Blood Bond

by Shannon K. Butcher

  ***

  After driving north for over an hour, Justice reached the destination the fates had in mind. Now all she had to do was figure out why she was standing over a freshly-dug grave in southern Iowa.

  Cold winter air whipped around her, lashing her curls around her face. A few snowflakes danced in the air. In the distance, she could see the murky orange glow of a town’s lights against the low clouds. Here, everything was dark beyond the single security light mounted high above the cemetery entrance.

  Ronan stood beside her, silent, but still taking up most of her attention.

  She could still feel his hands and mouth on her body, the way he touched her like part of her belonged to him.

  Maybe it did.

  The memory of his lips moving at her throat was enough to send an army of shivers marching down her back in tight formation.

  She wanted more from him but didn’t know how to get it. Did she ask, or simply take what she wanted? And if she did, what exactly would she take?

  A slow, achy need simmered low in her belly. Her skin felt hot and tight, with an eager buzz humming just below the surface. Every cell in her body was attuned to him as if he were some sort of master conductor and they were all awaiting his cue to start playing.

  “Any idea why we’re here?” he asked in a soft, deep voice that cascaded over her senses like hot rain.

  “Not a clue,” she said. “But my guess is it’s going to involve some digging. Do you happen to have a shovel in your van?”

  He shook his dark head. “Medical supplies and weapons, yes. Gardening implements, no.” He nodded toward the far side of the cemetery. “There’s a small shed over there. I’ll see what I can find.”

  She couldn’t see that far in the dark but the fates always provided. If she needed a shovel, she would have been compelled to stop and buy one if there wasn’t one here already. Besides, she trusted Ronan’s ability to find what they needed. He had all sorts of uncanny abilities she didn’t understand, like making her insides quiver just by looking at him.

  Justice watched him walk away. His long, leather coat whipped around his calves. He’d pulled the collar up to shield his neck from the wind, but still looked cold.

  The urge to warm him stretched through her, like some kind of dormant instinct waking up after a long slumber. She should have been cold out here as well but having him near kept her internal fires stoked and raging.

  When he finally disappeared into the darkness, out of sight, she was able to turn her attention to the grave. Maybe, if she got lucky, she wouldn’t have to dig at all.

  She crouched in front of the headstone and read it in the dim light.

  Martha Marie Oliver, beloved wife, mother and grandmother. Loved by all who knew her.

  Justice Googled the woman and found her obituary in the local paper. The service had been earlier today. She’d died at the age of seventy-four of heart disease, leaving behind her elderly husband, three children and ten grandchildren. She’d been a devout Christian woman, who had made quilts for every baby born into her congregation for the last forty years. She had the state’s biggest collection of sewing memorabilia, some of which was going to be donated to a nearby museum.

  Justice didn’t know what kind of things that collection might include since she’d never sewn a stitch in her life—at least not that she could remember.

  “Okay,” she whispered to the fates. “I’m going to need a little more to go on. I am not desecrating the grave of some sweet old grandma for the fun of it.”

  She kicked at a clump of freshly turned earth. It was already frozen into a hard lump—still diggable, but not easily.

  Maybe she’d get lucky and not have to dig at all. Maybe whatever she was here for was not in that grave, but on the tombstone, or somewhere nearby.

  As soon as the thought entered her mind, she knew it was wrong. She was going to have to dig.

  Justice didn’t get lucky.

  There was a low, mechanical cough, then a rumble as an engine was fired up. A second later, she saw lights in the distance and Ronan, in the seat of a backhoe, heading toward her at a slow crawl.

  A rush of emotion she didn’t recognize welled up in her chest and spilled out her eyes. Maybe it was gratitude for his help or relief that she wasn’t going to have to tear up her hands and back digging out a frozen grave. But whatever the feeling was, it was warm and happy.

  He was helping her. She wasn’t completely alone.

  In the next heartbeat, all that warmth evaporated as she realized the truth.

  The only time she’d ever had a friend, she’d had to kill him. She still didn’t know why she’d been forced to do it, or what purpose his death had served. For all she knew it was a test to see if the control the fates had over her was absolute.

  She wished she knew why Noah had been her target. Maybe if she did, she’d finally be able to get over the guilt she carried.

  Then again, maybe not. It wasn’t like she was ever going to get convicted of the crime. Noah had been a street rat. No one was going to miss him. And she’d made sure his body would never be found. Acid was good like that.

  The only punishment she’d ever suffer was the guilt she bore.

  It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  Ronan lined up the backhoe at the tail of the grave. “Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?”

  Justice was shaking too hard to work the controls. For all she knew, once that hole was dug, she’d be throwing Ronan’s body right in on top of Martha Marie Oliver.

  Justice gave him a wave since her voice wasn’t working and turned her back so he wouldn’t see the shine of tears on her face.

  She didn’t cry—at least not where anyone could see. She wasn’t about to start the bad habit now.

  “I won’t hurt him,” she warned the fates. Maybe that declaration was tempting them to punish her, but she didn’t care. Let them do their worst—make her head explode and her guts spew out her mouth. Ronan was off limits.

  A small part of her wondered if she could ever be that strong. Torture could make even good people do bad things, and Justice wasn’t all that good to begin with.

  He made quick work of the dig, then jumped down and grabbed a shovel he’d tucked behind the seat. A few shovels full of dirt from the corners, and the coffin lid was clear. Dirty and scratched, but clear.

  She shone a flashlight into the hole to help him see, though she doubted that he needed it as much as she did.

  He opened the satin-lined lid.

  Martha was a tiny woman, with little bird bones and a stiff helmet of blue-white curls. Her face was relaxed and lined, but with all the signs of the beauty she’d been when she was young. Her pale skin was creased and sagging in spots, but there were smile lines, too, as if she was thinking of an old joke.

  She was dressed in a ruffled shirt under a suit jacket with a pale pink and gray floral pattern. Pearls dotted her ears and encircled her throat.

  Ronan opened the lower half of the lid to reveal a coordinating suit skirt, a pair of pink heels and skinny legs clad in too-dark stockings.

  He looked up at Justice with a look of expectation on his face. “Well? What now?”

  There was something. She could feel it pulling at her but couldn’t yet tell what it was.

  She climbed down into the grave, being careful to walk on the rim of dirt around the edge of the coffin. As she got closer, an urgent hum hit the back of her skull.

  Whatever the fates wanted, she’d nearly found it.

  “I hate to do this, Mrs. Oliver,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to invade your personal space.”

  She handed Ronan the flashlight and knelt, straddling the woman’s bird legs on either side. She felt around the slippery coffin lining.

  There was nothing under the body but a chill, so she patted the woman’s arms and legs, hoping for some kind of sign.

  Ronan shifted the beam of light as she worked, and when she got to the woman’s left a
rm, the light hit a brooch that had been camouflaged by the swirling floral print of her lapel.

  It was silver, polished in some places and deeply tarnished in the crevices. Somewhere between a star shape and a flower, each of the eight protrusions were sinuous and twisted. In the center was a faceted crystal that gleamed with rainbow colors in the light.

  As soon as Justice saw it, she felt a ping of recognition in the back of her brain and knew that this brooch was why she was here.

  With cold fingers, she unfastened the pin holding it in place and said, “I’ve never robbed a grave before, but I’m glad you were my first. Sleep well, Martha.”

  She patted the woman’s cold cheek, shoved the metal piece deep in her pocket, then scrambled out of the coffin.

  “What is it?” Ronan asked.

  “Who knows? I’m just glad she was wearing what we were after on the outside. This whole thing could have been so much worse if it had been something she’d swallowed.”

  He grunted in agreement. “Are we done, then?”

  She nodded. “We’ll put her back the way we found her, minus one ugly brooch. My guess is she won’t miss it.”

  Ronan made quick work of filling in the hole, then rode off to put the backhoe wherever it was he’d found it. Justice waited for him, studying the brooch under the beam of the flashlight.

  There was no maker’s mark she could see. The back of the piece was rough, as if something had been broken off of it. The pin that had turned it into a brooch had clearly been added later. It was cheap, gold plated metal hot glued in place with a messy hand.

  She used her pocket knife to pry the pin and glue off, hoping that if she got down to the original piece, her reason for stealing it would become clear.

  The glue was cold and stubborn and she worried she’d damage the metal if she wasn’t careful. If this was some priceless artifact like so many of the pieces she recovered, then she didn’t want to be the one to devalue it.

  Under the intense beam of the flashlight, the front side of the brooch was even more intricate than she’d first thought. There were tiny scores in each twisting petal that could have been decorations made by the metalsmith, some strange writing she didn’t recognize, or the same rogue garbage disposal that had chewed on the ring she’d earned from Chester Gale.

  As she stared, twisting the star-like flower this way and that, it seemed like some of those marks lined up to form new shapes with the marks on the adjacent petal.

  Familiarity hummed along her spine, as if she should be able to read these marks. Maybe it was writing and she’d learned how to read it in the years she couldn’t remember.

  Justice was so wrapped up in studying the piece that she didn’t see the demons until it was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Ronan heard the excited heartbeats of Synestryn the instant he turned off the backhoe, but he was too far away from Justice to do more than shout a warning as the creatures charged.

  There were three sgath charging her, their eyes glowing bright green with hungry light. Yellow saliva dripped from their too-wide jaws, leaving a smoking trail of singed grass behind them. Their heavy bodies were covered in thick, oily fur, and their powerful muscles rippled beneath the surface as they ran toward their prey.

  He raced toward her, but he wasn’t going to make it in time. The demons were too close to her for him to intercept them.

  Justice drew her gun so fast, it appeared in her hand as if by magic. She fired at the closest sgath and hit its shoulder.

  It yelped and stumbled before it regained its footing and rejoined the other two now in the lead.

  Ronan ran harder, fueling his speed with a burst of magic.

  She fired again and again. Each round hit her intended target and slowed them down, but little more.

  No matter how many bullets she fired, she wasn’t going to kill them before they reached her and tore her apart.

  Ronan couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let her die.

  He was still too far away, so he summoned his power—power Justice’s blood had given him—and lifted her from the ground. She flew upward, out of the reach of the demons just as they leapt to attack her.

  She lost her balance and flailed against his efforts. Her wobbling made his job harder, but he held her aloft, out of harm’s way, and kept running toward the demons.

  His sword was at his side, but he was rusty, out of practice. And even if he hadn’t been, a three-on-one fight wasn’t the kind of thing he enjoyed.

  Leave that to the Slayers who walked around naked in the cold and fought with their bare hands, grinning all the while.

  The van was their only hope to outrun the sgath and it was parked at the entrance of the cemetery. Sgath this big could easily shred it to pieces, but it would take them some time—long enough for Ronan to get Justice the hell out of here.

  Two of the demons leapt at Justice, trying to jump high enough to reach her, but the third was smarter than its kin. Bigger, too. It turned its head toward Ronan, fixing its glowing green stare on him. The eerie fire in its eyes flared brighter as it sighted new prey. Then it snarled, dug its claws into the frozen earth, and launched itself toward him.

  Ronan pulled his sword as he ran and used another surge of magic to obscure his blade. Normally, it would become visible when drawn from its scabbard, but he needed every advantage he could find, and hiding his weapon was the only one his racing mind could find.

  Usually, when it came to battle, he was far more careful, entering the fray only when there were plenty of Theronai to defend him. His magic was formidable, but limited, and he could already feel himself burning through the precious power Justice’s blood had given him.

  When that was gone, they were both as good as dead.

  With that in mind, he calculated the fastest way through combat, and set his course.

  The sgath drew ever closer. The frozen ground numbed his feet as they slapped hard against it. His breath billowed out in frosty plumes, and he could see the glow his eyes cast on the dead grass between him and the demon.

  Just a few more feet…

  A grin of victory stretched the sgath’s mouth. Its jaws opened and a fierce snarl split the cold air. Powerful legs flexed as it launched itself for Ronan’s throat.

  He dropped low and slid under the beast, being careful to avoid its claws. His sword came up as he passed, ripping open a deep wound along its furry underbelly.

  Black, oily blood spilled over Ronan’s hands, and instantly, he could feel the tingle of poison searching for a way into his bloodstream.

  The sgath landed hard and skidded over the ground where it came to land in a clumsy heap. It wasn’t dead. Not even close. In fact, it had curled its body so it could lap up the blood flowing from its wound.

  Within minutes, it would be fully restored.

  Before that happened, Ronan needed to get Justice and himself out of here.

  He turned his back on the beast and veered toward the van, dragging Justice’s levitated body along with him.

  She fired her gun as she went, knocking the demons back a few feet with every shot.

  Poison numbed Ronan’s fingers.

  He didn’t even have to think about his body’s reaction to the toxin—it was as involuntary as his heartbeat. His skin sucked power from his cells and shoved the poison out through every pore it touched. He wanted to wipe it off, but there wasn’t time for that now.

  He couldn’t feel his sword inside his numb grip, but somehow managed to keep it clenched in his fist.

  Unlike the swords the Theronai carried, his didn’t collect the essence of the things he killed. And even it if had, his kill list was woefully brief. He far preferred stealth to violence.

  If not for the fact that the demons knew exactly where he and Justice were, he would have obscured their presence now. But it was too late for that. The sgath had their scent, and they weren’t going to stop until they’d caught their prey.

  There were a few feet betwe
en her and the demons now. She’d slowed them down a little with her weapon, but her gun was empty, and the sgath were quickly regaining ground.

  “Hang on!” he shouted at her.

  There was no way for him to communicate more information. No time. He had to act now, before his window of opportunity closed.

  Ronan squeezed a burst of power from his blood and used it to fling Justice toward the van. She hit the side hard enough to leave a dent, but whatever damage he’d done was far better than what the sgath had in store for her.

  Now that she was too far away to reach, the demons turned their attention on him, the far closer target.

  His body grew weak from both exertion and fighting the poison eating away at his skin. He could once again feel his fingers, but that was not a blessing. They burned like they were on fire and someone tried to put it out with a mix of gasoline and acid.

  He was slower now. There was no more energy to spare to speed his legs. Everything was going into keeping himself on his feet.

  Justice shoved herself upright and shook her head as if stunned.

  Relief at seeing he hadn’t hurt her badly winged through him and gave him hope that she might make it out of this alive.

  He, on the other hand, was not so fortunate.

  The sgath were so close on his heels, he could smell their fetid breath and feel the humid heat of it on the back of his neck.

  He couldn’t turn and fight. He was too weak for that. But he couldn’t outrun them either.

  All he could do was buy Justice some time to run.

  “Go!” he shouted to her. “Leave me!” He would have put a force of compulsion in his words if he’d had the strength.

  She turned toward the sound of his voice. A few hundred yards separated them, but it might as well have been miles.

  She was so beautiful. He wished he’d gotten more time with her. He wished he’d spent more time kissing her and touching her soft skin. He wished he’d ripped down the veil to her past and gotten to know all of her. He wished that he’d been able to free her and give her back her life, her freedom. That was what he regretted the most.

  There was no time for regrets now, only action.