Heartache (The Twenty-Sided Sorceress Book 5)

by Annie Bellet

  “How many hearts have you eaten?” Salazar asked, his tone deceptively light compared to the intense look in his eyes. His gaze was very eagle-like, now that I thought about it, and I felt like a mouse under it.

  I was no mouse. “How long have you been beating your wife?” I shot back, folding my arms over my chest.

  One corner of his mouth lifted and he inclined his head. “Fair enough,” he said in a way that told me this wasn’t a conversation either of us wanted to have. “It was a poorly phrased question.”

  “Look,” I said, relenting a little. “Hypothetically and off record and all that, if I did kill anyone ever in my life? It would only be because they were trying to kill me first.” Which was mostly true. Ignoring the times it hadn’t been true. But partial truth was still like being honest, right? Baby steps.

  “I have to call my boss,” Salazar said. “If it is as you say, this is going to get much worse.”

  He rose and walked up the stairs, leaving Hattie and I sitting, staring at each other.

  “I never thought your kind were quite real. Even living in Wylde all my life. I guess this place attracts all things eventually.” She shook her head.

  “Thank you for not freaking out and hating me just for being what I am,” I said. Which wasn’t exactly what I meant, but she seemed to understand.

  “You haven’t given me cause. I’ve been on this job too long to judge things by their reputation anymore. And the worst I’ve seen? It was done by humans to humans. The normals do more damage to themselves than the supernatural ever could.”

  Supernaturals could be pretty damn bad, but I didn’t say that aloud. I thought about Bernard Barnes and the rotting wolves he’d been magically freezing and using as batteries, and shivered, rubbing my hands along my arms. The latex gloves snagged on my sleeves weirdly and reminded me I was at a crime scene. Sitting in a house with a dead woman who used to hate me.

  “So the wire, you said it was magic?” Hattie said after a couple of silent minutes.

  “It was when he used it on… my friend.” I had trouble getting Steve’s name out. It felt too real to say it aloud, like invoking his death. “I tried to get in the way, and it went right through me. I think it has to be driven by his power, and only works on the target. Made my throat raw as hell, though—I could barely talk for hours.”

  “Tried to get in the way? So he threw it, not used it like a garrote?”

  “Yeah, it just flew through the air.” I touched my neck. “Right through me.”

  “He could have killed you then?” Hattie had her inscrutable cop face back on.

  “I think so,” I said. I hadn’t mentioned Wolf. No point even trying to explain that part. It didn’t matter. I’d been so weak, so distraught. I’d almost wanted to die just so it would end. Not a thought I wanted to dwell on in that moment. Or ever.

  “He said he wasn’t ‘bored enough yet,’” I added. I caught her gaze with mine and leaned forward. “He’s evil, detective. Pure selfish evil.”

  Salazar came down the stairs with an annoyed look on his face. He waved off our questioning glances and pressed his lips together. “Let’s get the coroner in to handle the scene. Crime scene folk have arrived, too. Is there any magic around we should be aware of?”

  I pulled on my magic, letting my senses stretch out. The broken wards were fainter now. I sensed none of Samir’s sickly sweet magic.

  “I think it’s safe,” I said.

  Hattie let the deputy and coroner back in. She started questioning the deputy about the scene while Salazar looked around for Peggy’s phone. I hung out in the kitchen, feeling useless and tired. I decided to call Harper and went to get my phone from my jacket where it was hung in the hall. I would see if Alek was back yet, and make sure everyone was okay, but as I pulled out my phone, Hattie reappeared with the deputy in tow.

  “What was the name of that friend of the victim’s?” she asked.

  “Joyce Summers, I think, why?” I slid my phone into my jeans pocket. Please don’t say she’s dead, please don’t say she’s dead, please don’t say it.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” the deputy said, running a hand through thinning his thinning hair.

  “She’s the next-door neighbor. She’s over there right now waiting to give an official statement,” Hattie said. “Joyce Summers is the one who found the body.”

  Joyce Summers wasn’t someone I’d said more than four or five words to in all the years I’d been in Wylde, but I’d known who she was because of my dealings with Vivian Lake, the local vet, and because Harper had a serious soft spot for stray animals. Joyce was in her fifties, with brown hair that was too evenly colored to have gotten that brown by natural means and skin so pale the veins in her cheeks showed through like rivers on a map. Her eyes were puffy as she greeted us with the perfunctory stiffness of someone going into mild shock and showed us where to hang our coats.

  From the smell alone, it was easy to tell that Joyce loved and owned a lot of pets, but while it was noticeable, it wasn’t that overwhelming. It smelled like a house where animals ruled with decorum, musk and coffee underlying the hint of air freshener and mint. Her house was cluttered with comfortable furniture and cat trees, her carpet littered with cat toys. There were at least four of the critters in view, and I gently stroked a big calico cat who was resting on the back of an overstuffed chair.

  Joyce did an almost comical double take as Hattie sent the deputy out and the four of us sat down.

  “What is she doing here?” she demanded, rousing from her grief-stricken torpor. She pointed a trembling finger at me.

  “Saving your ass, I hope,” I said.

  “Ladies,” Hattie said. “Jade is helping us with the investigation. Can you walk us through what happened? Do you know who killed your friend?”

  Joyce dropped her hand into her lap and sniffed hard. She started to speak, but stopped and looked at Salazar, then at Hattie with a question on her face.

  “I’m Special Agent Salazar,” Salazar said in a patient voice. “I’m an eagle shifter and I know what you are already, so you can speak freely.”

  “We always check on each other after a storm, because we live alone, you see. My husband and I separated recently. He moved out just last month and I’m not used to being on my own. Peggy and I, well, you know. She is our leader.” Joyce stopped and sniffed again. She pulled a wadded-up handkerchief out of a drawer in the sewing table next to her and dabbed at her nose.

  “I tried to call, but she didn’t pick up. I saw lights on and thought maybe she had her phone off. When she didn’t answer the door, I just went in. We don’t lock our doors much around here, as the detective can tell you, agent,” Joyce said.

  “And that’s when you found her?” Salazar prompted.

  Joyce nodded and tears started to leak from her eyes. She dabbed at those, too.

  “She was… I mean. Blood. Everywhere. I… I’m sorry. Do I have to talk about this? What is the point? I know who did it.” Her expression hardened and she looked at me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Don’t you even try to pin this on me. I have an airtight alibi.” I refrained from saying I’d been locked up in jail all night. Joyce didn’t need to know that part.

  “Not you,” she said. “Though you’re the cause all right. It was that golden-eyed demon, Mr. Cartwright. He did this, sure as the sun rises in the east.”

  I sat back in the chair, disturbing the cat behind me. She got up and jumped down, giving me a look fit to kill. I rubbed my palms on my thighs.

  “You know Samir?” I asked. “Do you know why he did this?”

  Joyce pressed her lips together into a thin line. She looked at Hattie, then shifted her gaze to Salazar. When they both were silent, expectant in their expressions and posture, she looked back at me and nodded. I wanted to yank her out of her chair and drag the answers out of her, but I forced myself to be calm. She’d been through a hell of a shock; I could take a moment
to be patient.

  “You have to understand. We didn’t know what was going on. It was just a way to make a little extra money, which the shelter needed. The library too, and Alice’s son needed braces, and… well. Extra money isn’t something folks like us can turn down.” She clutched at her dirty handkerchief like it was a security blanket.

  “Money?” I said. “From Samir? For what?”

  “For you,” she said softly. “He was paying us to keep an eye on you.”

  “When? How long?” I spat the questions out, my brain spinning.

  “Oh gosh. Three years now, at least.” Joyce looked down at her hands.

  I closed my eyes and wrapped my willpower around my temper. I took a deep breath and tried to think calm thoughts. So Samir had been telling the truth, it seemed. He had known where I was. What I was doing. I might have noticed one or two people watching me. Even in a small town, seeing someone over and over when you aren’t friends would start to stand out. But a whole coven? That was thirteen different women, all probably pillars of the community, thirteen spies to rotate around. I thought of how many had kids or relatives they bought games for. How many times I’d run into people at the grocery store or Brie’s or one of the pubs.

  “You didn’t think that was odd?” Hattie asked. “A man paying you to spy on a woman?”

  “Oh, we did, a bit. He said he was her father, and up until last year none of us had ever met him. But we all thought Jade was a witch, a solo practitioner like yourself, Hattie. He was just asking for updates on what she did, who she talked to. We figured we were going to keep tabs on her anyway, why not take the money? Peggy promised we would warn Jade if anything happened. Until, well, until we realized what you were.”

  “Then Peggy tried to run me out of town,” I said. “They know, I gave them the basic details.”

  “She knew you’d bring trouble down on us. We can’t be involved with sorcerers. Nothing good ever comes of that. And now she’s dead. He killed her, didn’t he? Took her heart. Oh my poor Peggy.” Joyce started crying again, sniffling and snorting into her kerchief. A tuxedo cat unwound itself from its perch in a cat tree by the front window and went over to her, pressing himself against her legs.

  “We stopped reporting to him,” she said after choking back a few more sobs. She scritched the cat’s ears. “Is that why he did this? I told her it was a bad idea. I told her.”

  “You have to get the coven out of town,” I said to Joyce, glancing at Hattie and Salazar. The agent and the detective were being very quiet for people interviewing a witness. “He’s not going to stop. Samir wants your powers, but I think he really wants your memories, your knowledge.”

  “Stop saying his name,” she whispered, looking around as though he might pop out of the shadows.

  “He’s not Voldemort,” I said more sharply than I meant. “He’s a man, an evil, awful person, but still just a man. His name isn’t going to summon him. Hell, who fucking knows if it is even his real name?”

  “You should never have come here,” Joyce said.

  “It’s about five years too late for that, lady. Have you contacted the rest of the coven? I’m serious. Wylde isn’t going to be a safe place for witches for a while.” I glanced at Hattie again as I said it. Peggy had known about her; that much was obvious, since Joyce knew who she was. And what Peggy had known, Samir now knew. My brain balked at the possibilities.

  “I already activated the phone tree, right after I called nine-one-one and asked for Hattie here.” Joyce pulled the cat into her lap.

  “How much does Samir know?” I asked her. “What did you tell him about me and my friends?”

  “Everything,” she said in a whisper, not meeting my gaze. “He knows about the Macnulty girl, her family. Those handsome twins. Your store. We told him whatever details he asked. It was all very mundane, harmless knowledge, really.”

  I stood up and yanked my phone out of my pocket. This was worse than I’d thought. He had Peggy’s memories, but he also had years of reports on me and my new life. Years to get to know where I went, what I did, whom I saw.

  Where I went.

  Harper. The Henhouse. Shit.

  As if by fucking magic, my phone rang, playing Harper’s song.

  I flicked it to answer and put it to my ear as dread turned my stomach into self-animating ropes.

  “Jade? They’re being attacked. Mom said there were men. At the house. Levi’s driving us there. Please, Jade. Come.” Harper’s voice cracked into a shriek.

  “On my way,” I said. I jammed my phone into my pocket and crossed the living room. “I need a ride,” I said to Salazar and Hattie as they followed me.

  “What is it?” Salazar asked as I threw open the front door.

  “Samir is attacking my friends. I have to get to the Henhouse B&B, do you know it?” I directed the last part at Hattie as I strode toward the SUV parked outside the crime scene next door.

  “I do,” she said, huffing as she tromped over the un-shoveled snow, her shorter legs sinking her deeper. “But the roads aren’t good, and besides, I can’t just leave the crime scene.”

  I stopped, shivering in the cold air. My coat was still hanging inside Joyce’s house.

  “You saying you won’t get me there? You won’t help me? Don’t you want to catch the killer?”

  “Jade,” Salazar said in a hushed voice, glancing around. No one was still lingering in the cold now that the body had been removed. We stood alone in a tomb-quiet sea of white. “We can’t. We’re no match for a sorcerer. I’ve been ordered to spin the story for the humans, and then back down.”

  So. He was saying it wasn’t their fight.

  Well, fuck them. They were right. It wasn’t their fight.

  It was mine.

  And I didn’t need a damn car. I gathered my magic, power filling my blood, racing along with all the strength of my fear and anger.

  I was a motherfucking sorceress and I was going to fly.

  I’d never managed to fly before. I could leap and glide, sort of an extended long-jump where I just refused to touch the ground for as long as I could suspend my disbelief and trust my magic to hold me aloft. But flying had been out of my grasp.

  No more. I shot into the air a good fifty or sixty feet, Superman-style, one fist thrust ridiculously in front of me, the other clinging with total terror to my D20 talisman. Tears streamed from my eyes and froze to my cheeks until I shoved magic out in front of me, pushing a shield out to block the worst of the wind and the cold.

  The landscape was black and white from up here, houses zipping away beneath me as I hurtled through the air in the general direction of the Henhouse B&B. With the snow covering roads and landmarks, I could only go by the sun and my own sense of direction. The Henhouse had a bright red roof on it, with enough of a slope that I figured some red would show through even with the heavy snowfall.

  Horror pictures flickered through my brain. Rose and Junebug strapped to a giant bomb. Samir torturing them. My friends arriving before I did and being cut down by screaming men with giant machine guns. Images of me arriving and finding only silence and everyone dead, bodies laid out, throats open, eyes staring blank and cold at the sun.

  I shoved those thoughts away, shoved them into my power, gathered my anger and my fear, and fed it all into the magic. No one was going to die. Only Samir.

  A giant plume of black smoke drew my gaze as I soared over the trees. I corrected my course, heart in my throat. The Henhouse was on fire.

  I tried to drop down near the clearing where the buildings were burning, but landing proved harder than it looks in the movies. I didn’t so much glide down out of the sky as plummet like meteor into the snow.

  Fresh powder snow? Not as soft as it looks. Shivering, the wind half knocked out of me, I climbed to my feet and ran toward the burning house. The roof had caved in and taken most of the second floor with it. Acrid smoke, tasting of ash and the sickly sweetness of Samir’s magic, filled my nose and mouth. I plunged th
rough the door, yelling for Rose. Paper curled with heat and caught on the walls, the curtains burned, and a huge burning beam dropped as I charged into the entry, cutting off the stairs and living room. I sent my magic out like a wave, trying to feel for life, for anything. Only fire.

  “Jade!” Harper’s voice reached me through the roar of the blaze and I stumbled free of the house as something else crashed behind me. More beams. The whole place was burning to the ground with a vengeance.

  Harper, Ezee, and Levi had just arrived, Levi’s four-wheel-drive still steaming in the parking area, his tire chains packed with snow. I stumbled toward them, going for Harper as she tried to rush past me.

  “They weren’t in the house,” I said, remembering. “No one is there.”

  I hoped I wasn’t lying. The house had felt like no one was alive—no one, not even a shifter, could live through that kind of blaze. If Rose or Junebug were in there, they’d have escaped or already be dead.

  “The barn,” Harper said. Her expression went from relief back to panic and she turned and bolted for the barn.

  The barn wasn’t on fire, but it had taken a lot of bullets. The wood was chewed up with hundreds of holes, chunks and splinters sticking out from the doors like spines.

  The horses were dead. Something had ripped apart one of them; the other two had died from gunfire. Though my ears rang after the mad flight and the roar of the house fire, the barn felt eerily silent and still.

  “Oh God,” Harper whispered, looking into each stall, her movements growing more panicked as she went. “Oh God.” She slammed shut a stall door and kicked over a bucket, a litany of curses pouring from her mouth as she searched.

  My legs felt like lead but I climbed up the ladder into the loft. Sleeping bags were still laying on mounded up hay. A turned over milk crate had a thermos and a stack of playing cards on it. A broken mug lay on the floor nearby. No sign of Harper’s mom or Levi’s wife. The upper door was open, a rifle on the floor by it. Hay was everywhere.