by Kim Chance
“My lady,” the man boomed, “the Master thanks you kindly for your hospitality.” He bowed low at the waist, sweeping his free hand out in mockery. “But he’s done playing your little game. Give me the book, and we will show mercy. Refuse, and my men and I will slaughter every last man, woman, and child in this village.”
Josephine narrowed her eyes and took a calculated breath. “You’re a fool if you think I’ll believe such a lie.” Her voice was strong and clear. “The Master’s thirst for blood will never end, not until every last Supernatural who defies him is dead. He knows nothing of mercy.”
The guard laughed coldly. “How right you are.” He leaned forward, his murderous eyes blazing. “And what he has planned for you, little witch . . . well, that definitely isn’t mercy.”
Josephine snarled and threw her right hand out toward the soldier. A brilliant beam of emerald light shot from her palm and knocked the soldier to his knees.
The guardsman emitted a grunt, but leapt quickly back to his feet. “My, my, my, aren’t you the feisty one.” He sneered. “You don’t know a trap when you see one, do you?”
Six men suddenly appeared out of nowhere, encircling Josephine. Each bore the mark of the Master—the two interlocking triangles, made to form an M. They were chanting softly.
With a wail of pain, she clamped her hands on the sides of her head and fell to the ground, the lightning in her hands extinguished.
“No!” I yelled, rushing toward Josephine. “Stop it!” I cried, feeling utterly helpless as Josephine writhed in pain. The guardsman’s laughter echoed across the trees and mixed with Josephine’s anguished cries.
“Enough,” the man said. The effect of his quiet command was immediate. The other men stopped chanting and Josephine lay unmoving on the ground.
“Now,” the leader said, “tell me where the book is.”
Josephine did not move or speak.
“Come now,” the man said more loudly. “We mustn’t waste any more time.” Crossing the space between them, he grabbed Josephine by the arm and yanked her to her feet. “Where’s the book?” he roared.
With a visible effort, Josephine raised her head and met the man’s glare with a steady gaze. “Go to hell,” she hissed and spat into the man’s face.
He staggered backward, releasing her. She leapt away and pulled a small knife from the inner pocket of her long skirt.
Josephine lunged at the man, but another soldier grabbed her arm, yanking it behind her while the leader ripped the knife from her hand. She screamed, struggling against the man’s firm grip. They grappled back and forth until finally the man threw Josephine to the ground.
“Enough!” the man shouted, reaching up to yank the strip of cloth away from his face.
An identical cry of shock erupted from both my and Josephine’s lips.
Standing in front of us, his face twisted in unadulterated hatred, was Henry.
“Henry?” Josephine whispered, her eyes wide with tears, her face deathly pale. “I saw it with my own eyes. I held you in my arms. You were dead.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, and the mask of strength she had painted across her features crumbled in an instant.
Henry smiled cruelly and bowed in jest once more. “Compliments of the Master, my lady.”
Josephine cried out again, but managed to stagger back to her feet. “Oh, Henry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“Oh, yes, dear one,” Henry jeered, “it is.”
But then he took a step closer, his face suddenly softening. He looked once more like the man he had once been. “But, Josephine, my love, I’m still here. You just have to give him the book. He promised to restore me to you.” He placed a tender hand against Josephine’s cheek. “Please, Jo. We’ve been apart for more than a year, and my heart cannot bear our separation any longer. Do this for us, Jo. Do it for me.”
He was gazing upon Josephine with such tenderness and love that my own heart felt it would break. Josephine carefully reached up and touched the hand against her cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry . . .”
Then, acting so quickly her movements were blurred, she spun around out of Henry’s grasp, her own knife back in the palm of her hand and against Henry’s throat.
She was nearly choking on her own tears, but she held the knife steady.
“Jo!” Henry cried out in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t call me that!” Josephine cried, hysterical. “You’re not my Henry. The Master killed him! I saw it! You’re some creature of black magic created to torment me! But it won’t work! I’ll kill you, I swear it, I will.”
The features of Henry’s face suddenly relaxed—any traces of the old Henry disappearing—and he laughed. There was nothing left but cold, calculating hatred. He gripped Josephine’s wrist and pushed the knife harder against his throat. Droplets of blood rolled down his neck. “Do it, then,” he growled.
Josephine’s hands were shaking. She was losing the fight.
“Hang on, Josephine!” I cried out, wishing there was more I could do to help. “Don’t let him win!”
“Give me the book,” Henry spat, gripping Josephine’s hand so hard she whimpered. “Give me the book or kill me for good. Those are your options.”
Josephine sagged as though her own body weight was pulling her down. “I can’t,” she whispered over and over. “I can’t.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant the book or Henry.
“I can’t . . . Oh, God, Henry, I can’t.”
For one brief moment, I saw again the familiar face of Henry fight its way to the surface before the mask of malice slammed back into place. Prying the knife from Josephine’s hand, he sneered down at her, his cold eyes unforgiving and expressionless. “Pity,” he whispered against her hair. “Such a pity.” And with that, he drove the knife into Josephine’s gut.
I screamed as Josephine crumpled to the ground, a blossom of crimson blood staining the fabric of her dress.
The air around me rippled, and the images in front of me grew distorted. The scene before me was fading away, and as the familiar twisting sensations claimed me, wrapping me in darkness, the last thing I heard was a cold, calculated laugh.
Then there was nothing but silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
This time when the darkness lifted, I was standing in an unfamiliar, empty room. Shadows danced around me, and the energy of the room pulsed like a heartbeat.
“Hello,” I called out. “Josephine?” I was shaking from what I’d just witnessed, and my face was wet with tears. Where am I? I stepped forward, but there was only emptiness in every direction
“Hello?” I tried again. Still no response. A jolt of panic shot through me.
I was seconds away from completely freaking out when a burst of light erupted in front of me. The light twisted and spun, evolving into a swirl of vivid colors that morphed into the picturesque scene of a garden. A young girl with long dark hair and wide green eyes was playing with a doll and singing to herself.
It was like I was standing in the middle of an IMAX theater, except the picture was vivid, so real I could smell the scent of lavender and honeysuckle in the air, could feel the breeze that blew the child’s long locks.
She looked familiar, but I was sure I’d never seen the little girl before. She continued to sing, her sweet little voice soft and breathy. I smiled, but when she twisted toward me, I got a glimpse of the necklace that hung around her slender neck. It was Josephine’s amulet. I sucked in a breath, the ache of Josephine’s death still resonating within me.
“It’s her,” I said, leaning forward. “Josephine’s daughter.”
Now I recognized the high cheekbones, the slightly upturned nose, the black hair, the green eyes that could’ve only come from her mother. I put a hand on my heart to s
top it from beating out of my chest.
The scene abruptly shifted; the garden was the same, but the child had grown. She was a young woman now, lovely as the rosebush she stood beside and looking just like Josephine. She stood tall, gripping the front of her full skirt. Her face was pale, and in her hand was the emerald amulet. “What do you mean, Eliza?” she said, her voice quivering. “You told me my mother died in childbirth.”
Another woman stepped into view. I recognized her as the young girl who’d taken the baby at Josephine’s urgent request. “I know, but it’s time you learned the truth about who you are, Lily, about your destiny.”
As I watched, Eliza put a comforting arm around the young woman and told her about her mother, about what had really happened to Josephine. The pain etched across Lily’s face was so familiar I felt a pang in my chest.
After Eliza left, Lily took a deep breath and squeezed the amulet in her hand. “I won’t let you down, Mother,” she whispered, her face set with resolve. She whispered something, and the amulet began to glow and change. Pale pink strands of light wrapped around the necklace, covering it in a rosy glow. It was so bright I had to look away, but Lily stood strong, her head held high as the magic flowed through her.
When the light faded away, the amulet was no longer an emerald stone but a small pendent in the shape of tiny pink rose. Lily smiled and pinned the pendent across her heart.
The colors began to swirl again, and the image that appeared caused my throat to tighten. Lily was locked in a battle with three guardsmen. Electric pink lightning flew from her fingertips, but she was outnumbered. Her neck was bare. The amulet was gone. Her scream as they moved to overcome her was a knife in my chest.
The scene changed again. A new face this time: a young woman with a warm smile and long blonde hair piled on top of her head. Though there were less similar features, her wide green eyes were unmistakably DuCarmont. In her hands was a thick, leather-bound book: the Grimoire. The woman ran her hands across the book, whispering words under her breath. The book began to glow, streams of crystal blue light enveloping it. When the spell was complete, a blue-jeweled bracelet rested in place of the book. The woman secured the bracelet to her wrist and moved from the room.
I sank to my knees as the colors transformed again. The blonde woman was lying in a pool of crimson blood, her eyes open and unblinking. A young girl with fiery red hair knelt beside her, tears streaming down her face. “Good-bye, Mama,” she whispered, ripping away the bracelet.
Another scene materialized. A woman with chestnut brown hair moved into view and transfigured the Grimoire into a ruby brooch. Her eyes—the same unmistakable pair of green eyes—were the confirmation of what I’d begun to suspect.
This is my family. All the Keepers who came before me.
In between scenes of the Keepers were horrific flashes of the Master and the Guard—of their hunt for the Keepers. Every single pair of green eyes—the green eyes I now possessed—closed in death at the Master’s hand.
The tragedy of my heritage rolled before me like a filmstrip, and my entire body shook from the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling inside me.
Then, at last, came an image that nearly stopped my heart.
It was my mother.
She was holding the Grimoire in her hand, her forehead scrunched as if she were thinking hard about something. Then with a little shrug and a half smile, she muttered an incantation and the book began to glow. When the light faded, the emerald amulet sat in her palm, pulsing as if it were happy to be in its original form again. A fresh batch of tears rolled down my cheeks.
The final face I saw was gaunt and severe. A tall member of the Guard with blood staining his uniform walked toward the Master, his face triumphant. In his hands was the amulet. “It is done, my lord,” he said. “The witch is dead.”
I crumpled in on myself, losing the tiny scrap of control I still clung to. Everything faded away as my sobs grew louder. My heart was utterly broken for the family who had tried so hard, yet ultimately failed to keep the Master from getting the book. They sacrificed so much, only to fail in the end. It shattered me.
I cried even harder as I thought of my mother. The mother I’d never gotten a chance to know. I didn’t fight it when the colors began to swirl away and the darkness enveloped me again.
“Lainey? Can you hear me?”
I flinched away from the sound—the image of Henry stabbing Josephine was burned into my eyelids. The faces of the other Keepers. My mother. I clenched my fists together and fought the urge to scream.
I became aware of a warm pressure on my arm, the voice from before murmuring in my ear. As my eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the sights around me, it took several minutes for my brain to register where I was.
The tall pine trees were gone, replaced by pale yellow walls and white linen curtains. The smell of gunpowder and smoke had vanished, leaving in its place the delicate scent of clean laundry. Josephine, Henry, and the Guard were nowhere to be seen, but a single face hovered over mine with wide eyes. Gareth. I was back at home in my bedroom.
“Gareth?” I whispered, relief flooding over me. Sitting up so fast it made me dizzy, I launched myself into Gareth’s arms.
“Lainey, are you okay?” he asked, holding me against his chest. The anxiety in his voice was clear. “What happened?”
I shook my head, not yet ready to relive the horrible moments in the tent village, nor the flashes in the dark room.
“I was so worried,” Gareth whispered against my hair. “One minute you’re talking to the wall, and the next minute you’re unresponsive on the floor.”
Taking a deep breath, I pulled myself out of Gareth’s embrace and brushed the hair out of my face. “I wasn’t talking to the wall. I was talking to her. To Josephine.”
Gareth’s eyebrows rose.
“She showed me the rest of the story, what happened to her,” I continued. “You were right. The Master hunted her down; he wanted the Grimoire.” I took a deep breath. “He . . . he killed her.” I felt a lump rising in my throat, and I gulped.
Gareth nodded solemnly. “Yes. But she protected it.”
My brain supplied me with the image of a tiny baby girl with rosy cheeks, clear eyes, and a large emerald amulet fastened around her neck. “Yes,” I agreed. “She kept it safe.”
Now that the shock of the whole ordeal was over, my body sagged with exhaustion. I wanted to curl up in my bed and lose myself in the oblivion of sleep, but seeing the Guard in action had ignited a spark of fury deep inside me, and Josephine’s words echoed in my ear: The Master’s thirst for blood will never end, not until every last Supernatural who defies him is dead. He knows nothing of mercy.
I thought of Lane and Josephine, of my mother, and finally of the card that meant death held gingerly between Serena’s shaking fingertips. I couldn’t go to sleep now if I tried. I had to do something.
Pushing myself off the bed, I walked over to where the bronze dagger lay on the carpet. Kneeling down, I reached out and grasped the hilt. Its weight in my hand was terrible, but also reassuring. It promised dreadful things to come, but that I might now have a chance to survive them. I turned back to Gareth. “Ready for that training session?”
“Now?” he questioned. “I thought you said—”
“Let’s go.” Without waiting to see if he was following me or not, I turned on my heels and headed downstairs toward Gareth’s study.
It’s my choice. A flame blazed within me, the warmth spreading throughout my entire body. I’m choosing my destiny.
Gripping the hilt of the dagger even tighter, I straightened my shoulders and kept walking. I wasn’t going to sit around and let my mother’s sacrifice be in vain.
I was choosing to fight.
When I drove to school the next morning, the sun was obnoxiously bright. It was entirely too cheerful, given my mood. Gareth had coached m
e well into the morning hours, and everything hurt.
First, he taught me the basics of self-defense and hand-to-hand combat. Then we’d moved to weaponry. The dagger wasn’t heavy, but after hours of holding it out and slashing it through the air, the muscles in my arm were cooked spaghetti. Not to mention that every other inch of my body felt like it had been beaten black and blue. Between the train tracks, the magical leap through time, and the combat training, I felt like I’d been mauled by a bear.
I arrived at school just as the first bell rang. I parked my car and attempted a mad dash across the parking lot, my muscles screaming in protest.
As I limped toward the door, though, laughter bubbled in my throat. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d come to terms with the fact that I was a witch, created a massive thunderstorm, and watched the Master’s Guard slaughter innocent people—yet here I was running like a normal teenager across campus just to avoid being tardy to English class.
I skidded down the hall and then stumbled to a stop. Ty was waiting at my locker, leaning against the wall with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. My heart started beating a little faster.
“Good morning. Nice of you to join us.”
I rolled my eyes. “I overslept.”
“I see,” he said, smirking. “Well, perhaps this will help?” He offered me the cup of coffee.
“Oh my God, thank you!” I took a large swig. “What are you doing, anyway? Aren’t you going to be late for class?”
“Late? Nah, it’s making an entrance.” Ty winked at me. “Besides, I wanted to check on you.”
“Check on me?”
“Well, yeah. After last night . . . I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
My heart skipped a beat. My mind flashed to last night’s kiss—the way Ty had held me in his arms, the feel of his lips against mine. Get it together, Styles! I took another sip of coffee to clear my head. “Oh, right. The Calling and all that.”
