by SM Reine
The door shut behind Sophie. Lincoln didn’t follow her inside. Perhaps he needed a moment’s solitude to gather himself before facing more family—a mental calm between storms. Sophie was still stinging from his exchanges with Ashley, and she hadn’t even been involved.
“Hello there,” Sophie called, trying to sound more friendly than awkward. “I have come with Lincoln. Is anyone in here?”
She stuck her head around the corner. An open pantry door framed a tall, straw-haired woman with Lincoln’s jawline. The light through the frothy white curtains made her hair seem to burn.
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“Ah, yes, hello. I’m Sophie Keyes. I’ve come as a guest of Lincoln Marshall.” Sophie set down her bags with a wince. They weren’t heavy on their own, but a few days of lugging them around the Middle Worlds had given her a crick in her back. “Thank you for welcoming us into your beautiful home.”
“It’s not my home,” she said flatly. “And I didn’t welcome you.”
Another pair of women entered from the dining room. One was a woman who was twenty or thirty years older than Sophie. The other was Ashley Marshall.
“Ashley, hello again!” Sophie said, perking up at the familiar face. “I’m surprised to see you here so soon.”
“I know the shortcuts and move faster on foot. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Somehow, none of the light in the kitchen seemed to touch Ashley. The shadow emanated from her furious eyes and folded arms.
“Where’s Lincoln?” That came from the first woman, still standing in the pantry door.
“He was just getting the last of my things from the pickup,” Sophie said. “He’s right behind me, though he might—”
“Lincoln!” She stormed across the kitchen, passing Sophie without even glancing at her.
“Aunt Susannah,” Ashley said, “this is Sophie Keyes. She is a friend of Lincoln’s, and also a friend of witch hunters.”
Sophie didn’t need to be introduced now. Susannah was Lincoln’s mother, said to have returned to care for her ex-husband. She was a wisp of a woman, like the brittle husk of a pupa left behind after metamorphosis. It was hard to imagine someone so frail producing Lincoln Marshall.
There was no light to Susannah’s smile. “Witch hunters, huh?”
“Kopides,” Sophie corrected. “It’s true that I used to be good friends with a kopis.” Many kopides, in fact: all of the guardians who had protected her had been kopides, blessed with improved strength and reflexes. “I assure you that he never hunted witches, though. I kept him much too busy for that.”
“They all hunted witches,” Ashley said.
“That’s not true,” Sophie said. “Kopides were primarily tasked with maintaining the balance of power between factions, and witches hardly presented the greatest threat to the—”
“I was hunted,” she said. “I was hunted by the exact type of people whose charms you wear. You’re still wearing them.”
Sophie took a deep breath and let it out again. She slipped the bracelet off. Its weight in her pocket wasn’t enough—too light to give her the constant reminder of Omar she’d gotten from its jingle at her sleeve. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to offend.”
“She didn’t intend to offend, Ash,” Susannah said soothingly. “It’s nice to meet a friend of Lincoln’s. The woman who just left is my daughter—his sister. That was Skylar. His other sister is also here, and I know Abigail will be so excited to see him.”
“Except he’s not out there.” Skylar stormed back in, puffing through her nostrils like a bull. “That’s so like a Marshall man—dumping a random girl on us and vanishing.”
Lincoln would never have dumped Sophie. They had been planning to remain shoulder to shoulder for the duration of the trip, for better or worse. Probably worse, Sophie suspected.
Yet now she lifted a curtain with her finger to see that the borrowed pickup truck was empty. There was still dust settling by the open driver’s side door. Lincoln was gone.
“He probably went straight out back to visit Bee and Art,” Susannah said.
Skylar groaned. “And left us to…what? I’m not taking care of his girlfriend! I’m not a babysitter for whatever bimbo represents his latest weirdo fetish!” She yanked a knife off of a magnetic strip over the sink. Skylar swung it high over her head—and brought it down upon a head of cabbage on a cutting board. She diced it within moments.
“I’m afraid that I’m not familiar with many American colloquialisms,” Sophie said. “Bimbo?” She opened her eyes wide and looked innocent. Of course, Sophie had not heard that particular term, but she was fully capable of inferring meaning from context.
But Sophie played stupid. She smiled and waited for Skylar to think about what she’d said and choose to rephrase it or commit to the insult.
Skylar believed the ruse. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do you even speak English? I barely understand what you’re saying.”
“You too are difficult to understand,” Sophie said cheerfully. “Your accents in this region are very unlike mine! You sound so exotic. I look forward to learning more about your linguistic patterns!”
The next head of cabbage didn’t stand a chance. Sophie was surprised that Skylar finished it and kept all five of her digits intact. “Someone needs to get her out of here before I lose it.”
Susannah stepped forward. “I hear that you’re hoping to take over Lincoln’s old bedroom. Why don’t I show you where it is? And then I’ll go get the rest of your bags.”
“Oh no, no way,” Skylar said. “Grandpa would turn over in his grave if he knew you were putting an unmarried couple in the same room.”
“It’s not like he’s gonna find out, Sky,” Susannah said.
“But we know. And what do you think Bee and Art will do?” Skylar’s eyes snapped to Sophie’s, and she gave the thinnest, least genuine smile possible. “Not that it’s our fault. Boys will be boys, won’t they?” She pointed toward the stairs with her knife. “His room’s that way.”
She was muttering to Ashley when Sophie followed Susannah into the shadowy depths of the Marshall family home. Its hallways were twisting, the bedrooms small. Photographs hung on every wall, and generations of Marshalls stared judgmentally as Sophie passed. She couldn’t tell the family members apart. All the tow-headed children looked the same, with limp bowl cuts and squinty-eyed smirks and peach-toned skin.
“This one’s Lincoln.” Susannah pointed to a photo of a little boy sitting in an adult’s lap. “Lincoln and his father, John.”
Lincoln was smiling in a way that Sophie had never seen before.
“He was very cute,” Sophie said honestly.
“Means he’ll have cute babies someday,” Susannah said, equal parts hopeful and sad.
Sophie could have told Susannah that she wasn’t romantically involved with Lincoln. Of course there would be no children between them. They could barely get through an entire conversation without the tempering influence of OPA assistant directors or unseelie queens. It was unfair to allow Lincoln’s withering mother hope where none existed.
“I’m sure he will,” Sophie said. “I’m also sure they will frown as much as he does, but it will be very cute.”
“Lincoln didn’t used to always frown.” Susannah pushed a door open. “In here.”
The bedroom of Lincoln’s youth was probably the same size as the others, but it felt even smaller because the walls were plastered in posters. They were layered so that posters for children’s toys—assuming that was what this Bionicle thing was—peeked out from the oldest level, while American sports figures were on top.
Lincoln’s bed took up half the room’s width, adorned in a tattered old quilt with its rose patterns faded to white. His desk was stacked with educational materials. Sophie picked up the history textbook on top, cradling it in one arm to flip through the pages.
A mother’s love lingered around the edges of Susannah’s wrinkled eyes as she watched. “Lincoln studied here o
n his last spring break rather than going on a trip with his friends. He always studied hard. He double majored in theology and criminal justice. All while doing college football—American football, that is. They said he could’ve been drafted to the NFL, but his heart was never committed to sports the way he committed to public service.”
A folded paper fluttered out of the back of the history textbook. Sophie set the book down so that she could pick the page up.
“I’m sorry about the girls,” Susannah said. “Don’t let them bother you. This is Lincoln’s home as much as theirs, and if he says you’re welcome, you are welcome.”
“What in the world are you apologizing for?” Sophie asked, feigning innocence again.
“You don’t have to play the fool around me. I know you’re a smart woman. I can tell. I’m not surprised—Lincoln’s always been the smartest of us, and like calls to like.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Marshall. Your kind words mean a lot to me.”
“I haven’t been Mrs. Marshall a long time,” Susannah said. “You can just call me by my name, for as long as you’re around. I wouldn’t expect it to be long. The girls are right about one thing. Lincoln might bring a lady home to get a reaction, but he doesn’t commit.” She patted Sophie’s shoulder. “Just don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m crushed by the idea that I won’t get to join this kind-hearted family,” Sophie said, shrugging off the woman’s touch. “Absolutely crushed. I’ll need some time to cry myself to sleep.”
Susannah’s mouth twitched. “I’m not stupid either. Don’t insult me and we’ll be on good terms.”
“I seldom insult anyone who hasn’t insulted me first.”
“Glad we’ve got the air clear. I’ll get your other bags and hunt up that boy of mine.” Susannah left the door hanging open a couple of inches.
Sophie unfolded the paper that had fallen out of the history book.
It was a wanted poster.
It featured a drawing of an attractive young woman with a strong nose, angry eyes, and full lips. Her hair and eyes were inky black. Her skin had not been shaded by the artist, and her features were Caucasian, so Sophie imagined she must’ve been a light-skinned woman.
The name had been written in faded pencil at the bottom of the page.
Elise Kavanagh.
That was the name of the woman that Lincoln hoped would exorcise him.
This was the woman who had killed God.
Chapter 10
Lincoln found himself sitting in a darkened library.
This library was at the bottom of a tower, and when he looked up, its hundreds of stories vanished into shadow with no sign of roof. The floor underneath him was crystal, permitting him to see many more levels in the basement. The air tasted of smoke.
A dog lay across his feet, blocky with muscle and sturdy of frame. The dog had a brindle saddle and white fur besides, with a bright pink nose.
For the dog to be here, this must have been a dream.
“Ace?” Lincoln asked.
He reached down to pet the dog. It twisted and snapped at his hand, growling.
Yeah, it was Ace all right. A pit bull raised by a Northgate cult to eat human beings.
This is a dream.
Just like all the dreams he’d been having lately, every detail was clear. When Ace inhaled, his flank swelled against Lincoln’s feet, and he exhaled heat across his toes. He smelled musky, like he’d been rolling in the orange dirt that filled the Palace courtyard.
But he couldn’t be real.
Ace belonged to Elise Kavanagh.
“Open up,” said a woman.
Elise herself sat kitty corner to Lincoln at a desk strewn with ancient books. Today her ink-black hair was swept up into a loose knot, with a few sleek strands framing her angular features. Thick eyelashes framed black irises. Full red lips looked like she’d just been drinking blood.
“Open what?” he asked Elise, when what he really wanted to ask was, Where are you? It felt like a stupid question. Obviously, Elise was in the Library at the Palace of Dis. He was there with her. This was their reality now, the two of them and Ace.
“What do you think I want you to open?” Elise was holding a fork with cherry pie speared on the tip. It oozed crimson, dripping steadily onto the plate that she held underneath it.
Even though they must have been in Hell, the smell of Poppy’s cherry pie brought him a lot closer to Heaven.
“Open up,” she said again, thrusting the fork toward him. “You’re closed tighter than my corset.”
Elise wasn’t wearing a corset. She wore a bandeau underneath a mesh button-down that revealed the tantalizing line of her abdominal muscles.
He opened his mouth to take the pie upon his tongue.
Elise shook her head and lowered the fork. “Open up.”
“You aren’t going to feed me pie?” Lincoln asked.
“I don’t think you’re listening yet.” Elise was fading. He could see the bookshelves through her shoulders as she became transparent. “You spend all this time looking for God, and when she comes calling, you turn off your ears.” Amber-colored blood spread between her breasts, seeping over the bandeau.
He hadn’t shut off his ears. He was begging God for answers and getting nothing but silence.
“I’ve been praying to God every day. I can’t sleep unless I pray first,” Lincoln said. The confession felt like wiggling a knife around in a paper cut to deepen it.
“Open up,” Elise repeated.
Lincoln’s hand smoldered red. He hadn’t cast magic in years. He shouldn’t have been manifesting demon powers. He closed his fist, stuck it in his lap, tried to breathe out his anger. “I told you, I’m open. I’m listening. I’m waiting!”
“I sent you the cathedral,” Elise said. “What else do you need?”
“You’re not God!” Lincoln roared.
She was the devil. She was blasphemy. She was Lincoln’s personal sin, and he hungered for her so desperately.
He couldn’t control his fury. His whole body blazed with it and fire illuminated the shadowy web of veins in his arms.
When Elise leaped to her feet, the plate of pie tumbled. Shards scattered across the floor.
The bright chime of breaking china made the room collapse around Lincoln. The shelves dissolved. The books fell. Wind blew the walls into dust. There was no Hell beyond, no Palace—instead, they stood in the middle of downtown Reno, not far from the riverbank where the Falias cathedral had appeared twice.
The cathedral wasn’t there at the moment. Reno was on fire. Its buildings belched black smoke from their windows. When he looked up, a mirrored version of Reno hung suspended above them, and those buildings burned too.
Elise swung a fist at Lincoln, and he couldn’t dodge in time. Knuckles connected with his jaw. He flew off of his feet—and flew and flew.
His back smashed into bricks. They caved in, and he spilled onto the floor of a bank lobby.
“Open yourself!” Elise’s voice boomed from the sky and erupted from the earth beneath his feet like lava. “Open yourself and hear me, God dammit!”
Ace leapt through the hole in the bricks. It springboarded off rubble.
The pit bull’s jaws snapped toward Lincoln’s throat.
His hands flew up reflexively, and he grabbed the dog’s head with demon strength. Infernal fire spread over the dog. It yelped as it burned.
Lincoln slammed the dog to the floor with one hand and found himself holding his dagger in the other. It had simply appeared in his fist.
He didn’t think before punching its tip through the dog’s ribcage.
He skewered its heart.
The dog was dead.
Lincoln lifted his eyes to see Elise standing on the street outside the bank, watching him with something worse than judgment.
Disappointment.
“You’ll be lucky if you get a third chance,” Elise said. “If I didn’t need you so much, you wouldn’t even have gotten a secon
d.” Her flesh grew paler, her hair spreading behind her. She filled the bank lobby. She filled the street.
She filled Lincoln.
Within the depths of Elise, there was nothing but her voice.
“Last chance, Lincoln. I won’t give you another after what you did to me.”
Lincoln jolted awake. He had a thundering headache and a blindfold over his eyes.
Despite the intense realism of his dream, he regained lucidity instantly. He had no trouble remembering a man ripping open the pickup and slamming Lincoln’s face into the dashboard. That was reality. The Library had been memory—fantasy.
“Damn it all,” Lincoln mumbled under his breath. He tried to sit upright but couldn’t even get his hands in front of him.
He’d been hogtied.
That’s what he got for going back to Grove County.
Lincoln rubbed his cheek against the floor, trying to push the blindfold out of alignment. He only got a tiny sliver of a gap over his right cheek. Blazing lights punched through his eyes, and his headache intensified. That kind of felt like a concussion. It wasn’t Lincoln’s first, and hopefully he lived long enough that it wouldn’t be his last.
“What’s going on?” Lincoln asked loudly. “Who’s got me?”
“Took you long enough to wake up. Worried I mighta smashed that brittle skull of yours too hard before I got a chance to make you suffer.”
Deep voice.
Lots of anger.
Sorta growling.
The man was affecting that accent that blacks used with each other, the one that made them sound so ghetto. Inner city type talk didn’t belong in Grove County. And that gave Lincoln a pretty good clue of who was out to get him this time.
Unfortunately, it was one of the only guys who had legit reason to hate Lincoln.
A hand ripped the blindfold off of his face.
Lincoln found himself gazing up at the towering figure of Abel Wilder, the Alpha mate of the werewolf pack.