“I must see you again,” he said darkly. “I must… touch you again… just to remind myself that it’s possible. There’s nothing so soft as your skin, Aerin. Nothing so beautiful as your face.”
She snorted. “Except three other identical faces.”
“They’re not you,” he insisted. “Their eyes don’t flash liquid silver. Their mouths aren’t hard and cynical. Their tongues are not so sharp. Their clothes are not so fine.”
“Sycophancy.”
“Not at all,” he argued. “I want to feel your mouth soften. I like to think it only does that for me.”
And she’d be goat-fucked if he didn’t speak the absolute truth.
“Where?” she breathed. Suddenly feeling the damsel to his lord.
“The cliff where we kissed.” His voice sounded breathier, as well. Husky with anticipation.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Midnight.”
She ended the call with a shaky breath. Of course it would be midnight.
The witching hour.
Chapter Three
“They know even less than we thought,” Bane mused, taking a drag of his beer.
“So it seems,” Julian agreed after relating the particulars of his phone call with Aerin to his brothers. Well, the pertinent parts. They didn’t know he and Aerin would meet on the morrow. They didn’t know that, even now, the husky tones of her breezy voice vibrated in his ear. That his body and his heart ached with a hollow yearning he’d not encountered in a handful of millennia.
They didn’t know… that he was falling for her.
“Didn’t they read the prophecy?” Nicholas Kingswood tossed a cashew and caught it in his mouth as he sauntered toward the bar. His grey suit and burnished silver tie added a metallic bronze hue to his caramel hair. He looked like he belonged on Wall Street, though the last time he got involved with the stock market was nineteen-twenty-nine. Fairly recently to men such as they. “It says in their own Grimoire that when the fifth seal is broken, the blood of martyrs will be called forth and also the innocent, and they will rise up in vengeance.”
“True, but theological scholars have been debating the meaning of that prophecy for thousands of years,” Dru pointed out from where he ran a whet stone down his blade. The gritty sound it made a familiar, soothing melody for them all. Something from the past. A sound as perpetual as themselves. “From the Druids, to the Egyptians, to the Talmudic seers, and down through the Christians, they’ve all speculated about the last three seals. But very few have really witnessed an army of the undead. Or fought them. We can’t expect a couple of modern-day, twenty-something witches to just know this shit. They’re little more than babies.”
“They’re old enough to fuck,” Nick countered. “Which means they’re old enough to know.”
“Not since Macbeth’s successor, the Druid King, Malcolm de Moray and his sisters defeated the army of the undead raised by the Wyrd Sisters a thousand years past,” Bane recalled.
“And before that, it had been five thousand years, at least.” Julian leaned forward in his studded leather chair and swirled his wine. He’d had such a penchant for these dark-cherry colored reds these days. Touching each of his fellow Horsemen with a speculative glance, he also read their emotional signatures. Something they could all do. A bond they all relied upon and cursed in equal measure. “So the question arises along with this army of undead, gentlemen, do we sit by and let the de Moray sisters fight this battle on their own? Or do we help them?”
He’d never sat among more conflicted souls in his life.
“That’s a tough one.” Nicholas touched his forehead with exhausted fingers. “On a good day, I lean toward letting this play out. Lighting a match and watching all these fat, fucking useless people of the world burn. When it comes to the Apocalypse, I say bring it.” He paused, taking a sip from a martini glass.
“And yet?” Julian prompted.
“There’s her to consider.”
“Moira?” Dru queried.
Nicholas’s eyes sharpened at the sound of the water witch’s name, but he shook his head, regarding his drink as though salvation lie within. “Lucifer.”
A shudder passed through the room as the air was kissed with the evil chill of her name.
“Morning star, my dying ass,” Dru muttered. “You know Nick and I have been leaning toward pro-Apocalypse for a few hundred years now. But we all know we have to stop it, or at least stall it until that evil bitch is handled.”
“Indeed,” Julian sipped his wine, allowing the velvet vintage to slide down his throat, taking all the moisture with it. “If eternity was a chess board, she’d be the black queen. Every advantage afforded her. Gaining power as more and more gods of light become obsolete.”
“While we’re on the subject, she could manipulate the de Moray sisters,” Conquest pointed out. “She could draw them to her side, like she did the Wyrd Sisters. She’s already infiltrated the local coven. Once she had the de Moray Druid magic in her control, it would be hellllooooo to eternal darkness and suffering blah blah souls writhing, humans enslaved, creatures of the darkness unleashed, blah.” He rolled his eyes skyward as he downed the last of his drink and reached for more vodka.
“There is that,” Julian agreed, contemplating his conversation with Aerin just moments ago.
“Not Tierra,” Bane insisted, a strange light in his midnight eyes. “She’d never allow her powers to be corrupted by the likes of Lucy. This earth means too much to her. She’s a creature of the light. She’s too…pure.”
“Or was until you got your hands on her,” Nicholas laughed.
“I will end you.”
Dru jumped in, creating a much needed distraction. “Claire has a shadowy side, but her heart is big. And good. I don’t think she would knowingly allow herself to be manipulated by darkness.”
“But can you be certain?” Julian asked.
“As certain as I am of anything these days.” Dru’s face shuddered, though his emotional signature ran hot. Hotter than usual.
“Moira’s definitely a wild card,” Nicholas speculated. “But I know she cares… she cares so damn much. She’s more depth than darkness. But there’s pain there, and fear. That can be exploited and fanned into hatred very easily.”
Every man was silent for a moment, contemplating their futures, their desires.
Their duties.
“What about Aerin, brother?” Bane’s deadly gaze captured his with meaning and maybe a little bit of sympathy.
“Speaking of bitches,” Conquest muttered.
“I may not be able to kill you, Nicholas,” Julian said rather glibly. “But it’s damned uncomfortable to be an immortal with an incurable rash on your nethers.” Standing, he set his empty wine glass on the sideboard and started off in the direction of the study.
Dru paused in his sword sharpening. “The risen, they’ll be after the witches once their own vengeance is achieved. We let them do their thing? Let them consume one of the de Moray sisters?”
Nicholas gave a shrug that conveyed much fewer fucks than he actually gave. “Could possibly take the decision out of our hands.”
“So, we’ve decided then.” Dru blinked down, returning to his past time. “One of them still has to go unless we can figure out how to get rid of Lucy first.”
“There is no ‘getting rid’ of Lucifer,” Julian said.
“How would you know?” Nick challenged.
“What do you think I’ve been studying all these centuries in isolation?” Julian hissed. “Unlike you, it hasn’t been the many uses of my own cock.”
“Jealous, much?”
“Not in the least.” Right before Julian quit the room, Bane stopped him with his dark voice.
“We still have to choose one of them to die,” he stated bluntly. “You never answered the question, Julian. Is Aerin de Moray corruptible? Would she join forces with Lucy to overthrow humanity?”
Julian paused with his hand on the door jamb. “I think not.” If anythi
ng, she’d overthrow humanity by herself.
“I’ve seen her soul… it’s perturbing and opaque. Does she have a good heart?”
Julian was silent, every molecule in his body screaming to protect her. But he’d never lied to the faces of his brothers. Not in years beyond number. He was already hiding their rendezvous from them.
But an out and out falsehood? Honor wouldn’t permit.
“I don’t profess to know what is in Aerin de Moray’s heart,” he murmured, and quit the room, intending to find out.
Chapter Four
“I just can’t understand why it isn’t working,” Aerin grumbled, planting her forehead on the kitchen table. “I said the spell a million times. I’ve blown enough dandelions to impress a back alley whore. What else can I do?”
“Maybe you’re using the wrong kind of broom. Perhaps it has to be made of all the elements,” Tierra suggested from where her busy hands prepared lunch.
Aerin sat back up and squinted at the page again. “But polypropylene is just a thermoplastic polymer that comes from the earth. And when it’s processed, it’s liquefied and then heated with fire…should be good to go.”
Skin-tight leather creaked as Claire leaned across the small table-for-four situated in the nook overlooking the sound. “That’s quite a stretch, even for us.” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe you should try to make a broom that looks like the one in the book. A live branch, that would still have water inside of it, and then straw bristles that we can singe with fire.”
“As suggestions go, it’s a genius one.” Moira’s bare feet slapped against the floor as she wandered in with her little fire-breathing teacup pig, Cheeto, tucked under one arm. Once she set him on the floor, he rooted beneath the long lace tablecloth, content with chilling in the dark until scraps that he could pilfer fell from the table.
“I agree…what is this?” Aerin narrowed her eyes at the plate Tierra set in front of her. Luckily her sister missed her wince as she’d used her considerable waitressing abilities to carry all three of their plates at once and set identical ones in front of Claire and then Moira.
“It’s an olive and feta soy cheese wrap with brined tofu and garden veggies. You guys are lucky, I found these wraps made of ground quinoa and coconut flour!” She turned to retrieve her own plate.
“Thanks.” Aerin pasted on a fake smile that she hoped didn’t show too much teeth.
“Delicious.” Claire’s amber eyes collided with hers in panic.
Moira blinked at it for a few seconds. “That looks as…green as a bullfrog in a blender.”
“Aw, thanks!” Tierra beamed at them from back at the counter.
“That wasn’t meant as a compliment,” Moira muttered under her breath.
“Never can tell coming from you,” Aerin whispered, and received a toe-jab to the shin.
The three giggled, but pulled straight faces when Tierra wandered back over. “Oh dammit,” she grunted as she set her plate in her spot. “I forgot my prenatal vitamins. They’re in my room. I’ll be right back. Start without me, and when I come back down we’ll talk more about flying on brooms.”
The moment she disappeared up the stairs all three plates disappeared beneath the table.
“Looks like Cheeto is the only one having lunch,” Claire muttered. “Think we have enough time to make something else?”
"Not before she comes back and catches us." Casting a longing look at the fridge, Aerin wondered why she even considered it. There was nothing edible in there. Fermented things that didn't get you drunk, so why bother? Cheeses without milk or the other proper components. Bread with no gluten or yeast. Meats with no animal parts. She'd thought Tierra was bad back before she'd gotten knocked up. This was approaching the surreal.
She'd bring about the Apocalypse if she could grill a decent filet mignon in hellfire. Tommy had eaten the last red meat left in the fridge last night.
"Zombies." Aerin blew out a heavy sigh of disgust. "How do you kill them?"
"Seems to me we oughta saw off a few shotguns and load them with ammo strong enough to blow their heads clean off their bodies." Moira suggested with apparent relish.
"Might not have to go that far. Maybe we could use more... magical means?" Claire's discomfort with the subject was written all over her face. "We're still not sure that killing is the best way to deal with them."
"You catch the news this morning?" Moira asked. "They're getting more and more violent. On TV, zombies are usually killed by chopping their heads off, or a crossbow bolt or bullet through the brain."
“We could try that.” Aerin shrugged. “But the zombies on TV are made so by a virus. This is magic we’re dealing with. There’s no virus that could bring the dead back to life.”
“How do you know that?” Claire asked alertly.
"Uh.” She couldn’t tell them she’d contacted Julian to get information. That they owed him a favor. And even though she trusted that his word was the truth, she knew they wouldn’t. “If you kill something that's already dead, is it still murder?" Aerin redirected.
"I vote yes." Tommy sauntered into the kitchen, his fists punched into the front pocket of his jeans. For a dead guy, he looked pretty great in a tight white Tee and jeans. He leaned down and planted a kiss on Claire's upturned lips before tossing a smile full of careless charm at Moira and Aerin.
"Gross." Tierra grimaced at the couple as she reappeared at the bottom of the steps, the bangles at her wrists and ankles tinkling at her approach. "You just kissed a corpse."
Tommy looked sheepish, but unperturbed.
"Says the woman who got knocked up by Death," Claire volleyed back.
Moira snorted with laughter.
"At least he smelled good," Tierra muttered. "Oh, hey! You guys sure finished lunch fast."
Claire didn't bat an eye. "My plate was licked clean."
"Yeah," Aerin jumped in. "My wrap was devoured."
"Scarfed, even," Moira supplied.
"Aw... I was afraid you wouldn't like them." Tierra smiled, looking utterly pleased.
An awkward silence burped into the kitchen. And was followed by the unapologetic rip of a fart and a smell so rank it evoked the sulphurous depths of hell.
Aerin clapped her hand over her nose. "Who in the several fucks is responsible for that?"
They all turned to look at Tommy, whose blue eyes widened in defense. "That wasn't me."
"I think I'm going to be sick." Tierra's chair scraped along the wood as she leapt up and fled the room, leaving her wrap untouched.
A mustard-colored puff of smoke filtered up from beneath the table, intensifying the nauseating aroma.
"Oh Goddess! It's Cheeto!" Claire cried, holding the collar of her black tank over nose and mouth.
"That's it," Aerin threatened. "I'm making bacon."
"No!" Moira reached beneath the table, but Cheeto shot out from beneath the cloth, his little hooves slipping and skidding on the polished wood floor. "He's laid some carpet bombs in his day, but never nothin' like that."
"Must be the food," Claire gagged, standing to claw at the latch to the windows.
Aerin grabbed the broom. "I'm chasing that thing out of here," she hissed, her words almost drowned out by another thunderous expulsion of smoke from beneath Cheeto's curly tail.
Ignoring Moira's defensive shouts, Aerin swept Cheeto toward the door and out into the gardens. Closing only the screen door, she flicked her fingers, circulating the air, watching the smoke inside the house dissipate in curling wisps of olfactory death as Cheeto let a fart so disastrous it lifted him off his feet and propelled him down the porch steps.
Beyond the lethal points of wrought iron enclosing Maison de Moray, a tall, wide black shadow lurked beneath a beech tree. Aerin couldn't make out the features from across the expanse of Tierra's splendid gardens, but she didn't need to. That cavernous loneliness reached through the sunlight filtering through dancing leaves. Beckoned her.
Julian.
Moira padded toward
her. "I've got to make sure Cheeto don't dig up the yams and parsnips or Tierra will skin my hide."
"I'll do it," Aerin offered quickly.
Moira raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You just called my pig bacon."
Oh. Yeah. Shit. "I have to go get some damned branches and shit from those trees over there anyhow to make that cock-sucking broom. I might as well keep an eye on your pig."
Moira's other brow joined the first.
"If you're worried about it, take Doctor Lecter as collateral." Aerin threw some impatience into her voice, hoping between that and the enmity between Moira and the vampire bat, it would quell her sister's suspicion.
It worked. "Suit yourself." Moira turned away, wandering toward the fridge.
Aerin looked down at her storm cloud gray slacks and sighed. She’d said she was going to get a broom, so get one she must.
That meant an ax.
Chapter Five
The flagstone path to the tool shed helped to make sure her Manolo Blahniks didn’t aerate the grass. The tool shed was surprisingly well stocked, and she found an ax hooked to the wall with two nails supporting the head.
Aerin was amazed how good it felt in her hands. Heavy and useful and dangerous. Now that she had to start thinking about zombiepocalypse weapons, this one was in first place.
Cheeto followed her cheerfully toward the fence, one of his gastric blasts propelling him to bump into her legs.
“Jesus H. Christ,” she muttered, glancing around to see if she could stash the animal where it would do the least damage. She thought for a moment about putting it in the shed and locking the door, but after a few more of those methane-infused emissions, and the damn thing would probably explode.
Using the tippy, tippy toe of her pointed pump, she nudged the tiny critter toward the garden. “Hey little guy,” she said in a bright voice people usually reserved for small animals and babies. “How about you go dig up some of those flowers? Doesn’t that look fun?” She’d promised the safety of Tierra’s tubers, but in her opinion, everything else in the garden was free game.
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