by Nadine Mutas
At some point, the arguing had stopped, to be replaced by murmurs of hushed conversations Anjali only caught here and there when she went to the bathroom. Any time she’d ventured closer to better hear what they were talking about now—it had to be the topic of her and Thorne still, that much she could feel in her gut—they’d fallen silent. Suspiciously silent.
Dinner had been an exercise in quiet emotional torture. Anjali had never understood what “passive-aggressive” truly meant until she’d had to watch Aunt Madhuri and Nani Shobha deck the table and serve the food with so much guilt-inducing reproach dripping off their movements it drenched the whole air. They hadn’t talked about the elephant in the room, but it sure had crushed them all with its looming presence. Anjali had never felt so scorned, so much out on display for everyone’s scrutiny. The looks Kiran gave her were different now, as if seeing her in a new light, and it wasn’t a pretty one. It didn’t take long for Anjali to finish her plate and excuse herself from the dinner table.
Sounds in the house were winding down now, her family retreating to their rooms. From what Anjali could hear, Kiran had put her daughter to sleep some time ago, and Nani Shobha had retired to her bedroom already.
Anjali bit her lip, anxiety crawling under her skin. If Thorne didn’t return her messages before long, she’d just sneak out and see if he was at home in his apartment. She had to see him.
Her phone rang. She jumped about two feet high, her heart pounding. Stumbling over her feet, she rushed to the bed and grabbed her cell. Thorne’s name flashed on the caller ID. Her stomach fluttered as she answered.
“Are you okay? I was so worried about you.”
Thorne’s voice coming through from the other end of the line was like a balm to her senses. “I’m outside your house. Can you come meet me?”
Anjali’s voice was threaded with anxiety, her usual earthy timbre lost. She’d been worrying about him. The very thought sent a spike of regret through his heart, laced with inappropriate delight at the fact that she considered him important enough to worry about.
“Sure,” she said, “I’ll come out in a few. My family’s already settling down for the night, and I think I can sneak out in a bit. Just give me some time after I’m outside to lose any tail they may put on me.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “They’ve been coming down hard on me all day.”
“All right. Let’s meet up in the park down the street. I’ll stay in the shadows, but I’ll be around.”
He hung up, his heart slamming against his ribs, his chest tight with the pressure of what he had to do soon. If only he could have taken down his grandfather before…
And thinking of the devil, the older male slunk out of the cover of the garage he’d used as a hiding spot, still making sure he was out of sight of Anjali’s house. “So,” his grandfather rasped, “is your Anjali coming to our little meeting?”
Thorne nodded curtly, his eyes on the windows to Anjali’s room, watching her silhouette moving about behind the flimsy curtains. The fact that his grandfather took her name in his mouth grated on him, as if the bastard violated her somehow. Well, soon he wouldn’t be a threat to Anjali anymore.
He gritted his teeth at the thought of how much he now had to involve his witch in all this. Damn, but he would have liked to keep her out of it, to protect her from this whole situation. After he’d offered to kill Anjali himself—something he’d had to do so his grandfather wouldn’t go out and act on his own and instead leave Thorne enough time to come up with a plan—he’d watched and waited for any chance, however small, to take the older male unawares. It was clear, though, that his grandfather remained suspicious of his intentions and didn’t fully believe his change of heart. The jerk hadn’t let down his defenses for a single second. Thorne wouldn’t be able to take him on if he kept his guard up like that.
He needed to attack him when the older male didn’t expect it, when he trusted Thorne enough to become less prepared for a fight. Seeing as how his grandfather was slightly stronger—being a full-blooded demon as opposed to Thorne’s mixed heritage—and given the weight of Thorne’s childhood trauma impacting his ability to fight, Thorne needed that moment of surprise and lack of defenses on his grandfather’s side to win.
And, so far, the bastard had watched him all day long with hawk’s eyes, wariness etched into his ragged features. The old guy had even confiscated Thorne’s phone, “to make sure you’re not sending any warnings to your witch.” Which he wouldn’t have done anyway, not that it mattered. The less he involved Anjali in this, the better. And for his plan to work, he needed her clueless, so her reaction would be genuine, all the better to fool his grandfather.
Thorne moved farther down the street, to give Anjali some space to lead anyone following her on a merry chase. “When this goes down,” he spoke to the male shadowing him while staying out of sight, “you’ll keep out of it. I do this, and I’ll do it my way.”
“Don’t even think about double-crossing me, boy. It’ll be the last mistake you ever make. Don’t underestimate me. If you try to spin this on me, I’ll torture your sweet little witch right in front of your eyes just to make your soul bleed.”
“Don’t worry.” His voice was as cold as his heart at the thought of Anjali being hurt because of him. “I’m done with her. I just want to give her a special parting gift.”
His grandfather grunted then spit on the pristine grass of the backyard they were crossing. Thorne had to clench his hands to fists to stave off the urge to beat him to a pulp right then and there. Too early. The time wasn’t right yet. If he jumped his grandfather now, the jerk would still have the upper hand. It was exactly what the older male expected him to do. The only way to convince him that he’d really given up on Anjali and would kill her was—to kill her. Or rather, make it look as if.
The plan made his stomach churn with nausea and his skin break out in cold sweat, but seeing Thorne “killing” Anjali would be the one thing that’d make his grandfather lower his guard enough for Thorne to have a fighting chance at knocking the bastard out. After which he could present the unconscious male to Anjali to be taken care of by her witch family. He’d hand her the shadow demon she was supposed to find and kill—his real parting gift.
Because, after all this went down, he’d leave. He’d disappear out of her life like he should have done much earlier. His grandfather’s words—however hateful and resentment-driven—rang with a truth he couldn’t deny. There was no chance Thorne could make it work with Anjali. One way or another, she’d find out that he was responsible for her mother’s death, and she’d never be able to forgive him. Leaving her would hurt her, sure, but that kind of heartache would be nothing compared to the pain she’d feel if she learned of his betrayal. If he left now, before she found out, she might remember him as the guy who broke her heart, but he’d rather take that than have her think of him as the demon who ripped her mom out of her life.
Guilt weighing down his every step, he made it to the park at the end of Anjali’s street. Night had wrapped itself tight around the little abode, whispering darkly between the tall firs. His shoes crunched gravel as he stepped onto the path leading into the heart of the small forest. Set up as a nature park, it remained very much untouched in terms of landscaping, the shrubs, bushes, and moss-covered trees allowed to grow as wild as they pleased.
The path meandered deeper into the woods until it opened onto a natural clearing along a bubbling creek. Thorne stopped there, inhaling the clear night air, his breath puffing warm in front of him in the chill of the darkness.
“How quaint.” His grandfather stepped up next to him, a sneer painted across his face.
“You’d better get out of sight. She’ll be here soon.”
“Remember—” The wily old bastard inclined his head as he pinned Thorne with a glare. “—don’t fuck this up.”
“I’ve got this.”
His grandfather walked backwards, his eyes still on Thorne, a warning glint in his gaze. The shadows of his cl
oaking swirled about him, agitating the air with brushes of darkness only another erebos could see through—or a chaya darshini. He soon merged with the underbrush of the tree line a yard away.
Not a minute too early.
A whirring sound rose in the night, approaching fast. The next second, Anjali shot down the path on her bicycle, her unbound hair a dance of blue-black silk behind her. She stopped a few feet away, threw her bike in the grass, and ran to Thorne. He caught her in his arms, swaying from the impact of a full-blown Anjali missile.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered against his neck, sending waves of heat and desire down his spine.
He pulled her closer, breathed in her scent, and reveled in what he soon had to let go. If only he could freeze this moment…
Anjali kissed his neck, his cheek, brushing her lips against his. Her warmth, her life, sank into him, into places that had been cold for so long, would soon be lifeless again. His heart ached with every breath. I’m sorry, Anjali.
Without breaking away from the embrace, he stuck his hand in the pocket of his jacket, opened the tiny box he’d taken from home, and dipped his thumb in the magically altered belladonna paste inside. The plan was as simple as it was guilt-inducing. He’d brush his thumb across her lips, make sure some of the paste would touch the mucous part inside her mouth, where the toxin would quickly be absorbed into her bloodstream. She wouldn’t even know what hit her, would drop unconscious within seconds. For all the world to see, she’d seem dead. Only if someone were to check her pulse real close would they find her heart still beating. She’d wake again after less than an hour, with no permanent harm done to her system. As dangerous as the pure, untreated version of belladonna was to the body, the magically enhanced paste he currently palmed carried none of the ill side effects of the herb.
A drug so powerful it had even made it into Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet—although not mentioned by name, it was the potion Juliet had drunk to appear dead.
Even knowing the maneuver wouldn’t hurt Anjali, the guilt of betraying her trust like this stung him. His pulse was an erratic drum in his ears, his hand in his pocket clenched to a fist, the other one trembling where it cupped her cheek.
She leaned back a little, studied his face. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He could barely press the word out past the lump in his throat.
Anjali was about to say something else when she scrunched up her nose then sneezed. “Sorry,” she said, sniffing. “Damn allergy. There must be some sagebrush nearby.” She put both hands in her coat pockets, apparently searching for a tissue. A frown creased her forehead. “What the—”
Pulling out something from her right pocket, she held it in front of her. The moonlight glinted off a brooch studded with gemstones as Anjali turned it in her fingers.
Thorne narrowed his eyes at the piece of jewelry. A faint trace of magic pulsed off it. “Your protective charm?”
“No, I didn’t take one with me this time,” she whispered. “I don’t know what this is. I didn’t put it here.” A second later, her face went slack, and she gasped. “No, they didn’t.” Alarm hardening her features, she whipped around, scanned the clearing.
“What is it?” Thorne asked, anxiety an electric charge underneath his skin.
A thud in the grass made him look down. Two feet from him a round object rolled to a stop .
Anjali whirled around again, her eyes wild. “Thorne, watch—”
The golf ball-sized globe glowed and exploded. A white-hot flash lit the clearing for a second—and then the power slammed into Thorne with the force of a bazooka. He staggered, white bleeding into his vision, and fell to his knees.
7
The magic grenade hit Thorne straight on. His shadow cloaking flickered and fizzled out. Anjali’s heart froze as he swayed, collapsed to the ground.
“No! Thorne!” She crouched next to him, hands shaking, pulse aflutter in her throat.
Face contorted in pain, he writhed on the grass, his fingers digging into the earth. Sweat beaded on his paling skin.
Two shapes emerged from the darkness of the tree line to her left. Aunt Madhuri and Kiran, their bodies tense, her aunt’s hand outstretched and ready to throw another spell at Thorne.
“Stop it!” Anjali yelled. “Release him. Please.”
“Get away from him, Anju. Let us handle him.”
“No. Mausi, please. He didn’t do anything. Let him go.”
“It’s better this way,” Kiran said, coming closer, her expression a mix of determination and pity. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Anjali shook her head, her hair a wild mess partly obscuring her sight. The sheen of tears building in her eyes only made matters worse. “No, I won’t let you do this.”
Thorne grunted and grabbed her arm. His lips moved. Straining, he pressed some words out between teeth clenched in pain. “Grandfather…here. Kill…you.”
“What?” Anjali grasped his hand. “Your grandfather? Do you mean—”
Her sentence ended in a scream as someone hauled her up from behind. The shadow of an erebos wrapped around her, swirling darkness dropping a veil between them and the world. Aunt Madhuri, Kiran, Thorne, and the backdrop of the park all now shimmered through the cloaking surrounding her as if filtered through black silk. Her aunt threw a spell at the spot where Anjali had stood just seconds before, but the erebos had already dragged her out of reach, hidden inside his cloaking. Aunt Madhuri’s magic hit the ground instead, singeing the grass.
“Nice to finally meet you, chaya darshini,” the shadow demon behind her muttered in her ear.
His breath sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. He pressed her closer, one arm banded around her waist in a hold that hurt her. With his other hand, he pushed a blade against her throat. The feel of the knife’s sharp edge biting into her skin let her thoughts stutter, paralyzed her limbs. She stiffened in his hold, breath sawing in and out of her lungs in a rhythm that made her dizzy.
The panicked shouts of Aunt Madhuri and Kiran filtered through into the shadow. They had both dropped into fighting stance as the demon pulled Anjali into his cloaking. They kept casting wild glances around the clearing, hands raised and prepared to hurl their powers at the first sign of the erebos.
“Isn’t that fun,” the slimy piece of garbage holding her purred. “Watching them flail and squirm like a bunch of blinded, panicked rats. Ah, I’ve always loved playing with witches. Your kind thinks itself so untouchable, so powerful and beyond any other creature, but throw a shadow demon in the mix, and you witches learn fast just how vulnerable you can be.”
Thorne’s struggle against the magic holding him down drew Anjali’s attention. Straining, he fought to speak, his eyes imploring Aunt Madhuri. “Release me…I’ll help you.”
“Yeah, right,” Kiran spat.
“If you set me…free,” Thorne continued to choke out, “I can see him, and I’ll…fight with you. I wanted to…kill him, to protect…Anjali.” Panting, he broke off. He closed his eyes as another wave of pain obviously wracked him.
Aunt Madhuri studied him, shifting her stance.
A growl rumbled from the shadow demon behind Anjali. “I knew it. That backstabbing, piece-of-shit halfbreed bastard.” He pressed the knife harder against her throat. “I’ll teach that turd a lesson he’ll never forget.”
Thorne was still pleading with Aunt Madhuri to release him as his grandfather dropped the veil of his shadow cloaking. Kiran whipped around, hand raised and glowing with impending magic.
“Tut tut tut.” Thorne’s grandfather tsked. “Your beloved chaya darshini is one slip of my hand away from getting her throat cut, so you better not throw any spells and make me twitch.” For emphasis, he wiggled the blade against her skin. Sharp pain made her cry out before she could restrain herself.
Kiran clenched her hand to a fist, her face contorted with rage. Aunt Madhuri pressed her lips together and a muscle ticked in her jaw.
“G
ood girls.” The older shadow demon’s grin was audible in his voice. “And you better not release that one.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated Thorne on the ground. “Don’t even think for a minute he’s a friend of your family. You couldn’t be more wrong.”
Thorne grunted and writhed.
“He hasn’t told you yet, has he?” Thorne’s grandfather now spoke directly in Anjali’s ear, addressing her. “How well do you know your lover, hm? Do you think he’s been honest with you? Told you all his secrets?”
“Don’t,” Thorne coughed out. His eyes—bloodshot and glinting with unshed tears—implored his grandfather. “Please.”
The old fart laughed. Laughed at Thorne’s anguish. Anjali ground her teeth together, exhaled through her nose. Oh, how she craved to see that jerk writhe on the floor in pain.
“Do you love her, boy?”
“Yes.” Thorne’s gaze found hers, his heart and soul reflected in his eyes.
“What an ironic twist of fate then, don’t you think,” his grandfather said, loud enough everyone in the clearing would hear him, “to end up loving the girl whose mother you killed.”
Her breath caught in her chest. With a painful twist, her heart stopped beating for a second that seemed like eternity. “No,” she whispered. She started shaking her head when the razor-sharp edge of the knife against her skin reminded her she couldn’t move. “Thorne… It’s not true, is it? He’s lying. Tell me he’s lying.”
A tear spilled from his eyes—and she saw the truth written all over his face even before he answered. “It’s true.”
She gasped, choked on a sob that tore out of her beyond her control, wrenched from her shattered heart. Her mind a scattered puzzle, she stared without understanding at the man she thought she knew. “No. No, no, no.” It was a high-pitched whine, born of her lack of grasping the extent of the betrayal unfolding before her.
