Exhumed

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  “I do believe you think me here because I fancy the players,” I suggest with an easy smile.

  He moves closer and this Sultan, still in his britches and tunic from his costume, smells of cigars and cheap wine. “Why do you come then, miss...?”

  “Zara Laighean.”

  His dark eyes widen. “Zara? Like the heroine of the tale?”

  “She is...” I slide my arms around his neck. “Not a heroine. Not in my opinion, at least.”

  “No?” And closer he moves, his face shadowed in this dark alcove. His pulse beats in his throat and I feel it in my veins, just as I feel his hardness as he presses against me. “And what is it you detest so much about Zara?”

  I shrug, not an easy movement in this damnable dress. “She does not make her own fate but suffers the will of others. She is weak.”

  His lips curve into a smile as he gazes down upon me. “And you feel that isn’t you? You make your fate? You are not weak, young lady?”

  My head tilts forward and fangs grow. “No, sir. I am not weak.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Go Big or Go Home

  The gun popped once, force jerking up my arm and flash bursting from the muzzle in my peripheral vision as I unloaded a .50 AE bullet into Adrian Lachlan’s forehead.

  The spent brass ejected, flying into the room beside me. Blood and brain matter sprayed the wall behind him and for a moment, when I glanced to my right to look at him, I saw the light through the hole in his skull before he slumped to the ground. His skin and brows were singed from the flash, and bloodless lips were parted in a ghastly, gaping fashion. Blood snaked across the floor.

  There was the clatter of steps, people shifting and moving, and I stared down impassively at the body. He didn’t get back up.

  I kept the gun trained on him, just in case.

  A glance back revealed the other members of the Court keeping their distance, stopped ten feet away just by the table, gaping at their deceased companion.

  “Desert Eagles: not just for tough guys in movies. So. Is there an opening now?”

  Still no comment.

  I holstered the gun when no one answered and swung the shotgun around next. “I brought you Mishka ‘I’m the Antichrist’s Daughter’ Thiering. Is it at all clear now that I am applying as a member for reals, god’s honest truth, am not fucking around, and I will start shooting each and every one of you if you make another snarky remark about my race? I’m not some vampire scum: I am Zara-Motherfucking-Lain. I wear designer heels, I take what I want, I visit hell upon anyone who disagrees, and you will show me respect.”

  Even my companions were silent and I was hoping right about now Mishka was thinking long and hard about how fast she could get out of the fucking country before I blew a hole in her head the size of a golf ball.

  It was a tiny older woman who walked through the other members of the Court, her heels muted on the carpet. Her suit was dark red, a pencil skirt showing legs in black sheer stockings—seriously, wasn’t anyone paying attention to fashion these days? Gray hair was spun back in a French twist, severely pulled from her face, and dark eyes sparked angrily.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  She didn’t blink. “Arabelle DePaul,” her voice rang out as she stopped next to Lachlan’s body, peering down at him briefly before looking at up at me. “This was a great mistake on your part, Miss Lain.”

  “Well, if I’m gonna make mistakes, best to make ’em count. Go big or go home, right?” And I gave in, squeezing the shotgun’s trigger, blowing a hole in the wall to the right of her. Splinters danced in the air, plaster puffed up, all of it striking her though she didn’t blink. “I want in. This isn’t open for debate.”

  I ejected the empty shell casing and reloaded, the working of the gun the only sound echoing loudly off the walls.

  She gazed at me without emotion. The shotgun jerked from my hands, strap behind me breaking, and it flew through the air in invisible hands, whipping forward to clatter on the floor behind DePaul.

  I froze. Completely immobile. Tried to move, to shift around, to lift my suddenly heavy feet, but I was fucking stuck there, cemented in place. Able to at least move my head—and, thank fucking god, blink—I glanced over my shoulder as DePaul peered impassively at those behind me, all stuck in place as well—either by choice because I’d stopped or forced to like me.

  Maybe I should’ve blasted that shot into her chest, since apparently they weren’t going to let me join in any reindeer games after all.

  “Mr. Thomas,” she said and I hadn’t a clue who she meant. “You have no business here at this time.”

  Abel’s lips parted in protest but a second later he blinked away.

  Literally. Poof. Air empty and shimmering where he used to stand.

  Uh oh.

  “He’ll likely be demoted for that,” DePaul advised me, like I fucking cared. “Such a promising career, too.”

  Peri was grumbling and shifting, dark eyes narrowing, and if she had any power at all in this place, I was pretty sure the whole building would’ve already come down. Mishka stared at DePaul, colouring starkly pale and the scar on her throat standing out obscenely.

  And then Maximilian moved, walking smoothly, a touch of dread sinking in my gut though I wasn’t terribly surprised. He had that wicked grin again.

  “You’re interfering, Vasquez,” Arabelle said, eyes narrowing.

  Maximilian passed me with an appraising look, still grinning. “I like her. She took care of Yoana for me.”

  “You had no business—”

  He met DePaul’s gaze, smile falling away. “I like her. There was a time you thought warlocks polluted and shamed your walls, but you saw the error in that thinking and permitted us in your circle. Why not a vampire?”

  And then he blinked out as well, whether by intention or not, I didn’t know. “Well, fuck. How long’s he been a member?”

  “Nine years,” Arabelle said. “Though I suspect he needs to have his membership limited for a probationary period after this.”

  Huh. At least I knew he hadn’t led me to my doom like a thousand other people in my lifetime. He was even on my side. Maybe if I lived through this, we could still date. “So are you going to just pop us all out or kill us or what? Because I saw those paintings. Peri and Mishka in a valley? Like where we just were? Yeah, this ain’t gonna be pretty. I’d’ve killed the blonde Hell Bitch over there and averted the whole end of the world thing, if you’d let me join. Do I need a letter of recommendation or something?”

  “There are consequences to not heeding a warning from one of our members.”

  There was a thump behind me and I glanced back—Nate on the ground, slumping forward on his hands, staring at the floor, the non-lucid, terrifying look to his eyes. He muttered incoherently, rapidly—give him a shard of glass to threaten me with and he’d be the same man under my care from several days ago. Mishka let out a frustrated noise that dampened any concern I might’ve had.

  I steeled myself. “That all you got? We broke up. It’s kinda like a soap opera around me, I know—hard to keep up.”

  “Your turn.” And little old Arabelle DePaul approached with slow, steady steps, one by one, arm rising and her finger jutting out; I was very, very certain I was not gonna like this—

  Her fingertip touched the center of my forehead and my whole world exploded.

  ****

  I stood in the farmhouse bedroom.

  The room had a distinct sepia tone to it, from the yellow glow of the lamps to the off-white and dusty rose peeling wallpaper, like an old timey picture.

  That was moving.

  Floorboards groaned under Nate’s heavy steps. “Your goddamn solution was to hire someone to kill me? Seriously?”

  Mishka’s arms were crossed under her breasts as she glared through red-rimmed eyes streaking tears. “I was about to pop a kid out in eight months, your brother took the spot with the Court that I wanted—what was I supposed to do? I needed pow
er.”

  Nate stopped pacing and pointed a finger at her accusingly. “You had me. We could’ve left—”

  “And gone where?” Her voice dropped low and I realized neither saw me, neither knew I was there, and when I tried to move I was stuck in place like my feet had been sewn into the floor. “Done what? You hadn’t touched magic in years.”

  “I would’ve started for you, for him, if you’d just—”

  “It wasn’t a guarantee and wouldn’t have helped!”

  “Then I would have given my life for you, for him! If there was no other solution but to juice you up on magic, I would’ve offered Zara my throat in a heartbeat.”

  “You think I haven’t played over this for six years? Wondered what would’ve happened if I’d just told you? If I’d paid Zara to kill your father and have that be it? I almost did—did she ever tell you that? I hesitated.” Her lips twisted bitterly for a moment and then she stepped forward slowly. “Don’t you think I’ve wondered what might’ve happened if we’d just left that night when it all went down?” She paused in front of him, hands sliding up his arms. “If you’d never met her?”

  I was all lightheaded, a faint static playing in my brain just over my eyes and the room went hazy. Still my eyes wouldn’t close—couldn’t close—and I had to stare and listen and it was fucking worse than when I’d been stuck outside the window, not knowing. I managed a glance around the faded sepia room to where light faintly shimmered around the closed door—must’ve been magic. I’d been wrong and the kid was sleeping in the other room, sound masked with a spell so he wouldn’t hear his parents shouting.

  Parents. I’d never get used to the word used with regards to them and if this was the worse-than-hell thing Lachlan promised, well, unroll the Mission-Fucking-Accomplished banner now. My heart bled anew, emotion clawing deep in my chest, hollowing me out.

  “I knew you weren’t dead,” Mishka whispered, tears snaking down her cheeks. “Even when she provided proof and I paid the bounty, I knew. I was almost six months pregnant and terrified and still relieved. Six years...”

  Okay, I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t fuck with the Court of the Black Vale. Now someone get me OUT OF HERE.

  She leaned up on her toes, reaching, reaching, pressed her lips to his. Like this whole thing hadn’t already been fucking seared into my goddamn memory, I got it all again in full surround sound glory.

  Their foreheads pressed together as their lips parted, his hands coming up to rest on her shoulders. Mishka shivered, leaned in to him, her hands travelling down his body, and whispered again. “Don’t you ever wonder...what it would’ve been like? If I’d done things differently, if you’d never met her?”

  Then her head turned and she looked straight at me, a smile curving her lips.

  And I knew I wasn’t looking at Mishka Thiering, wasn’t locked in a memory. The world swirled, shifted, fell away, just the flicker of the thing wearing her face remaining—

  I blinked and came back to myself. Ear was against cold metal, fingers twirling the dial of a combination lock.

  Someone pounded on the door behind me and I glanced back, my head swirling. What the...?

  I wore a scuffed up red dress I vaguely recognized, had a pack of something heavy on my back. Throat felt aching and bruised. Dead body on the floor. Filing cabinet embedded in the door and the wall. My shoulders flinched as people struck the closed door again, and then pieces shifted around in my brain.

  Dread hit me hard.

  Don’t you ever wonder...what it would’ve been like? If I’d done things differently, if you’d never met her?

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  If I Never Knew You

  Sonovabitch, sonovabitch, this is not happening.

  But it was. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I’d better run just to be on the safe side.

  I bolted for the side door and jerked it open. Blinked because I expected to see someone there and he wasn’t. Of course, because Mishka and him were gallivanting off with their unborn crotch spawn without warning the rest of us what shit was about to go down—I was stuck in the O’Connors’ house with pissed off guards on my tail, completely alone and screwed.

  Which means you gotta move your ass—this place’ll explode and Sean’s still alive and pretty soon you’ll be kidnapped if not eaten by demons.

  Fun times in the alternate past.

  Heart pounding, heels beating across the floor, I ran through the bedroom for the door at the other side—it would lead to the hallway with the massive amount of guards but at the moment I didn’t have a whole lot of options. I mean, I could leap out the window, but if I could slip through the house unnoticed first, that would be great start.

  Second step would be a proper escape. Third, kidnapping some warlocks. Fourth, dragging them to the black valley to open a portal so I could shoot fucking Arabelle DePaul in the head. It might not solve my problems but would probably make me feel good for about thirty seconds.

  I twisted the knob, eased the bedroom door open, and listened. Just as wood splintered in the distance and the guards burst into the study—where they’d find their boss’s corpse, oh joy—I slipped out into the hall.

  I moved silently enough as the guards slipped into the other room, but the crunch of broken items in my pack alerted the guy at the rear, who glanced back at me and shouted.

  Well. Darn.

  I bolted, skimming down the hall, not hearing the roar of Ratorth-spawned demons yet—thank F.S.M.—but the clambering on the stairs suggested more guards. A scan of my memory revealed nothing. The blueprints I’d had over six years ago were faded into the recesses of my mind, just the bare events—and people—stuck in there still.

  A hand latched onto my arm and jerked me to the left, into a dark room; I cocked my fist back to hit but the guy had already let me go and slammed the door shut, locked it.

  A guy. Dark eyes, not blue. Mussed up blondish hair. Dressed in a black and white tux.

  My heart sank.

  “Hey sweetheart.” He grinned, tossed his glasses on the bed, and reached for my elbow. “This way.”

  I wrenched my elbow back but followed, still staring, heart thumping so hard I thought it might burst. This wasn’t real. Wasn’t. Couldn’t be, could it?

  I licked my dry lips and followed as he opened a panel by the closet and a passageway opened up.

  Now, I knew that wasn’t in my blueprints.

  We squeezed into the narrow space between rooms, a plain chipboard floor and walls, and jogged down the steps. No light but then we were both vampires and could see pretty well in the dark.

  “I saw the body,” he called ahead of me. “I guess there goes my payment. Should’ve hit the place last night.”

  It sounded like him. Looked like him. And the longer I stared at the back of his head, following him downstairs, the angrier I grew.

  A door opened up at the bottom and we stepped out into an alcove below the grand staircase, guests still mingling in the ballroom next door, oblivious to the fact that their host was in fact dead.

  “Well.” Jamie shut the door under the stairs and ran his hands back through his messy hair. Gave me a totally douchebaggy grin. “Guess introductions are in order—”

  I hauled my fist back and punched him.

  His head snapped to the side, eyes widening as a bruise bloomed on his chin. “What was—”

  “That’s for selling me out to the bad guy in an alternate reality.”

  He frowned. “Baby, what are you—”

  I punched him again. “And that is for the motherfucking pet names you call me.”

  “Okay,” he ducked back before I could find another reason to hit him, hands splayed in defense, “I think you have me confused—”

  “You’re Jamie. Used to be named Louis. Paid for your immortality. And you’re a total prick.”

  “Nice to meet you too, then, Helene—”

  “It’s Zara and we need to get the fuck out o
f here.” I’d bring him with me. Might need a shield.

  I rounded a tall potted fern and rejected the idea of hitting him with it as it would just draw attention to us and until I figured out how real this really was, I wanted to avoid that.

  “Do you have a vehicle?” I asked. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what kind of conversation I had with my limo driver about staying six years ago, just that I’d stolen a motorcycle when I left.

  “Parked a ways out. The seats go way back—”

  I smacked his arm, and when he grinned at me again, I did it once more. Of all the goddamn people to be stuck in an alternate past with.

  Of course, Peter would also still be alive. Maybe I could find him and he could help. At least he still would’ve heard from me.

  If any of this is actually real. Ugh.

  We slipped out the front door just as footsteps thundered on the staircase—they must’ve figured out where we went. No guards waited outside as we pounded down the cement steps, along the gravel path, and past the rows of limos waiting for their owners. Warm spring wind whipped at my hair, the bag thumped at my back as I ran. I gave serious consideration to just dumping the damn thing and whatever was in it, but then I wasn’t filthy rich here. I might need it.

  Oh, this sucked so, so hard.

  Down the lawn, through sprinklers that pelted me with cold water, and past a row of hedges, we reached the long dirt road that curved away from the house, and in the distance I saw a pale blue 1960 Mercedes Benz, two door convertible. Nice.

  “Anywhere in particular you think we need to go?” Jaime asked, keys jangling between his thumb and forefinger.

  Peter’s shop. Peter will help.

  Peter will know where Nate is.

  God help me, but I still wanted him. Though I’d probably punch him too, given the chance.

  “Just drive, and—”

  Pain exploded, striking my back, blood almost black against the powder blue car. My hands thumped down on the hood and I reached for my gun—remembered I didn’t even have one. Shit. Was I always so unprepared?