Long Witch Night: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 2)

by Sami Valentine

  Nevaeh waved her hand. In the Dreamland, a whooshing orb exploded from her fingertips. In reality, it twinkled, splashing a light nearly hidden in the strobing club. The power was the same.

  The vampiress fell back against a pair of kissing dancers, phone dropping. She straightened herself up and blurred into a sprint.

  “Do a thing like compelling her or climbing on a wall!” Red called after her. Some vampires had some extra gifts; Delilah’s seemed to be running off. The scene was growing ugly. They were going to need a healer soon, judging by the death glare in the other witch’s eyes.

  Nevaeh marched up to her husband. “You bastard! I haven’t even been dead a week. I mean, Nevaeh hasn’t!”

  “Okay, crazed fan, this is none of your business.” DJ Shake put a palm up, alcohol-dulled gaze hardening. He shrugged to his companions, dismissing the pod person. “I’ll call secur—”

  “She brought you up from being a nobody handing out EPs on the sidewalk, and this is what you’re doing?” Nevaeh jabbed a finger at the nervous party girls. “Groupies?”

  “Get security.” DJ Shake ordered, jaw clenching.

  “Yeah, where are they?” Red asked, looking around for a sign that Delilah had done something about the situation.

  One blond woman stood, putting her purse on her shoulder. “I need to go.”

  Nevaeh stomped her foot, irises turned black, the inky color seeping into the whites of her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  The groupie fell back as other one struggled to stand. “I can’t get up.”

  “This is bad.” Red tipped up on her toes to look over the crowd. Where was Kristoff with that drink? “Someone get back here! The Black Veil is slipping, and the tabloids are going to be all over it. This guy’s single is at number one!”

  Of course, there was no reply. She groaned. “Why do I keep yelling at you people?”

  Walking forward, Nevaeh slashed curled fingers at the low table where champagne rested, and it slid out of her way. The bucket toppled over, sending ice and breaking glass over the dance floor. “I did everything for you, Steve!”

  “What? You’re the weird ghost buster chick—" DJ Shake started to say.

  “Shut up!”

  His teeth slammed shut with a sick clank.

  Teleporting to stand between Nevaeh and her husband, Red put up her hands. She tried to connect with her stolen body, but the black foreign aura shoved her away.

  Nevaeh pointed at DJ Shake, addressing his terrified companions. “Did he tell you his real name? Steve. He grew up in Provo. He knows Spanish because of his mission to Costa Rica, not prison. All that gangbanger hype is made up. He’s a god damn Mormon who can’t even fight his own battles!”

  “Who is she?” Wide-eyed, the blonds in pink stammered, clutching him, feet planted in place. “What is going on?”

  “You side pieces are dealing with wifey now.” Nevaeh’s magic black eyes narrowed. She raised her hand, as if to show off a ring that wasn’t there. “You’re going to have to get me one hell of a rock to make up for this, Steve.”

  Red tried to tug at DJ Shake’s arm candies, but her hands passed through them.

  “Go. Now.” He sweated, nudging the petrified women. Recoiling at their silent paralyzed struggles, he crawled back on the cushioned bench. He blinked as if he could wish the witch away. It didn’t work like that here. “It can’t be. This is a nightmare.”

  “I know nightmares. You’re awake, hubby. Wide awake.”

  “You died. I saw your body!”

  “I’m back, and I’m bringing all kinds of hell with me!” Nevaeh leaned forward, her hoarse voice nearly growling, southern accent escaped, all pretenses of acting like Red gone. “I can forgive this, handsome, but you’re going to act right from now on.”

  He pressed himself against the wall. His pulse jumped in his neck, eyes rolling back. “I thought that ghost wanted to be free. He was fucking warning me that I was a slave!”

  “You were my husband!”

  “After you died, I started to remember.” His lips quivered. “Spiders on my chest, candles all around, weird Voodoo shit. That wasn’t a marriage, it was a hostage situation.”

  “I love you. It will be different this time.” Shoulders slumping, Nevaeh put a hand on his chest.

  “Hell no! I don’t care what body you snatch. I won’t be your puppet. Do whatever spooky witch shit, leave me out of it.” DJ Shake put his arms out, chin raised. “I’d rather die than be your slave again.”

  “Fine. If that is how you want to be.” Nevaeh raised a hand, lip trembling, rage narrowing her eyes. Spectral flames surged up her arm in the Dreamland. “Say hi to Mr. Crenshaw for me.”

  28

  December 23rd, 4:47AM, Club Vltava, Sunset Strip, Los Angeles

  In the Dreamland, the moonlit VIP dance floor bounced to a slower beat. Pounding hearts, stomping feet, and carefree smiles were sluggish in the warping of time. They were happy. They were whole. They couldn’t see the flames racing up Nevaeh’s arm, reflected in the total black of her eyes.

  Red braced herself as she slid in front of Nevaeh, facing the witch wearing her skin. She couldn’t block the blow but moved out of instinct. DJ Shake might have accepted his fate. She hadn’t.

  A fire alarm rang out, deafening in the echoing chamber. The music went silent as the lights flipped on. An emergency exit bolted open. The slow rhythm of Dreamland sped up.

  Nevaeh glanced around, the sparks around her fist scattering.

  Delilah stood by the fire alarm. “That means everyone out—heartbeat or not!”

  DJ Shake and his groupies bolted away in the startled crowd of dancers exiting the VIP room. He glanced back at Nevaeh, chin trembled.

  “Move. This is not a drill.” Delilah grabbed his collar and pushed him out the emergency stairwell door. She crossed her arms, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Nevaeh.

  “You’re as annoying as Helen Mirren.” The witch stomped forward. Her hand only sparkled in reality; it was an inferno again in the Dreamland.

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  Rushing in, Kristoff grabbed Nevaeh’s wrist from behind. “If you wanted to spill some blood, you could have brought him into my office to share.”

  Red’s heart dropped. Was he joining in on the carnage?

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you, dead boy?” Nevaeh grinned cheekily.

  “You’d be surprised what I like.” He lowered her hand, tightening his grip, narrowed gaze was wary.

  “Kinky,” Nevaeh purred, then sneered. She yanked her hand away. “Not my fetish.”

  “You’re surrounded by vampires. A souled one who doesn’t like you and an unsouled one who likes you too much,” Delilah warned, her long red nails tapping on her arms. She sucked in her cheeks, her tilted gaze on the witch’s neck.

  Nevaeh clamped her hand on her hip, her eyebrow lifting as her lips pouted in invitation. “I could take you two.”

  The vampiress rolled her eyes. “You’re no Mary Pickford.”

  Electricity sparking in her aura, Nevaeh flung her hand out, glowering. “I could take you two, like I said, but I’m just not that bi-curious.”

  Delilah tumbled to the ground. Purple ether dragged her to the emergency exit and tossed her out. It slammed closed behind her. Violet mists covered the door.

  “Damn it!” Red stomped and tried to bat away the mists. They stung her fingers like needle pricks. The mists only hardened into a spiked wall tipped with syringes that oozed green sludge. She pulled back and glowered at Nevaeh, muttering about her shoddy homeschool magical education.

  “I really came for one.” Nevaeh pushed her palm out toward the other vampire. “That’s you, big boy.”

  Kristoff fell back against the wall, arms stretched out as if nailed in place. Ghostly axe heads dug into his palms.

  “You lured me here for that stupid detective to find.” Nevaeh stalked forward, eagerness growing with each step. “I am going to enjoy pulling you a
part.”

  Maxwell appeared in the middle of rolling clouds. Thunder clapped at his arrival. Lightening ringed his feet. “What the devil are you doing? I get tossed into the ether for a jot and you’re mucking everything up!”

  Red pushed the fear down as her heart sped up, lips curling back in a grimace. Maxwell’s electric entrance jolted flashbacks of his asylum. She was a hunter, still. If she was going down, she was going down swinging. “As a wise Bard would say, your girl done fucked up, warlock.”

  Maxwell shot her a withering glare.

  Nevaeh pointed at the vampire, looking for the warlock, not seeing but hearing him. Her deflated expression held none of the earlier rage, only panic. Sweat glistened on her face. “You told me to destroy her friends. I’m starting with this one.”

  Kristoff snorted disdainfully, straining against the blades pinning him to the wall.

  Lightening swirled faster around Maxwell. “I told you the soulmancer.”

  “I couldn’t kill him with everyone watching. Don’t worry, he won’t be saying or writing anything.” Nevaeh twitched her lips, failing to form a cajoling smile. She looked like a corpse tightening in rigor mortis.

  “He doesn’t need to, now. You’ve gone on a very uncharacteristic rampage!” Maxwell shouted, stormy expression chased away his usual smirk. “Your host wouldn’t break the Dark Veil in a notorious vampire’s club to torment some musician, you inane fury.”

  Red summoned what remained of her magic. It was like making wet rocks spark. Only stubbornness kept her mystically reaching out to Nevaeh who had her body and some of its magic in addition to her own. Red tried to siphon it away while the dark witch was focused on the warlock. “You hired the wrong actress. She can’t improv.”

  “Will you shut up?” Maxwell cursed, head jerking to glare at her.

  “She’s still there? Where is everyone?” Eyes darting around, Nevaeh backed up. “You said that Juniper chick went on a spree. Red is like her or whatever. It’s in character.”

  “No, Juniper St. James had finesse. Subtlety. You are like a charging bull.” Voice booming, he strode forward to loom over her from the other side of the thin line between reality and the Dreamland. “Did you really try to kill your husband in front of witnesses? What were you thinking, you buffoon?”

  “Hey, he was all over those hookers.” Lips trembling, she pleaded, “I reacted. Let’s just dance it off, okay?”

  “You’ve done enough dancing.” Maxwell ran a finger down her jaw. Bruise-purple energies followed his touch through the barriers between dimensional planes. “I put you in that body, and I will pull you out.”

  Nevaeh winced and jerked her head back. “You can’t! I know your weakness. You can’t see—”

  “I have none!”

  “Let’s test that theory,” Red said, walking closer. She guessed why Maxwell kept Nevaeh around, but she was keen to know the dirt. “You’re like a battery or an anchor or something for him, right? Give me a metaphor here. What’s the deal, girlfriend?”

  “I will deal with you, Red. Wait in line.” He pointed at Nevaeh, his fingers curling and tracing shapes in the air. “This child needs a lesson about dolls—they can be taken away.”

  “No!” Nevaeh shuddered. A mist blanketed her like snow. Scarlet stitches iced over where they attached her aura to the body. Trembling shadowy wisps radiated from her, drawn forward as if being sucked away.

  Red yanked on her separated magic, trying to draw on it. The other witch couldn’t protect her new body and fight Maxwell off at the same time. Or hold on to her other spells. It seemed like both forgot about the vampire in the room too.

  Kristoff rushed forward, tackling the other witch. Time in reality seemed to slow as the Dreamland sped up.

  Nevaeh screamed. The shadow split off from her to swarm around Maxwell. Locusts, pitch black yet glinting an oily green, crawled and hovered over him.

  “Looks like you’re losing your ally.” Red knelt beside her body, the foreign spirit peeled on the edges. She put her hands through Kristoff’s, probing for weaknesses in the ward on herself. “Or she’s turning on you.”

  “I don’t need her. I am limitless in the Dreamland.” Maxwell swatted away the swarm.

  An unseen hand dragged Red away. Iron chains wrapped around her. The green wisps of her own energy didn’t hold them in place anymore. He couldn’t use her self-loathing and despair against her.

  “You’re a glutton for punishment. You know you deserve it like my wife did.” The warlock stomped on the locusts, flicking one off his shoulder.

  “You know, I figured something out.” She shook the iron off and stepped forward, hands on her hips. Juniper said that Maxwell had to be the smartest in the room. Red was going to show him that he wasn’t. “I don’t deserve it.”

  “You don’t know what nasty foul things are in your past. How many women wake up knowing how to kill?”

  “I’m a shield against the darkness now. It doesn’t matter what I was before.”

  “Poppycock. You’re not in such an illustrious order. You take their scraps as a mercenary, a terrier to snuff out the rats. Not worth even naming.” Maxwell flipped his hand, huffing in dismissal. A buzzing locust landed on his face. More trooped up the suit jacket from his velvet pants. He shook his leg and brushed the bugs down. The number multiplied.

  “This whole time, you’ve been trying to convince me that I’m worse than dirt, that you’re a god.” The iron chains flickered on Red’s arms before dissolving again. She crouched down by her body. “You’re wrong. You needed my buy-in.”

  His magic pressed upon her, but its control slipped as he fought on two fronts. The chains seemed smaller now that she knew their secret—that she had helped hold them closed.

  “You’re hell spawn, just like Juniper.” He loomed over her. A vein pulsed in his forehead. The smirk had disappeared. Locusts skittered up his neck.

  “Then you’re falling with me.” Red grabbed his hand and yanked him down, pestilence and all. Holding onto Maxwell, she dived to the gaps that the ejecting spirit left in her aura. Weakened by the swarm, his ward fell. She got her ass kicked all night. Now, she was taking the fight to a new arena. She focused on one thing—the scariest place she knew. Her own mind.

  Welcome to the Thunderdome, assholes.

  Falling into a white void, the three weren’t exactly in the Dreamland now, they were in her head. She could peek into theirs. Where are your weaknesses, Maxwell?

  The void darkened into a dimly lit smoking parlor. Stern faces in powdered wigs glared from gold painted frames. A bald man, rapier thin in a puritan black suit, perched in a high-backed leather chair. He waited with a vulture’s patience until his quarry came into view. “Maxwell!”

  The young man, hand half in a cigar box, glanced up. He didn’t have the goatee or mustache, but the wily face was the same. A nauseous shock replaced the usual smug amusement. “Father, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Even if I didn’t have on a glamour, you wouldn’t have noticed, swaggering in with thieving hands and a murderer’s heart.” Spittle flew from the old man’s lips. His beetle brows slammed together in bitter disappointment, creating a trench between determined eyes.

  Young Maxwell’s surprise coiled into an oily composure. He brushed his hair back. “One cigar doesn’t make a thi—"

  “You came from a funeral, lad! And now you make merry.” Lifting out of the chair, the father pointed his cane. “I know what you did!”

  “I saved the entire academy from a demon. I was the hero!”

  Flinching as if struck, the man leaned heavily on the cane, somehow older after his son’s words. Dread replaced the anger. “The Gods didn’t bless you with magic, so you took his.”

  “How many were saved with his death?” The retort was smooth, as if practiced until it felt like the truth.

  “A professor could have saved him if but only alerted! It was glory you desired. By God, you are a disgrace to our good name.”

&n
bsp; “I am a credit to it! My destiny is to advise head Bards, lead heroes, and guide the Brotherhood as you do.” Maxwell insisted, smarm dissolving into sincerity. ”I will be the greatest Bard the world has ever known!”

  “Our honor comes from shielding the innocent, not sacrificing them to ambition. You have no destiny—only justice to face.” His father’s bitter voice faded as a howl ripped through the air.

  Tumbling out of the merged consciousness, Red landed in a sterile chamber. The white expanse stretched into infinity. She panted, shrugging off the dark memory like a stitch in her side after a marathon.

  Maxwell had been brought up in the Brotherhood. Raised by muggle sociopaths, Nevaeh had no idea how to use magic responsibly. He did. And he drained mages to get it. That little Crispin boy was his first murder, but not his last. If there was one thing that Juniper got right, it was taking the warlock into death with her. He chose to spill blood and say it was for the greater good. He liked it.

  Nevaeh materialized from the locusts, wiggling as the swarm reabsorbed back into her form.

  Grimacing, Maxwell marched to grab Red. A vein popped in his eyeball, the blood seeping into the white. “How did you procure that memory, witch?”

  “You visited my brain. I thought I’d return the favor. Now, I see who you really are. You weren’t chosen for anything!” Red yanked her arm away. “You’ll just do anything!”

  “I showed you only one of the visions I was shown. The last was of the Brotherhood falling. To prevent that future and others, I did darker deeds than you can imagine. The world still spins because of me.” He jabbed his thumb in his chest and forced out a dark laugh. “I do the work that heroes can’t bring themselves to do!”

  “How long did it take you to come up with that rationalization?”

  Nevaeh sneezed. A locust appeared in her hand. “Your dad seemed like a dick, Maxwell. Was he really going to turn you in?”

  “Of course, he was. Bards take their duty seriously,” Red said. Joining the Brotherhood was something she’d wanted ever since Vic found her. What did it mean that Maxwell had been one?