by Layla Nash
“I have to find the coven,” I said. Some residual numbness from the magic helped. I placed the radio in one of his frozen hands, so he could call for help as the hex faded. “I won’t let you stop me.”
He growled something else, his face reddening as he strained to break the hex, and I got out of the car. He was right. This couldn’t be undone.
Chapter 45
It took forever to get to the Remnant. Almost nothing stirred in the city, though police cars and SWAT vans periodically broke the silence with sirens and horns and loudspeakers shouting orders to any citizen who dared the empty streets. By the time I made it to Remnant Park, I didn’t care that I walked through the shantytown with no concern for whether anyone witnessed my passage. It wouldn’t matter much in a few hours, whether Sam or the Alliance found me.
Instead I walked through the front door of my parents’ house, locking it after I stood in the wards for a few moments, absorbing the warm familiarity of my mother’s magic. I would be safe in the house. Demons couldn’t get through those wards. She’d buried them deep and made them well, with sticks and bones.
I stumbled into the kitchen and leaned against the butcher-block island, staring at the first glimmer of dawn illuminating the eastern sky. Daylight always made me feel safer, even knowing nightmares walked as easily in the day as in the night.
I turned away from the window and slid to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as I leaned back against the cabinets. Hiding my face against my knees didn’t help much, though it did block out the light. My mind raced even as my body begged for rest. Sam. A line of sunlight appeared on the cracked linoleum, creeping toward my feet. How did they raise him? If I boosted the spell and finished it, someone had to have started it. But how?
Anne Marie would not beat me. I smacked my fist into the floor, pain blossoming in my bruised knuckles. It helped focus my thoughts. I supervised the destruction of his body myself—cremation with no rites, no washing or prayers or words spoken over him, the pyre made from unholy wood, his ashes mixed with sea water. No one saw him before the cremation. Only Tracy stood with me as he died. The Morrigan could pass judgment without a second opinion. I hadn’t waited for Tracy to declare him guilty.
I knew he was guilty.
No one got close enough to touch him. I’d never raised the dead, but I knew a witch needed a blood-and-bone focus to stand even a minute chance of success. Blood and bone, and a hell of a spell done with powerful witches.
I pushed to my feet, resolute as panic faded in the dawn. It was witch business, and since I was the only witch left, it seemed, it was my business. Mother lectured in my ear: we cannot change the past. We can change memories and perceptions and sometimes reality, but what is done cannot be undone.
The memory of Leif’s warning made me pause, but not enough.
Sam was back. Instead of sitting in my parents’ kitchen, hiding from what I’d done and hoping it would go away, I needed to fix it.
The knot binding him to this world couldn’t be loosened until I knew how they tied it.
Small salt circles contained Tracy’s book and the one I’d stolen from Anne Marie in different parts of the living room, so their magic and history didn’t interact and start wreaking havoc. I paged through Anne Marie’s first, a little unimpressed. Despite the outside appearance of being an important book, in reality it was a glamour covering rather amateurish work, copying much greater witches without the skill and finesse. A non-magical human probably copied the original, but didn’t have the knowledge of what needed to be highlighted and preserved.
It was meant for security, so that dark grimoires were easier to trace, but in practice it meant kettles of dark witches hired humans to copy their books. I’d spent the last five years cleaning up after witches who experimented with bad books—something their expensive academies could not protect them from. I tapped the cover as I concealed the book in its circle. No help at all. Much like Anne Marie herself.
I sat back on my heels as I hefted Tracy’s book; it felt heavier despite the similar size, as if its gravity were stronger than everything else in the room. It felt sticky, the book’s soul hungry and seeking.
On the surface, the only real difference was that a powerful witch copied Tracy’s book; the power of the spells rolled off each page and clung to my fingertips. But as I flipped through it, serious ideological and practical differences became obvious. Potions required dark ingredients, spells needed death energy for activation, and many only worked during specific phases of the moon.
But that wasn’t all. It took longer to figure out, and I retrieved the original grimoire from where Mother kept the dangerous books just to be sure. The differences were so inconsequential that a lay witch wouldn’t notice the changes. Spells for summoning demons and the dead were copied incorrectly. They weren’t careless omissions—they were deliberate alterations. The witch copied steps out of order, changed words around, altered the rituals—right hand instead of left, yew twigs instead of oak. Deasil instead of widdershins.
Unease burbled in my stomach. This was a horrible landmine of magic, buried deeply and just waiting for an unwitting witch to pick it up and try a spell. Nearly all of them would kill the practitioner, or at least required a hapless victim to pay the price. I shivered and wiped my hands on my jeans, wanting to be rid of the cloying feel of the pages. I wondered if maybe the pages weren’t made of vellum at all, but of something... darker. Maybe human.
I forced myself to page through the book until I found the spell I would use to raise the dead, if I’d been inclined to consign my soul to the deepest pits of hell. I studied Mother’s grimoire on the other side of the room, memorizing the spell so I could compare as I crouched next to Tracy’s.
The setup was the same in both books, though they diverged after using a blood focus. Tracy’s book included a bone focus and detailed chanting. More pretty Latin poems for inferior witches. I read it three times, and double-checked against the original, before I was sure. That spell alone justified the evil of the book, the way it longed for power.
With the spell in Tracy’s book, the coven summoning the deceased would end up dead themselves, their magic and life force drained at the price for fueling the spell. Only the witch who invoked the circle would survive to control the revenant.
But why did Tracy have the book? The entire coven couldn’t be involved; there was no way Joanne and Rosa supported it, or Tracy herself. She’d witnessed Sam’s crimes. She knew what he was capable of. For Anne Marie to sacrifice an entire coven of war witches just to get Sam back didn’t make sense. Unless she had a new coven on standby to replace them. A dark coven, one of the kettles she protected after the Truce, that would obey her every command without question.
I got up to pace as nervous energy flooded through me, though I kept a wary eye on the vicious book. Too many coincidences and lies tangled up over the last few days, and Sam sat in the middle of it all like a malevolent spider, taunting me with the past. I had to find the simple truths, and start from there.
Sam had been reincarnated. Somehow, some way, someone brought him back from the dead. I’d completed the spell, but someone else started it. They used a modified version of the spell in Tracy’s book, since what I’d seen at the Skein didn’t match anything in my book or Anne Marie’s.
The entire First Coven participated in the summoning, all of their magic intertwined at the Skein, at Tracy’s, and around Sam. The coven was involved, knowingly or unknowingly.
Afterward, the coven regrouped at Tracy’s house. Something went wrong in the circle, or maybe the original spell culminated, and summoned a demon into the circle. The demon killed three witches before it escaped, and Anne Marie, Tracy, or Jacques killed it on the lawn. Then someone attacked Desiree through the door.
That was the last time I knew the coven lived. The same night something attacked my apartment, and at least three other summoners across the city.
I massaged my temples, banishing the thought,
and I started to pace again. My steps were uneven and I almost veered into the piano, but I needed to keep moving so I didn’t pass out.
Anne Marie plotted to raise Sam, whatever her reason.
Or…another plot among the witches, maybe, that went back much further. In the last days of the war, I suspected Sam of casting with another coven as we grew apart and the coven fragmented. A dark coven, a kettle. My heart sank with the possibility of a full kettle operating in the city. Maybe it was Rook, Sam’s mentor, after all those years.
Eradicating his kettle and as many others as I could find became my obsession after Sam’s death. I refused to spare any of them, but Anne Marie tattled to Soren that I killed strong witches who were willing to repent and support the Alliance. The Peacemaker insisted on rehabilitating as many as possible. Too many survived for my liking, and aligned to join standard covens.
They’d had five years to regain their strength and reorganize. Maybe Sam’s kettle survived, somewhere in the world. Maybe Rook wanted him back more than Anne Marie did.
I slid into the recliner, my brain pudding. Something caught in my shirt, and I looked down. The jade ring. I pulled it off the chain to study it. Jade for a mender. Because even though we all knew my talent was destruction, Sam believed I could bring things together. Keep them together. I shook my head as I clutched the ring.
The Sam I fell in love with was not the Sam I killed. The dark magic changed him, warped his magic and his personality. It turned him into someone else. He’d loved me, before the dark magic. He’d love me and been worthy of my love.
I replaced the counterfeit books on the warded shelf. Once they were safely away, I searched my parents’ library for spells to banish the dead permanently. I thought I’d done it right the first time, but apparently someone sneaked off with a fingerbone or two.
I held my eyes open as I pored over the books, fighting fatigue and hunger and a desperate urgency that made my leg bounce even though I had no energy. The answer had to be there somewhere. I just had to find it.
In the end, there weren’t a lot of options. With the degree of uncertainty around how they raised him, the only spells to guarantee his true-death took more power than I had. Unless I used up my life-force in its entirety, and even that wasn’t a sure thing. Killing Sam again, maybe saving the witches—it meant my death.
I covered my face and wished for a few days of rest, more time to plan and research. Any other alternative than a noble sacrifice. I’d never been particularly noble. That moment seemed a curious time to start putting the world ahead of my own needs.
At least Mom and Dad would be proud. I hoped.
I’d almost talked myself into getting up and heading for the Skein to end it all when my phone buzzed. Moriah. I hesitated before I answered; hearing her voice might destroy whatever resolve I’d pulled together.
But I wanted her to know the truth, at least. Whatever stories and lies they made up later to explain my death and the coven’s disappearance and Sam’s resurrection, I wanted her to know the truth. “Hey, Mo.”
“Lily, I don’t know what the hell’s going on or where you’re at, but you’ve got to get out of the city.” She sounded like she was running, and people shouted in the background. “There are demons popping up all over the place, and we can’t find the source. We can’t contain them. We can’t fight them. The Alliance is evacuating. You’ve got to run.”
“I can’t run,” I said. “Like I told Leif. This is witch business. And I…I had a hand in it.”
“It’s not your business,” she said, desperation making her shout. “Skoll curse you, Lilith witch, this is not your business. You don’t have to do this. You can’t fight them all on your own.”
I could barely whisper. “I have to try.”
She didn’t speak for a long stretch, then took a deep breath. “Where are you going? How do you know where to fight them?”
“It’s the Skein,” I said. “Keep everyone away from the Skein. If things go wrong... I don’t know. I won’t be able to control it. You might have to firebomb the whole Slough, maybe sow the earth with salt. It will be another Remnant.”
“Lilith,” she said quietly. “As your friend, I’m begging you. Let me bring you more witches. We have strong ones. They’re not trained like you, but they can at least help you.”
“I’m not going to endanger any more witches.” I looked around the familiar living room as my heart stuttered and my vision blurred. “You’ll need them for cleanup, Moriah. Just keep everyone away from the Skein. The Externals have something that will hold the demons at least temporarily. Maybe that will help.”
“They’ve denied having anything like that, and no one can find your pal Smith.” Moriah cursed and growled at someone else. “You can’t do anything until dark. Just wait a bit and we’ll get reinforcements to you. Let us fight with you.”
I took a deep breath, afraid I’d have to hang up on her before she changed my mind. “It’s too dangerous, Mo. Believe me. Please. Don’t come to the Skein. Keep everyone away.”
Her voice reached me in a whisper. “You’re not coming back from where you’re going, are you?”
“I don’t think so.” I was too tired to grieve yet. “I wish I could, but this looks like... This doesn’t look like something I can stop without a major sacrifice, and the only thing I have to give up now is me.”
“Damn it, witch.” Moriah growled at someone in the background, and kept the same tone when she went on. “Don’t do some ride-off-into-the-sunset bullshit now. You fought for ten years, and for another six, to live. Keep fighting. Keep fucking fighting, do you hear me? And when you need to, ask for help. We’ll be there. I’ll be there. Don’t forget you’re not alone. Keep fighting.”
“I’ll try, Moriah. And—just in case. Thank you. Love you.” It was all I could get out before my voice cracked.
“This isn’t goodbye, witch,” she said. “It isn’t. I love your stupid, stubborn ass too, and I’m going to kick your ass up and down this city the second I see you. Which will be soon. Got me?”
“I got you.” I couldn’t hang up, and neither could she. I stared at the phone, listening to her breathing on the other end, and tried to swallow the knot in my throat. There wasn’t anything else to say, but I didn’t want to end the call. I didn’t want that to be the last thing I said to her.
I covered my eyes and turned off the phone.
Tears still blurred my vision as I stumbled across the room, tripping over my shoes, and shoved the phone in my pocket. Getting back to the Skein early would allow me to set a few circles and maybe even create some traps. I still couldn’t see well as I opened the front door, hopping on one foot as I struggled with the shoe.
A shadow detached from the wall of the house and I froze. Brandr.
Chapter 46
I stared at him, seeing the Old World alpha in the light of day for the first time since the war. His wild eyes scanned the house behind me and the surroundings, and his nostrils flared as he searched for threats.
“Are you safe?”
I eased behind the door, and peered at him from around the heavy oak. “Why are you here?”
“Where is here?”
The shantytown behind him didn’t stir, and no Styrma burst out of the ratty buildings to chase him down and arrest me too. If they’d followed him, they would find me as well. I dropped the shoe so I could hex with both hands—not that I had any power to spare. “Here is the Remnant, Brandr. Why are you here?”
He frowned as he looked around. “Something bad happened. I needed to find you.”
“Something bad?”
“You’re okay?” He put his back to the wall and studied me from head to toe. “You don’t look okay.”
“Yeah. And thanks.” I eased forward; he couldn’t mean to kill me, not when he looked a heartbeat away from offering me aspirin and a hug. “I escaped the house when the Externals attacked.”
His lip curled as he tilted his head at the wasteland be
hind him. “Trust you to find sanctuary in the creepiest neighborhood in the city.”
I scowled.
A smile softened the scarred granite planes of his features. “Why do you feel safe here?”
“Why did you come for me?”
“I swore,” he said, and held his hands out in a gesture as if it were obvious. “I swore to Lord Fenrir to protect you. So…I am here.”
I took a calming breath. Saints shield me from overprotective men. A handful decided to shelter me, but more things tried to kill me in the last few days than in the previous five years. “I appreciate you think you need to—”
“I have no idea how I got here.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tattered clothes. “The house was attacked, alarms went off, crazy shit happened, and all I thought of was you. You weren’t in the house, so the wolf thought... run. Find her. Lord Fenrir guided me to you.”
I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. I doubted Lord Fenrir cared whether I lived or died, and the longer I stalled, the harder it would become to walk to my death in the Skein. “There’s a lot going wrong, Brandr, and I’ve got a mission to complete. I’m not really in the mood for company.”
“Too bad.” He jerked his chin at the house behind me. “Invite me in. Standing out here gives me the creeps.”
I hesitated. No one else had been in the house in sixteen years, since the morning strangers flooded our kitchen and killed my parents. As I waffled, Brandr arched an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not interested in what I remembered?”
The bastard. I stepped back and let the door swing in enough to admit him. We stood in the foyer after I closed the door, staring at each other until Brandr tilted his head at the interior of the house and said gently, “Ask me in and offer me something to drink, girl. Were you raised in a barn?”
Flustered, I turned on my heel and stalked into the kitchen. I didn’t have time for hospitality. I thumped a mostly-clean glass of water onto the kitchen table and folded my arms over my chest. “Start talking.”