No Rest for the Witches
Page 10
Why had he only reappeared now?
She picked up the discarded knife, dropped to her knees in front of him again, and this time, his blond-tipped lashes narrowed as she seized a handful of the rope around his neck.
“Don’t touch that,” he warned, leaning back.
Ignoring him, she set the blade to the twine and jerked, hard enough that he flinched. The edge tore through the weakened material like it was nothing. Beads clattered to the threadbare carpet, a rain of pebbles and wood.
She didn’t have to be a good witch to sense the magic spill free around her; a whisper of something intangible turning to vapor, to nothing, even as she recognized it.
“Or what?” she asked, every syllable clipped to a venomous barb.
Caleb wrenched his shoulders, but she grabbed his bound arms and slid the knife under the handmade bracelets wrapped around his wrists. More rock bounced and clattered, and she watched a muscle tic in his jaw. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Don’t I?”
“No,” he said tightly. His eyes met hers. Blazed. “You never did.”
Her fingers flexed against the knife handle. “But you always did, didn’t you? Caleb Leigh,” she spat, “the almighty prophet.”
The skin around his eyes tightened. Pinched.
“You just crooked your fingers and we all danced for you, didn’t we?” Juliet couldn’t stop the words once they formed in her head. Couldn’t beat them back as she jammed a finger under his nose. “Now it’s your turn. Murderer.”
He looked down at her finger, then at the bandage she’d wound around his shoulder. His smile lacked anything even remotely close to humor. “You can’t give me over, Jules.”
She jerked. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’re too soft.” His eyes flicked back to hers, gaze filled with something she didn’t know how to label. Something raw. Something angry. “You always were. Even Cordelia—”
She didn’t recall raising her hand. The crack of her palm against his stubbled cheek echoed like a gunshot, shooting aching little bursts of pain through her forearm to the elbow.
In the oppressive silence that followed, Caleb slowly turned his head back, a lock of honey-gold hair curled over one eye. His cheek glowed red, contrast to the ice in his gaze as he finished, dangerously soft, “Even your sister knew it.”
“My sister is gone,” she said through clenched, aching teeth.
A flicker. Pain? Anger? She didn’t know, but he didn’t apologize. Why would he? He’d screwed Juliet up against a wall and then betrayed them all.
“Not,” she added, so quietly that she marveled at her own brittle calm, “that you were there for me to ask for help. Not that you cared.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he told her, and Juliet wasn’t sure what she’d intended to do. The world flashed red, her skin itched with the pressure of it as anger crawled through her veins. It burned, throbbed behind her eyeballs. Like fire and ice and—
The door swung open behind her, cracked into the wall.
Juliet lurched away, spun in surprise and relief that faded as a tall, thin man barreled at her. Caleb threw himself toward her as Juliet yelped, but the man grabbed her jacket, yanked hard even as one booted foot slammed into Caleb’s chest.
She hit the ground on her knees. The rough hand transferred to her head, shoved her down, kicked out her knee as she struggled. Pain twanged through her legs. Rage subsided to confusion. Fear.
“Get them both!” a raspy voice yelled over her head.
In her peripheral vision, Caleb strained at his bonds as a thin man dressed in stained brown corduroy struggled to subdue him.
“I got the girl.” The voice was like a rusted razor blade, completely unfamiliar. “Damn it, Louie, just kick him in the head!”
Juliet wrenched free. A fragrance both sharp and sweet filled the muggy air, and she launched herself at the discarded knife, closed her fingers on the cold edge of the blade.
It skittered out of reach as something hard and unyielding slammed into the back of her head. She sprawled, crying out, earning a taste of grimy carpet. Yellow fireworks slid behind her eyes, joining the pop and crackle of orange neon.
Adrenaline flooded her veins, gave her the strength to push herself to her hands and knees, but the room spun wildly. Sickeningly.
“We have to have her alive, man, watch the dosage!”
Someone grabbed the back of her coat and hauled. Her back arched, knees aching. In the wobbling field of her vision, a tattooed face leered at her.
“Motherfucking Christ, little girl,” he grunted, shaking her hard enough that her head snapped back on her neck. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”
He didn’t give her time to answer, shoving a dirty blue rag over her mouth and nose. He clasped the back of her head with his free hand, forcing the cloth harder against her face.
More figures pushed into the motel room, hazy silhouettes that ignored her as she clawed at the callused hand at her mouth. She gasped for air around the soaking material, gagging as something chemical and acrid seared through her nostrils. Stung her eyes.
Across the room, Caleb lurched to his knees, fighting off the hands that struggled to hold him. She watched his lips move, eyes flashing blue fire and muscles bulging as he fought the ropes she’d tied herself, but she couldn’t hear him. What was he saying?
Was he yelling? At her?
A hand slid over her jaw. The tattooed face was back, dimming now. So muddled. Ink smearing. Running, oozing across his teeth.
He said something, shaped something with a smile that sent ice sliding down her spine, but her limbs dragged. Refused to move. The rag tasted bitter as she opened her mouth—had she intended to ask something?
It didn’t matter. Her muscles gave up, gave in with a fluidity that sent her sliding bonelessly to the dirty floor. Sleep closed in.
And with it, peace.
About the Author
Born from the genetic mash-up of lesser royalty, storytellers, wanderers and dreamers, Karina Cooper was destined to be a creative genius. As a child, she moved all over the country like some kind of waifish blonde gypsy and learned how to adapt to the new cultures her family settled in. When she (finally) grew up, she skipped the whole genius part and fell in love with writing paranormal romance because, really, who doesn’t love hot men and a happy ending?
When she isn’t writing about things that go bump in the night, Karina designs Steampunk and neo-Victorian couture for gentlemen hobbyists and ladies of questionable reputation. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with a husband, three cats, one rabbit and a passel of adopted gamer geeks.
Also By Karina Cooper
Lure of the Wicked
Blood of the Wicked
Before the Witches
Be Impulsive!
Look for Other
Avon Impulse Authors
www.AvonImpulse.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
NO REST FOR THE WITCHES. Copyright © 2011 by Karina Cooper. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
All Things Wicked Copyright © 2012 by Karina Cooper
EPub Edition November 2011 ISBN: 9780062105189
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062133267
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