time he didn’t seem to breathe. Slowly he turned his head to me. “No witch has acquired access to a vampire’s blood in my lifetime. Use of it is nearly mythical.” He studied my face for proof that I was jerking his chain. “There are spells and workings from hundreds of years ago that show the efficacy of vampire blood in healing witches. How are you gonna get Leo to order a scion to donate?”
“Leo owes me one. A boon, sorta.”
“A vampire owes you a boon?”
I was getting pretty good. I had astounded Evan several times today and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. I quoted, “‘In recompense of your debt and in honor of your service, you may choose a gift from among mine. Choose wisely.’ Sounds like a boon to me.”
“Yeah. That is . . . stellar.” Then his face twisted into a frown so dark it looked like a storm was raging inside him. “Let the other shoe drop.”
“Well, there’s just one problem. Somewhere around here is the spike from Calvary, used to make amulets. It was probably the focus for all the power from the circle of witches, and with it, it’s possible to do transformational magic. And Hieronymus, Master of the City of Natchez, wants it for his very own.”
Big Evan groaned. “It just never ends with you. Does it?”
EPILOGUE
Bobby stood straight and tall, his red hair brushed and shining in the noonday sun, his new suit sharp and neat. Misha and Charly stood to his sides, dressed to the nines. Misha still looked drained, pale, and wan, but she was alive and writing and working on her book’s deadline. Charly looked
better than I had ever seen her, her hair growing back out and her skin pink and healthy. I knew the impression of good health was only skin deep. She still had leukemia, but the combo of vamp blood, Evan Trueblood’s magic, and chemo seemed to be working, at least for now. I stood at a right angle to the three, wearing my full vamp-fighting gear, at Bobby’s request. He wanted me to look like a vamp killer on his special day.
Eli, wearing full-dress military uniform, stepped slowly, formally, to Bobby, his eyes staring straight ahead, his every movement ceremonial. When he reached Bobby, he stopped, put his feet together, and slowly, so slowly, saluted Bobby. My old friend’s blue eyes followed every motion, every movement, full of wonder.
The Ranger slid a box from the crook of his left arm and opened it. Inside was a Purple Heart. I had argued against Eli giving Bobby his own medal, but Eli had laughed and said, “I won’t miss it. I’ve got two more.” Which was a story for another day. I hoped.
Tears gathered in my eyes as Eli lifted the medal from the box and carefully pinned it over the left side of Bobby’s chest.
Bobby’s eyes swelled with pride. He stood straight and tall, his eyes never leaving Eli’s. The Ranger stepped back and saluted Bobby again. Bobby raised his hand and touched the medal, and then sought me out. “I’m a hero too now, Jane.”
“Yes, Bobby Bates. You really are. You always have been.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Faith Hunter was born in Louisiana and raised all over the South. She writes full-time and works full-time in a hospital lab (for the benefits), tries to keep house, and is a workaholic with a passion for travel, jewelry making, orchids, skulls, Class III white-water kayaking, and writing. Many of the orchid pics on her Facebook fan page show skulls juxtaposed with orchid blooms; the bones are from roadkill prepared by taxidermists or a pal named Mud. In her collection are a fox skull, a cat skull, a dog skull, a goat skull (that is, unfortunately, falling apart), a cow skull, the jawbone of an ass, and a wild boar skull, complete with tusks. She would love to have the thighbone and skull of an African lion (one that died of old age, of course) and a mountain lion skull (ditto on the old-age death).