Triad Soul

by Nathan Burgoine

  “If he doesn’t blow up? He’s innocent,” Anders said. All eyes turned to him. He shrugged.

  “What about Kavan?” Rebekah said. Her voice was raw, with just enough of a hitch to it.

  Damn, Anders thought. She’s playing her role to the hilt. Curtis hadn’t been willing to go forward without her being in the know, but it turned out Rebekah had acting chops.

  Curtis exhaled. “I’m not entirely sure. But…he’s already dying.” Curtis didn’t have to fake his own worry or the way he couldn’t meet Rebekah’s gaze, Anders knew. Even a fake-out version of what he was trying to do might still hurt Kavan.

  Jonathan Mitchell frowned. He looked around the room, meeting the gazes of the other Mitchell clones. “I don’t agree to this lightly, but the fact remains I don’t believe Graham is to blame. I wouldn’t risk Kavan’s life unless I was sure.”

  Rebekah snorted. The old man stared her down. Beside him, some of the older wizards shifted their stances. The eldest uncle even opened his mouth, but he closed it when Jonathan aimed a gaze his way.

  Anders didn’t buy it for a second. Jonathan wanted his position back, and proving Graham wasn’t the villain was his only way to do it. Added bonus? It proved Malcolm Stirling had overreacted and was wrong about something. And if it went wrong, Kavan died, and they had nothing else to show for it? It wasn’t like Jonathan’s situation had gotten worse, and they were less one family disgrace.

  And the Families had the nerve to say demons were self-interested.

  Curtis moved forward to the bed. He reached out and put one hand on Kavan’s shoulder.

  The door opened.

  Everyone turned. The woman who strode in was the same woman from the hospital. Rebekah’s mother, then. Kendra was obviously pissed, followed by two others about her age, both looking a little sheepish, like maybe they’d been told not to let her come and had failed spectacularly. One was another blond woman, as coiffed and fake looking as all the rest, and the other—

  Anders blinked.

  Did Jake-John-Joe have a twin?

  “What are you doing here?” Kendra said. She wasn’t looking at Curtis, Luc, or even Anders. She was staring past Jonathan, too.

  Anders turned. She was looking right at Jake-John-Joe.

  Oh shit, Anders thought.

  The uncle threw up both hands and the surge of force, heat, and light was all too familiar to Anders. He was far enough out of the line of fire for a solid hit, so it only clipped him. But it tore a swath through the middle of the room with an audible roar of power. By the time Anders regained his footing, he saw Jonathan Mitchell, Kavan, the bed itself, Kendra and Curtis all tossed back against the wall like they weighed next to nothing, then pulled to the floor, hard. They were all down, none of them moving.

  Binding.

  The other two wizards who’d come in with Kendra were on their hands and knees, shaking their heads. They hadn’t been in the direct line of fire.

  The room filled with cries and shouts. The younger wizards were diving for cover or making a break for it through the archway behind them. The older wizards had stepped back from the suddenly violent Joe-Jack-John and had raised their hands in front of them, in some gesture of defense, maybe.

  Curtis, Anders thought. He needed to make sure he was okay, but in a blur of motion, he saw Luc crouch beside Curtis. He looked up, meeting Anders’s gaze, and nodded.

  Alive.

  Anders turned back to face the uncle and watched the man’s features melt away.

  The middle-aged man who regarded him looked strong, fit, and handsome. He wasn’t the typical blond of the Mitchell family, though, sporting black hair in a widow’s peak. And although Anders couldn’t immediately place him, he was familiar. Even the man’s outfit shifted into a short-sleeved black shirt and slacks.

  Along his bare arms, twists of darker flesh were grafted to his own pale skin.

  At least the plan fucking well worked, Anders thought. There’s our killer. Then he lit his fingers with hellfire and jumped.

  Before Anders could impact him, the killer flicked his wrist and halted Anders. His muscles locked in place. His whole body simply refused to move. He strained and pressed, but nothing happened.

  What the hell?

  “Who are you?” one of the women said to the killer. She spat a word in another language and clenched her fist, but the killer laughed. Whatever magic she’d attempted to throw at him had no effect. She paled.

  The killer flicked his fingers at her, and she and the other two who had chosen to stay in the room were thrown across the room, hitting the far wall and landing in a heap.

  “I never liked you, Heather,” the killer said. “Never knew when to shut your goddamn mouth.”

  The voice did it. Frozen, unable to so much as blink, Anders wished he could cry out a warning to the few still standing.

  Wheeler.

  Younger-looking, and definitely stronger, yes, but it was Wheeler.

  Wheeler turned back to Anders. Holding up his hand just inches from Anders’s face, he showed off a small leather bracelet. It was knotted, with a small glass charm of some sort on it. Inside the charm, Anders saw blood.

  “You’re not the only one who scored a hit, remember?” Wheeler said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “You won’t do a goddamn thing to me, demon. You’re mine.” Then he looked back to the room as a whole. “You’re all mine. Leadership of the Mitchells falls to the strongest.” He spread his arms. “Anyone wish to guess who that is?”

  “Malcolm Stirling would never allow you to rule the Mitchells,” Luc said. Anders wished he could turn his head. Instead, he had to settle for watching Wheeler shift his attention somewhere over his left shoulder.

  Wheeler laughed. “Really? You want to know what Malcolm Stirling wants? Jonathan out of his way, and Graham removed from consideration. And, oh, look who made that happen. You think he’ll care how? You think he’s going to be upset about a little coup on my part?”

  Anders strained to no avail. He wanted to scream, to punch, anything…

  A new voice rose, a man this time. But whatever spell he launched at Wheeler, it only made Wheeler take a single step back before jabbing one hand out in response, off behind Anders and to the right. The same voice cried out in pain and was silent.

  Wheeler had the power of three demons and a werewolf as well as his magic.

  “This isn’t how I wanted to do things,” Wheeler said. He walked past Anders, and the demon’s skin crawled not to be able to see what he was doing behind him. Now all he could do was stare at the wall and the couch where Wheeler had been standing, dressed in an illusion of Joe-John-Jack. “I had intended to challenge for head of the coven at our moot tomorrow, but I guess you’ll all just have to respect me now.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The voice was Rebekah’s, and the fury in it was clear. The burst of light that lit the room was almost painful, knocking Wheeler down. He skidded back across the wooden floor and hit the three-seater couch near where Anders was frozen.

  Anders decided he liked Rebekah. A lot. He tried to move again, but nothing happened. Damn it. Whatever Wheeler had done with Anders’s blood, it wasn’t going to let him go.

  Wheeler was back up in an instant, and his string of syllables made the air itself warp with heat.

  Anders heard Rebekah grunt, then silence. The room was uncomfortably warm, even for him.

  “You’re the last one standing, vampire,” Wheeler said.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” Luc said.

  Anders strained. Nothing. It was maddening not to be able to see what was happening behind him, and he could only see Wheeler out of the corner of his eye. He hoped the little shits who’d made a run for it had called for backup, but he didn’t know if backup would arrive soon enough.

  “Your little group ruined my plans,” Wheeler said.

  With a rush of air, Luc was in front of Anders. He looked past him, though, obviously keeping his eye on Whe
eler.

  “It was never our intention to—”

  Whatever Wheeler did made Luc twist almost too fast for Anders to see. The wall behind where Luc had stood just a breath earlier cracked, a puff of drywall exploding out in a small cloud that sprayed white powder across Anders’s chest.

  Anders wanted to flinch. To drop or duck. Anything. He couldn’t even blink, and his eyes were burning.

  Wheeler stepped back into view. Luc was pressed against the wall, and Wheeler was between them, barely a step away from where Anders stood frozen to the spot. He held something now, and Anders felt his heart shudder at the sight of the short, curved blade.

  Even from here, he could feel cold coming from the knife. It seemed to leech the excess heat from the very air around them.

  “I wonder what I’ll get from you,” Wheeler said. “This doesn’t work on wizards, of course, so I won’t be stripping your little catamite, but I’m sure the blade will give me something for the skin of a vampire.”

  Luc shifted a pace to the left, lifting and placing his foot like the predator he was. “It was you in the video you showed us,” he said. “Wearing Faris’s skin.”

  “He warded his packages,” Wheeler said. “I thought his form would get me past them.”

  “Apparently your magic is not as infallible as you believe,” Luc said, taking another languid step. If he could have, Anders would have smiled. Luc was keeping Wheeler talking, and getting ready to make a move.

  “It’s strong enough to—”

  Luc leapt at Wheeler, but even as the vampire jumped, Anders could see his aim was off. Wheeler barely had to step aside, and Luc’s hand never connected with him at all, barely grazing the wizard’s arm instead. It didn’t even look like he drew blood.

  “Is that the best you have, vampire?” Wheeler said, so close to Anders he could smell the man’s cheap cologne. “Is this all I can expect from a Duke?”

  Wheeler was right. Luc was better than that, and it had been a pathetic attempt to hurt the wizard, easily telegraphed. Anders rolled his eyes in disgust.

  Wait.

  What the fuck?

  “I have everything I wanted,” Luc said. He held up the small leather bracelet and crushed the small glass vial between his fingers.

  Wheeler tried to turn, but it was too late. Luc had maneuvered him too close. Anders grabbed Wheeler’s head with both hands and twisted hard, noticing the raking burn marks on the back of Wheeler’s neck had almost healed, thanks to his borrowed demonic power.

  The snap was very loud.

  The noise Wheeler’s body made when it fell to the floor was less impressive.

  “Well done,” Luc said.

  “You’ve never been more fuckable than you are right now,” Anders said.

  “Merci,” Luc said.

  *

  By the time they roused Curtis, a few of the others had already wakened, and two of the kids who’d booked it the moment trouble had started took to righting the room and getting the various battered Mitchells onto the couches or even just making them comfortable on the floor while they recovered from the beat-down Wheeler had inflicted. Their voices were groggy and confused, and Jonathan Mitchell’s was not among them. Wheeler wasn’t the only one with a broken neck. He supposed he should feel bad for the old man, but he didn’t have it in him.

  Curtis sat against the wall, rubbing his forehead. “That was one hell of a binding.”

  “Stolen power,” Luc said.

  Curtis winced, rubbing his temples.

  “What about Kavan?”

  “Still breathing,” Anders said. Luc and Anders had righted the bed and put Kavan back on it. The IV had been torn out, but the oxygen tank seemed okay. He had no idea if Kavan had been hurt any more by being thrown around, but it wasn’t like the guy was going to wake up and tell them. Rebekah was standing beside him now, gripping the railing of the bed with both hands.

  “He didn’t wake up,” she said.

  Curtis lowered his hand. “What?”

  “I thought maybe…” She shook her head.

  “I don’t think the knife works like that,” Curtis said.

  “The knife,” Rebekah said, and she went to Wheeler’s body.

  Curtis struggled to his feet. Anders helped him, and they went to her.

  “Rebekah?” Curtis said.

  “Help me,” she said. She’d picked up the knife, holding it against Wheeler’s outstretched arm, the edge of the blade right beside the long strip of dark brown skin he’d stolen from her brother and bound to his forearm. “Help me figure out how to use this thing to cut Kavan’s skin free, and then we can put it back.” She pressed it hard against Wheeler’s arm, but the blade didn’t cut the flesh. “It’s not doing anything. I don’t know how to make it work.”

  Curtis flinched. “Rebekah, Wheeler’s dead. I don’t think there’s anything there to take. If he’d been alive, maybe…”

  Rebekah held the knife still for another second, but nothing happened. Anders shared a look with Curtis, who shook his head. She leaned back. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Damn it.” Then she paused, looking at the knife. She held it up, frowning at it.

  “I’m sorry,” Curtis said.

  “Alive,” Rebekah said. Before either of them could stop her, she held the blade to her own forearm and cut.

  “Rebekah!” Curtis tried to grab for her. “Don’t!”

  The air around them grew cold, and Rebekah drew the blade along her skin the barest of fractions. She shuddered.

  Curtis touched her arm, then drew his hand back, hissing. His fingertips were white.

  Anders drew him back.

  “Rebekah?” Kendra’s voice was weak.

  If Rebekah heard her, she didn’t respond. Instead, she rose to her feet and returned to Kavan’s bedside. A tiny sliver of flesh lay across the enchanted blade, and she pressed it and the knife against her brother. Cold flooded the room. Anders’s breath was visible in front of him.

  Rebekah stumbled back from the bedside, dropping the knife. She sank to her knees.

  “Rebekah!” Her mother reached for her.

  “I’m okay,” Rebekah said. Her voice was shaky, but she seemed coherent. “I wasn’t using my bit of demon anyway.”

  On the bed, Kavan Mitchell took a deep breath.

  “Oh no,” Rebekah said. She pressed her hands against her eyes. “What…what’s happening?”

  “He looks better,” Anders said, looking at Kavan. Whatever she’d just done, it seemed to be a good thing.

  “That’s not what she means,” Kendra said. She reached out and took Rebekah’s hands, pulling them away from her eyes. “It’s the inheritance. It’s leaving me. For you.”

  “No thanks,” Rebekah said. She was blinking quickly, as though she had something in her eyes. “You keep it.”

  “I thought if neither of you were fully wizards, the inheritance wouldn’t go to either of you,” Kendra said. “I thought I’d found a way to spare you both.”

  “That’s why…To turn us into half-demons?” Rebekah said. “You thought that was better?”

  “Hey,” Anders said. “Standing right here. Kicking ass and saving lives, I might add.”

  “Anders,” Curtis said.

  “What? I’m a big damn hero.”

  “Yes, you are,” Luc said, coming up to the both of them. “Come. I think perhaps the Mitchells might need some time to consider their options, and they need to track down Graham to let him know he is in the clear. And they’ll definitely need to speak with Malcolm Stirling.” He stressed the name. “We should depart.”

  Kendra looked up at the three of them. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Anders said. “Hey, sorry your old guy died.”

  Everyone stared.

  What? Was it really so surprising he could be polite sometimes?

  Eighteen

  They all had looks of fear or wariness, but on a few faces Luc saw defeat. There were nine. Of the eleven of which they had
originally been aware, two were still missing. All but one were pale and wan, and Luc had no doubt as to their situation. They’d been doing what he had done for more years than he cared to recall: surviving on as little as possible, with only the three days of the full moon to consider even remotely safe. Only one of them, a beautiful, well-dressed woman who wore her dark hair long and held in place with a clip, by all appearances in her early twenties, seemed as though she had been well tended at least, though even she, Luc knew, had been living hidden and apart from the rest of the world, albeit somewhere far safer than the others.

  No longer.

  “I thank you for coming,” Luc said.

  All eyes turned to him. He could only imagine what was running through their minds. Was this a trap? Was this, despite the promise, to end with them nothing more than dust and bone?

  “Thank you for having us,” the beautiful woman said.

  “I’m your Duc, Luc Lanteigne. Ottawa, and much of the area around it, is mine under the terms of the lignage, as ordered by la reine.” A few blinked, and at least one looked completely confused and on the edge of panic. Luc raised a hand. “I know you are scared. Please don’t be. I have been in your position, and I am not unsympathetic. That is why we are here.” To Luc’s left, Étienne waited patiently. Luc gestured to him. “This man, Étienne Gauthier, is going to walk you through how you will go about creating a bond with each other. A coterie.”

  The woman started. “You letting us form our own?”

  “Yes,” Luc said.

  “But I thought…” She bit her lip, and Luc saw a hint of her fangs. She regained control smoothly, though, and the teeth retracted. “From what I’ve read, we’re not allowed to. None of us were claimed by those who made us, so we don’t have a line. No lignage.”

  “You are correct.” Luc tilted his head, conceding the point. Curtis was right. He would do well to ensure this woman was treated respectfully. “But while I am allowing you all to form a coterie, you will not have a claim of lignage. Some occasions merit binding a group such as yourselves without a formal position. I know none of you are responsible for the position in which you find yourselves, and in most cities, your number would never have been allowed to rise this high.” He let the import of the statement sink in. He was here as a messenger of goodwill, yes, but he also needed them to know the reality of the world they were entering. “I don’t happen to agree you are all disposable, and so…This.” He raised both hands, palms out. “A solution.”