“Um, I don’t mean to second-guess your choices or anything, but are you wearing all of your armor? And you are going up against an archer, right? Is that spear properly weighted for throwing, or is it more for thrusting? Because he has ranged weapons, and you—”
“I am not worried.”
“Oh, well, that’s good and all, but—”
“Yes, Sesse keened, but Theomur does not stand a chance.”
“Oh?”
“No. You will go and cut the string of his bow.”
“I thought you were fighting him because of honor,” I say dryly.
“Don’t act as if you know me,” he hisses. “You don’t know what he said.”
“What he says doesn’t matter. You’re dueling him, and you’re supposed to die shortly. That won’t get you to change your mind, though, so here we are.”
He appraises me. “Are you going to cut his string or not?”
I hesitate and then shake my head.
“Why not?” he demands, but he sounds more curious than angry.
“I’m here because of Sesse, not you. I don’t think she would approve.”
“She wants me alive,” he grumbles. “She doesn’t realize…”
“Realize what?” I ask suspiciously.
Dimitri shakes his head. His eyes are a striking blue-gray color, his nose straight and thin. His skin is mildly tan, his eyebrows thick, almost matching the fur of his armor. His cheeks are flat, his chin pointy, and he looks hard and fierce. The only slight bit of vulnerability is in those blue-gray eyes. They lighten slightly whenever Sesse is mentioned.
“When is the duel?” I ask.
“Now.”
He brushes past me. He’s a brute of a man and has to be almost seven feet tall. Wow. I can’t imagine someone like him walking around a grocery store with humans. Anyone with eyes can tell there’s something about him.
Dimitri marches out the back door and onto the field. I trail behind him.
“Theomur,” Dimitri calls.
A full minute passes before a behemoth eagle appears. A figure on its back stands and then jumps. The elf lands on his feet. His short white hair doesn’t move on the breeze. His eyes are a light yellow. His ears are long and pointed, and I won’t even hazard a stab at his age because there is no way he is as young as he looks. His attire is straight out of a video game or fantasy movie, a sleek cloak covering all satin material that makes him look like a prince minus a crown.
The elf’s gaze shifts from Dimitri to me. “You request an intermediary for this?”
I shrug.
Dimitri says nothing.
The elf laughs. “If she interferes, I will kill her.”
“Let’s get this done, shall we?” Dimitri all but growls.
Ugh. I’m frustrated. I would’ve like to know what exactly Theomur said, but the archer is already lining up his shot with five arrows. He shoots them, and they splinter apart, all pointed at various parts of Dimitri’s person.
Dimitri spins his lance and knocks aside one, two, three, and then four of the arrows. The last he uses his shield to put down.
“Is that all you got?” Dimitri asks boldly.
“I am merely getting warmed up.”
Theomur’s next batch of arrows all burst into flames as they soar through the air, but once again, Dimitri knocks them aside. The grassy field begins to burn as they continue this stupid dance, leaving me to deal with the growing fire. I’ve put out two of the small batches when I spy ice arrows. As cool as they look, they don’t seem that effective at all. Sure enough, they shatter upon impact against Dimitri’s shield, but then they dissolve into green goo that hisses and corrodes away the metal. Acid or some kind or maybe poison. This is starting to get serious.
I quickly stomp out the rest of the tiny fires before they can morph into bigger ones and circle around the two. The elf has tossed aside his bow and arrows and is drawing out a sleek sword that has black letterings on it, only they aren’t letters I recognize. Runes, maybe?
His sword glows as it strikes Dimitri’s spear, and the two go back and forth. Sparks fly, and with a grand flourish, the spear knocks aside the sword. Dimitri goes for a killing stab, but Theomur holds up his hand. A visible gust of wind appears and knocks Dimitri back.
Theomur isn’t just an elvish archer. He’s an elvish witch!
From the barbarian paladin’s wide eyes, he hadn’t realized this before. Now that his secret’s revealed, Theomur throws blast after blast of water, wind, and fire at Dimitri. Maybe that’s why his arrows had burned with fire and turned to ice.
Dimitri is slowing down. He has no tricks up his sleeve. It’s too bad he isn’t a berserker. Then he could go into a rage and possibly brutally overpower the elf, but then again, he would have to handle the brunt of the magical attacks in order to get close enough to take advantage of that rage.
Barbarians have serious strength too, of course, but a raging berserker has no equal.
“Why did you bring the girl?” the elf taunts. “She can’t possibly hurt me. Have you tired of your banshee after all?”
“Do not bring up Sesse!” Dimitri roars.
I wince. So far, Dimitri’s played it cool and has made smart decisions. If Theomur resorts to insulting Sesse’s honor again, Dimitri might become too incensed and make a mistake.
“She may be beautiful, but tell me, when she keened, did she lose her luster? Did she turn ghoul-like? Did she—”
“Sesse is beautiful now and always,” he says through gritted teeth.
“But you won’t live to see her grow older. Do not worry. I can comfort her in her grief and—”
“You will stay away from her!”
The two go back and forth, fighting with words in lieu of their weapons. The more Theomur goes on and on about Sesse, the more I begin to realize what the issue is. Theomur himself loves the banshee, but she loves only Dimitri.
Theomur will insult Dimitri, too, but Dimitri doesn't care about that, none does he insult the elf back. From the RPGs I used to play what seems like a lifetime ago before my parents died in that terrible car accident, paladins had always been about honor and goodness. The perfect, golden-hearted fighters. Granted, his asking me to cut Theomur's bowstring had clearly come from his barbarian half and not the paladin.
Without warning, they go back at it again. The elf is fighting hard and dirty. With a flick of his wrist, he sets the handle of Dimitri’s blade on fire. Dimitri grimaces, and the stench of burning flesh sears my nostrils, but the barbarian doesn’t release his blade. He almost slices the elf in two with his next strike, but the elf nimbly jumps back, his leap perfectly timed for him to shift at an angle and land a what looks like a terribly painful jump and punch right to Dimitri’s bare midsection.
The barbarian grimaces. The fire is licking up his arm now, but he’s still fighting.
This is too much. It's not fair, and the elf needs to be stopped.
My favorite ranged weapon is my gun, and I pull it out, aim, and fire. It’s a warning shot.
Time seems to move in slow motion.
Theomur turns to look at me. His mouth opens.
Before he can blink or make any sound, Dimitri brings up his blade, levels it, and slices off the elf’s head.
A blinding shriek rings out. It's not a wail, not a keening, so I know it's not Sesse. Besides, why would she be upset about Theomur's death?
She wouldn’t be, but that doesn’t mean someone else isn’t.
A female elf wearing a green gown with slits all the way up to her waist races toward Dimitri. She’s the only one of us moving fast, and she stabs him right in the back before Theomur’s body has even collapsed to the ground.
Dimitri jerks.
I can’t even say where the female elf came from, but maybe she’s also a cheetah shifter because she’s already stabbed Dimitri five, six, seven times now. The barbarian falls to his knees and then slams to the ground, not trying to break his fall.
He’s dead.
/>
With another shriek, the female elf turns the blood-dripping blade around, the point at her chest. She makes eye contact with me, but before I can say or do anything, she shoves the weapon deep inside, heaves a gasp, and slumps forward. A few tears trickle down her face as she cups the cheek of Theomur's decapitated head.
Oh. Um… yeah. I'm not going to ask for payment for this. My gunshot influenced the fight and caused Dimitri's death. Granted, he would've died even without my interference because a banshee's keening is never wrong, but I feel so guilty. Sesse's doomed to be a wailing woman for the rest of her life. The elf who loved Theomur is dead. The elf who loved Sesse is dead. The barbarian who loved Sesse is dead. Sesse might as well be too.
Love is so not worth it.
Chapter 6
I am not about to go seek out Sesse immediately after her lover passed, so I throw myself headfirst into my next gig. Penkip and his magical artifact from his ex, the witch Wren. Why is it that he's so sure she'll have it at the nightclub for witches?
It's not nighttime, so her club isn't open, but I drive by anyhow. Honestly, the building doesn't look any different from a normal nightclub, and I'm a little disappointed. The first floor has ceiling-to-floor glass windows. Even the door is glass. The second and third floors have traditional windows, probably rooms for… spellcasting and potion-making. Who knows? Maybe she even lives there.
Curiosity has me parking up the block, and I head back to Aurora on foot. My head touches the knob of the glass door, but it won’t turn. In fact, a strong compulsion comes over to me to just walk away and ignore this place.
It’s been spelled against humans. Clearly. Only because I know it’s a witch’s nightclub can I even realize that.
The compulsion grows stronger the longer I stand there, but when my hand falls off the knob, the feeling wans slightly. I still don’t want to be here, but I am in control of myself. I can stay here if I want.
But I don't. If Wren is lurking inside, I don't want to alert her to my presence, so off I go, back to my rental. Hopefully, I'll be able to get my car back. The dealer insisted on getting two new tires and not one so that the car is more evenly balanced. Of course, once I agreed, he tried to convince me that it would be better still to get four new ones, but I rejected that and talked him into giving me a free realignment, which, in my mind, should come free when you buy new tires.
I head to a restaurant and eat just in case Wren or one of her witchy friends spied me. The setting sun’s rays made it impossible for me to see into the building. Someone could’ve been on the other side of the front door, and I wouldn’t be able to see her.
As I wait for my food, I text every witch I know, asking if they’re available to help me out. Some respond immediately to say they’re busy. One cusses me out. Yeah, I should’ve known better than to ask Beck. Another witch wanted me to end Beck’s business, and I did. I didn’t even feel guilty about it because Beck had been a cheapskate when he hired me for a prior job. Normally, I do give my clients a pass because I don’t want to develop a reputation of being a complete mercenary, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Mirella is too busy, which doesn't surprise me, and then I get a response from Darius. Morena Moriarty hired me to kill Darius, only she lied about his name. If I hadn't realized that, I just might have killed him. He got on my nerves at first. A lot. Plus, he likes to tell me what to do. I swear he has a hero complex and wants to save me from my line of work.
He used to be a paranormal executioner, but he was fired because he went against protocol. I would’ve thought him more the stickler for the rules type, but apparently not. A rule breaker. He forced himself into a few of my jobs because he’s bored. Or thinks I can’t handle it. As if I haven’t been a supernatural bounty hunter for years without any assistance.
But I do need a witch, and he is available. Of course he is.
I reread his text. I’ll help. You know I will.
My stomach does a funny little flip. He’s the only one who has bitten on the chance, and a few more nos come through before I have to face facts that it’s Darius or no one.
Are you still in Pittsburgh? I type.
There’s no delay in his response. Yes.
Of course he is. You ever going back to Harrisburg?
Maybe to sell the house.
And you’ll move to where?
Not sure yet.
I smirk. You aren’t considering around here, are you?
What if I am?
Hmmm. What if he is?
Go ahead but I might be moving away.
Bold of you to assume I might want to move to Pittsburgh because of you. It’s not as if a billion other people live in the city.
More like three hundred thousand.
Do you always have to one-up everyone?
Only when they’re wrong. I grin.
I wasn’t wrong. I was being hyperbolic. A few seconds go by, and he sends another. Why do you need a witch for this job?
Come to my house. I’ll explain in person.
I take my time eating and even get dessert before I finally make it home. Darius is already there, of course, and he doesn’t razz me for making him wait.
“I honestly don’t know if you’re the witch for this job,” I inform him as we walk inside.
“Why not? I’m powerful.”
“Yes, but can you convince witches that I’m a witch?”
He gapes at me.
“I have to infiltrate a witch’s nightclub.”
“Aurora,” he murmurs.
I lift my eyebrows. “Have you been there before?”
“No, but I’ve heard about it.”
“Any ideas on how to get me inside? You can’t use illusions or anything like that, can you?”
He smirks. “We don’t need that kind of magic to get you in.”
“No?”
“I have an idea.”
“Why does that scare me?” I tease.
Darius’s smirk grows.
That night, we’re on the rooftop of the building next to Aurora.
“You’ve had to have done something like this before,” Darius says.
“Maybe, but breaking into a witch’s nightclub is definitely new. So many witches here…”
“Worried about being caught?”
“Just get me inside,” I tell him.
“That’s the easy part. Getting out will be the issue.”
And I’ll be on my own for that bit.
“I’m not worried,” I inform him.
“Neither am I.”
“Good.”
We wait until a group of witches enters the place before making our move. We don't want to risk being seen.
He jumps onto the rooftop of the nightclub first. I leap over next. The place doesn’t seem different from any other. The compulsion I felt from the front door isn’t affecting me up here.
I slide to the side of the door. Darius waltzes over and knocks.
There's no response, and no one opens the door. It's locked.
“Can you sense any magic?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
I grin. “Witches got too big for their britches.”
Darius rolls his eyes at my teasing. “It might still be spelled so that they know if it’s opened.”
“That’s why you’re supposed to make a distraction.”
“I know, and I will. Just open the door.”
I pick the lock with ease. Honestly, it’s insulting how simple this had been. Are witches that naïve? Then again, maybe they assumed no one would be so foolish as to try to break into a nightclub filled with witches.
“Are you going to let me go inside first?” he whispers in my ear.
His breath on my neck makes me shiver. I have my hair tied up in a high ponytail tonight.
“Go ahead.”
“Then you need to move.”
I eye him. He’s standing far too close, but I’m not unnerved. Not one bit.
Shadows cover his face, making him look mysterious and alluring. His piercing gray eyes are bright, the only bright spot on his face, and his dark hair melts into the surrounding blackness of the night.
Go. Find her,” I murmur. “Keep her distracted.”
“She might have it on her,” he points out.
“And then it’ll be up to you to recover it. We’ve been over this.”
“I might have to—”
“I don’t care what you might have to do to get it,” I say impatiently.
“Hmmm.” He shakes his head. “You ever have to—”
I shove him in the back, and he enters the nightclub. For several minutes, I stand there, listening hard, but I hear nothing above the sound of the blaring music. It might be a witch's nightclub, but all nightclubs have the music turned up way too loud.
Considering there aren't any signs of a magical battle going on, I slip inside and climb down the staircase to a long hallway lined with doors. Most of them are labeled. "Potions." "Spells." "Illusions." "Enchantments."
Hmm. There are ten different kinds of magic. Is there a door for each? Not that any of these doors seem likely to contain the hiding spot for Penkip the gnome’s magical artifact.
I head all the way down the hallway, though, bypassing the staircase. Only one door isn’t labeled, and I have a feeling this one might be the one I want, which makes me worried that this door could be boobytrapped.
“You look lost, human.”
I stiffen and roll my eyes as I turn around. “Do you really want me to refer to you as witch?” I ask.
The witch shrugs. She’s wearing a tight, short black dress. Her lips are painted black, but her nails are white. Around her neck is a chain, and attached to that chain is a pendant. A white stone with red lines. Hmm. Penkip’s said his was a black stone with red lines. Is this the same stone or not?
“Or should I call you by your name, Wren?” I ask pointedly.
She cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused. “It is so very nice to finally meet you, Rebel. I almost opened the door for you earlier, but the doors simply do not open during the sunlit hours.”
“You can’t force them to?” I ask. “You must not be that powerful of a witch.”
Hunter's Revenge: A Mayhem of Magic World Story (Rebel, Supernatural Bounty Hunter Book 2) Page 4
