by SM Reine
He struggled to escape. “Not a fucking chance!”
“You can come with me, or you can explain to Zettel what happened to his aspis. Your choice.”
The kopis stared at Allyson. He actually looked scared now. James had been worrying that the man wasn’t smart enough to get scared.
“They’ll kill me,” St. Vil said.
“I can do that, too. And yes, that is a threat.”
James started walking without releasing St. Vil’s arm. The kopis didn’t respond. He also didn’t try to fight back.
They stepped through the hole in the fence and plunged into the dark forest.
VII
The trees parted, and a meadow emerged from the forest like something out of a nightmare.
Hannah Pritchard had spent the last twenty years of her life finding reasons not to step into that clearing, which the White Ash Coven used for initiations. But it was the only way to find Pamela’s house—all other routes were bewitched.
And now she was standing on the brink of the meadow, trying to convince herself to keep walking.
The sunlight didn’t seem as clear in this part of the forest, as though it shined through a gray filter. The blossoms were washed out and limp. It had been raining, but there was no mud within the circular trench bordering the meadow; the circle of power dried the rain immediately. It left the meadow trapped in perpetual summer, on the verge of catching fire.
It hadn’t always been that way. The high priestess used to be careful about regulating the containment spells. But it had been a long time since the coven had a high priestess, and even longer since the coven had cared about the earth it scorched in pursuit of victory.
“Don’t worry,” she told Nathaniel when he approached. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
His brown eyes flashed with anger as he walked down the trail. “I’m not afraid.”
Maybe that was the truth. If so, then it could only be because Nathaniel was still too young, too naïve, to know that he should be afraid.
She swallowed down her anxiety and gripped her cell phone tighter. “Don’t worry,” Hannah whispered, bracing herself.
She stepped over the line of the circle…and felt nothing.
Nathaniel tromped through the grass without any hint of hesitancy. Silent disdain filled his eyes. “Most of the circle’s protections have been disabled. I could tell as soon as we got out of the car.”
Hannah quickened her pace to catch up with him. Dried grass crunched under their feet.
“Disabled?”
“Someone’s tampered with it,” Nathaniel said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know?”
The condescending curve to Nathaniel’s mouth was identical to his father’s. “I just do.”
Hannah led him to a fallen log that marked the hidden path. “I hate showing up without warning someone,” she said, checking the cell phone again. No missed calls. James had said that he would get in touch with his parents and call her back days ago.
“You can’t warn an empty house.”
“But someone should be there. It’s not normal for the house to be unoccupied.”
“The whole coven’s probably skyclad and drunk and pretending to draw down the moon.” He rolled his eyes. “Stop worrying about it.”
“You’re too young to be so cynical,” Hannah said.
He responded with a heavy sigh.
Twelve years old and already a critic. Wasn’t that supposed to hit after puberty?
They left the meadow behind as they took the hidden path. Hannah remembered having to step carefully over slugs that used that trail as a highway when she was a girl. But there were neither slugs nor herbs now. Brambles snagged the sleeves of her pea coat as she passed.
A few twigs had become stuck in Nathaniel’s hood. She plucked them out and smoothed his black hair flat. He ducked under her touch.
“You know,” she said hesitantly, “if you want to talk about—”
He didn’t let her finish. “I know.”
It had been months since Hannah and Nathaniel returned from Hell, yet he hadn’t talked about it even once. She had been locked in a cage, watched Belphegor peel skin off of other prisoners, and heard the damned screaming from within the pits. None of that scared her as much as the idea of what Nathaniel must have seen while he had been running around with Elise.
Since he wouldn’t talk, Hannah could only imagine what was bothering him. Had he seen a slave auction? The human butcher shops? Witnessed the curing of slave-skin leather?
“Can I tell you what I saw?” Hannah asked.
“No.”
She was spared the unique hell that was trying to communicate with her preteen son when she spotted a signpost. The text burned into the wood was faded with time, but she found the name “Faulkner” with her fingertips.
They were almost there.
Hannah took the left-hand fork toward the old Faulkner house. The branches were too thick for sunlight to penetrate that part of the forest.
The Faulkner house had been kept in better condition than the ritual space in the meadow. The windows were new—Hannah had helped replace them last spring. The weeds had been pulled around the path, too.
But there was no light inside, and no cars outside. James’s parents definitely weren’t there.
Hannah stopped her son with a hand on his shoulder. “I think something is wrong.” He rolled his eyes, shoved open the door, and stepped through. “Nathaniel, stop!”
She followed him inside.
The couches were covered in plastic, and the antique rocking chair next to the fireplace looked like it had been recently polished. The clock on the mantel ticked too loudly in the silence of the unoccupied house. Someone must have been there to wind it. Hannah reached into the mechanisms to stop the clock.
Nathaniel dropped his backpack next to the door and slid his jacket off. He was wearing that harpy wool shirt he had picked up in Dis again. “So where are Grandma and Grandpa?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, flipping the light switch. Nothing happened.
The floorboards creaked when they stepped into the kitchen. Hannah checked the empty refrigerator. Even though it was plugged into the outlet, it wasn’t running, and the shelves were warm. The house didn’t have any power.
Nathaniel grabbed a box of Lucky Charms out of the pantry as Hannah continued to explore. She peered down the hall. All of the bedroom doors stood open, like eye sockets gaping out of a dried skull.
The electrical panel was hidden under a tapestry next to Pamela’s office door. All of the breakers were turned on. There just wasn’t any power.
“I’m not mad at you,” Nathaniel said from behind her. When she looked askance at him, he swallowed another mouthful of cereal and said, “I’m not being quiet because I’m mad, and it’s not because I’m scared or scarred or damaged. You just don’t want to know what I saw in Dis.”
He looked like such an adult, standing there in his jeans and hiking boots. More like a teenager than her baby.
“You can tell me anything,” Hannah said. “You know that.”
The house suddenly trembled.
An earthquake?
Hannah braced her hands on the wall, staring up at the lights as they swung from side to side. The floorboards trembled, the old walls groaned, and Pamela’s office door swung shut.
Once the shaking stopped, a deep silence followed.
A creeping sensation crawled through Hannah’s hairline, down the back of her neck, and slithered over her spine. She wasn’t sure why, but she was certain that that hadn’t been an earthquake.
“Put your jacket back on,” she told Nathaniel.
“Why?” he asked, a marshmallow rainbow stuck to his bottom lip.
She snagged his backpack off the floor. “Just do what I say.” Hannah opened the front door to exit—but Landon stood on the porch.
“Oh, Hannah,” he said, as though pleasantly surprised to see her. The lines on his f
orehead looked like a road map. “You made it. Wonderful.” Landon stepped in, forcing her to back away to let him enter. He closed the door very deliberately. “And Nathaniel, too. All the better.”
“We were just on the way to see Leo and Marja,” Hannah said.
The smile grew fixed to Landon’s face. “They’re on their way. You should get comfortable while you wait.” He kept walking forward, invading Hannah’s space. The backs of her legs struck the couch. She sat down hard.
Nathaniel set down the box of cereal. “What’s going on, Landon?” He was much too confident for a boy his age, and much too unimpressed by Landon’s authority. Just another consequence of his father’s arrogant blood.
“Why don’t you sit down, too?” Landon asked.
Nathaniel dropped onto the couch beside Hannah. She wrapped one arm around him, and the fact that he tolerated it meant that he must have been much more scared than he let himself show.
We never should have come here. This was a mistake. Hannah clasped her trembling hands together, trying not to shiver in her rain-soaked clothing.
“Leo and Marja will be here soon,” Landon said again, almost like he was trying to convince himself. He kept glancing at the windows.
“He’s lying,” Nathaniel whispered to Hannah.
The high priest cast a sharp look at him. “I’ll be right back. Neither of you move.”
He stepped out the front door.
Hannah certainly believed that Landon was waiting for someone. But Nathaniel was right, too—he wasn’t waiting for her in-laws. He was still colluding with that angel, the one that had taken Ariane away when they were girls.
Whoever stepped through that door next would not be friendly.
Hannah squeezed her son tighter against her side, and she made a quick decision.
Landon was old. Hannah wasn’t a fighter—never had been, never would be—but she thought she could overpower him, especially if he didn’t expect it.
She had to move fast.
“Get ready to follow me. We have to run,” she said, pushing Nathaniel’s backpack into his arms. She grabbed a paperweight off of the side table. It felt hefty in her hand. Deadly.
He didn’t argue this time. He just nodded, cheeks pale and eyes wide, and zipped up his coat.
Hannah took a deep breath.
Forgive me, Mother Goddess.
She jumped onto the patio.
But Landon was already dead.
She didn’t need to check his pulse to confirm it. The butcher knife sticking out of his chest was evidence enough.
And Ariane Kavanagh stood over him with a look of shock on her face, bloody hands, and the curve of a pregnant belly under her shirt.
VIII
Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time that he had been happy. It wasn’t the Union’s fault, really, even though they had turned out to be kind of a bust. The fact that he had spent the last few months as their detainee, rather than as an honored commander, was pretty solid evidence of that.
But his misery easily predated them. In fact, he thought that the beginning of his slide from “happy drunk guy” into “irredeemable alcoholic” had begun the day that his life tangled with Elise Kavanagh’s.
Traveling with Elise had been terrifying. Having her disappear without so much as a goodbye sucked, too. But realizing that he had lost the Kerry territory to an overlord was the worst part of all.
After that, having a goat-fucking asshole like Gary Zettel steal his job was nothing. And getting convicted for treason? He couldn’t even work up a yawn for it. At least the food in the detention center had been good.
Now he was handcuffed in the back of an armored SUV on his way to Italy. They were either going to acquit him, or kill him.
After the trend of the last few years, Malcolm was not feeling optimistic.
“I’m sick of NPR,” Malcolm called to the front seat. “Put something good on.”
The driver ignored him.
“Come on. How’s about a little Wolfmother? The Black Angels? You’re supposed to be transporting a prisoner, not torturing him.”
“Deal with it. The airport’s only five minutes away,” Krista said. She was his guard for the trip, and she had no sense of humor.
Malcolm sighed and slumped in the chair. “Then you think you could uncuff me? Having my wrists behind my back for such a long drive isn’t very comfortable.”
Krista gave him a small smile. She had Scandinavian features, so her smiles were a lovely thing to behold. She could have been a supermodel if not for the palsy. The genetic lottery had played two cruel jokes on her—both the birth defect, and in making her a rare female kopis. It made the left side of her body weak, including the hand she currently had draped over a gun.
But she had some of the nicest eyes that Malcolm had seen, which matched her very nice tits and ass. If he got executed in Italy, he would leave the Earth with one major regret: that he had never managed to talk Krista into a little one-on-one grappling time to get acquainted with that ass.
“For the record, I think it’s a shame,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the driver.
“What, the NPR? Right there with you, sister,” Malcolm said.
She lowered her voice. “The Union needs more guys like you and fewer like Zettel. I hope they give you a fair trial in Italy. I want to see you back on the ground soon.”
Malcolm grinned. The Union had confiscated his eye patch as contraband, so it probably wasn’t nearly as charming as her smile. “Why, Krista, I didn’t know you cared. It’s not too late for a quickie, you know.”
She returned his grin with a lopsided smile of her own. “Not happening. I’m still carting your ass off to the plane. But don’t take it personally.”
Ah, well. It had been worth a try.
“No worries. You’re just doing your job.”
Before his arrest, Krista had explained to Malcolm that she had enlisted with the Union for two reasons: because they paid for physical therapy, and because they had agreed to let her serve as a soldier despite the disability.
Malcolm could dream of all the quickies he wanted, but there was no way she was going to put her job at risk when she loved it so much. Not for him, not for anyone.
Total waste of a perfect ass.
The SUV came to a stop and waited for the gates to open. Krista kept her gun trained on him the entire time, like he might try to escape. Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh at that. He was a drunkard, not a moron.
They got clearance quickly enough, and moved inside. Malcolm leaned his forehead against the window to take in the sight of the last flight he would ever take.
It was a small airplane, which was painted black with white lettering on the side, just like everything else the Union owned. The door was already open and waiting for him. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought the fuselage was shaped like a coffin.
When the SUV stopped, he was surprised to see Gary Zettel open the door.
Malcolm stepped onto the tarmac. Zettel was much shorter than him, and he had the personality of a disgruntled Chihuahua to go with the height. Malcolm briefly entertained the idea of dropkicking Zettel across the airstrip.
“Come to see me off?” Malcolm asked. “How sweet. You shouldn’t have. Really.”
Zettel ignored him.
“Change of plans, Krista. The witch escorts have been diverted to search the forest. You’re getting a free trip to Italy. Congratulations.” Then he addressed Malcolm. “What did you do?”
“What? I think a man has every right to complain about being forced to listen to NPR.”
Zettel closed a meaty fist on Malcolm’s shirt, jerking him down to eye-level. “James Faulkner is gone and your cell door was open. What the fuck did you do?”
“James Faulkner’s gone? Gone from where?”
“From the detention center. We arrested him in Fallon. You colluded with him to escape.”
Oh, lovely. The Union had tried to take James into custody
. There was no way that could go poorly.
“Believe it or not, I haven’t seen him in ages,” Malcolm said. “And we’ve never been best mates. Jim has no interest in rescuing me. He’d probably throw a little party for my execution, in fact.”
Zettel glowered. “I’m going to find him. And when I do, and he confirms your involvement…”
“I’ll be arrested for treason and sent to Italy HQ? Oh, no. Please don’t do that.”
“Get him on the plane,” the commander said. Krista couldn’t salute with her good arm holding the gun, so she just nodded, then followed Malcolm closely as he mounted the stairs.
He maintained his very best devil-may-care smile until the moment he stepped into the jet.
Malcolm hadn’t allowed himself to fantasize about escaping, but if he had, he wouldn’t have imagined the rescue involving James Faulkner.
The airplane door shut with a heavy thud, and it sounded like a tomb sealing behind him.
“You should reconsider the quickie,” he told Krista. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to die, and it would be great for morale.” She rolled her eyes. “No last wish for a dying man?”
“You’re not dying.”
“You don’t know James Faulkner,” Malcolm muttered, too quietly for her to hear.
She sighed and set down her gun. “Come here.”
Krista unlocked his handcuffs. Being able to move his arms again felt sinfully good.
“You’re a peach. A delicious, sexy peach,” he said.
“Sit down.”
“All right, all right.”
Malcolm took a window seat and stretched his legs out in front of him. If nothing else, the leather chairs were comfortable. He was a prisoner in style.
The engines roared to life just seconds later. They must have been in a hurry to get rid of him.
He watched through the window as Zettel stormed around the airstrip, acting like the bossy little bitch that he was. Malcolm tried to find satisfaction in seeing him puff and holler, but his sense of humor seemed to have mysteriously vanished. It had been replaced with a feeling like falling down a long, dark hole with piranhas at the bottom.
Krista put a hand to her earpiece. “What do you mean, a helicopter got stolen?” she asked, eyes unfocused as she listened. “The medical copter? But it’s here at the airport. I saw it parked behind our jet.”
