Shattered (Tempest Coven Novels)

by Wendolyn Baird

  "Jason is going to be perfectly fine," he reiterates slowly. "But when he was brought in and the paramedics realized his injuries weren't just from a motorcycle accident-"

  Oh no, realization slams into me as the words leave his mouth.

  "- there really was no choice but to call in The Council. They've decided to get involved, and I'm sorry to say, since nobody but Jason and I have actually seen the thing... if anybody finds out there's a witch in town, you're going to be suspect number one."

  The rest of his words fade out into a jumble of white noise, and the pulsating throb in my temples is the only thing I can focus on. An undeniable need to scream builds in my throat, and my breath comes out in tiny, hysterical gasps.

  Everyone I grew up with hates me. My sister hates me. She's in danger, and I can't do anything but try to help her, even though I feel like it's killing me. There's something stalking me, the ghost told me as much. Nova thinks this is all my fault. So will The Council. The whole town.

  I could die. I could die here, hated and alone.

  My throat is threatening to close, and a clamminess is spreading all over me, leaving nothing but chills, save for my eyes that are burning with tears. Shaking hands and haggard breaths are what I'm reduced to, slowly rocking in the space beneath the desk.

  "Come on, we've got to get you out of there." Atlas pulls on my arms, attempting to dislodge their position of holding my knees to my chin.

  "Your legs are going to cramp up like that, and it's going to hurt like a bitch. You wouldn't be helping Jason any by tearing those stitches. He's tougher than he looks. Knowing him, he'd try to redo your stitches from his own hospital bed."

  Staring dumbly at Atlas, I find I can't bring myself to cooperate, and once again, my voice refuses to work. Elara winds her way between our legs, ears flattened as she slinks into the space under the desk.

  Eventually, Atlas gives up, gingerly patting my shoulder in quiet consolation.

  The screams I wish to bellow never come out, but in their place are wordless, agonizing cries, and for the second time in a week, I find myself sobbing on the floor.

  Chapter 20: Tania

  OVER A WEEK PASSES in near isolation.

  Atlas is terrified of Elara and I being seen outside his home, and I'm terrified of being attacked, investigated, or bringing retribution down on my host. So, he left Elliot in charge of the shop, and we've spent days searching through books, maps, and local legends.

  But we find nothing on the vacant house, nothing on a beast that screeches like a demon, and nothing on a woman who was mauled to death. A mangled face suffocates me every night in my dreams, and any shift in the wind leaves me tense. My ears are ringing from the constant strain of waiting for shrieking in the silence of Atlas' home. The ghouls haven't come for us yet though, so life goes on.

  "Elara, cut that crap out, will you?" Atlas pushes her away from the table with his foot, tired and annoyed as he tries to graph out a map on tracing paper. The remainder of his breakfast idles at the edge of his mess, and one crumpled edge of the paper is slowly turning red where watermelon fell upon it.

  The living quarters, though larger than my paltry own sitting outside, are still admittedly small. Elara has taken any opportunity possible to get underfoot, as if she's goading us into an argument. It doesn't take much these days, and I've far overstayed my welcome, because each passing day leaves Atlas more tense than the last.

  Pushing congealing syrup around my plate with a piece of sodden french toast, I try to squash enough food together to make it look like I've eaten. The truth is, my stomach's been in knots for days, but I don't know how to stop Atlas from cooking without seeming rude.

  More than anything, I just want to go back to sleep. I miss sleep, but every time my eyes drift closed, guttural whispers whine and warn unfamiliar words in my ears. My head is filled with visions of torn flesh and spindly hands tearing at my legs with razor sharp nails, and eventually I wake up gasping for air. Each day that brings me closer to the new moon is worse, and I'm almost out of time.

  So, I accept cup after cup of coffee, and sit up at the tiny table in the guest room long after Atlas collapses from exhaustion across the hall. Some nights the sounds of his soft snoring are enough of a white noise from my ever-present waiting for a banshee cry, that I fall asleep where I sit.

  On those nights, I dream of Sasha. In every single one, she does the same thing, over and over again in a loop. She cries and begs me to burn the garden, and then leans on Robert as the two of them fade from view.

  My eyes are beginning to fail me after so many hours of staying awake, and the last thing I see before my vision shakes itself into darkness, is a plate sliding off the table.

  The hands and unearthly voices are barely creeping upon my consciousness when I'm startled awake by a jostling of movement. The warmth and security are vaguely familiar in my drowsiness, and it's not until my head drops onto the couch cushion that I realize Atlas has moved me from my seat in the kitchen.

  I should wake up more, apologize for... something. But the only thing I can manage is to catch hold of his shirt weakly in my outstretched arm.

  "Go to sleep," he whispers. "I know you haven't been. You'll be safe, I promise. I'll sit here with you."

  I want to open my mouth to argue, but fatigue courses through my body with rushes of nausea and dizziness. Elara jumps up next to me, purring for the first time in days and so I give up. One way or the other, they'll keep me safe, and I can't hold my eyelids open anyway.

  When I wake again, Atlas is silently glaring at the TV, not really watching the commercials that fill the room with quiet dialogue. The first thing I remember is the plate I shattered, then his arms carrying me yet again.

  "I'm so sorry," I begin, and he flinches in surprise at my voice. How long have I been sleeping?

  Clearing my throat, I try again. "I know I'm a nuisance, and you have every right to be mad about the plate, and me staying here. Having to move me. Everything, really. But I'm so sorry, if I had anywhere to go I would. I will as soon as we find Sasha. "

  Atlas lets out an involuntary growl, and then rubs at the stubble on his jaw tiredly. "You know what? I am a little on edge, not mad, just..." he trails off in a heavy sigh. "Don't worry about the plate, and it's nice having you stay here. There's just everything else going on."

  The living room is dim, and although the couch is soft beneath me and the room looks as inviting as ever, I don't think either of us is going to relax in here until we start getting solid answers.

  "We need to get out of the house. Books and the internet can only go so far." His face softens in the pause between his next words and he reaches out to touch my arm lightly. Bracing me. "I don't think we're going to find her this way. Your map won't even light up in here. I think we just need to get out and start walking."

  Pins and needles start at the base of my neck, shivering their way down my arms and spine. He's right, and I know he is, but...

  "What are we supposed to do about The Council? Does that mean we can go see Jason? And what about the demon?"

  Demon. After Jason's accident, that's the only way Atlas will refer to the thing, but the venom in his voice has me wondering what other harsh words he's holding back. I wonder if they match my own.

  His tired eyes lift up with a lopsided smile, and he jerks his head towards the back door. "Come on, I've got something to show you."

  He leads me through the waving grass, and the arid wind has my head spinning with the change in atmosphere. Only a week ago I found this air stifling, but after hiding indoors for so many days? This wind is a freedom I've missed. Turning my face to the sun, I welcome the heat with open arms, only to be startled back to earth by Atlas taking my hand.

  "Be careful there, there's some loose rocks just past this slope," he warns quietly. Grabbing my elbow as well, he guides me down a slightly worn path, and I stare at the side of his face with ill-concealed confusion.

  It's true that over the pa
st few days we've relaxed around each other considerably, and I've stopped looking at him as an ally and started seeing him as simply Atlas. But it's one thing to argue over which types of locating spells are more effective, or to play cards when we got too stressed, it's an entirely different matter to go around holding hands or having him watch after me while I sleep.

  "Alright, come on in," he announces, dropping my hand as quickly as he took it. Or maybe I'm just an idiot and he just wanted to make sure I didn't fall from the table, or on loose rocks.

  Behind the covered driveway is a small garage that I'd originally overlooked; its windows clean, but cracked, and a doorway etched in runes. The lights snap on with an audible click, and the room is filled with the scent of metal and dirt.

  "Check it out!" He announces, striding over to a workbench. "So, I'd noticed that the only thing that really helps against the demon is iron. A few nights ago, I couldn't sleep, so I came out here and made a few more charms, things that hopefully can't be dropped or forgotten."

  That declaration draws me up short, as I waver on the grass strewn floor mat, stunned into stillness. "I'm sorry, what?" The words drop out harsher than I'd like, but panic and anger are barreling through my chest. "You came out here, alone, in the dark, without even telling me? Atlas come on! You've got to be smarter than that, what if something had happened to you? I can't, I can't..." I can't lose anybody else, I stop myself from saying.

  Walking back over to me, he ducks his head in guilt. "Yeah, you're right. But this is my home. It's safe. Guarded. I trust it."

  "I trusted my RV; it still came after us there!"

  Though, granted we are standing out here in daylight and I feel safer out here than I do in the guest room. But it's morning and we didn't split up... and he doesn't need to know about the terror that keeps me up at night.

  "Yeah, but that wasn't on warded ground. This place is locked down tight," he gently reminds me. "Besides, you've needed your rest. One person can only carry stress for so long, and I know you haven't been sleeping well."

  Great, as if he hadn't already seen me at my lowest, somehow, he knows about the nightmares. My jaw is aching from tension as I maintain a glare at him, and a scowl works its way up the side of my mouth.

  "Anyway," he continues, stepping backwards to a small worktable. "I came up with these. El made some for them and Mom, and I made these up for us and Jason."

  Laid out in a row are several accessories and weapons I would not have thought possible for him to make in a single night. Among them is a curiously shaped piece, covered in sigils and runes at every available space. My hand reaches out to it instinctively, pondering its place on the table with jewelry and knives.

  "Is that a crossbow?"

  It clearly is, but I've never seen one in person and my brain is stuck on the oddity, derailing all irritation.

  "Yes, I've had it for a while. I've had most of these things actually, they just needed some reinforcement and extra iron in the plating."

  "You have a crossbow?" I squint my eyes at him and place a hand at my hip, still baffled.

  "Yeah?" He's looking at me with his head cocked to the side, like I'm the strange one.

  "You couldn't have gone with a gun?" Somehow, I'd anticipated a more modern way of dealing with a clearly ravenous animal. Monster, the little voice in my head reminds me. Demon. A thing I've never seen but scares me more than the ghost that's been haunting me every time I shut my eyes.

  Atlas jerkily shrugs his shoulders and straightens his back, rearranging the rest of the things on the table. "I don't really like guns."

  "But you like crossbows?"

  His eyebrows raise and he leans towards me with a flippant air. "I like my crossbow."

  There's a hint of a challenge in his voice, and through my confusion, I sense that this is one subject I shouldn't push right now. Instead I toss my hair behind my ears and turn back to the rest of his stockpile.

  "Okay. So, you have a crossbow... cool. Well then, what all is here for me?"

  He points out a couple of the smaller knives and as I slip one into my pocket, the slight rustling of metal shifting has me glancing up. Atlas removes two bracelets from the mess and holds them out to me.

  "This one's for you," he offers. It's a small bangle, inscribed with funny little lines, but before I can take a closer look, he twists it open, ready for my wrist. My hand moves on its own, reaching out to allow him to fasten it into place.

  "The theory behind this spell is that anything trying to physically hold you won't be able to. Since it's an external spell, and it worked the other day, I figured we might as well stick with what we know is safe."

  He's referring to the need to keep our magic types separate... an issue that's been proving to be hard to do over the past week. Just last night I discovered that trying to manipulate fire on a stove he'd already imbibed with his energy... doesn't work. But it did leave a few impressive scorch marks on the ceiling. Well, I was impressed. Atlas hid in the shower for half an hour, claiming to have to wash off the smell of burnt food and clothing off of him, but I think he was just trying not to yell at me.

  "What do you mean it worked the other day?" Iron definitely did not help yesterday. Nothing did until we thought to use a fire extinguisher. It turns out you can't use magic to fix something that already has two different types of energy running through it.

  Warm eyes flicker up to mine briefly. "When the floor collapsed? I couldn't get you out until I got that protective charm on you. Same concept, just double the impact."

  Oh, that day. My left-hand flutters to my throat, where the eye shaped charm hangs beneath a tiger's eye pendant. I never bothered removing it, never even considered the need to. It just felt right to leave it on.

  "Here is your name, and here," Atlas flips my wrist over as he points to various inscriptions on both sides of the bangle. "Is the word protection. This is ogham, a very old alphabet that I'm rather partial to."

  That explains the funny lines.

  "This other bracelet," he continues. I'd forgotten about that one. "Is for your sister when we find her. Her's, of course, says Sasha."

  Throwing my arms around his neck, I bury my face into his shoulder and just breathe for a moment. I'm grateful, I'm relieved, and for the tiniest moment in over two weeks, I'm hopeful. Because the conviction in his voice has me believing that maybe, just maybe, he's right. I can find my sister.

  "Let's head on over to Jason's place, you still shouldn't go out in public if we can help it. But with these on our side, I'm not worried about oversized cats." Atlas responds, stepping back away from me.

  "Give me just a second, I want to grab something before we leave."

  In my renewed hope, I try to skip up the RV stairs, but the tight pain in my leg stops me halfway. My fingers curl around the burning metal of the door handle, I can't stop the sharp gasp that passes my lips as I pause momentarily. Damn stitches!

  "Hey are you okay?" Atlas shouts at me from where he's locking up the garage.

  "Just peachy," I call back in annoyance. Huffing as I gingerly step the rest of the way in, I ignore the dry heat that's permeated my living room. There's a heavy scent of papers and wilting flowers that reminds me of my chores.

  Refill the water bulbs in each planter, shut the older books away from the heat, crack the windows, and lower the shades. I'd forgotten about those things the last time I'd trekked out here for clothes. I could have sworn half of those books had already been picked up though, and I know for a fact that the heather by the window was only barely sprouting, and now the pot's overflowing. What on Earth? Even with my help, there's no way it should have grown so quickly.

  I've only ever seen this plant grow so rapidly once, but those circumstances are impossible to recreate now. Wrapping up a small clipping and slipping it into my pocket, I go to gather the blooms I was originally searching for. I can study the clipping later, but the heat in here is as thick as an oven. Besides Atlas is waiting.

  Jus
t as I head back out with a small bouquet under my arm, I cave against the ache that's been bugging me for days. It's not like I can avoid thinking of Sasha, I might as well let myself carry her picture. So, my fingers dance across the fridge and settle on my favorite one.

  We're both fair skinned, but her freckled complexion is ruddy compared to mine, and the contrast is highlighted with how closely we'd posed. In the glossy image, our arms are loosely intertwined, and Tania's head rests on my shoulder. It brings out the stark difference in our hair as well. Letting myself trace the golden red of her waves that shimmers against the black mass floating about my face, I can't stop a smile at our eyes. There at least, we are the same.

  With the flowers and photo in hand, I return to Atlas, whose acquirements are far more deadly. The crossbow is slung over his shoulder, a knife is hung on his belt, and the tattoos in his arsenal appear to waver like the heat that rises off the concrete, creating a haze of movement that surrounds his form.

  His brows lowers at my appearance, and he fidgets with the car keys in his palm.

  "Flowers?"

  "For healing."

  "I'm sure he's fine by now," Atlas replies.

  "Yeah? Well, I want to make sure." With a shrug and a few careful steps, I pick my way through the dried grass and over to the car, folding my picture carefully between the flower stems so the wind doesn't blow it away.

  Traversing down the roads that wind between the untamed wild and the ever-watched town is a tightrope act I couldn't have done on my own, but Atlas drives them with ease. The muscles in his shoulder are relaxed, and he seems almost happy to be driving around with me, for once. Or it could just be relief to finally be out of that cramped little house.

  Thick, grey carpet deadens the shuffling of my sneakers as I pause in the entryway. Despite the grandeur of the apartment, the wide walls are hung with mirrors of every shape and size that simultaneously widen and narrow the hall.

  Once again, a chill falls across me, and in the moment that I freeze, it occurs to me that my heart is racing for three reasons.