by Sierra Dean
Our mother was crumpled on the floor by my feet, a leaky red mess taking up one half of her head, and a mix of blood and brain sprayed all over me and the floor around us.
Secret held her gun pointed at Mercy, but when she seemed sure our mother was down for the count she looked at me, her eyes wild and frantic. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, pretty sure that if I tried to speak she would realize just how not okay I was.
On the floor, Mercy groaned loudly, and Secret and I both took two instinctive steps back from the body. A body which should have been very much dead, and yet was rising to its knees and then back to standing, just like Deerling’s had at the church.
Where her left eye had once been was now nothing more than a bloody hole, and the skin around her temple was burnt from the heat of the gunshot. Still, Mercy stood in front of us, her face half missing, and she smiled.
Her smile had always been a bit unsettling, but now it was downright horrific.
“I only die when she dies,” she laughed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement from the back of the room, and when I was finally able to register what I was looking at, my heart sank.
The charred, broken body of Morgan Scott moved towards us through the dark, her jerky marionette movements looking especially frightening in the context of the rest of the scene laid out before us.
Just when I thought this stupid night couldn’t get any worse.
Now I had not one, but two of these stupid specters waiting in the wings to kill me. I didn’t bother to dwell on how Morgan had come all this way. How had Lucas shown up in Louisiana? How had any of these happened? Sometimes there wasn’t an explanation that made sense, sometimes there was just magic, and you had to accept that it was fucked up and illogical.
Perhaps a part of Morgan had always been here waiting for this moment. This was where she had died, after all.
She stayed in the periphery silent and watchful, but just out of arms reach. I wonder if she was waiting to see if Mercy finished the job for her.
Mercy either didn’t notice the other wight or didn’t care, because she launched another attack, having barely recovered her footing from the first. This time she lunged for Secret, and the suddenness of the gesture caught Secret off guard, because Mercy was able to knock the gun right out of her hand, and grab Secret by the hair, pulling her face in close.
“I’ve waited a long time for this.” Her hand, still a demented-looking claw, reached for Secret’s chest. The nails shredded the cotton of her shirt, and blood started to blossom against the light fabric.
Secret screamed, her face twisting in pain, as she groped at Mercy’s hand and tried to push it out of her.
I remembered.
I remembered what I’d come here to do.
I found my voice, hoarse and broken as it was, and said, “You’re going to have to keep waiting.”
I felt the magic before I saw it, a wave of pure hatred that flowed through me in hot pulses so intense I thought it might melt my skin and turn me into a puddle of red-hot rage on the floor.
Placing my hand on the good side of Mercy’s face, I saw her look at me first in confusion, and then her expression became something different. My hand glowed red, and I pushed every ounce of my bitterness and anger into her. Every bad thing she had made me feel I sent into her a thousandfold, and when she realized what I was doing, her eyes—her eye—bulged in horror.
“No.”
“You said I should use my power more,” I wheezed. “I’m just trying to make you proud.”
“You can’t do this.” Her skin was already melting under my fingertips, like a melted candle that turned to ash once there was nothing left to burn.
I was about to say the final word when Morgan moved towards us.
“Ustulo,” crossed my lips and just as Mercy burst into pieces like ashes in the wind, Morgan pushed her towards me.
I gasped, breathing in sharply as a cloud of my mother hit me in the face. I fell to the ground coughing, her remains coating the inside of my throat as I choked and gagged on them, trying to get the acrid taste off my tongue.
Morgan, barely recognizable as human anymore, looked down at me and her damaged mouth curved into a smile.
The smile was all I needed to see.
Morgan didn’t need to kill me.
She’d gotten exactly what she’d come here for.
Chapter Thirty-six
“I don’t think she can hear us,” Desmond said, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I blinked at him, not sure why he’d say something like that when it was very clear I was listening. I swatted his hand away.
“Oh, thank God, she’s come around.” Secret nudged her husband out of the way and stood in front of me. It was surprisingly bright around her, given that we’d just been in an all-black room.
In fact, the lights were so bright I found myself squinting to focus on the faces around me. The wall of sound that hit me next was all it took to tell me I wasn’t at the memorial anymore.
Mechanical beeping, shouted instructions, and a cacophony of voices rose to meet me as my senses started checking in one at a time. The small of disinfectant wrinkled my nose, and old blood lingered just beneath it.
Overhead fluorescent bulbs cast everything in an ugly blue light, and it finally dawned on me that we were in a hospital.
The wall of pain I ran headlong into in that moment was probably a good indicator of why.
I started to cough spasmodically, retching, the memory of Mercy’s ashes coating the back of my throat was all I could think of. I reached for my neck as if I might be able to clean her out of me that way, but was only reminded of how she had almost ripped out my windpipe Roadhouse style.
Secret had placed a hand on each of my shoulders as I shook violently, and she said, “Get a doctor.”
She was only able to hold onto me a moment before Wilder pushed her gently out of the way. His shirt was soaked dark red with aging blood and his hair matted with the same, looking several shades deeper than his usual dark blond.
“Breathe, Princess. Just breathe for me.”
I locked my eyes on his, finding it hard to focus with the film of tears that had formed in the wake of my violent coughing, but I took one shaky breath, then another, never letting my eyes leave his. He smiled softly once he realized I had calmed down.
I let out a trembling breath.
“How did we get here?” I asked when I was sure I could speak.
Secret spoke over Wilder’s shoulder. “We brought you here about an hour ago, after the police cleared the memorial. Callum is already on his way here to help Desmond deal with the publicity, but you know how these things go. No humans were hurt, so they’ll sweep it all under the rug. Desmond has had to promise to pay a considerable amount of money to the memorial to clean up the mess we left behind.”
“Is everyone okay?”
Secret and Desmond exchanged a quick glance that said something I didn’t quite understand. “Dominick and Lucas were pretty banged up, but they’re going to be fine. We were most worried about you.”
“What happened?”
“After you… did whatever you did to Mercy, you just went catatonic. You wouldn’t move, wouldn’t speak, we thought something had happened to you but your vitals all seemed fine, except for the fact that whatever clicked off in your brain also managed to stall out your healing abilities. You should have been fixed by the time we got you here, but instead they had to bandage you up. I had to bodily stop them from giving you stitches, but what a goddamn mess that would have been when your healing did kick in.”
She was right, if I’d been given stitches my skin would have healed over top of them and I’d need to be cut open again to remove them. Not exactly a pretty scenario.
“Where did Morgan go?”
“Morgan?”
Secret looked at Wilder, then Desmond. “Genie, what are you talking about?”
“Morgan was there, she pushed Mercy into me. She’s the reason I…” I wasn’t sure how to explain to them what had happened. Would they see anything weird about sucking up a big lungful of my own mother? Even now I didn’t know if it was a really big deal or just exceptionally gross. Still, Morgan had done it for a reason, and that was enough to make me wary.
“There wasn’t anyone else there with us,” Secret insisted. “I think I’d remember. Especially if it was Morgan.” These last words were thick with contempt.
This didn’t make any sense. She’d absolutely been there, I’d seen it with my own eyes, I’d looked right at her when I’d started to choke on the ashes. No way in hell had I imagined all that.
But Secret still insisted we’d been alone up there with Mercy.
I decided it might be best to stop arguing.
A doctor appeared and made Wilder and Secret step back. She methodically checked my pulse, shone a light in my eyes, and poked at all my open wounds. “Looks like her healing factor has come back. I’m seeing some very basic restoration on these, and we should see complete healing in a few hours. Eugenia, how are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.”
A thin, humorless smile was my reward for that comment. The doctor, seemingly satisfied with my progress, turned her attention towards Secret with brutal intensity. “Now you, Ms. McQueen. I agreed to let you go untreated until your sister regained consciousness, but I would be remiss in my sworn duties as a doctor if I didn’t insist we get you taken care of immediately.”
Secret gave me a sheepish smile, but the doctor was on a roll.
“You’re human. You don’t have the healing powers these folks do. Now you’re coming with me and I won’t hear another word about it.”
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“Let’s just say I probably won’t be able to turn down the stitches for myself. And my cleavage is going to look a little different from now on.” She shrugged as if to say what can you do.
Desmond trailed behind her and said, “I promise to love your cleavage no matter what.”
“That’s why I married you.”
“Secret?” I asked before she was out the door.
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to be okay?”
She beamed at me. “It’ll take more than a homicidal once-dead werewolf to bring me down, babe.”
As she vanished behind a curtain, a dark voice in the back of my head said, Well that’s disappointing.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Three weeks later
“What about GLOW?” Wilder called from the living room.
“What’s that one about again?”
“Female wrestlers in the eighties.”
I grimaced as I joined him on the couch, precariously balancing two glasses of wine and a freshly delivered five-meat pizza. “Not sure I’m in the mood for suplexes and high-waisted leotards.”
He continued to scan through the Netflix menu options. “There’s a new season of that British murder show you like.”
“Oh my god, yes.”
“You’re twisted. You and your sister almost get killed, and you still can’t get enough of these creepy-ass murder mystery shows.”
“In fairness to me, these shows are all about humans doing terrible things to each other. It’s kind of refreshing.” I sipped my wine and snuggled against him, draping a blanket over my legs.
Three nights earlier we’d set up a little Christmas tree in the window—a big holiday first for us as a couple—and the lights twinkled bright and merry in the dark room. Sure it was only the first week of December, but I challenged anyone to tell me that was too soon.
Things had, as much as possible, returned to normal since Wilder and I had gotten back from New York. Secret had stayed behind, and was working with Desmond to ensure everything was status quo with the pack.
The wolves who had survived the assault all had to be dealt with, and that was its own messy part of an already dark and twisted story. Detective Perry had a convenient scapegoat to wrap up what had happened with Deerling in Franklinton. He could now pin the whole thing on a rogue werewolf pack, which wasn’t great publicity, but was also better than trying to explain to humans that the dead might periodically rise from their graves if a powerful witch was having a bad day.
Santiago had come through his ordeal with Deerling no worse for the wear, but he had seemed much less enthusiastic to speak to me after we got him back to New Orleans. The new coldness and distance suited me just fine, because I didn’t particularly want him to know about all the new things I’d learned to do in New York.
Lucas, the lone remaining wight I’d brought back, had healed beautifully from the injuries he’s sustained during the fight in New York, and it appeared that he wasn’t going to simply fade from being now that I had my head on straight.
I’d brought him back to life and he was here to stay.
At least for as long as I was alive, which I intended to be a good long time.
I thought about what Santiago had told me about necromancers, and how for every hour they animated a body they lost an hour of their own lives. I’d asked Santiago about it when he came back, but he didn’t know if the same thing applied here.
Our situation was unusual, to say the least.
If I was giving up a day of my life for every day Lucas was able to live again, though, that was a worthwhile sacrifice in my books.
From what Secret had told me, Desmond had offered to give Lucas the throne back as soon as he was out of the hospital, but the former king had declined outright. Desmond was in charge now, and it was as it should be. Lucas had decided to spend some time experiencing what life was like without the crushing expectation of leadership on his shoulders.
Secret said he’d bought a one-way ticket to Peru and hadn’t told anyone when he’d be back.
And Wilder?
Wilder had gotten in a fair few I told you so barbs on our flight back to Louisiana, and since then we had tried to put the entire thing behind us. A light load of pack drama heading into the holiday season certainly helped. Callum was distracted with rebuilding the bar, a job he had enlisted Ben to do all the physical labor for by way of penance for his betrayal.
It would be a long time before anyone in the pack trusted Ben again, if they ever did, but Callum pointed out that we couldn’t exactly bring Hank back into the fold and then banish Ben for the very same crime.
Still, I didn’t know when I’d be able to look my brother in the face again and not feel repulsed by him.
The nagging, insidious little voice I’d heard in the back of my head at the hospital hadn’t returned since, which I was hoping meant it had just been a weird thing I had imagined, but I hadn’t forgotten it, not for a second.
It had sounded just like Mercy.
And that was a voice I didn’t need popping up in my head.
Wilder hit play on the first episode of the season and I sipped my wine contentedly, but we weren’t even through the opening credits when his phone started to ring.
“Ignore it,” I pleaded.
“I can’t just ignore it, it could be important.”
He glanced at the screen and frowned, then paused the show and immediately left the room.
This hadn’t happened since before we left for New York. It had been over three weeks, which was plenty enough time for me to have forgotten the wave of messages he received before the ordeal with my mother was resolved.
Other women might have worried about their boyfriends leaving the room because of a potential secret lover. Wilder didn’t have time to date someone else, he was with me almost every waking hour.
What did set my Spidey-sense a tingling was the fact he might be in trouble and hiding it from me. Was Hank up to no good? It seemed the most likely explanation.
About ten minutes later, when my nerves were in full on jangle mode, he returned to the room looking pale and grim. He didn’t look at me until he sat on the coffe
e table in front of me and set the phone down on the couch.
“What is it?” I asked, knowing something very obviously wasn’t right.
“I need to go.”
“Go where?”
He glanced away, as if he was frustrated with himself for not knowing how to tell me what he was trying to say. “I have to go away.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
“Genie, just listen for a second. Do you remember when I came back? I told you I’d been living with the Shreveport pack, and I’d been groomed by their Alpha to take over?”
“Yes.” I understood each of these words individually, but together they were still impossible for me to comprehend.
“He died last night.”
“Okay.”
We stared at each other for a moment until he said, “I’m still in line to be the Alpha.”
I blinked at him. “No, that’s impossible. You’re my second. You belong here. We can talk to Callum about this and he’ll fix it, he’ll find someone else, and—”
“Genie, no.”
“You’re not going anywhere. We’ll talk to Callum.”
“That was Callum.”
All the words that had been in my mouth ready to come up with a solution turned to dust on my tongue.
Of course.
Of course it had been Callum.
“No.”
He pushed himself up and looked around the room. “I have to go.”
“Wilder, it’s nine o’clock at night, you don’t need to go anywhere right now.”
He gave me a look that simply said he wasn’t going to argue with me, but that I was wrong.
“Then I’ll come with you,” I said, getting to my feet,
“No.”
“Well how long are you going to be gone?” I knew the answer before asking the question. Alpha as a job for life. When the king gave you that role, you were in it forever. I’d be Alpha of New Orleans as long as I lived, and now so too would Wilder.
