Probably.
I stared out at the empty blackness, the scorched earth, and wondered once again what the fuck I was even doing. Saving the world? Maybe. Maybe I would’ve been happier getting the fuck out of Dodge instead of bothering. Maybe I should’ve just let Mishka go on her way. Maybe I should turn around immediately and let loose a few bullets on her person.
But I wanted to see these paintings. I wanted to see this organization. I wanted to regain the upper hand and I wanted to confront this whole fucking thing because that was the only way I could keep living: if I stared unflinching at this big thing that scared me and dealt with it once and for all.
I wanted something bigger to deal with, something beyond my own broken heart and weakness. I had to be Zara right now and stop feeling like Ana.
“We’ve got it.” Nate’s voice was close and I hadn’t heard him approach, so lost was I in my own head, apparently. But I turned and he was there, half a foot away, and his hand folded around my upper arm.
I stiffened with force because my body wanted to relax, to sink against him, not yet realizing he’d hurt it. Or maybe it did—maybe it knew he was the cause and the only salve.
Regardless, I wouldn’t give in. “We’re good to go?”
He held my gaze, unblinking, somehow holding onto me even though he’d dropped his hand from mine. And then he gave a small nod.
Good. My eyes darted to the side and I walked past him.
“I know that look.”
I stopped and spun. “Excuse me?”
“That look. The look of you running.”
“Yeah, I’m running to the Court because—”
“You’re running away. From me.”
“I wasn’t the one—”
“You’d latch onto any excuse,” he cut over me forcefully, silencing me, holding me in place again with just a look, locking me down better than I had him with chains. “That’s why you won’t listen to a goddamn word I say—why you had no intention of hearing me out. You were ready to run before this—you were already pulling.”
Oh that was fucking rich. “That justifies it, for you? Lets you sleep with her at night? You were looking for the same thing, right? A way out. I was a rebound. A substitute. And now you have your perfect little coven and I wouldn’t even fucking care if you’d just had the goddamn stones to be honest about it.”
“What fucking world are you even living in? Are you that deluded about things outside of your own brain that you can just invent this shit—”
“If you don’t get the FUCK away from me, I am going to put a motherfucking hole in your skull right—”
“Zara, you know me—”
“I thought I did.”
Nate sighed and shook his head. “Whatever else, I know you, and I’ve seen the look before. Things get too emotional, you bolt. You got that look in the cabin.”
I set my chin and glared up at him. Sure, he was right. I had wanted to. Maybe I would’ve looked for any excuse—but then I hadn’t needed to because he gave me a bloody good reason all by himself by fucking another woman, by tossing me aside.
I would’ve stayed, goddamn you. I would’ve fought everything ingrained in me and my very nature just to try to be with you. “Giving in and fucking you in that cabin was the biggest mistake I’ve made in three hundred years—aside from turning you. I should’ve just killed you because you’re no goddamn different than the rest.”
“This isn’t over,” he said quietly as I stalked off again.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and marched up to the dark spot where the others waited. My stomach was in knots and I just wanted to ugly cry in the corner for a few more days. “Shoulda brought a fucking flashlight,” I muttered.
A slightly greenish glow popped up suddenly, hovering around Mishka, and she gave me a cold look in response.
Bitch. “So what’s next?”
Maximilian slipped to my right side, scooping up my hand in his strong, unyielding fingers immediately. Nate took my other side before I could object and Mishka was directly across from me, Peri and Abel on either of her sides so our circle alternated between magic users and non-magic users.
“I think I’ve repaid my debt,” Maximilian mumbled. “And now you are going to owe me much, much more than dinner.”
“Were you ever in a sex magic cult?”
He met my gaze, lips curving again in a delicious grin. “No.”
“Hmm. We’ll have to find other forms of fun, then.”
Nate’s fingers clasped my left hand, a grip I didn’t return, and ice ran up my veins. His presence beside me was weighted and my skin crawled again, but all the rest of them were holding hands so apparently we were supposed to.
The magic users began to speak, something that sounded like Latin though I couldn’t be sure, and the air swelled. They hadn’t given us anything to say so I assumed we were supposed to stand and look pretty.
My hands were free suddenly, both men letting go. Maximilian raised his left arm, pushed up his sleeve, and dragged a blade in a quick, short stroke over his flesh.
The atmosphere in the center of the circle sparked with white, stretching like tar, ripping, and a glow spilled out, lighting all of our faces.
Oh yeah. This was gonna end well.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Endgame
When the hole was large enough, making a snapping sound, all the Latin mumbling stopped. Since it was my show, I figured I’d head in first and see who followed.
And into the rabbit hole. I hope I don’t have to eat a cake to fit through the door.
I stepped forward.
There was a rending in me, something plucking at my insides as I moved into the light, and a shiver rolled over my skin. My right foot stepped down onto a marble tiled floor of dark gold, then my left. I glanced around and took a few steps to the side for the others.
The corridor was long and wide, ceiling had to be...fuck, thirty or forty feet. Like a giant lived here and we’d teleported instead of using a beanstalk. The walls were wood panelled with wainscoting and then swirls of fresco above, and I couldn’t place the decor beyond old world eclectic. The air was tinged with spice, beneath it tobacco. Lights burned yellow from wall sconces and the ceiling ran so high above it actually got dark.
Yeah. This wasn’t at all foreboding.
The atmosphere had a prickle of magic that felt like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Closed doors were set into the walls every couple dozen feet and at the very end the corridor went left, opening into the flickering orange light and shadows that suggested a room with a fireplace.
The bright side? The hall was lined with a half dozen paintings, three on either side, and they looked remarkably familiar.
The others spilled through, everyone gaping around as I did. I pulled out Nic’s cell phone and started aiming it at the paintings.
“No reception,” Peri said after a moment.
Trust her to miss the point. “Take pictures. All of you, in case one of us doesn’t make it out.” Like maybe me.
I couldn’t parse out what order the paintings were supposed to be in, but they were definitely what the journal’s ink drawings were based on. These were done in oil, though, and beautifully detailed. Of the women, one had dark hair and one light—lining up pretty close to Mish and Peri already—standing over a valley.
A valley that was black. Maybe it wasn’t one of my best ideas to bring the pair of them here. The ground opened up, black and angry, with teeth chomping. Also none too comforting.
Yet another had the arm reaching through the sky, again like the journal. A third had a different backdrop, flames and blackness, chains and screaming faces. Another still had a great winged champion brandishing a sword and the whole thing was getting way too Biblical looking for my taste. Number five had torn wings and a creature weeping, with people tied together and burning. The sixth had the dark haired woman in the valley shooting fire from her hand, striking the blon
de.
Really, really charming. It kinda made me glad to know Peri would supposedly kill Mishka, though.
“So do they have piss poor security or should we be worried no one has attacked us yet?” Peri asked.
She was more than a little right. “Maybe they went out for dinner. Or were expecting us.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to have a proper greeting,” Maximilian said mildly, gazing around and not snapping photos like the rest of us. “Some bourbon to start with.”
Oh, rich humans and their rampant alcoholism.
Well, I was getting fuck all from the paintings but we might be able to parse them together later. For now, perhaps I could just ask. I started forward.
“You have what you wanted,” Nate started, steps echoing after me. “You don’t need to—”
“News for you—I haven’t a fucking thing I want. But I’m well on my way to making a dent in my wishlist.” I passed closed doors in my peripheral vision, watching for any sign of movement, any sense they might open to reveal a security team that was sorely lacking. Honestly, if three mages managed to break through, it seemed likely someone else would’ve given it a shot at some point.
Halfway down the expansive hallway, a figure stepped around the corner, and it didn’t surprise me to see Adrian Lachlan. So far he’d been the mouthpiece for the org—of course he’d pop up first.
“Is this the part where you release the hounds?” I called.
Firelight from the room beside him hued his paleness orange. He shook his head as we approached, hands clasped at his back. He wore the same outfit he’d had on in the trolley—dark suit and long overcoat—and I was willing to bet that if I saw his hands, I’d find them gloved in black leather as well.
And something else told me there was a very, very good reason for his weirdness and I sure as hell had better tread lightly.
“What did I tell you the last time we spoke?” His smile was cold.
I tried one of my own. “Something about a fate worse than death? Or maybe that was a movie. It all kinda bleeds together when you’re a creepy, overdramatic old guy.”
My steps didn’t hitch; I kept my spine steeled. Lachlan didn’t move and I stopped four feet from him so I was able to glance into the room to the left. A large oval table in lacquered black waited, maybe thirty chairs around it—only a dozen of which were occupied. Like a super villain meeting or something, only far less impressive than The Evil League of Evil. Not a Fake Thomas Jefferson or Dead Bowie in sight.
I didn’t recognize any of the people there which I supposed was a good thing—it would’ve sucked for it to bite me in the ass and turn out Nic or someone was one of them, but I’d never eliminated the possibility as such was my luck. A couple of women. Several men. All in equally boring suits but none with the leather gloves, so that must’ve just been Lachlan’s thing. Age and ethnicity ran the gamut but all were over forty, I’d say.
The rest of the room looked like the great hall we’d walked through, wainscoting and high ceilings, though this floor had a long Persian rug in half a dozen dark colours. The paintings on these walls weren’t like the others—in fact, they were large black-painted canvases with gold-leafed frames. Just black, nothing else.
I’d never liked modern art.
“Ladies and gentleman,” I smiled sweetly, “my name is Zara Lain and I’ve been led to believe that you quite possibly want me dead, and have for some time. Care to comment?”
No answer. Hmm. I might need to make an impression soon.
“Zar,” Nate said in a low voice but I ignored him because he so didn’t get to be talking buddies with me right now.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’d show up since you tried to have Venatores Daemonum a while ago, a Rakshasa the other day, and the fuck if I know who else, kill me.”
“To look at the paintings, as if they might give you a clue—we aren’t stupid, Miss Lain.” Lachlan’s voice was tired and pained. “Take as many photos as you like, but those who arrive here uninvited do not leave alive.”
Oh, so cocky and sure they knew me. Silly, silly shadow government. My gaze traveled over those still seated at the table, with their impeccable suits and half-consumed glasses of red wine. The fire flickered, spat sparks as if offended by the silence.
Time to play my hand. “Here’s the thing: I’ve thought long and hard about it and I think I’d like to be a member.”
That got me a round of haughty chuckles and a sigh from Adrian. Prickles ran up my spine and my heart was thumping violently in my chest, but I kept my cool because running away with my tail tucked between my legs wasn’t an option—not only because I didn’t have at tail, but because they’d already said they’d kill me.
Just as fingers dug into my arm to jerk me back, they left as quickly and I caught Maximilian and Nate scuffling in my peripheral vision—neither had turned to magic but broke apart, Nate staring at me like I’d sprouted the aforementioned tail and Maximilian grinning like he genuinely wanted to see what I’d do next. Whatever happened, he’d keep Nate from interrupting again. Peri was tense and ready to have my back, Abel said nothing, and Mishka...Mish’s skin had paled to pure white, eyes huge and terrified.
That pleased me. If anything, I’d endeavour to keep scaring her.
“I mean,” and I raised a hand casually to count off on my fingers, “I’m three hundred years old and I’ve managed to take everything thrown at me—including from your members and associates—and I’m still standing here, looking pretty. I’m a foremost killer for hire—”
“You’re a vampire,” said a man from the table, the first of any of them to speak yet. He had a cigar burning untouched in a crystal ashtray in front of him, the smoke wafting up over his face. Features were Asian—Korean, I suspected—and he was older, hair a coarse silver. His back was straight, shoulders squared, looking far more spry than someone with his deeply lined face ought to. “A parasite. You feed on humans and you are lower than the dirt under our feet—there is no place for you here.”
Well. Can’t say I was really surprised about that.
So I shrugged, jerked the gun out from under my coat, and fired.
Zara
“Oh, gracious Heaven! Receive my parting soul, and take thy trembling servant to thy mercy—
Oh lovely, she’s finally dead. I watch the actress with long, honey brown hair take a graceful tumble on stage. I’d killed so many people, I’d seen them fall and die just about every way imaginable—and they never looked the way the theatre would have people believe.
My fascination for this play still bothers me, strangely. I had seen three shows now and this is my fourth. Unlike so many tragedies, this girl did not die by her own fault—so they say—but due to the choices and prejudices of those around her.
I have rather unladylike words for people who say that. To me, she chose her fate by not choosing her fate. She didn’t take the world under her command. She was weak.
Her name should have been Ana, not Zara.
Next the man playing the Sultan speaks, crying in anguish though he’d been the one to stab her. “Soul! Then revent has reached thee. I will now haste from this fatal place—I cannot leave her!”
Oh dear Lord. No matter how many times I watch, it never changes.
Shortly thereafter, the players take their bows when all are appropriately dead for the tragedy’s obvious conclusion and the crowd cheers. I clap politely and slip on my gloves, then make my way toward the door. The players disperse, greeting people, as I shuffle about the patrons moving for the exit. My stomach growls, twisting painfully, and the tightness of my gown is not helping matters. Still, I do love the night out at the theatre, just as I love the busy streets of London. The people, the freedom. I go where I please and do as I like—bed whom I like, just as I consume the blood of whom I like. Tonight I hadn’t entirely decided upon a meal but perhaps I’d browse and see who might suffice.
“You came here again.”
I turn at the sound
of a male voice to see the actor who played the Sultan squeezing through the doors to the theatre’s foyer, smiling gently at me.
At me. How very, very strange.
“Indeed, I quite enjoyed it.” I’m pleased with how my words come out, all trace of Ana gone from my voice. I sound English now; I’ve learned the language, the inflections, and I enjoy it. My shoulders are thrust back, part of the design of my rather binding gown, displaying my ample bosom which of course draws his gaze for but a moment before he looks at me again.
“I have seen you at two of the shows, I believe.”
I haven’t seen him but I believe him to be the Sultan’s understudy and he didn’t act in the other shows; it’s a wonder he recognizes me. But then I do stand out in a crowd. “I have been to three others, actually.”
“Ah.” The other patrons are pouring through the doors, staring at us as we’re in the way; the Sultan—I’ve not heard his name so haven’t an idea of what to call him without recalling the program for the evening—reaches forward to take my elbow and leads me to the side, out of the way of those hurrying home from Drury Lane or perhaps to pubs, taking with them the steady beating hearts and pumping blood.
I am growing very, very hungry. “Are you busy tonight, Sultan? Am I keeping you from your merriments with your fellow players?”
“You keep me from nothing that I can remember.” He gazes over me again and looks just as hungry as I am, though admittedly for a different sort of thing. I have already sated myself in that area on a handsome landlord I met two nights ago. The man had excellent stamina and I felt no stirrings now for a repeat of any such performance. Just the need to fill my body’s hunger for sustenance.
Still. It hurts nothing to lead my meal on. When he guides me with his hand still on my elbow, I follow. The tightening of his grip suggests he might not accept an argument. I have run into that sort before and tend to make short work of them.
He turns me into an alcove, lips on my throat. I chuckle, an innocent little sound, and shift away. He looks at me curiously, hands possessively on my hips.
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