I lifted the foul warlock’s timepiece and let it flash toward Wulfric’s face; his understanding of the thing was only that an enemy held it, so it must therefore be bad. Time slowed, as close to stopping as possible. I saw his nostrils flare like a mad beast, muscles tensing in his magnificent legs, and smooth muscles moving under the skin as he uncoiled with the ferocity of a great jungle cat. With my free hand, I slid the blade from its hiding place and stabbed fast and deep into the meat of my palm, flipping the talisman to the bloodied hand just as Wulfric blurred into motion. The blood sizzled against the metal of the watch casing as both elements rebelled against one another; my innocence and the long held evil of Plimsoll’s magic doing battle in a field small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
“Buinteanas ùine!” I hissed, hurling the months of research, and pain, and will into those two words that would shift time and blood for Wulfric, making him mine once more.
The spell struck him in mid-leap, a white bolt of vapor that shifted and danced as it wrapped around his chest before plunging through the shocked circle of his mouth. His skin writhed with shapes that might have been serpents or tricks of my mind; I only know that the pain was instantaneous and catastrophic. He howled, an unearthly keen that pulverized the case of Plimsoll’s watch with a stinging explosion, cutting me further with tiny shards of scalding metal. Wulfric landed on me, his fangs bared and lunging toward my unprotected neck. Their points pushed into my skin with searing efficiency as I opened my mouth to scream, but his weight was too much and he slammed me backward into the snow with the force of an avalanche, mouth fastened on my neck as the core of my spell drove home into his veins, dragging him back from the brink of eternity into my arms. I could feel my blood running freely into the snow, a tang of copper and fear so strong that I couldn’t tell if it was pain or the smell making my eyes water.
Then the tears came as his lips moved against me. He’s feeding. I have failed. My great sob nearly bucked him upward as I fought to release all of my pain in one hideous noise, but in a flash it was over.
I let myself go limp. I’d put everything I had into the spell, and it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save him, and now I too would pay the price with my life.
I cried for all that would never be and let the winter begin to drift over me, cold and snow and desolation alike. Then, by the smallest gap, he pulled his lips away so that I could hear his rasping whisper. His teeth chattered in my ear, a staccato beat of the most beautifully human noise I will ever hear in my life.
“Carlie. I’m cold.” He was home.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Staycation
There’s a trick to the art of memory. I helped Wulfric to my house and then upstairs, one painful step at a time. He was ravaged by the fleeting ghost of vampirism, and my spell hadn’t helped. He was also borderline hypothermic, shivering so violently under my piled quilts that I wondered if he could stay in the bed unassisted long enough for me to make tea.
“Stay here, love. I’ll be back.” I hurtled down the stairs heedless of my own weakness. The spell left me a magical husk, and his body crashing into me had bruised every single rib I owned, and a few I only rented. Each breath was a dagger of pain that brought tears to my eyes. Every second of his presence in my home made me cry with joy. So, yeah. I was a mess.
I scalded tea in record time, and nuked some water in the microwave to make chicken broth from those infernal cubes. Their foil wrappers were engineered by Satan himself; it took me six tries to get the damned things off the sticky bouillon and drop them into the mug. With a calming breath, I mounted the stairs, determined to bring him back from the edge of wherever he was.
I did it by spoonsful. He never opened his eyes, only drank the hot tea and warm broth in fits and starts before falling into a stupor. I had four quilts, a hot water bottle, tea, chicken broth, and one more thing to use.
Me.
I stripped to my long johns, slipped socks on Wulfric, and slid beneath the covers on top of him like his own personal electric blanket. I lay my cheek against the flat muscles of his chest, the smooth skin covered with gooseflesh and still leaden to the touch. I murmured into his neck and let my hair cover his face and shoulders like a benediction that only I could give.
“Come back to me,” I encouraged. “I’m right here. You are, too.”
“Wha- Carlie?” His jaw popped as he spoke. I shed another tear as he licked his dry, cracked lips. His fangs were nearly gone. He was once more a man, and only a man inhabited with the echoes of his former vampire self. The implications were unknown, save that he was mine, and I was his, and we were together.
“It’s me.” I saw the crescent of one eye gleaming in the darkness. There was nothing but starlight to guide my lips, but I kissed his upper lip with the touch of whisper. He smiled, coughed, and then smiled again. A hint of motion in his hands led to his arms circling me. “That’s good. Hold me tight. We’ll warm each other. If not, you’ll have to go in a tepid bath, and that’s like hell on earth.”
He laughed in an almost silent noise. “I’ve been there. Do not wish to go again.”
My tears pattered down on his cheek. “I know, love. And you won’t have to, ever again. You’re back, and you are free.” It never occurred to me that he might wish to remain vampire, or partially vampire. Mustering my courage, I asked, “You are no longer vampire; not really, anyway. I don’t think you can be fully human after so long under the curse, and if I release you from my spell, you’ll go back to—back to what you were.”
In the dim light, he shook his head once, definitively. “No. I’m not scared of aging, if that happens. I’m only fearful of growing old without you.” He opened his eyes to look at me for the first time, and my breath caught at the sight. “What is it?” Alarm crossed his face, settling into wary fear.
“Blue. Your eyes are blue.” There was wonder in my voice. The vampire in him was truly gone, right down to the smallest details. I knew there would be changes if the spell worked, but I hadn’t even thought about something as drastic as his eyes.
He chuckled, a more human noise than his earlier groaning laugh. Our bodies were sharing heat and restoring him to something beyond the pain of unending cold, both from the winter and vampire curse alike. “I could say the same for you.”
“What do you mean?” I looked down at him. Curiosity shaped his expression as he raised a hand, slowly, to stroke my hair.
“How long was I—gone?” His question faltered, but I answered immediately to still his fears.
“Less than a year. I’ve done nothing except plot your return since the day you faded into the woods. I needed something drastic to happen, and it came to me in the form of a warlock named Plimsoll.” He opened his mouth to ask a question, but I silenced him with a lingering kiss. “Later. It’s not important.”
“Less than a year?” He looked confused. “Then how did this happen?” He tugged playfully at my hair, bringing it in front my face with a look of disbelief.
Silver. From root to end, my hair was silver as the moon on a frozen lake.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Yesterday’s News
My phone pinged, startling us awake. I was burrowed under the covers with Wulfric, and we both enjoyed the pleasure of Gus’ company, who sat on my pillow, regarding the scene with cautious optimism. He hated vampires, but he liked extra laps on which to make biscuits, so Wulfric’s apparent inclusion in the household could go either way for Gus.
“Gotta check phone. What time izzit?” I grumbled to no one. Wulfric remained sound asleep. His body wasn’t done fighting a secret war that might take days or months to complete as he transitioned back more toward the side of humanity.
Come to library. Pics you must see. Now.
I sat up. If Brendan Kilmeade had information and said I needed it, there was no argument. I scrambled up, then remembered I had a giant, snoring Viking in my bed. I eased the rest of the way out from my covers and deposited a kiss on Wulfric’s lips, which were parted in repose as
one gusty breath after another rushed in and out of his enormous chest. It was like watching a blacksmith’s bellow, but nearly soundless. He didn’t snore, and I lofted yet another small prayer to the stars in honor of this further demonstration of his perfection.
“Gus, watch him. I’ll leave a note, but he’s not to be accidentally woken up because you’re hungry. I’ll be back shortly.” I glared at my cat, who flicked an ear and began grooming his huge front paws. I’d been dismissed, and I put the odds of him honoring my decree at fifty-fifty.
I was dressed and out the door in two minutes, rubbing toothpaste over my teeth and spitting in the snow as I began to tromp up the street toward the library. Yes, I should have brushed my teeth like a domesticated human, but in my defense I did manage to spit in the street because I am, after all, a lady who is civilized. Sometimes.
Brendan met me in the library lobby, fairly bouncing with manic energy and barely suppressed fear. His deep set green eyes were wide, and worry creased his forehead. Okay, then the news isn’t good. I braced myself mentally as we stepped into his office and closed the door. After sitting and pulling down my hood in one motion, Brendan froze.
“Your hair.” It was a question, and suspicion, and worry, all in two words.
“Oh, right.” I patted nervously at the lock that hung down, tucking it behind one ear. “Sort of this new thing I’m trying.” I laughed mechanically, angry at myself for not thinking about the repercussions of something as drastic as having platinum silver hair. As a woman, I was somewhat of a minimalist in terms of beauty aids, as witnessed by my earlier inability to brush my teeth on schedule. Coloring my hair was akin to a lunar mission; it simply wasn’t anything I’d ever considered, especially because I didn’t know if it would affect the random colors of the hair in my witchmark. I couldn’t risk setting a building on fire because I’d felt the need to go blonde, so the silver hair was something I could either deal with now, or continue to lie about for eternity.
Lying is exhausting. I chose to cut loose, since Brendan was already getting ready to deal me a lousy hand of cards.
“I saved Wulfric by casting a spell that stopped time, and it made my hair turn silver, and I’m not really sure what it all means.” Deep breath. “Clear?”
“You saved Wulfric? Wasn’t he a, you know, full-fledged maniacal vampire who lived on the blood of innocents? That sort of thing?” His surprise was nearly total. Add my hair to the mix, and the usually stolid Brendan might be on the verge of a minor panic attack. Librarians love order. I was disorder made real just then, and his earlier state of concern began to slam back like a hard tide returning to shore.
“He was, and now he’s not. It’s something I’ve devoted every waking second to since he was taken from me.” I felt my face closing down as the beginning of anger fizzed in my blood.
Brendan patted the air with his hands. “Didn’t mean to offend you. Glad he’s back. You might need him, though.” His frown grew into something sour and deep. It didn’t sit well on his even, handsome features.
“Why? What happened?” I tried to pull myself from the sense of well-being that hours with Wulfric had brought. The air was static in Brendan’s office; something was wrong.
“I found Reina. I’ve already explained everything to your Gran because, frankly, this won’t wait for one second. She told me to show you everything and that you could plan your next steps as a team, but for now you were to gove what I have your full attention." He opened a bland file folder to reveal copies of what looked like magazine articles from before I was born. “1960s?” I asked, looking at the ads crowding around the columns of type. Every picture was of a beautiful model holding a gun, or an electric meat smoker, or lounging on the hood of some muscle car. I felt like I could grow a beard just looking at it. The testosterone was palpable. “What magazine?”
“Magazines, actually. I found reprints of old hunting articles from the turn of last century, and then a couple of photo essays about men going back to their roots and killing more or less every animal in Africa. You know, safari stuff, but really high-end guided affairs. There were Hollywood actors and politicians, and even a couple of queens from European countries that don’t exist anymore. The whole safari thing went through a renaissance in the 1960s, so the hunting magazines trotted out these old articles as a sort of trip down memory lane. Turn to the third page and take a look.” Brendan grimaced as I flipped to the page, my eyes skipping from photos of men with rhinos and elephants, to some woman dressed like she was going to a ball posing with a dead antelope that had horns like curving scimitars. She had one high heel on the nose of the poor thing and wore more makeup than I owned. “Yeah, but what does it—”
I choked on my words. There, in the fourth picture of the third page, was a photo of a hunter and a man with a telescope, pointing off into the distance on some vivid African plain. The caption chilled my blood to a trickle, because I recognized both men.
Rare animal hunter Pembrose Dillingham and his trusty spotter, Jonny DePeuw.
Jonny. And Dilly. Together on the plains of Africa, hunting and killing, stalking and collecting. Rage began to boil in my chest, and I felt that unique blend of anger and shame at being duped by something that was right in front of me. Jonny was no photographer stranded in the woods by a warlock’s threat.
He was complicit. A cog in the machine that killed Reina, for some reason that I couldn’t understand other than sheer greed.
Reading my thoughts, Brendan reached over and flipped the page. “Second column. Read it.”
I scanned the dense, flowery language of a hunt that had taken place in a bygone era. And with each passing word, I began to understand. “Oh, stars above. That’s why they stalked and killed shifters.”
“Exactly. They lost a client—an important one—and decided to hunt down every shifter on the continent. And beyond.”
The article explained that Pembrose Dillingham’s fall from grace, while not total, had been serious. He’d led a party of minor royalty into the deepest bush, only to have a Baronet from Bohemia be torn apart by a family of unknown predatory cats after he shot one of their young.
“He knew they were shifters, and people paid to go hunt them. They picked the wrong pride of werecats to hunt, and it cost him the life of a client.” I felt my lips twist in satisfaction. “Good. I hope he died screaming.”
“Oh, he did. Dillingham heard the whole thing, it’s in another article. You mentioned that the warlock froze Reina in a state of change, right? Well, Dillingham didn’t need magic to do his bloody work in Africa. There was something different about the people he was hunting over there, or maybe he had access to a different warlock. I don’t know, but his reaction told me there was more to this than a simple hunt gone wrong. He could have recovered from something like the loss of a client, given enough time. After all, Africa was dangerous; it still is. But he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle after something like this.” Brendan shuffled papers for a moment, before finding the one he needed. It had a dog-eared corner, different from the others. He slid it across the desk to me, and I saw a single image embedded in a newspaper article, washed in sepia and the distance of time. The page identified the publication as The Journal of African Missionaries: An Accounting of Life, dated September 16, 1905. It had been written before Exit ever arrived in Africa.
The picture was a village, or at least it had been at one point. Smoking remains of huts and a larger, central building were arranged in a rough circle around a well. Nothing taller than knee high in the picture, and there was a random sense of destruction in the distant background. Fire and rage had broken the village apart; even the well had stones kicked in like the broken teeth of an old fighter. The hooves of a single cow pointed skyward, a cartoonish form if not for the massive bullet wounds exiting from the animal’s tawny side. Its tongue lolled in the equatorial heat, swollen to grotesque proportions.
In the middle of the scene stood Pembrose Dillingham, one foot placed trium
phantly on a large, malformed cat of indeterminate species. Jonny was to his right, caught in the act of skinning another catlike creature, his knife raised in greeting to the unseen cameraman. Streaks of blood covered his arms to the elbow, but his smile was broad and genuine. He was collecting a pelt, and there could be no doubt that the carcass he was violating was neither animal nor human, but something caught in between. Underneath the scene of carnage was the death knell of Pembrose Dillingham’s career.
Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy Page 15
