Clarice accused, “That witch worked magic!”
I nodded. “She did. And you were wise enough to see the working before it was complete. You escaped. Your men did not.”
I was setting facts before her. I was being dispassionate. I was stating an argument with legalistic simplicity. I was speaking calmly and logically with a woman who was known for her calm and logic, for her icy concentration, for her knife-sharp adherence to rules and regulations and requirements.
Strike that.
I was baiting a predator.
In a single motion, Clarice broke the lock and swept the door open. She launched at me, and her growl was so deep that I felt it more than heard it. Her teeth slashed toward my throat; she clearly had every intention of flying by, slicing out my jugular, completing the pass with scarcely a jolt of contact.
My months of training with James, though, prepared me for the move. I dropped to one knee and disrupted the vampire’s trajectory.
I scrambled back to my feet before she had completed her spin to face me. I knew I was a better fighter on the ground—that was how James and I had completed most of my training. But I would be at a disadvantage if I went down before she did.
If I expected Clarice to burst into fury at my evasion, to fight awkwardly or haphazardly, I was sadly disappointed. Instead, she seemed to grow even colder, to harden like a chunk of coal collapsing into a shimmering, dangerous diamond. She stripped off her bulky gloves and stiffened her fingers into claws. She measured out three steps, steady, even.
I saw that she intended to grip my arms, to force me close to her chest. She would crush me to her, rip out my throat while I was unable to get leverage for any form of defense. Her spotless suit might suffer a gout of blood, but she would end this fight before it had truly begun.
But James had taught me about such an attack. In our long nights on the gymnasium mats, he had coached me on how to handle an opponent—one larger, stronger, infinitely more determined than I.
I knew how to slam my left hand into the joint of Clarice’s left elbow. I knew how to pump my right arm back, breaking her grip completely. I knew how to slam into her, wedging her weight beneath my armpit, so that I could fling my right hand over her shoulder, clutch at her clothes for better leverage.
The rapid back-and-forth caught her by surprise. She flailed for a purchase, to escape from the too-intimate space beneath my arm. Before she could find the proper balance, though, I twisted sideways and thrust my right knee into her belly.
All of my weight was on my left leg. I did not let her exploit that stance, though. Instead, I let myself drop to the ground, slicing my left knee between both of hers. At the same time, I tightened my grip on the back of her jacket, forcing her up and over my head.
We ended on the stone floor. Her torso was trapped beneath me; my arm was pressing against her throat. Her knees were bent, and she arched her back, straining to throw me free.
I was panting, desperate to fill my lungs. At the same time, though, I was filled with a sense of pride. All of my training had paid off. All those months with James, all the bruises to my body and my ego. I had been able to apply them here, against an unknown opponent, against a woman who clearly bettered me in speed and native strength.
And in wardrobe. Clarice’s foot shot out, raking down the inside of my calf. Impossibly, she still wore her pumps, and the razor sharp leather of one heel sliced into the muscle of my leg.
Pain. White, hot, lightning pain.
It felt as if my blood was pouring out, as if all my veins and arteries were racing to pump themselves dry. I thought that muscle had been sheared from bone, that I had been butchered as neatly as a calf led to slaughter. My belly twisted, and acid painted the back of my throat as I fought desperately to keep from vomiting.
James’s training was not enough. His vampire tricks would not save me.
But I had worked with other mentors. Not as much as I wanted. But maybe, just maybe, as much as I needed.
I closed my eyes and tried to feel the hematite bracelet around my wrist. I pictured its silvery glow, its placid, unwavering sheen. “Menesai,” I gasped, between gritted teeth.
Menesai. An ancient command, passed down in the desert, from sphinx to sphinx. A word that sprang from Ancient Greek, three syllables that called out to every fiber of my being. Menesai. Remember.
As a sphinx, I found the path to order. As a sphinx, I moved within the spaces. As a sphinx, I found the interstices—the time that expanded between my heartbeats, the centuries that stretched between my breaths.
Clarice started to buck for a superior position, fighting to toss me off her torso. Her nostrils twitched at the scent of my blood, and her lips peeled back. Her fangs extended.
And I had all the time in the history of the world to drive my knee between her thighs. I had time to tangle my fingers within her hair. I had time to torque her neck to the right.
I began to use the ancient fighting patterns James had taught me. Now, though, I was faster than my own enhanced eyes could follow, faster than my mind could trace.
And when it was over, Clarice was pressed against the silver bars of the cage. Her body was rigid with agony. My hands were clamped over hers, forcing her fingers to wrap around the overheating metal. My chest was hard against her back, forcing her face—her beautiful, ice-sculpted face—against the bars.
She felt like a corpse beneath me. Despite the smoke that sifted between my fingers, the flesh of her neck was cold. Not a muscle twitched. Of course she didn’t breathe. She had not breathed for years.
I gasped to fill my own lungs, and the stench of burning flesh overwhelmed me. I pushed back from her, turned my head to the side, and retched.
Clarice’s body slumped to the floor, her charred hands finally slipping off the bars. I could not see her face.
I had not killed her. It would take exposure to direct sunlight to do that. Sunlight, or a stake, a direct blow to the heart with a weapon made of oak.
No, the vampire lived. But she would take nights to heal. Weeks, even. Maybe months, unless she got a human to give her fresh blood.
Blood.
I looked down at my calf and nearly vomited again. The heel of Clarice’s shoe had sliced like a scalpel, flensing skin and muscle until I could see raw bone. Blood was pooling on the floor beneath me, soaking into the mortar of the flagstones.
And then I heard it, above me, in the kitchen. The same creaking floor that had signaled Clarice’s return. The vampire had had plenty of time there, while I ordered Jane and the others to safety. What had she done in the privacy of the kitchen? How many reinforcements had she summoned?
Panicked, I tried to drag myself toward the door of the cage.
The steps were louder now, pounding across the kitchen floor.
I turned my head toward the stairs. I raised my chin in defiance. I wrapped the fingers of my left hand around my hematite bracelet, struggling to reach back to my sphinx nature, to the power that would let me fight off these newest invaders.
“Sarah!”
James. And Chris. Both of them, plummeting down the steps, hurtling across the flagstones.
Chris threw himself to his knees beside me. He spared only the quickest of glances toward Clarice, enough to confirm that the vampire was not an immediate threat. I felt his arms around me, gathering me close, cradling me against his chest.
“I did it,” I said. I meant for the words to be loud, a boastful proclamation. For some reason, though, they barely came out as a whisper. “I found the missing books. And I kept the others safe, the humans.”
A black mist sifted across my vision. I pushed at it, trying to force it away so that I could see the pride on Chris’s face. He must have misunderstood me, though. Must not have realized all I had done. He was shaking his head. He was saying something, my name, and then other words, but his lips moved too slowly for me to make out the sounds.
I realized that I was freezing, that the chill of the stone floor h
ad chewed into my bones. My teeth started to chatter, and my entire body began to shake.
Something was pressed against my lips, something soft. I moved my mouth, shifting just enough to feel the velvet slide against my teeth.
No. Not velvet. Something liquid. Something hot. I swallowed, and I was immediately filled with a longing, with a desperate need to drink more. Heat spread down my throat, across my chest. I swallowed again, and a flame kindled deep inside my belly. Again, and I began to feel my arms, my legs.
My leg. My ravaged calf. I felt the muscle knitting, the skin closing over the wound.
One more swallow. One more wave of heat, of strength, of sudden understanding.
I was sprawled on the floor of Richardson’s basement, cradled in Chris’s arms. James knelt beside us, his forearm slashed with a surgical precision that mirrored my own nearly-healed wound.
Both men were staring at me, with near-identical expressions. Worry. Relief. And a growing flush of rage.
James found his voice first. “What the hell were you doing here?”
He sat back on his heels. I fought the urge to reach out to him, to clutch at the arm that had given me healing vampire blood. “I—” I started, but I quailed under the heat of his cobalt eyes.
Instead, I twisted to look at Chris. “You have to understand,” I said. “The Old Library.”
“They’re books, Sarah.” I heard frustration in his voice, mixed with anger.
“I’m responsible for them.” I fought to push myself into a sitting position, but I did not yet have the strength to pull away from him.
“Sarah, you almost died here.” His voice nearly broke.
“I wanted to show you that I could manage the collection. That I could put everything in order.” The force of James’s blood was building in my body. I was able to pump honest indignation into my protest.
“Put everything in order —” Chris trailed off.
“I was just trying to be a proper sphinx!” His exasperated reaction gave me the energy I needed to lurch away. I balanced on my knees for a moment, and I likely would have fallen if James had not reached out to steady me. “Stop it!” I said, jerking my arm free.
I forced myself to swallow hard, to calm the fury pulsing through my veins, chasing after James’s blood. I drew a deep breath. I pulled my feet under me, and I stood, taking care not to put too much weight on my re-knit leg.
Reluctantly, cautiously, Chris and James rose beside me.
“I’m trying to be a proper sphinx,” I repeated, speaking directly to Chris. I tilted my head toward James. “At least he taught me how to fight. You haven’t done anything. You say I need to move slowly, we need to take our time. You’ve dropped a few hints. I’ve sneaked a few books. But everything is out of order, everything is in the wrong place. My mind is a mess, and I need to fix it all, but I don’t know how. I’m all alone!”
James reached out to steady me, placing one hand at the small of my back. I felt the pressure, steady, uncompromising. But I did not let it pull my attention away from Chris.
My fellow sphinx twitched his shirt cuffs into place. He shuffled one foot forward, and I saw that he was aligning his shoe with a crack in the floor. He ran a hand through his curly hair, as if that would make each strand fall in place.
He took a deep breath and exhaled more slowly than I thought possible. And then he said, “You’re right.”
I merely stared at him.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “Our past isn’t easy. Our future isn’t simple. I haven’t wanted to force things on you. To make your life any more difficult than it already is.”
I glanced at Clarice’s still form. “My life is what it is, Chris. I need tools. I need instruction. I need to learn how to be a sphinx.”
He squirmed. “You do. I haven’t been fair.” And then he met my gaze. “I’m sorry.”
The apology took me by surprise. I had not expected it, had not anticipated the open, uncomplicated confession of two simple words. His admission opened a huge emotional well, cast me onto an entirely different plane.
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
James finally broke the silence. “We’ve got to get that one to a sanctum before dawn.” He jutted his chin toward Clarice.
Chris scowled. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “It’s my job.” He dug in his pocket for his cell phone, but then he passed the device to me. “Or, rather, Sarah can make the call. It’s high time I taught her what to do.”
I took the phone and waited for my mentor to tell me whom to call.
CHAPTER 9
JANE
I WATCHED AS David carried the last of my books up the cottage stairs. He had teased me mercilessly about my copious boxes of clothes, not even attempting to understand why I needed eleven different black skirts. He had rolled his eyes when I insisted on taking every last bottle of alcohol from beneath the sink, even the Cynar that was too bitter for anyone to actually drink. He had put his foot down completely, when I tried to bring the mismatched kitchen plates; he said there were plenty at his farmhouse, and none of them were chipped.
But he had not uttered one word of protest over my copious witchcraft paraphernalia. Books, crystals, herbs, cauldrons—all of it had been packed up and carried out. All of it was destined for David’s farm.
I glanced around the basement. It was different now, stripped to its mundane furnishings. Nevertheless, it was the place where I had first awakened Neko, where I first came into my true powers as a witch.
As if on cue, my familiar poked his head through the door. “That’s the last of it,” he said. “Are you ready to go? I convinced David to stop at Tackle Box on the way out. He’s buying.”
My smile was reflexive. Of course, Neko had pushed for a meal at the seafood restaurant. He’d gobble every bite from his own plate, and I’d have to slap his fingers to keep him away from mine.
“Why don’t the two of you go ahead,” I said. “I’m just going to lock things up and take the keys over to the library.”
“Girlfriend, don’t even think about getting sentimental,” Neko chided. “You know your eyes just get puffy when you cry.”
“They do not! And I’m not going to cry. I’m fine. Really.”
He clicked his tongue, obviously not believing me, but he sashayed out the door. I heard a quiet conversation between the men, and then the front door closed.
I walked along the empty bookshelves, one last time. I straightened the rug, one last time. I ran my hand along the cracked leather couch. One. Last. Time.
And then I climbed the stairs, turned out the light, and closed the door, locking it firmly behind me.
A loud knock jolted me out of my nostalgic self-pity. I startled and thought about ducking into my empty bedroom. But that was foolish. There was no one I was afraid of. No one I needed to avoid.
“Sarah!” I exclaimed, as I opened the door.
She raised a paperboard box, displaying the label from Cake Walk. “I’m glad I caught you.”
I had not seen the sphinx since our midnight escapade in the basement of Richardson’s mansion. I’d phoned her, of course—left her a half dozen messages by dawn on that memorable night. She had texted me the briefest of messages, letting me know that she was fine, that the books were fine. That she’d be in touch.
A check had arrived two days later—generous enough that my pay worked out to more than one hundred dollars an hour. It had been signed by James Morton. So, Sarah had come clean; she hadn’t needed to pay me with under-the-table cash.
I’d held the check for nearly a week, debating the ethics of depositing it. I hadn’t completed my work. I hadn’t integrated the new texts into the old collection. But I had taught Sarah everything she needed to know to finish the project.
And I’d saved her life from our vampire attackers.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing she was still standing on the threshold. “Come in!” I led her into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I don’t really have anything to offer you. Everything’s packed. Gone.”
“That’s why I brought the treats,” she said, opening the box to reveal a half dozen cupcakes. “They’re all Beehive Bombs. I figured we didn’t need to do any Tarot. And the honey in the frosting is a sweet start to your new life.”
I saluted her with one of the treats. She helped herself to another, and we devoted our attention to the cupcakes for a couple of companionable minutes. Only as the sugar suffused my bloodstream did I finally dare to tell her the thing I’d thought the most often during the past two weeks. “I felt terrible leaving you there. I hope everything was okay, with James and Chris?”
Her green eyes clouded. “It all worked out in the long run.”
There was something she wasn’t telling me. I started to press her., but then I decided to take another bite of honey-scented frosting. Despite everything we’d been through, I didn’t know Sarah all that well. I couldn’t begin to understand her relationship with the vampire she served, with the sphinx who trained her.
She smiled wanly, as if she appreciated my forbearance. “I can’t totally explain it,” she said. “I’ve come at this whole supernatural thing sort of backwards. I was trained by a vampire before I ever learned about my sphinx identity. It’s taken months, but I’ve finally gotten Chris to understand that he needs to teach me. Needs to show me what I am. What I can be.”
I understood what she was saying. I, too, had fought to discover my supernatural self. Why was it so difficult for us to embrace our true nature? Why was it so hard to learn how to be a witch, how to be a sphinx? Why did we fight the most intensely with the very men who were supposed to guide us?
“Men,” I said, picking up another Beehive. “Can’t control them. Can’t shoot them.”
She laughed and captured her own auxiliary cupcake. “So?” she said, gesturing to the empty cottage. “You’re actually ready to leave? Are you heading down to the bakery?”
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