“Queen of the universe,” she answered. “How may I help you?”
“Dahlia? It’s Ainsley. Listen, I found the double agent who attacked us in Morocco. I’m following him now. I think he’s headed to Ryerson’s house. To kill him.”
“You what? How the hell … never mind. Explain later. I’ll contact the director. He’ll send a team to intercept. Follow him, but if he does go to Ryerson’s house, don’t go inside. The team will be there soon and Ryerson can handle himself.”
“Ryerson’s not answering his phone. He doesn’t know there’s an assassin coming for him.”
What if the assassin, like, decided to set up far away and shoot him through the window? Not even the best spies can save themselves from something they can’t see coming.
“Ryerson can handle himself. And he’ll kill me if anything happens to you.”
“But—”
“I just texted the director and he says he’s dispatching a team now. Stay out of the way, Ainsley. Director’s orders.”
I nodded tightly, then remembered she couldn’t see that. “Sure.”
And honestly? As long as the good guys got there in time, I had no problem waiting safely in the car.
We hung up. A few blocks later, the assassin turned into a quiet neighborhood.
Which left me with a decision to make.
I could follow him into the neighborhood, but my camouflage rune wasn’t an invisibility cloak. It would be harder to blend into the backdrop against the yards and houses, and the rune did nothing to mute the rumbling of the Jetta’s old engine. Or I could pass the neighborhood by and hope there was another way in and I didn’t lose him.
Screw it.
I followed him. I drove slowly, putting as much distance between our cars as I could without completely losing him in the twisty streets. Every turn we took, I figured he must have spotted me. But really, would that be so bad? Maybe he’d abandon his plan, and I’d have time to warn Ryerson.
I tried Ryerson’s cell again. Still no answer.
The assassin slowed and pulled into the driveway of a small, dark brick house and killed his headlights. I drove past him and parked on the street several houses down and then twisted in the seat to watch him.
Dahlia’s warning rang in my ears: Stay out of the way.
The assassin stepped out of his car.
I dialed Ryerson again. And again.
Stay out of the way, stay out of the way.
Eyebrows followed the walking path to the front door. Incredibly, he didn’t send so much as a glance my way. Like he had no idea I was there. And I hadn’t been particularly stealthy, especially toward the end.
Come on, come on, come on, I whispered as a bad feeling crawled through me. Where the hex was Director Abrams’s team?
It was dark, but I could make out the outline of the assassin as he reached for the doorknob. It would take him a few minutes to pick the lock. And a few minutes could mean everything. A few minutes for Ryerson to hear him or for the team to arrive. Or—
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Which meant the door was already unlocked.
The house is dark, the voice said reasonably. Maybe he’s not even home. Hell, maybe it’s not even Agent Ryerson’s house.
Maybe. But it didn’t matter. I was already out of the car and halfway down the street at a dead sprint.
It’s only nine thirty, the voice pointed out.
So? I thought back.
So why is he breaking in at nine thirty? Through the front door? Why not wait until most people would be asleep? Or at least go around the back?
They were good questions. A prickle of warning started at the base of my spine, but I ignored it. All that mattered was reaching Ryerson first. And I’d already given the assassin too much of a head start.
I slowed as I reached the house and tested the doorknob. It twisted easily in my hand. The assassin had left it unlocked.
That prickle of warning morphed into a full-fledged porcupine stampeding down my spine. But I couldn’t turn back now, even if I’d wanted to.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
It might have been barely nine thirty, but the darkness inside was thick. My fingers itched to gather magic to them, to be ready, but the darkness was so absolute that the faint glow would give me away immediately if the assassin wore those magic-viewing contacts the CIA was so fond of. And besides my magic, the one thing I had in my favor was the element of surprise.
Torn between giving my eyes a moment to adjust and finding Ryerson as quickly as possible, I stepped deeper into the living room.
Behind you! the voice shouted.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one banking on the element of surprise.
I spun in time to watch a shadow peel itself away from the wall and lift an arm. I didn’t need to see the gun to know it was there, and I was moving and sketching a rune before the muzzle flashed and the bullet lifted the hair at my ear as it sailed past. I’d moved without knowing the layout of Ryerson’s living room and tripped over an end table, but that was okay. I hit the carpet hard, slapped the rune into it, and invoked it. The floor bucked like a wave had passed under it, tossing Agent Eyebrows into the air. He lost his grip on the gun. I didn’t see it land, but I heard the soft thump as it hit the carpet and cartwheeled out of reach.
Eyebrows recovered quickly and he launched himself at me just as I pushed to my feet. His shoulder caught me square in the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs and we went down, hard. Before I knew what had happened, hands were wrapped around my throat. Squeezing. The bright whites of his eyes looked down at me dispassionately.
Let me take over, the voice urged.
No.
If that happened, she might bring the house down. By this point, it was pretty clear Ryerson wasn’t home. If he were, surely he would have heard the commotion by now and come to investigate. But I was still here, and besides, I hadn’t forgotten Aduna’s warning.
Of course, if I died on Ryerson’s living room floor, none of that would matter.
My vision blackened around the edges, and I couldn’t breathe. I had seconds at most before I passed out. I pulled on my magic and the last bit of focus I had. Magic filled my hands and raced to my fingertips, eager to help. The assassin’s eyes widened, and I cursed the CIA’s stupid magic-viewing contacts. His hands tightened fractionally before he moved one of them to reach for something at his waist. A knife flashed.
From the darkness came a snarl—low, threatening, otherworldly. I didn’t look up—I’d recognize Oreo’s growl anywhere—but Eyebrows did. Only for a split second, but it was enough. I grabbed his wrist and shoved my magic into him. No rune this time. Just pure, undirected magic. I honestly wasn’t sure what it would do, if anything at all, but he screamed and wrenched himself backward, and that was all the invitation I needed to scramble away.
But Eyebrows recovered quickly. He jumped to his feet and flipped the knife at Oreo, who vanished. The knife sailed through the smoky cloud he’d left behind and stuck harmlessly in the drywall. The hellhound popped back into existence next to Eyebrows’s leg and snapped at him, but his jaws closed on air as the eight-foot-tall Golem suddenly looming behind Eyebrows picked him up and tossed him into the wall.
I lurched to my feet as Eyebrows rolled bonelessly to his, like being knocked around by a golem and a hellhound was no big deal. Oreo snarled as more knives flashed into the assassin’s hands.
This time, I was ready.
I pulled hard on my magic and threw up a bubble rune, shielding Oreo and me as Eyebrows loosed his knives with a practiced flick of his wrists. The knives pinged harmlessly off the magic shield as Oreo launched himself against it. The bubble wall wobbled, but it held.
Undeterred, the assassin was already moving. He executed some complicated dive-roll and sprang to his feet next to the knife embedded in Ryerson’s drywall. He yanked it free, eyed the bubble rune, and then his gaze slid to Golem, who was too far awa
y to be protected by my shield.
“No!”
I wasn’t sure if knives would hurt a golem, but I wasn’t willing to find out. I dropped the rune and dove at Eyebrows’s feet. Or rather, at the glint of metal peeking out from under the couch next to him. In one smooth movement, Eyebrows shifted his aim from Golem to me, but it was too late. I lifted the gun, his gun, and fired.
I’d like to say I didn’t know whether Eyebrows died from my bullet or from the hellhound who tore into his throat a second later.
I’d like to say that, but it would be a lie.
Because I watched the light leave his eyes before a tornado of black fur and teeth tore into him.
I’d killed a man.
Later, I’d tell myself I did him a favor. That he was lucky a bullet took him before the hellhound did.
Later, I’d tell myself a lot of things.
But for now I just felt numb.
It’s hard to say how long I sat on the carpet, half propped against the couch leg, the weight of the gun heavy and foreign in my hand.
Eventually I pushed to my feet, wincing as aches sprang to life in muscles I didn’t know I had. The assassin lay across the room, near the front window. Oreo’s massive form blocked most of him, and from the ripping and tearing sounds, that was a very good thing.
I glanced at Golem, who looked okay, and then stumbled out the front door. I needed distance. And air. I lurched down the driveway, steadying myself with a hand to Eyebrows’s car.
You okay? the voice asked.
Was I?
My right knee hurt. I must have twisted it in the fight. Blood dripped from my elbow to puddle on Ryerson’s driveway. I traced it to a wound on my bicep that didn’t look too deep. My throat was the worst of it. Tender to the touch, raw and sore.
And I was pretty sure I’d never close my eyes without seeing Eyebrows’s dead eyes staring back at me.
I think so.
Er, Ainsley? Look. In his car.
I glanced down, into the assassin’s back seat. It was full of supplies. Duct tape. A stack of black trash bags. Half a dozen gallons of bleach.
I frowned.
But before I could put my finger on exactly what bothered me about that, a terrible, heart-ripping howl rent the air. Startled, I glanced back at the house.
I’ll check it out, said the voice. Back in a sec.
I nodded, too tired to argue, and let my gaze drift back to the items in the back seat.
Something was wrong.
I wasn’t sure if the wave of nausea that followed was due to the ghost scuttling back inside my head or the realization that sank like a brick into the pit of my stomach.
With numb fingers, I pulled out my phone and called Ryerson again. Inside the house, a phone began to ring.
“What did you see?” I asked the voice. Even in my head, my voice rang oddly hollow.
There may be others coming. We should leave, the voice said briskly, neatly sidestepping my question.
I stared at the house as truth sank her cold, sharp claws into my heart. “No,” I whispered.
Seriously, you killed a man, dear. We should go. Others may be on the way—
I didn’t hear the rest over the roaring in my ears as I walked back inside the house. Stepped over the dead agent, following the hellhound’s howl. I paused in the kitchen doorway to flip the light switch then waited as my eyes adjusted to the flood of brightness. Part of me hoped they never would. Because I already knew what I’d find.
And as those bright, blurry shapes slowly sharpened into focus, those claws embedded in my heart?
They started shredding.
Golem stood by a narrow table, big clay hands covering his eyes. Oreo whined and gently nudged something on the floor with his muzzle. No, not something.
Someone.
I forced myself to step closer, to peer over the hellhound’s shoulder at the body lying on the floor, familiar green eyes staring into nothingness.
Because everything suddenly made sense. The unlocked door. The unanswered calls. The bags. The bleach.
Agent Eyebrows wasn’t the assassin.
He was the cleanup crew.
And Ryerson? He was already dead.
33
My knees hit the linoleum next to Oreo, who whined and laid his enormous head on his front paws. Someone was whispering, “No, no, no, no.” Some part of my brain still worked well enough to know that someone was me. The other part—the bigger part—was frozen in horror.
Because Ryerson, my Ryerson, was dead.
Oh dear, the voice said quietly.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. Ryerson was invincible. A super spy.
And human, the voice reminded me gently.
A hot lump of tears rose in my throat as I ran fingers through his hair. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, the floor around him slick with it. The refrigerator door hung halfway open. Two bottles of beer lay in front of it—one broken, the amber liquid mixing with the blood. The other was intact, the cap still in place. There wasn’t much in his fridge—a bottle of orange juice, a jar of pickles, a few beers, a box of baking soda—but the items and shelves inside were splattered with blood. Whoever had done this, Ryerson had trusted them. Enough to let them inside, to offer them a drink, to give them his back. Shadow members posing as the debrief team, maybe?
It’s truly a shame about your friend, dear, said the voice. But we need to leave.
She was right. Whoever had done this would come to investigate eventually, probably when Eyebrows didn’t check in, and I couldn’t be here when that happened.
I brushed the hair back from Ryerson’s face, letting my fingers trail over the rough stubble along his jaw, and didn’t otherwise move.
Seriously, child, it’s time to go. Anxiousness colored her voice. We can’t be here when he comes.
What do you care if we’re still here when they come back? I snapped. You’re already dead.
True, but it’s not your CIA assassins that I’m worried about, she muttered.
My fingers stilled against Ryerson’s skin, her words punching through the thick fog surrounding my thoughts. Because she had said “when he comes,” hadn’t she?
Who is it you’re worried about then?
Death.
My eyes never left Ryerson. I had no idea what she was talking about, but death had already visited this house.
The voice bristled. No, he hasn’t. I’m talking about Death himself. A reaper. Soul collector. Preternatural guide to the nextworld. A shudder rippled through my mind. He’s coming. I can feel him.
I frowned down at Ryerson’s body, uncomprehending. So he’s not dead? I wanted to feel hopeful about that, but it was hard not to be skeptical. He looked really dead.
No. I mean yes, said the voice impatiently. He’s definitely dead. His soul simply hasn’t been collected yet.
Something stirred deep in my gut. It wasn’t hope. Not exactly. More like curiosity.
What happens if his soul is not collected? Like, would he become a ghost?
One only becomes a ghost if one chooses not to accompany a reaper to the nextworld. There is free will, even in death.
Okay, so what if he didn’t make that choice? What if the reaper simply didn’t take him? Would his soul be stuck in a rotting body forever?
Nothing so dramatic. But yes, theoretically, I suppose his soul would return to his body.
And if his soul returns to his body, I said slowly, then what happens? If death happens when the soul leaves the body, what happens if it returns? Life?
This is hardly the time or place for a theoretical debate on metaphysics, the voice huffed.
But she didn’t disagree.
Maybe I was crazy with grief. Maybe I simply didn’t want to accept that he was gone. Whatever the reason, my thoughts whirled with an idea. A stupid, insane, ridiculous idea.
Maybe I could still save him.
I tol
d you, said the voice, there is no spell to bring back the dead.
No, you said there’s no spell to bring a soul back from the nextworld. That’s weirdly specific. And you just said yourself that Ryerson’s soul hasn’t been taken to the nextworld yet.
This could work.
No, said the voice. It can’t.
I ignored her. What other reason was there to be so specific in her wording?
Because I was talking about ghosts, she said, and I stilled as a piece of the puzzle I’d been missing slid into place.
“The spell you wanted from the Grimoire. That’s it, isn’t it? A spell to bring you back.”
Yes.
I supposed I wasn’t really surprised. “And you found it, didn’t you? That’s why you stopped pushing me to keep the Grimoire. Why you didn’t care that we turned it over to the CIA.”
Oh, I care very much about my coven’s Grimoire being in the hands of government types who haven’t the first idea what to do with it, but I will deal with that later. But yes. I found the spell.
“Why are you still here, then?”
If the voice had hands, I sensed she’d be throwing them up right now. I don’t exactly have a body, now do I? Hard to gather ingredients and mix them without hands. Not to mention, I need access to magic.
I frowned. “So why didn’t you say anything sooner?” But I knew the answer before the last word left my lips. “It’s because you planned to simply take over my body again, didn’t you?” I said accusingly.
The voice was unapologetic. The spell is not for the faint of heart. I figured you’d object to it, so I decided to wait until you got overly emotional again or fell asleep.
“I’ve slept since then.”
Yes, but on an airplane and against that agent’s shoulder. He would have noticed if you had tried to leave the apartment. And I can hardly gather ingredients or mix a potion on an aircraft, now can I?
I glanced down at Ryerson. I didn’t say what I was thinking, but then again, I didn’t really have to.
Yes, you are emotional enough now that I might be able to take over. But doing that while you’re distraught and grieving just felt wrong.
You Only Spell Twic Page 26
