Spells & Ashes

by Kim Richardson

  Demon-Julia flicked her black eyes from me to the angel-born, a mix between a winning smile and a challenge appearing on her face. “You’re too late.”

  The girl’s head whipped around 360 degrees—total Hollywood stuff. There was a horrible snap of bone, and then she crumbled to the floor. She didn’t move. Empty blue eyes stared into space.

  Her body shook, and for a moment I thought she was alive. But then a black, writhing mass came surging up from her body. It took on a form as it rose, vaguely human but with no eyes or mouth, and a wail of excitement and rage emitted from it.

  I’d been doing this a while and had seen my share of demons, so I recognized this as a construct of its true shape. But it was distorted and ghostly, and I couldn’t tell which class of demon it belonged to.

  The black shape hovered for a moment, and then another mass came up. But it wasn’t black. It was of the purest white and shimmered like a morning mist. I forgot to breathe as I looked upon the ghostly representation of Julia standing beside her body. The fear in her face was real. Her lips moved like she was trying to tell me something.

  “Julia.” I stepped forward.

  With a sudden, puffing sigh of displaced air, the demon disappeared, taking Julia’s soul with it.

  3

  “What the hell was that?” cried the angel-born male, the whites of his eyes showing in the dim light. His hands were pressed against his head like he was trying to keep his brain inside his skull.

  Hell. Precisely. “That,” I said, my voice harsh, “was a demon dragging an innocent soul to the Netherworld.” May the souls forgive me. There went my payday.

  I’d seen it only once before in my lifetime, a decade ago, and the image still gave me nightmares. I’d never forget the look on that poor man’s face, the sheer and naked terror that mirrored Julia’s exactly. I had watched, transfixed as he met his end. In that final second, utter fear, terror, and a horrified realization had flashed through his eyes. Now, I’d seen it twice.

  A girl dying on my watch was bad enough, but having her soul dragged to the Netherworld tipped the worse-things-than-death scale.

  “But demons feed on human souls,” exclaimed the stranger, shock coloring his voice. “They don’t take them on trips.”

  “I know.”

  He shook his head. “Why would the demon do that?” he asked, but he sounded like he was asking himself.

  I swallowed hard. “To torture her. To slowly eat her soul away. To sell it to the highest bidder. I don’t know.” I fought the bile that rose in the back of my throat, making me gag. Damn it. Not only had the demon used the young girl to conjure up some ritual, but now it had taken her soul.

  But why had it done that?

  The stranger moved to stand next to me, way too close and invading my personal space. “I had it.” He glared at me. “I could have killed it. But now because of your interfering, it’s just going to end up possessing someone else.”

  I didn’t appreciate his tone. “My interfering?” You pretty, pompous bastard. I moved closer until I got right in his face. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  His jaw clenched and unclenched, his tension shifting from anger to speculation. “I’m the guy who’s been tracking this demon for more than a week. I’m the guy who’s been following the trail of dead bodies.”

  I felt my face go ashen. “What dead bodies?”

  His dark eyes fixed on me. “You did this. Didn’t you?”

  I narrowed my eyes, my anger sizzling at what I saw on his face. “And you must be high on stupid pills if you think I’d want this to happen.”

  His eyes bore into mine. “You summoned the demon, and it possessed that poor girl. Is that why you were trying to get rid of it? To cover your tracks?”

  My frustration had my muscles tight. I shook my head, but I was thinking of a few spells I could use on this guy. The first one that came to mind involved castration. “I don’t use little girls to do my bidding.” Bastard.

  “Right.” He twisted his soul blade in his hand, making a show of its pointed tip and sharp edges. “I’d be within my rights to kill you.”

  Was that a smirk on his lips? “Go ahead. Try. And you’ll be explaining to your girlfriend why you don’t have a penis anymore.”

  His mouth dropped open. He regarded me for a moment, thoughts formulating behind his eyes. “Who the hell are you anyway?” His eyes rolled over me and stopped at my hands, seemingly accepting that I hadn’t had a part in all this. “It’s the middle of August. Why are you wearing gloves? Are you a germaphobe or something?”

  “Or something.” I tugged the sleeves of my jacket over my leather gloves. I was not going to have this conversation with a stranger, especially one who’d just threatened to kill me.

  I pulled my attention back on the dead girl, my insides twisting in guilt and anger. She’d been just a girl. Now she was just dead. This was a mess of gargantuan proportions. Nice going, Sam.

  “Who are you?” he asked again. When I didn’t answer, he pressed. “I asked you a question.”

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

  I stiffened and darted my gaze back at the stranger, trying to still my anger but failing miserably. “Yes, I saw your lips moving. That usually involves speech.” The guy really got under my skin.

  He frowned. I grinned.

  If I didn’t dislike him so much at this moment, I might have taken the time to appreciate how pretty he was. Because, well, he was very pretty.

  It seemed the Goddess herself had molded him to be her consort, and the cauldron help me, he looked the part. He had short, brown hair that looked black in the dim light, thick lashes that framed mesmerizing, brown eyes, a straight nose and a square jaw that held enough stubble to give his delicate features a more rugged—and a hell of a lot sexier—cast.

  I strained to keep my hormones in check. That’s what happened when you’d been single for more than a year. Even the angel-borns started to look good.

  That angel-born arrogance shimmered in him like a promise to be fulfilled. God, they annoyed me. He moved with a catlike confidence, and his smooth muscles gliding under his thin shirt were enough to make me want to run my fingertips over them. He had that “I don’t care what you think” attitude like a bad boy, totally my type and totally wrong. My eyes moved to the low V of his shirt, to the P-shaped birthmark on his neck—the archangel Michael’s sigil.

  The angel-born have been around as long as man has been walking the Earth. Just like guardian angels, they monitor mortals and protect them from demons on this side of the planes. Commendable, if you took out the God complex they all suffer from.

  “You’re a dark witch. I can tell,” he said after a moment with accusation in his tone as though being a witch also made you a criminal.

  “How perceptive of you,” I snapped.

  All witches are born with some level of magical powers inside them, some innate energy given to us by our demon ancestors. Still, not all witches are created equally in terms of strength and magical abilities. Some are born with zero powers and are practically human. Some can turn you into a rat just by looking at you. Some rely on the help of demons by borrowing their magic, and some, well, they’re just hungry for more power and seek out demons for it. But always at a cost. No one can ask a demon for power without it asking for something in return—like your soul.

  This was why dark witches got a bad rap. Too many of them went the easy way and conjured up demons for power instead of doing the legwork themselves. The result, a few missing eyeballs, souls, years of their life, and their health.

  Still, demons had their uses. If you knew how to control them like I did.

  The angel-born’s face darkened. “You were trying to exorcise the demon from her. Why? Aren’t witches friends with demons? Don’t you draw your powers from them?”

  I stifled a surge of anger. “My head’s starting to hurt with all your questions.”

  “Why were you trying to save the girl?”

 
“Julia. Her name is—was Julia.” And now she’s dead. I took a calming breath. “Because,” I said, surprising myself that I was actually going to answer him. Must have been because he was pretty. I was a sucker for a pretty face. “The demon inside her was killing her. Because I hate those body-snatching demons.”

  He raised a skeptical brow. “You hate demons? How can that be when you have their blood running through your veins. They’re practically your family.”

  Here we go. “Not all demons are evil.”

  “Right.” The stranger made a face, his features twisting. “Only a witch would say that.”

  I shook my head. “I’m really not in the mood to have this conversation with you—an angel-born, no less.” I rubbed my temples at the giant migraine that had made its appearance. Channeling all that magic was getting to me, and my body shook with fatigue—payment for the service of channeling all that power. It would be worse tomorrow. It always was.

  The stranger let out a puff of air. “How did you know about Julia?” The evenness in his voice failed to hide his frustration at me.

  I shifted my weight. “Her parents hired me to find her.” Why was I even telling this jerk?

  “Really?”

  Here we go again. “Yeah. Really.”

  “You a witch detective or something?” The laughter in his tone sent my anger aflame again.

  I cocked a brow and gave him a dry look. “I prefer the term Paranormal Investigator.” His mouth opened, and I could tell he wanted to ask me more but decided not to.

  “You said the demon was leaving a trail of bodies,” I continued. “Care to elaborate on that? Do you know what the demon was trying to do here?” My eyes fell on the runes again. It was obviously some kind of ritual. I just didn’t know which one.

  He looked at me. “I thought this kind of thing was your field of expertise.” He looked about the room. “The girl’s dead. You need to move on.”

  I pressed my hands on my hips. “My job doesn’t stop until the demon is vanquished. I’m not finished here.”

  His eyes lingered on Julia’s body for a moment. “You should leave before someone finds you here,” he said and then looking back at me added, “unless you want to be blamed for her death.”

  “How about you get the hell out of here before I spell your ass.” It was a very nice one too, from what I could spy through his jeans. Even with his fine exterior, he was seriously starting to piss me off—especially his lack of compassion for Julia, and that commanding, arrogant tone of his, so typical of angel-born.

  Besides, I needed to be alone so I could take some pictures and catalog everything before I called 9-1-1 and left an anonymous tip about finding a dead girl. Julia. If he was telling the truth about the other bodies, there was more to this demonic possession than I knew. And I was going to find out.

  The angel-born looked at me for a beat too long. I had no idea what transpired behind his eyes before he turned around and left.

  I watched in silence as the stranger disappeared through the doorway of the apartment, leaving me with only the overwhelming scent of blood and sulfur to keep me company.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching Julia’s face, wishing it had gone differently. Because it had gone so terribly wrong tonight. I felt defeated and tired and angry—not at the smug angel-born, okay, maybe a little—but at myself. If I had found a way to exorcise that demon, Julia would still be alive.

  Part of me had hoped the angel-born would give me the demon’s name. He’d been after it, so it was possible he knew. But maybe he didn’t.

  I pulled out my phone and knelt next to Julia’s body. There was blood on both of her wrists that I hadn’t noticed before. I reached out and turned over her left wrist gently. Then her right. The same symbol was carved into her skin, the cuts deep and fleshy on both wrists in the form of a sun with a triangle in the middle. I let her wrists fall. I didn’t recognize that symbol, but whatever it was, it had something to do with her death.

  A quiver rose through me and tightened my gut. Why couldn’t I exorcise the demon? And why did the demon take Julia’s soul with it back to the Netherworld?

  I had no idea. But I knew somebody who might.

  4

  I trudged my way through the streets of Mystic Quarter, the paranormal district in Manhattan where witches, vampires, werewolves, faeries, trolls, and all manner of half-breeds mingled—away from human eyes.

  Every major city in the world hosted a paranormal district of its own. Here, it was in the East Village, in Orchard Park and hidden behind thick walls of fruit trees and shrubbery. Humans could walk right past the three blocks of the paranormal haven and never see it, never knowing what lay hidden beyond those trees. With the help of glamours, spells, and enchantments, humans couldn’t see it, and that’s how we half-breeds liked it.

  Yes, I was a half-breed. Being a witch classified me as a half-breed, beings that had once been human and had been subjected to one of the demon viruses, which then turned them into the different demon races—witches, vampires, werewolves, faeries, leprechauns, trolls, warlocks, and so on. If you had a demon ancestor, you were a half-breed, no matter how diluted the demon essence was.

  So, how did we get here? A long time ago, in a dimension far, far away, demons escaped through the Veil and came to our dimension. We’re half-breeds, hybrids, which is why the purer demon species, like the lesser demons and Greater demons, despise us.

  Mystic Quarter was my home, residence to all us freaks, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  I turned left on Odin Boulevard and headed south. Overhead, clouds were thickening, building up for a thunderstorm no less. The street angled down, bearing more jumbled buildings that lined the street, all squeezed together as though from lack of space.

  The strong scent of sulfur and demon magic pulled me in every direction, and I shivered in delight as it coated me like a warm blanket.

  I strolled past a pack of drunk, shirtless werewolves, the rise and fall of their voices warning all within earshot that a fight was about to break out. I knew better than to stick around until they tore off their pants and decided to get naked. Not a day went by in the Quarter that I didn’t see a naked, well-endowed, muscle-bulging, running werewolf. Guess they didn’t like their human clothes.

  A blur of golden skin rushed by me, leaving a trail of musky, male perspiration and wet dog. There you go. A naked werewolf. Like I said, not a single time.

  Echoes of rich voices reached me as I made my way past the night market. A few gnomes had set up shop already, their booths spilling over with glittering jewelry. Damn. Was it really that late?

  I headed for the tallest brownstone, whose stones were cracked and peeling as though it had been hit by a hurricane. It was sandwiched between VIOLET’S SPELLS & CHARMS and BLACK CATS INC. with bottles and boxes of poisons, potions, and charms sitting in the windows.

  This area was known as Witches Row, an entire block dedicated to all things witches, broomsticks, and magic. Even in Mystic Quarter, different factions were allocated to each half-breed species. I lived in this one.

  The small front yards were cramped with gardens bursting with sage, rosemary, basil, mint, and other herbs, and numerous plants. As I walked toward the front door, motion to the left caught my eye.

  Vera Wardwell, my next-door neighbor witch, was bent over her garden, picking out some sage and lemon balm. A glowing white sphere hovered next to her, illuminating a small patch of garden as she worked. Her face was hidden behind her very large posterior, though I knew it was her. I knew only one witch with hair the color of boiled carrots. Yes, it was the middle of the night, but that didn’t stop us witches from tending to our gardens and spells. Most of us preferred the tranquility of night. I did. It’s when I did most of my work.

  Vera lifted her head and glanced at me as I neared, but I knew better than to expect a smile or a wave. Her green eyes were cold and hard.

  “Evening, Vera,” I greeted. The witch’s fa
ce wrinkled in scorn making her drawn-on eyebrows twist severely and giving her a clownish look. I laughed. Her face darkened in anger. I couldn’t help it. It was the only facial expression I’d ever known her to give since I was a child.

  Vera’s face took on an ugly expression at the sight of my clothes. “Despicable. You’re filthy, just filthy,” she accused, pointing a long finger at me. Her face shifted, and she gave me a nasty smile. “Keep playing with dirt, Samantha, and you’ll never find a male witch.”

  I smiled. “Guess we have that in common.”

  Ignoring the witch’s sudden intake of breath, I stepped up to the front door of the brownstone cottage. A peeling sign on the black front door read:

  SAMANTHA BEAUMONT.

  PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR. OCCULT SPECIALIST.

  Sighing, I pulled open the door and stepped through.

  I walked into a darkened foyer, shut the door behind me, and turned on the lights. The air smelled of polished wood and musk from the antique Persian rugs that covered the wood floors. Beyond the foyer lay the entire first floor—richly colored sitting room, living room, small bathroom, kitchen, and dining room—all lined with antique wallpaper from the 1930s and wainscoting, featuring large wood furniture and tables of dark, polished wood.

  It was my family home, which I’d inherited from my mother’s side of the family, the Beaumont Witches.

  Beaumont was my mother’s surname. As witches, it wasn’t uncommon for witchlings to carry their mothers’ last names. For us, it went both ways. You could either have your father’s last name or your mother’s. It was a choice. Not an obligation. As such, it had been my mother’s choice to give me her last name. She did carry me inside her for nine months. It just seemed fair that I should have her last name. Plus, I identified more with the Beaumont surname It felt right. It felt like me.

  Balancing myself with the help of the wall, I kicked off my boots and walked down the hallway, past the staircase that led to the upper floors, and made my way toward the kitchen at the other end of the building.