No Rest for the Witches

by Karina Cooper

  But damn, if she didn’t make it difficult.

  “We never have the time,” he told her. She ran a hand down her face, trying to ease away the hollow circles under her eyes. “We make the time. Naomi, we’ve still got each other.”

  “Yeah?” He watched it happen; saw the gates slam shut behind her beautiful face. Saw that stony resolve roll into her head, her heart. “You think that’ll matter when your mother’s dead, slick?”

  Pain, worse than any bullet, stole his breath. Crunched like glass in his gut, and he took a step back. “Jesus, Naomi.”

  Her jaw tightened, fists clenched at her sides.

  The steam drifted across his bare feet, slid along her legs. For a long moment, he could only stare at her. What was wrong with her? Was she angry?

  Was she fishing for something?

  She watched him, faced him dead-on like a snake ready to strike. He could all but sense the anticipation around her, and suddenly, he got it.

  She was trying to put distance between them. Trying to crowbar herself away.

  Phin closed his eyes as exhaustion battered at him. Physical, mental. Hell, even his spirit felt wrung out.

  “Fine,” he said, and shifted to give her enough room to pass him. “We’ll talk later.”

  Her eyes widened. Narrowed just as fast, and with her chin high, she strode past him. Her shoulder brushed against his chest, clipped his wounded shoulder, and he let out a strangled note as it knocked the air out of him.

  Naomi spun, caught him by the back of the neck before he pitched over the side of the dock, her face whiter than even moments before. Her eyes were hollow, filled with all the things he’d never been able to pull out of her. Sucking down air as the wound knocked in time with his pulse, Phin raised his hand to lock hers against his nape.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He didn’t stop to weigh his words. “You usually do.” He watched his words score a line right through her defenses. His fingers tightened on hers, refusing to let her escape. “But I’ve got your number, sweetheart. I know how you think.”

  Before she could react, before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed his left arm out of the sling and captured her chin. The act sent waves of fire down his side, seared his nerves and reminded him exactly why she was the way she was.

  Naomi had been shot before. Stabbed, hit, hurt. She was a fighter. Always would be.

  But she loved him. She couldn’t hide that, no matter how poisoned her barbs. Phin pulled her closer, his mouth only millimeters from hers as he added, “I love you. Always will.”

  The sound she made welled from her chest, half a groan and half something too raw to label. She tore out of his grasp, wrenched his shoulder again, but Phin bit down on his own ragged sound of pain. Clutching his shoulder, he watched her flee him, something icy growing in his heart.

  She’d never done that before.

  Suddenly, Silas’s voice tore through the canyon. “Naomi!”

  Phin watched as she broke into a run toward the house. She didn’t look back.

  Another emergency. Another excuse.

  Maybe they’d found his mother. Maybe they’d found something else. Phin didn’t pretend to know how this team operated, and he didn’t want to break Naomi’s ties with any of them. This team was going to find Lillian, he knew it. They’d find her, extract her, and Phin could work his own brand of magic to get her safe.

  But he wondered. As he slowly lowered himself to the wooden dock, Phin wondered what life could be like if Naomi escaped New Seattle with him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  An hour later, Naomi was ready to tap out in defeat.

  She staggered to the porch steps, wordlessly accepting the cool glass Matilda pressed into her hands as she passed. Raising it to her lips, she drained half the spicy tea before she remembered to take a breath. Her head hit the green siding on a sigh.

  She was acutely aware of Phin, his hip braced against the railing beside Matilda’s rocking chair. He cradled his elbow in his good hand, supporting his injured shoulder, and watched her. His warm chocolate eyes were filled with all the questions she was too afraid to answer, but he didn’t say anything.

  Naomi wasn’t sure she’d left him anything to say. Not after that dramatic performance by the pond.

  “She’s done,” Matilda called. She propped her feet up on a small footstool, yellow galoshes scarred and scuffed. Crossing her ankles, she balanced a ceramic mug on her stomach, hands folded around it, and studied Naomi closely. “You’re exhausted.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Phin’s jaw tightened. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “I said I’m fine,” Naomi replied, but her gaze skated out from under his. “Where’s—”

  “How is she?” Silas rounded the corner of the house, his nylon holster dangling from one hand. The gun in his other was kept meticulously pointed down, away from the others. Common sense. They’d all had the rules beaten into them.

  Naomi’s blood still surged when she touched cold metal. Guns still fit into her palms like they belonged. Like she’d been born to use them.

  It was the bile in her throat that kept her from going back.

  She scrubbed a tired hand across her face and said, “Jessie’s sleeping. She seems in good shape, nothing I can see broken or bleeding. She’s just . . . out of juice.”

  The grim lines carved into Silas’s face didn’t ease. “What happened? One minute she’d been doing her witch thing, and the next, she’s raving something about Lillian. Then the seizure hit.”

  Naomi shook her head, too tired to offer any theories.

  Matilda studied them both over the rim of her glass. “She was caught in a trap,” she said in her no-nonsense, authoritative way. “Another witch attempted to enslave her.”

  Behind her, Phin’s eyebrow rose. “Enslave?” he queried, just as Silas growled, “Over my fucking dead body.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Matilda replied dryly. “Enslave might be the wrong word, given we’re unaware of his or her intentions. Regardless, she was caught unawares by another witch who, somehow, attempted to capture her.” She ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “It’s entirely possible, given the nature of Jessie’s gift, that Lillian and this witch are connected.”

  “How is that possible?” Phin demanded. “They were missionaries, I’m sure they were.”

  Naomi shook her head. “If they were, they would have identified themselves. Did they?”

  Phin jerked his head, not quite a no. “I was crazy. They didn’t exactly stop to introduce themselves before they shot me.”

  Naomi flinched.

  “But they were all in black bodysuits—”

  “Anyone can get replica body armor,” Silas pointed out, his heavy eyebrows beetling into a hard scowl. “Plasteel is expensive, but not impossible to find. Which means if what Matilda is saying is true, they wanted you to think they were missionaries.”

  “And in the end, it’s only speculation,” Matilda added. “However, given Jessie’s track record in regards to present events, perhaps it’s best that we err on the side of caution. Another witch attempted to overclock her abilities, and she did mention Lillian before she lapsed into a seizure. These are facts.”

  Naomi didn’t understand much of this. Unlike Jessie, who was born a witch, she’d only been one for a few months. Spells, charms, they were things she filed on the same plane as breaking the law and heretics must be executed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, impossible to unravel after years of indoctrination.

  Still, she tried. Jessie let Naomi knock some self-defense into her, and in exchange, she helped Naomi learn some of the focusing techniques that she said would keep her grounded and sharpen her abilities with the fountain of life.

  But theoretical magic-speak made her crazy.

  “You’re saying,” Phin mused slowly, “that with witchcraft, this other witch could have killed her?”

  “Possibly.”

  Silas grunted, a w
ordless note of fury.

  “But he or she failed,” Matilda pointed out. “And in so doing, allowed us a method to track the source.”

  “How?” Phin asked, looking as confused as Naomi felt. No matter how baffling this world still seemed to her, it had to be twice as bad for someone who’d lived his whole life in the lap of luxury.

  Yet another reason they’d never make it.

  Naomi toyed with the silver ring in her lip as Matilda straightened in her chair. Her galoshes squeaked against the porch. “When one witch’s magic is forced through another’s, there is a . . .” The woman paused, gesturing with her tea mug. “A hole, if you will. A path. Think of a worm burrowing through the earth. Through this weft, I can trace the way back to the source.”

  Silas glanced at Naomi. She shrugged.

  “Will you?” he asked grimly. “Will it put you in danger?”

  Matilda’s smile was one of those Naomi had long since learned to bite her tongue over. She didn’t answer, which tended to be answer enough. The old lady was doing her mysterious stranger routine, and Naomi hated it. Clenching her teeth, she said nothing as Matilda rose, set her cup down on the footstool, and hesitated with her hand on the door.

  “Among other talents,” she said, her wise, old eyes pinning Naomi to the step where she sat, “I read the scripture of the soul. And conflict makes all such spying easier. Relax, Naomi, dear. You’ll be fine.”

  Naomi’s features tightened, near points of pain as she locked her face to something desperately neutral.

  Phin raked a hand through his curls. “What did I miss?” he asked, firm, sculpted mouth pulled into a bleak slant.

  “Nothing,” she snapped, and frowned at Silas. “Do you think it’ll work?”

  One wide shoulder lifted. “If it does, what then?”

  “You heard her,” Naomi said, setting her glass down on the step beside her. “This witch might have Lillian, or know where she is. I say we find the shitfucker and get some answers.”

  Phin straightened, his grip tight on the railing.

  Silas frowned at her. “Are you sure?”

  She knew what he was asking. The last time she’d gone up against a missionary, even a rogue one, she’d nearly lost herself. She sure as hell lost her head, and the scars still hadn’t healed.

  All the more reason to go.

  “Hell, yes,” she said tightly. “Let’s go wreck some shit.”

  She avoided Phin’s searching gaze by turning to angle her shoulder against the house. She studied the layout of the rocky shore and steaming emerald water fanned out in front of the house, acutely aware of the pain Phin wasn’t hiding.

  Because of his shoulder, maybe. Or because she was being a bitch, and she didn’t know how to stop.

  Or why she should.

  His footsteps crossed the porch, and like Matilda moments before, he opened the door and stepped inside. The door closed softly.

  She’d have felt better if it slammed.

  Silas stared at the door for a long moment. Then, jaw shifting, she saw his gaze settle on her. In her peripheral, she couldn’t read the finer details of his expression, but his tone was flat as he asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a missiona—”

  He grabbed her shoulder, shook her once. “No,” he cut in, thunderously intense. His eyes blazed, angry again. She was on a fucking roll, wasn’t she? “You aren’t. You haven’t been a missionary for months—hell, Naomi.” He let her go, turned, and hunkered down to the step beside her.

  She stared at the ground between her scuffed black boots.

  “What is going on?”

  “I don’t—” Naomi hesitated. Then, she shook her hair back out of her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Yeah?” He glowered at her, his square features fierce. Protective. She’d seen him look at Jessie that way; she’d never paid attention if he’d ever turned it on her. “Then you better get your shit straight, West, because we’re going back into the field.”

  She sighed. “You want a ‘sir, yes, sir’?” But to her surprise, her tone came out dryly amused. Not as tense. Back out into the field was something she’d been itching for, even she knew that.

  And this time, she wasn’t going to lose the hostage. Not like what happened with Gemma.

  “No,” he rumbled. He elbowed her, hard enough to make her breath hiss out between her teeth, fingers splaying over her ribs. “But we’re going into a snake pit, so at least go say goodbye.”

  Her humor faded. The ache in her rib transitioned to a coiled knot in her stomach, and she nodded slowly as she twined her fingers tightly together. “Yeah,” she murmured.

  But she wouldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t. Maybe when she came back, Lillian safe, she’d have something to say.

  Probably not.

  What was she doing? She was pulling away. Naomi could see it in herself, could see the events unfolding in front of her and felt like a bystander. She was so fucking screwed up.

  She hadn’t been able to save Gemma. Wasn’t able to keep Phin from being hurt, couldn’t stop that rogue bastard in time. She’d fallen in love with a man who wasn’t equipped to deal with her life, and even now, all she wanted to do was go inside and curl up against his chest. Let Phin make her feel like everything would be all right.

  That was his gift. His strength. He could pull a miracle out of his ass with a smile.

  Only real life didn’t work like that. And she . . . what was she?

  Tired. Alone.

  Tired of being alone.

  For a long moment, nothing moved. The steam danced harmlessly along the surface of the vivid green water, curling over the dock. Silence descended on this little fairy tale glade, and she couldn’t stand it.

  “Silas.”

  He grunted.

  She glanced at him. “You ever doubt your choice?”

  Silas leaned back on his elbows, gaze turning upward. Pensively, he studied the gray sky, tracing the cloudy layers as he mulled it over. He took a deep breath, let it out on a long, slow exhale, and admitted, “The job? I miss it sometimes. Life was easier when it was black and white.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You?”

  “I wonder,” Naomi admitted, “if I could have seen the clinic shrink, figured my shit out. I could still be at the Mission, top of my game. Not having to worry about dying with this—” She thumped her own chest with a fist. “This fucking miracle inside me. I think all the time about what Agatha said before I killed her.”

  “What’s that?”

  Naomi shrugged. “That I had to be careful, I couldn’t risk myself because I was the fountain now.”

  “And?”

  “I still don’t listen,” she said, mouth flipping up into a crooked grin. Her humor faded, just as fast. “But it’s there. Another chain.”

  “Another?”

  Naomi looked away. Had she just admitted that Phin was a chain? That he held her down?

  She didn’t mean to, but as she thought about it now, it appalled her how much sense it made. How much sense she wanted it to make.

  Silas’s gray-green eyes settled back on her, clear. Steady. “There’s always a lot of shit to factor in,” he said. “But I never regret choosing Jess. Ever.”

  “Yeah.” She flicked her hair out of her eyes. “That’s ‘cause you get to live with her.”

  His eyebrows rose. Lowered again, winding into a tight, concerned furrow. “That’s it, huh?”

  Shit. Way to vomit her heart all over his shoes. Shaking her head, she jerked a thumb back behind them, towards the smear of blue buried in the foliage beside the house. Her tent. “I’m going to get ready.”

  “Nai?”

  She frowned at him.

  “We’re going to roll this bastard over and see what comes crawling out,” he told her. “I need your head on your shoulders, okay?”

  Naomi rose, nodding. She didn’t say anything; what was there to say?

 
Silas loved Jessie. He’d chosen her, chosen a lifestyle that she could be part of. And right now, that lifestyle needed Naomi to be at the top of her game. For Lillian’s sake.

  For Phin’s.

  But it was that same reason that kept them apart, wasn’t it? That meant they stayed on opposite ends of a city just waiting to jump her shit. The Church’s bounty on her head and the investigation into the Clarkes’ affairs was just the surface issue here.

  At the heart, she was stuck in the lower city streets, waiting for God knew what, while Phin needed to remain where his wealth and political acumen could do the most good.

  That was that.

  And that was how it was going to have to be.

  Steeling herself, she strode away from the green house with its purple flower bower; wrenched the door closed on everything but the mission.

  She wasn’t a missionary anymore, no matter how ingrained that response was. But she could still pull her weight.

  Even without guns.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The rain woke her.

  Jessie drifted back into consciousness, every muscle throbbing as if she’d just made it through one of Naomi’s bone-rattling mat exercises. Even before she opened her eyes, she could place the sounds—the gentle patter of the rain, the sound of movement in the kitchen. Through her eyelids, lantern light flickered.

  They were all so normal. So at odds with the nagging insistence that something was decidedly wrong. Uncertainty tightened in her chest with every breath.

  Silas. Where was his voice?

  Jessie opened her eyes, struggling to sit up. Her muscles spasmed with the effort.

  “Easy.” An arm curved around her back. “It’s all right, everything’s okay.” Phin smiled down at her, his features jarringly unfamiliar outside of the posh interior of his resort.

  It was surreal, having him down here in her territory.

  She frowned. “Phin? Were you watching over me?”

  “Matilda and I have been taking shifts,” he admitted, but his smile kicked into a slanted grimace of pain. “Can you either sit up or lie back down? My arm isn’t completely better yet.”

  “Sorry.” Jessie allowed him to help her back down, more out of guilt than because she felt the need to stay lying down. Still, her muscles practically sighed in relief as she settled back into the pillows. Phin pulled the sheet back to her chin, smoothing it down with more finesse than she would have given him credit for.