Daughter of Souls & Silence

by Annie Anderson

  What do you mean, no? This isn’t a negotiation, girl. Give me the blade or I’ll make you.

  His talons reach for me, but I dance out of his way, the pair of us circling each other, looking for the right opening.

  “What? You can’t grab it yourself? It’s right here,” I point to the bone blade in the specialized holster Barrett gave me. Big Bird doesn’t know it, but no one but me can remove the blade from its sheath, so I don’t feel as worried about flashing it to my enemy. “Ahh, that’s right. Demons need permission, even the lowly slave ones, isn’t that so? Well, I’ll make it as uncomplicated as I can. I’ll never give up this blade. Never. Go back to your master and tell him I said so.”

  I don’t think so, child. My master wants, I retrieve. I’ll take you down to Hell with me if I have to, but he’ll get that blade.

  I don’t doubt him, but even in death, I won’t give him what he wants.

  “Then we don’t have anything else to talk about,” I murmur, dropping my crossed arms to my sides, adjusting my stance. My throwing knives are too far away in my boot, the bone knife is too precious to pull from its sheath.

  But the athame, that could help.

  I just manage to pull it when the Demon is on me again, his talons digging into the flesh of my shoulders. His beak open and hissing right in my face. I didn’t know crows could hiss, or maybe this amalgamation of species gives it abilities above and beyond that of the animals it portrays.

  The speaking inside one’s head thing is a major upgrade.

  His beak lunges for my face, trying to pluck the eyes from my skull, or just eat me whole. His putrid breath speaks of the worst pits of Hell, of torture and rot. I swipe the blade, grazing him, but the pain is enough for him to let me go. My reprieve doesn’t last long before he’s on me again, ripping me off my feet and throwing me into the tatters of what used to be an opulent sitting room. At least the Persian is soft, I think as I suck in a breath trying to find my feet. In the struggle I dropped the athame, and I scramble to find it. My finger close around the hilt and I slash blindly, forgetting everything Aidan taught me, managing only by luck to catch him again with my blade.

  It isn’t enough. I’m not enough. My body is too spent, too tired from the toll of today to use any magic, and my strength – such as it is – is too weak to take on something like this.

  His huge, hulking body knocks me off my feet, and I didn’t even see him move that time. His talons pin my shoulders to the floor, before drawing me up off the rug. The sharp edges dig into my shoulders, cutting the flesh, but my hands are free, and I spin the handle in my fingers, pressing the rune as I bring the athame up between us.

  The blade expands just like when Ian accidentally pressed it, driving up and through the soft spot on the crow’s head just before the hard beak erupts from his face. It drives deeper, through his head and out the top of his skull, pouring the black tar blood all over us both.

  His talons fall away, his body going slack as I wrench the blade from him, the tine sticking a bit in the bone until I yank it free. I guess one Witch weapon was good enough to kill him. Pressing the rune again, the blade collapses and I wipe the black blood off on one of the ruined upholstered chairs and slip it back into the sheath.

  Then I take a gander at the rest of me. Sticky black blood covers my shirt, soaking it somehow even though the blood doesn’t even seem thin enough to do so. I yank off my outer layer, peeling the thin Henley from my skin. At least the tank underneath is black. I won’t be winning a beauty contest, and I might be a touch cold, but it’ll do.

  I take stock of the room again, wondering what happened here, wondering what happened to Maria and Mom. Could this Demon do this much damage? Probably. But it feels like more. It feels like I’m missing something big and I don’t know what.

  Keeping a watchful eye, I head back out the ancient door into the cool night, taking my first deep breath once the rancid smell of the Demon is behind me. My bag is gone, but that isn’t a huge surprise in this part of town. My only hope is one of the boys snagged it before they left, but I don’t have much hope on that front. They had bigger problems than my stuff.

  I pull my phone from my back pocket and start laughing. For as much as I thought the thing was indestructible, I guess it couldn’t stand up to a fight with a Demon. The screen is cracked, spiderwebs of broken glass and missing pieces. I’m amazed I didn’t rip my hand open just pulling it from my pocket.

  I guess this means I can’t call an Uber.

  That thought has me giggling. In the middle of the night in a human-deserted part of town that likely has plenty of not so nice Ethereals teeming to fuck with the Rogue. There is a good fucking reason I never come to this part of town. I need to shut up, but still the giggles come, competing with the clicking of my booties on the pavement for loudness.

  A man appears on the sidewalk not fifty feet in front of me, stealing my laughter. The dark swath of smoke curls around him and then dissipates, melding into the darkness around him. Hands in his pockets, he heads in my direction. I’d be scared in any other circumstances, but the beanie on his head gives him away.

  “I told you not to come back for me,” I nag. Unable to say I’m glad he ignored me. Glad at least I have one person in my corner. Ian might not forgive me for what I had to do here tonight, and a part of me doesn’t blame him. But I’m not sorry either.

  “Yeah, but I never listen to you anyway, so why start now? Ready?” he asks not letting me nod before he takes us both off that street, the faint cry of a bird the last thing I hear before the darkness swallows me.

  I hate traveling.

  This time when I land, I don’t have the strength to hold back, finding the closest receptacle to vomit in. Unfortunately for me, that receptacle is one of my lavender planters. Aidan, the kind soul he is, leaves me to my misery.

  When my stomach finally gives up the ghost, I stagger through the back door of my house, not even a little afraid of the place. I guess that’s fighting a crow Demon from Hell for you, it will cure you of just about anything. My bag is sitting on the kitchen table, but otherwise the kitchen is empty. I follow the rustling sound of feet to my guest room where Ian is tying of the final stitch to a long gash in my sister’s arm. There are stitches along her hairline as well, and if the mounds of bloody gauze and detritus of medical equipment are any indication, I owe Ian one.

  Using the doorjamb to prop myself up, I ask, “How is she?”

  “She’ll be fine. Some deep lacerations, maybe a concussion. She’ll be okay in a day or two.”

  “Thank you. For helping her,” I whisper, grateful he was there, that he could help her when I couldn’t.

  He nods, not looking at me even though he’s finished sewing her up, collecting the trash and bloody towels to avoid it.

  “There was a Demon in that room, Ian. You couldn’t see him, but he wanted you gone. Be pissed at me if you want to, but I did the best I could under the circumstances. Everyone’s alive, so when you’re stewing on it, please remember that.”

  He stuffs the rubbish forcefully into a trash bag pilfered from my kitchen, shoving the gauze unnecessarily hard into the plastic. Still not looking at me like a damn child. And in the grand scheme – at least compared to me – he is young. Maybe too young to understand why I would keep him out of harm’s way.

  Fed up, I sigh, skirting around him to reach Maria. Her skin is sallow with blood loss, but her breaths are even, and she looks peaceful in her sleep. I bend down, kissing her forehead, away from the stitches and leave her to rest.

  When I look up again Ian is staring at me, a mask of fury on his face. He sees my cuts, probably some bruises too. The burns from Micah’s too cold touch, the blood both from me and the crow Demon. He takes it all in, barring my way out like he’d love nothing other than putting me in a padded cell and throwing away the key. I feel a trickle of warmth at his concern.

  But then it all comes crashing down.

  “I can’t do this anymore,”
he murmurs, not meeting my eyes. Instead he looks over my injuries, cataloguing them, tallying them up in his brain. I can practically see it behind his eyes.

  That trickle of warmth is long gone, replaced with a burning cold even Micah’s touch couldn’t surpass.

  “Can’t do what anymore?”

  I want him to look me in the eye when he says it, when he tells me I’m not good enough. When he says that I’m too reckless, too crass, too different, too something. That I’m chaos and calamity, a disaster just over the horizon.

  His brother has said as much, so why wouldn’t he?

  “I can’t watch you throw yourself into one scrape after another with zero thought to who might miss you when you’re gone. Aidan and I will help you with your father, but after that…”

  He doesn’t have to say it. I understand him just fine. He won’t help me anymore.

  “Don’t worry, Ian. I know when I’ve worn out my welcome,” I choke out, managing to hold back the worst of the pain.

  Skirting around him, I’m barely holding onto the last bit of strength I have when I catch Aidan watching me from the hall. His face is an impenetrable mask, and I can’t tell if he’s happy his little brother gave me the boot or not.

  It doesn’t matter anyway.

  I have a scrap of fabric in my duffle that tells me everything I need to know about people. A three-inch by three-inch square of wisdom stuffed in a Ziploc bag. Everyone leaves. One way or another.

  I shoulder past Aidan, the shame and hurt and everything else hitting me all at once. And four centuries old or not, I still feel like a kid when I catch the trickle of tears starting their descent down my face. My mask breaking even though I thought I’d hardened myself enough over the years. I guess not.

  I make it to my room, locking the door and heading to the shower. I crawl in fully clothed, only stopping to remove my weapons and boots. The water is ice when it hits me, but I don’t really feel it.

  All I know is no one can hear me break over the rush of the water.

  And that’s all I wanted anyway.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MAX

  I sit crusty-eyed and cranky curled up in the bedside chair next to my sister. If I weren’t leaving town, I would set this chair on fire on my front freaking lawn. Hell, since I am leaving town I still might. I don’t have any groceries here, so the coffee situation is dire. The whiskey situation however was just fine last night, hence the cranky, crusty-eyed hangover I’m rocking now. I more than likely need another shower, but at this point I’d kill for some takeout and a cup of Joe.

  Ian left last night before I got out of the shower, and Aidan made himself scarce in my other guest room.

  I have three guest rooms in this house, and it makes me wonder why I even bought a home this big. Unless there is a crisis, there will never be a need to fill them. It’s not like I’ll get married or have kids. I don’t know if children are even possible. What if I’m a sterile offspring of two species that were never meant to come together? Like a horse and a donkey making a mule. A genetic freak never meant to reproduce.

  And why am I thinking about having kids? My only romantic prospect in a freaking century just walked out on me. Babies are farther away than the moon at this point.

  Tired, disgruntled, and grudgingly heartbroken, I peel myself from the chair to raid the takeout drawer. Making my way to the kitchen, I pull the overfull drawer open, rifling through the disorganized menus. There has to be a place I could call… with no phone because mine is broken into a bazillion pieces. Shit.

  The back door opens, Aidan pausing at the threshold with bags in his hands. His eyes are wide, and it really isn’t any guess what he’s gawking at. Stained pajama pants, rat’s nest hair, last night’s makeup smeared under my eyes. Yeah, I know I look like a train wreck, but honestly, it’s my house and I can be a mess here if I want to. Granted, he’s seen me look worse, like the time I was topless with a surgical drain coming from my chest.

  Yeah, I’ve definitely looked worse.

  “Please tell me there is coffee somewhere in one of those bags,” I plead, my voice like gravel, ready to pout my lower lip if it means I can guilt him into getting me some. I’ll even use tears. I’m not above it, and hey, they’ll be easy to create.

  He coughs to mask his chuckle, but he answers in the affirmative, so I’ll allow it. “There is. Creamer too. I got a few groceries and replaced your phone. You can call to get it activated.”

  And now I want to cry all over again. Aidan just saved me from braving the phone store and the grocery store and the coffee shop. Swallowing hard, I manage to nod before I reach for the bags, unloading them in a hurry.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, but my voice is broken as if the kindness is just a little too much even for that single syllable. It’s possible it might be.

  Pulling the coffee from the bag, I set about to make us a pot, thankful for something to do.

  “When you’re up to it, you need to look at the warding around the property,” Aidan suggests, pulling egg cartons and packages of bacon and sausage from a plastic bag. “I know you threw a band-aid one up last night, but if we’re going to be here for any length of time, it’s going to need to be stronger.”

  Nodding, I pour water into the reservoir, filling it up to the tippy top. “I’ll get on that after I start this.”

  I press the bright green start button and high tail it out of the room, stopping at Maria’s room on the way to mine. Her eyes are still closed, but she’s snoring softly, so I know she’s alive. Quickly changing, not bothering to wash my face or tame my hair, I head back down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. Only to stop short.

  Ian’s sitting on one of my teak patio loungers, his ankles crossed as he stares out over the fence line to the sky beyond. He looks up at my stutter step, gives me a nod, and then looks away.

  At this point I don’t even want to be nice to the man, but I take the high road by not setting him on fire and resume my trek, heading for the greenhouse. I snag some pruning shears, and clip a bundle’s worth of sage, careful not to cut the stalks too low. My greenhouse needs a lot of attention, some pots are overgrown, some thirsty from the automatic drip system failing in some spots. I should have taken better care of my garden, shouldn’t have let a man worth so little of my time keep me from my home.

  And even though I killed him, I’ve somehow set him free once again.

  Too many problems, not enough solutions.

  Bundling the white sage with blessed twine, I hang it next to the dried bundles, the old habit of replacing what I use so ingrained, that I didn’t stop to think.

  I was leaving town, wasn’t I?

  It wasn’t like I had a reason to stay. My shop was gone. My friends were gone, or didn’t want me. But even with all of that, just being in that greenhouse made me feel better. Feeling the small spark of nature in this tiny patch of home feels like a gift – like I was given back something I lost. Nodding to myself, I step into the dry air, light the bundle of sage with a spark from my fingers, and get to work fixing the boundary to my home.

  My feet rasp against the pavers as I take trudging steps up the stairs to the back door. Knowing Ian is probably only here to check on Maria doesn’t take the sting out of his presence or make things any less awkward for me. But the kitchen is empty when I gather the bravery to open the back door, so my reprieve has been extended for the time being.

  Hearing the television on in the living room I make my way there, knowing out of the two brothers, Aidan is more likely to be in the living room than Ian. Aidan is watching an old movie, a black and white mystery I’m fond of. I say watching, but he’s more like napping, his face soft, almost peaceful as he rests on the couch. I don’t think he got any more sleep than I did last night, and for that I feel horrible. I softly fling the throw blanket over him, hoping the action doesn’t wake him up. Nothing else to do, I head back to Maria’s room to check on her.

  I can’t avoid Ian forever.<
br />
  Ian sits at Maria’s bedside, a stethoscope in his ears as he checks her heart rate or blood pressure or whatever the hell he’s checking.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence of Ian refusing to look at me even though I know he knows I’m here.

  “Her vitals are good. She should wake anytime. Witches heal a bit faster than humans, so she may not even scar.”

  I’m not sure Maria would care if she did scar or not, not that the cuts to her face are grotesque – just that I don’t know if my sister is vain. I don’t remember her being that way, but it’s been a long time.

  With nothing else to say, I reply with, “Good.”

  Since he’s taking the only seat, I rest on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb another sleeping person in my house and take her hand. The hand itself is fine, but deep lacerations crisscross her forearms – so deep it’s a wonder she kept her arm.

  I hadn’t noticed her right hand last night, only focusing on her left side. The wounds are closing quickly, and I don’t think she’ll have permanent damage, but the pain… It must have been unbearable.

  Her fingers twitch in mine, and I grip them harder.

  “Maria?” I call softly, not wanting to startle her. “Baby sister, you’re safe. Please wake up.”

  Her dark brown eyes flash open, and she looks frantically around the room. Skittering back into the headboard, she sits up, fear embedded in every line of her face until her eyes land on me.

  “Maxima,” she breathes. “You came for me.”

  “Of course, I came for you. You called, didn’t you?” I respond, but my tone is too light for our past. Maria has never once called for my help, not since I was cast out. She never tried to go around our mother.

  A part of me doesn’t blame her. I wouldn’t go against Teresa if I didn’t have to – if it weren’t ingrained in my very DNA.

  Then her arms are around me, and she’s crying – huge gasping sobs of a woman at the very edge of her sanity, the very end of her rope.