Shock tremored through Max. Was this a trick of some kind? Of course it was. But she didn’t have a choice.
“Hurry the fuck up,” she said, her throat so dry the words made her bleed. She was almost grateful for the moisture.
He pulled up a chair and sat down. She could do no more than watch him. What was he up to? He sprawled, his gaze fixed above her head. He pressed his hands to the side of his head, his fingers curling so tight his knuckles turned white. A long minute passed. Then another. Alexander began to breathe unevenly. Finally he made a harsh sound and the pressure on Max’s neck loosened. She fell like a log, slamming against the floor.
She rolled onto her back, lifting her head to look at him. The fucker was telekinetic. Holy shit. Selange was an extraordinary witch to accomplish that. “Can you get the cable ties?”
He scraped his fingers across his scalp. “Yes.”
Max wasn’t sure he really could. It looked like it had taken everything for him to untie the rope. “Start with my hands.”
He released the riot cuffs after another three or four minutes. Then one by one, he split through the ties binding her arms. Each time took a little longer, and more of the night slipped away. Max didn’t let her impatience show.
At last she gained the leverage to push her arms outward and snap the rest of her bonds. In a moment she’d freed her legs. Her body was on fire as blood flowed back to the areas the cable ties had clamped. Her neck throbbed from where the rope had bruised her. Max pushed herself gracelessly to her feet, bracing herself against her knees. Alexander slumped in the chair like a dishrag. He looked gray. His hands trembled and his bruises had darkened.
She coughed and felt her tissues giving way. She stopped by pure force of will before she tore herself apart. “What now?”
He gave a slow shake of his head, never looking up. “Saw how you got through the veil at the Conclave. Hoped you could get yourself out.”
Was this the trap? To see what she was capable of? Selange could be watching even now. There were cameras discreetly placed at regular intervals along the wall. Still, Max had little choice.
I want out, she told herself firmly, trying to invoke the locking spell. She held tight to the desire as she put her hand on the catch and flipped it. She pulled on the cell door. Pain curled up her arm in elegant agony, as if an artist carved her with a knife.
It was a ward to keep anyone from even attempting to escape. Max’s defenses could not help her. She gasped’a raw, sobbing sound. Her arm felt heavy as lead. She tightened her muscles. It was a pitiful effort. She was ridiculously weak. The magical lock held. Max gritted her teeth, anger flaring. The witch-bitch wasn’t going to keep her so easily.
She put her other hand on the door. I want out! She yanked and felt a give as the locking spell curled away. She staggered backward, wrenching her hands free of the bars. She caught herself up, then doubled over as dizziness swept over her. “Fuck me,” she muttered.
The pain in her arms faded, but it left behind a poisonous ache. Max underestimated Selange. The witch-bitch was better at torture than Max had thought.
“Are you all right?”
Alexander stood just inside the cell. She straightened, glowering at him. Abruptly she pushed past him, ignoring the tremors in her legs and the collar of throbbing hurt around her neck. She went to the safe where Selange had locked the hailstone. This time there were no guarding wards and no pain, only a sensation like soap suds bursting softly against her skin as the magical lock gave way. The door popped open a crack. Max hooked stiff fingers under the lip and jerked it open.
The compartment was empty.
She stared, then reached inside to feel about as if the box with her pouch inside it could be hiding in the small enclosure. Her fingers brushed the back panel, and again she felt soap suds crackling and it swung open.
The witch-bitch had taken the hailstone out from the other side. Max’s expression hardened, her chin jutting like an ax blade. She slammed the door shut and turned on Alexander. He swayed in place. He was gray, his cheeks gaunt. His face was hawkish and proud and his eyes were hot with something she couldn’t identify.
“Where can I find Selange?” she rasped. His eyes widened and he frowned. Anger chewed in Max’s gut. “Forget it. I’ll find her myself. You’ve done enough.”
She strode past him out the door. He caught her arm and she snatched his hand, twisting, feeling his bones bend beneath the pressure. When he didn’t resist, she shoved him away.
“This way,” he said.
She hesitated and followed him a short distance. Trusting him now was no more dangerous than not. He’d helped her escape. He’d helped her get caught. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t know what to think of him.
He stopped outside a door. “These are my rooms. There is a stair up into Selange’s rooms. But you need food and water first.”
She considered him from slitted eyes, trying to figure out the trap. She couldn’t see it. “Fine.” The truth was, she should be hauling ass out of Selange’s covenstead. But she’d be damned if she’d let the witch have the hailstone without at least trying to get it back.
Alexander entered ahead of her and motioned toward a small alcove containing a kitchenette and a small table with two chairs. Max dropped into a seat. She hurt and she was exhausted. These injuries were too much on top of her previous wounds. Her healing spells weren’t responding well, and her body was too ravaged to feed them.
She sat up straight, opening herself to the hurt. She embraced it, pulling it close like a lover. She knew the trick to suffering was not to deny it, but to learn to enjoy it, to convince her mind that she craved it. Then she turned the pain to strength.
Alexander opened a tall, two-door pantry. It was crammed full of food and drinks like he’d stocked up for the apocalypse. Maybe he had. He grabbed a box of powerbars and dropped them on the table, followed by a big jar of chunky peanut butter, a canister of roasted almonds, and a container of Nutella. From a drawer he grabbed two spoons, then pulled four quarts of orange Gatorade from the refrigerator. Last he took out two cartons of strawberry ice cream out of the freezer.
“There’s more,” he said, sitting down opposite Max.
Max had already popped open a Gatorade and was guzzling it down. She felt it soaking into the parched tissues of her throat as it flowed down into her stomach. She finished and drank the second.
They ate quickly, neither speaking. Max tasted nothing. She chewed methodically, one eye always fixed on Alexander. He fetched more Gatorade and a jug of water. She drank it all.
“I don’t like liars,” she said suddenly.
“I did not lie to you.” He was silent a moment. Then, “You take too many risks. Do you wish to die?”
Max felt her lips turn in a bitter smile. “Some days. Do you expect me to believe that this was all your plan? Help your buddies capture me and then break me out?”
“No. I do not expect you to believe anything I say.” His eyes narrowed. “They would have slaughtered you in Julian if I had not stepped in.”
“Better than ending up on your witch-bitch’s altar. Besides, I’m hard to kill.”
Alexander grimaced and folded his arms over his chest. “It did not seem so the other night.”
He was talking about their escape from the Conclave. Max shrugged. “I’m still breathing, aren’t I? So now that you’ve gotten me out of my cell, what do you plan to do now?”
His expression shuttered. “I will help you get your hailstone and get back to the truck in Julian.”
“Will you now? And after that?”
“You are my Prime. You tell me.”
For a moment, all Max could do was stare. He was playing the Prime card? Either he was a class A idiot or he thought she was. Or he means it. Only time would tell what he was up to. “All right. You need fresh clothes. You stink of blood. Be quick.”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only nodded and disappeared. Left alone, Max slumped i
n her chair, giving in to exhaustion and pain. A minute later she heard the shower start. Her teeth ground together. They didn’t have time. She stood and went into the living room. It was sparsely furnished with cabinets along the wall on one side, a set of bookshelves on the far wall, and two stuffed chairs and a floor lamp. On the other side was a door into Alexander’s bedroom. She went inside.
His bed was a king-size four-poster with dark blue sheets. It was bracketed with antique nightstands. Opposite it was a wide-screened TV on top of an entertainment center. Max opened a drawer, curious to know more about Alexander and what made him tick. It was full of DVDs. She ran her fingers over the spines. She didn’t recognize most of them, but then, she wasn’t much of a movie watcher. One caught her attention. She slid it out. Mad Max. It had been released the year Giselle had made her a Shadowblade. She’d taken her name from it. It seemed appropriate. Mad Max’s character embodied her sense of betrayal and anger, and her hunger for revenge.
The water shut off and Alexander came through the bathroom door. He was fastening a towel around his hips. Droplets of water stippled his tea-colored skin. Max’s stomach tightened. The angel had been perfect in his symmetry and carved muscular beauty. Alexander was almost as perfect, with corded muscles over his shoulders that smoothed into flat planes on his chest and rippled hard down his abs. Her fingers itched to trace them. She curled her hands into fists. He was as poisonous as he was pretty. Her mouth hardened. She wasn’t that hard up. In his chest were three raw puckers where bullets had gone in. The wounds had begun to heal, each surrounded by a mottled halo of purple and blue. He stopped when he saw her.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, crossing her arms. “Take your time.” A dark flush rose in his cheeks. He said nothing, going to his dresser and pulling out clothes. He stalked back to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly.
A minute later he was back. Max had pushed the drawer of movies back in and was investigating a series of Asian paintings on sandpaper that were hung on the wall beside the bed. He had various knickknacks scattered about, and few black-and-white pictures of landscapes. His movie collection was expansive, and like her, his taste was for dark, quiet colors. He wasn’t messy and the room was lightly scented with cloves.
When he opened the bathroom door again, she turned, watching him pull a dark green silk shirt from the closet and button it over a black undershirt.
“Do you have weapons?”
He went to the blank wall between the bed and the bathroom and pressed a button beneath the thick carpet with his foot. A panel slid back, revealing racks of weaponry in a broad closet. There were handguns, rifles, compound bows, crossbows, knives, swords, spears, bandoliers of flashbombs, grenades, and shelves of bullets, arrows, and crossbow bolts.
“Are you getting ready for the end of the world?” Max asked, unmoving.
“I have had many years to collect these.”
“What about the stash of food?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I prefer not to expose my weaknesses. If I am wounded, I can fortify my healing spells here without being seen. But if you wish to get your hailstone before we leave Aulne Rouge, we must hurry.” He lifted his hand toward the array of weapons.
Max didn’t budge. She glanced meaningfully at the button on the floor and back up at him. “I don’t plan to get locked in a tiny little cell a second time,” she said in a level voice.
Alexander’s eyes turned to ice and his body went rigid. Abruptly he stepped inside. “Will this satisfy?”
“Fool me once,” Max said, and followed. She reached for a Colt .45’standard military issue’and a black-bladed combat knife. She checked the gun. It was loaded. She chambered a bullet and pushed the gun into her waistband and shoved the knife in her back pocket. She grabbed six extra clips and put them in her front pockets, then grabbed a bandolier of flashbombs and grenades and returned to the bedroom while Alexander armed himself. He slid a bulky vest on. It bristled with ammunition. Next he buckled a .45 onto his hip and slid the strap of an Uzi over his shoulder, letting the barrel dangle beneath his arm. He strapped a combat knife to his other thigh before stepping out of the closet and sliding it shut.
“Anything else you want to take with you?” Max asked.
“The night is getting away.”
“And yet you’re wasting time. You’ve got two minutes, then we’re gone.”
She watched while he pulled out a rectangular gym bag from his closet and quietly filled it with clothes. From the top of his dresser he took some things she could not see and put them into the top, then zipped it up.
“That’s it?”
“It is enough.”
“Not a lot to take away after so many years’Exactly how long have you been with Selange?”
He grimaced. “Now who is wasting time?” He hefted his bag and strode through the living room, opening a door beside the kitchenette that Max had figured was a coat closet. Inside was a spiral stair. Alexander dropped his bag outside the door and lifted his dangling Uzi. “I will go first.”
The stair spiraled up the forty-foot shaft. Max followed hard on Alexander’s heels, squeezing up on the narrow landing beside him. A heavy wood door bound in iron with no handle confronted them. Max felt Alexander’s muscles bunching as if he strained against a great weight. He set his hand against the wood. A minute passed. Then, after a faint click, the door swung noiselessly inward a few inches. He let out a harsh breath. She could hear his heart pounding with his effort. So his telekinesis wasn’t that strong. Good to know.
Max wanted to be first in. She wasn’t in the habit of leading from behind. But she didn’t want Alexander at her back either. He glanced a question at her and she jerked her chin to tell him to go ahead. The quirk of his lips told her he knew what she was thinking.
They entered into a palatial bedroom the size of a basketball court. It was carpeted with a patchwork of deep-piled rugs and smelled thickly of ritual oils and incense. Max wrinkled her nose, the cocktail stench thick in her mouth and throat. It was both caustic and sweet, irritating her raw throat. She could detect frankincense, ambergris, and apricot oil as well as benzoin and wood aloe. She wasn’t sure what Selange was up to, except that she’d begun to ready herself to conduct powerful magic. A pall of smoke from the incense and from the angelfires burning to the south filled the room. Skylights showed strips of the black sky above, but Max felt the night slipping away. Dawn was maybe two or three hours off.
Alexander crept silently over the thick carpets, his gun held ready, his head swiveling back and forth. He peered into the next room, then moved past the doorway. He was heading for an archway cut into the rock wall on the west side of the room. Max followed.
On the other side of the arch was a workroom. The walls were lined with shelves and cabinets, and bundles of herbs hung from overhead racks above the workbench running around three-quarters of the room. The circle, star, pentagram, and triangle’the anneau’was cut into the stone floor, and at the center of it was a roughly carved altar, about six feet long and three feet wide. On it sat an opaque white box. Every square inch of it was inscribed with symbols. It shimmered as if Max were looking at it through a haze of heat. A circle of something that looked like dirty crumbles of ice surrounded it in a six-inch moat.
“I was afraid of this,” Alexander said, lowering the nose of his gun.
“What?”
“The box comes from Babylonia. It destroys anyone who tries to open it without using the proper invocation.”
Max glared at the box. “So it’s got a lock and I am a walking key. No problem.” If her locking spell worked; if it was strong enough. New pain creeped up through her feet and wrapped her bones. Her compulsion spells didn’t like her risking herself. They thought Giselle needed her alive. She gasped as pain threaded through to the marrow of her bones. In a few minutes, it would force her to her knees. She started forward.
Alexander’s hand on her arm stopped her. She looked down at it and then up, twitching
out from beneath his grasp.
“Can you safely open it?”
“I’m about to find out.”
His eyes flattened. He was clearly unimpressed with her attitude. “It may kill you.”
“It might. But then it might not. I want my hailstone back.” Max looked away. He didn’t need to know how badly she wanted it.
“Why? What harm if Selange keeps it?”
“Well, if it’s any of your business ...First, it belongs to me, and she doesn’t get to torture me and keep my stuff. Second, you sound a whole lot like a guy who still serves her.”
“Is it worth your life? I have seen that box kill, and it is an ugly death.”
“Yeah? Well, shit happens.” The pain was getting worse. If she didn’t get going, she wasn’t going to be able to. “Keep an eye on the door. We don’t need interruptions.”
He didn’t move a moment, then stepped jerkily back. “Your call, my Prime. But for the record’I do not serve Selange anymore. I just have no interest in watching you kill yourself.”
Max grinned cheekily. “Then don’t look.”
The anneau wasn’t invoked and nothing stopped Max from approaching the altar. Her legs were stiff with increasing pain and tremors shook her body. Damn Giselle and damn Selange both! She gripped the edge of the altar to steady herself and studied the circle around the box. It was a mix of salt, herbs, iron shavings, and who knew what else. It was an all-purpose natural ward against the Uncanny and Divine.
She pulled the knife from her back pocket, and hesitated. If it was just a locking ward, she’d be able to break it without a lot of trouble. But if it was mixed up with something like the one on her jail cell’one designed to hurt and deter anyone from even trying’it could really harm her. She licked her lips. She needed that hailstone. Magpie’s prophecy played through her mind, and Max knew the only chance she had of saving Horngate from an attack by Guardians was the hailstone, and even that was slim.
Suddenly Alexander was standing next to her. “Let me,” he said, putting out his hand for her knife. “You should tackle the box with as much strength as you can.” When she hesitated, he stiffened, his lip curling. “You do not have a choice.”
Bitter Night: A Horngate Witches Book Page 20