The men still resembled soldiers: impassive, unblinking, though they grimaced at the stench and heat. They walked around Kit, entering the room. She watched. Flashlights blinked, and she caught glimpses of pale flesh, contorted and stiff and filthy. Corpses pressed against the living, who moved weakly without sound. Eyes flashed against the light, and then were lost in shadow.
The flashlight beams converged on one spot. Kit glimpsed blond hair before the men blocked her view. Chains rattled. Alice groaned softly.
And then the men were back, carrying Alice between them. She was still clothed in her white dress, but the lower half of it was stained and wet. Her fine hair was a rat’s nest of tangles, and her face was so gaunt and red, she looked like a woman left in the desert to bake.
“You help her,” Yu said to Kit, and gave the men a hard look. They let go of Alice immediately, and Kit had to rush to keep the woman from falling. Alice reeked, but Kit paid no mind. Just held her by the waist and tugged one skinny arm over her shoulders, holding her up on two feet.
Yu started walking. The men stood behind Kit and looked on, impassive. She wanted to scream at them and go for their guns, but she steeled herself and took a step. Alice walked with her, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack. A far cry from the woman in the room who had been far more talkative. Kit recalled her act in the police cruiser a lifetime past, and wondered if Alice was not playing another trick. Weak, helpless.
Kit peered up into her face. No one could see Alice’s eyes but her. She squeezed the woman’s waist, and Alice for one brief instant glanced sideways at her with sharp, piercing clarity.
Kit looked away before she could do anything stupid and stared resolutely at Yu’s slender back and bloodstained hands. Felt the doors on either side of her looming, as though the wood carried faces watching her with hungry gazes. Kit imagined creatures breathing on the other side of those doors. Locked up. Waiting.
Ahead, sand. Kit’s spirit balked at the sight, but her legs kept moving. There was a train wreck coming, with no brakes to pull. Full speed, collision course. She glanced at Alice again and saw that knife sticking out of her eye. Blood gushed from her face. Kit sucked in her breath and looked back at the men. One of them had a broken neck. The other was blue in the face, his hair drifting wildly. Drowned, sinking.
The vision passed. The two men gave her an odd look, and she tore her gaze away. Yu’s back appeared no different at all. If she was going to be murdered, Kit still could not see it. She found it disturbing that she wanted to.
They entered the main room, every inch of the floor still covered in white sand. Alice balked, but the men shoved her, which carried her and Kit even deeper toward the center of the room. A large circle had been drawn there, the line made with something dark that glimmered wet beneath the flickering candlelight.
Blood. The word leapt into Kit’s mind. Blood as ink. Blood as a line to be crossed, or not.
She thought of M’cal—her vision of him, trapped in such a circle—screaming. Nothing in this one—not yet—but Kit felt the promise. It was only a matter of time. She wished she had her fiddle.
Yu made Alice and Kit stop near the circle. At the far end of the room, in the shadows, someone moved. A hulking body. A round body. A body Kit knew well enough by heart, without needing to see the face.
Ivan moved into the light. Alice gasped. And then she made another sound—lower, harsher—as the witch appeared from behind her companion. She wore a pristine, silver robe—a kimono, flowing with silk ties. A gray silk veil was draped loosely around her face. Only her pale eyes showed, as well as her hair, which flowed long and shining to her waist.
Alice gave up all pretense of near-unconsciousness. She took a step forward, out of Kit’s arms, her eyes wide, haunted. “No.”
“Alice,” said the witch, her voice muffled, silk veil puffing around her mouth. “Alice, how could you? Why?”
The young woman closed her eyes. “I had to. I was trying to prevent this.”
The witch swayed forward, just one step, stopping so abruptly she looked caught by strings. Her eyes were raw, human. All the hate, all that cold charm Kit remembered—all was utterly wiped away when she looked at Alice. It was like seeing another woman. A normal woman. A woman without a mark upon her soul.
And it occurred to Kit, despite the witch’s uncanny presence in this place, that she was innocent of this much: hurting Alice. Whatever else might be going on, that much Kit could be certain of. She hated the woman, but that hatred did not make her blind. Confused as hell, maybe, but that was another matter entirely.
“Only you,” murmured the witch, gazing at Alice. “Only you would ever think I deserve mercy.”
“Because she loves you,” said a new voice, from behind Kit. “And it is amazing the foolhardiness done in the name of love.”
Alice went very still. Kit turned. Behind Yu, on the other side of the room, was another corner full of shadows—and deep within those shadows, movement. Kit did not need to be told; she knew instantly what she was looking at.
Endgame. It. Someone bad.
Kit shivered. The voice was familiar; it had a rasping quality that ran right down her spine and reminded her of Ivan’s teeth: sharp, hungry, and not just for show. She did not want to see—was afraid—but she forced herself to look hard into the darkness, squinting, and glimpsed a round body, a flash of long metal earrings, the fat edge of a headband jutting from a thick forehead.
And then her eyes adjusted a little more, and her mind caught up.
The old woman stepped into the candlelight with cats in cowboy hats still swinging from her ears. She looked the same—dressed the same—but as she took off her tinted glasses, Kit glimpsed a darkness so profound she wanted to scream.
“Edith,” breathed Kit, sickness crawling up her throat. The old woman wore an aura like the heart of murder, pressed so thick over her shoulders it seemed part of her clothing. Her eyes were black, all the way through. Inhuman, alien. A sharp contrast to the pale gaze that had studied her only a day before. Youth counselor. Eccentric old woman. An illusion.
“What a sight this is,” Edith murmured. “Women of power, gathered together. It has been a long time, Luanna. Too long.”
“Long enough,” said the witch, eyes glittering in that dangerous way Kit remembered; like her gaze was full of diamonds. “We all changed too much to ever be again as we were.”
“We changed,” agreed Edith, glancing at Ivan. “Some more than others. I suppose our father would be proud. All his scattered daughters, coming to fruition. Following his footsteps.”
The witch narrowed her eyes. “I did not come here to talk. I want Alice. I want Kitala. I want what is mine.”
Edith glanced at Yu, who nodded and walked to the front door. There was a black sack resting on the floor. She reached inside and pulled out a thick gob of bloody flesh. It looked like a heart. Yu carried it to Edith, who took it in her hand like a prize. She looked at Kit, and then the witch.
“This,” said the old woman softly, “belongs to the both of you, I think.”
It took Kit a moment to understand, and, like that, all the fear she felt washed away into a cold, hard spike of rage. She sank deep, searching for M’cal, whose presence rose like a star inside her heart; immediate, true. Still alive.
Edith tilted her head, studying Kit’s face with unnerving intensity; unblinking, cold. “Or maybe just you. I think Luanna has lost her prize.”
Kit shook her head. “What is this? What are you?”
“No,” said the witch, moving forward, Ivan following close on her heels. She grabbed Alice’s arm. “Enough, Edith.”
“Enough?” Edith smiled, and it was ghastly, lips peeled back, teeth bared; like a mouth ready for a scream. “The circle is ready, Luanna. The time is right. All I have to do is open the door.”
The witch took another step. “This is not you, Edith.”
“Blood of my blood,” whispered the old woman, and she held up her wrinkled hand to loo
k at it, turning her palm against the candlelight. “Blood of power.” She stopped, and looked at the witch. “I was going to spare you, Luanna.”
“Not in place of Alice,” said the witch. “Not her.”
“She came to me so innocent. She had no idea who I was.” Edith settled her gaze on Kit. “And you. You came as well. You and the merman.”
“Me,” Kit said in hard voice. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it is done. You are done.”
Edith clicked her fingers. Kit felt heat spread across her throat, and then pressure. She tried to swallow and could not. Tried to breathe, and started choking. Panic swelled. She clawed at her throat, even as part of her spirit settled into a small, quiet ball, fiddle strings humming inside her mind. Kit clung to the music, feeling it swell inside her heart like thunder. The pressure on her throat eased; she took a shallow breath. Edith reared back, staring.
And then the witch was there, pushing Kit aside with a snarl. She raised her hands and light flashed, so bright it seared right down to Kit’s brain. A rough hand grabbed her arm, pulling her away. It was Ivan. He yanked hard, reaching out for Alice. Sand kicked up beneath their feet, digging trenches. Kit looked down and saw a red stain in those fine grains. A stain that spread, welling up like an oil strike, a vein of water.
Blood. They were standing over blood.
Kit’s vision flickered, strings snapping in her head. Ivan still pulled her. She did not resist. No strength was available, not when all her focus was on shadows and spirits and the wail of music screaming. There was a pattern there—she could feel it like the rhythm of a hard stroking jig, rising and falling on a pound and a beat; as though the spirit of this place was a taste and a heartbeat. Living, breathing, darkness. Something stirring. Growing. The belly of the beast.
And Kit felt herself answering back. She felt, on the tip of her tongue, a thrill of music so strong she wanted to cut herself with it. To spill her own blood, as if that would chase away the spirit she felt hovering over this place. All the murders she had ever seen—all the pain that fate could deliver—this, here, what she felt right now was the cause of it all. She could almost touch it.
Alice shouted. Kit’s focus snapped back, tearing away from the spiritual to the physical—the sand and heat and blood and screams. The witch was on her knees in front of Edith, who had her hand pressed against the woman’s shoulder. Smoke rose from the contact, the hint of sparks. The witch screamed and screamed—more defiance than pain—and Kit could see her dead, a vision, sprawled on the ground with her eyes open and staring—
Yu appeared in front of them with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. The blade was sticky with blood. Kit knew who it belonged to. She lunged, but Ivan yanked her back, standing between them, blocking her view of the police officer. She could not see around him, but she glimpsed the two men flanking her, standing on either side of the door. Guns out. Eyes hard. Totally unnerved by the scene going on around them.
Alice screamed at Edith, still struggling to free herself, until suddenly, like a whip, she coiled around and fastened her teeth on Ivan’s wrist, biting down hard. He must have been distracted, surprised; he let go, and Alice moved fast. Kit lunged after her, but Ivan still had hold of her wrist. She watched, helpless, as Alice threw herself at Edith.
Alice had guts, but she was about as good in a fight as Kit—and Edith, despite her apparent old age, moved like a viper. The young woman went down hard, and the witch cried out, reaching for her. Edith batted her away.
Ivan finally released Kit. She did not look back, only sprang across the sand and slammed into the old woman, who was just beginning to crouch over Alice’s prone body. Edith snarled, mouth opening far too wide for anyone pretending to be human, and grabbed Kit around the throat.
Time stopped. Kit felt like she was floating. Edith’s hand was around her neck, but it did not matter. She was back on the veranda with her grandmother, watching Old Jazz Marie’s strong fingers sew the pouch of a gris-gris as her old dark eyes burned bright and hot.
Edith’s hand exploded from Kit’s throat. Literally.
It happened too fast to see, but Kit felt the heat, the blast, and suddenly her face was covered in hot blood and Edith was on the ground, cradling her arm, which stopped at the wrist. Blood spurted around a jagged lump of protruding bone. The old woman did not make a sound, but her eyes swallowed the candlelight when she looked at Kit.
Kit wasted no time being stunned. She yanked the witch to her feet, and they both grabbed Alice and began dragging her unconscious body to the door. Ivan joined them. He was bleeding, but one of the soldiers was sprawled on the ground with his head twisted all the way around. Fate. Yu and the other were gone.
Edith reached out with her remaining hand and hissed one long word. Alice stopped moving. Kit pulled with all her strength, crying out with the effort, but it was like hauling a two-ton slab of concrete. Dead weight. Kit had to drop her. The witch had her hands wrapped around Alice’s wrist. She dug in her heels, the veins standing out in her neck. Edith bared her teeth and smiled.
The witch let go. She stared at Edith, and Kit could feel the power rolling off her in waves. It was not enough, though. Whatever—whoever—Edith was, she was too strong. The witch gazed down at Alice, snarled, and grabbed Kit’s arm.
“Good,” Edith said as the witch dragged Kit away. “Good, Luanna! She was already mine.”
The witch did not say a word. Ivan opened the door, and within seconds they were stumbling out into a wash of cold air. It was night. Kit was surprised by the darkness, by the amount of time that had passed, but Ivan made a grunting sound and the witch tugged Kit into the forest. The ground hurt her feet, but it was better than walking in blood and shit and that terrible sand.
“Alice,” Kit gasped, looking over her shoulder. She saw nothing. Without any light escaping the structure, it was impossible to see in the darkness.
“We will save her,” said the witch grimly, and Kit felt the woman’s gaze track over her face. “All this time, you have been trying to help her. And you still do not know why.”
“I had to,” Kit said breathlessly, and then: “Who is she to you?”
Silence for one long moment. Kit stubbed her toes on a log and cursed, stumbling. The witch kept her from falling. “My granddaughter. Alice is my granddaughter.”
Too much had already happened for Kit to feel surprise; she was numb. “And Edith is your sister?”
“We had the same father,” said the witch, her breathing ragged. “There are many of us who could claim that privilege. He was long-lived. Immortal.”
“Was?”
“Dead now. Murdered. But he left his mark, in more ways than one. I doubt he ever knew the true extent of it. He was … focused on other things.” The witch squeezed Kit’s hand. “The world is bigger than you know. If you want to survive—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Kit snapped. “You’re the last person I want lecturing me about survival. You’d throw a baby in a volcano if it meant keeping your eyelids from falling.”
“But not my baby. And not my granddaughter.”
Ivan had disappeared, but the witch did not falter; she moved without hesitation through the night, and Kit kept getting hit in the face with branches, tearing her skin on thorns and rocks. Her feet felt like they were bleeding. The pain made her think of M’cal—his heart, the blood on Yu’s hands. She gritted her teeth. “M’cal.”
“We are going to him.” The witch’s eyes glowed for one brief instant. “He has what we need.”
“You still want my soul,” Kit said. “Jesus Christ. How could it possibly help you?”
The witch did not answer. Instead, she said, “Your grandmother loved you. She loved you enough to protect you tonight. Do you know the cost of that gift, Kitala? Do you understand the price of that love?”
Kit said nothing, touching the gris-gris where it bounced beneath her T-shirt. The witch looked at her again, and in a deathly quiet voice, said, �
�I am going to teach you, Kitala Bell. Tonight. You are going to learn the price of a grandmother’s love.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Returning to life was a slow process, depending on the wound, but when M’cal finally opened his eyes after losing his heart, the first face he saw was craggy and lean, with golden glowing eyes and hot breath that smelled like garlic. All things being equal, M’cal would have preferred something less … fetid.
“Koni,” he rasped. “What happened?” He looked around. He was still in front of the grate, in front of the cave.
The shape-shifter blew out his breath. “Fuck. You’re alive.”
“What happened?” M’cal asked again, trying to sit up.
“Bitch carved you like a turkey. Never seen anything like it. Never seen anyone … enjoy it as much as she did. Like she was getting the taste in her mouth.” Koni leaned back, sprawling on his side. He ran a hand through his hair and covered his eyes. “I listened to you, man. I stayed quiet. But it was fucking hard.”
“Thank you,” M’cal said. “Thank you for staying alive.”
“Your love kept me going,” he replied.
M’cal grunted at the sarcasm. “Enough people have died because of me, that is all.”
Koni grunted and rolled to his feet. He tested the grate, shaking it. “You must be popular at parties.”
M’cal sighed. “I do not suppose you have some lock pick hidden on you?”
The shape-shifter stared, then pointedly glanced down at his naked body. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
M’cal stood. His chest hurt. He touched his skin and found an indentation above his heart. He took a deep breath, clearing his head, and focused on Kitala. She was still nearby, and still alive. But he could feel, almost like a taste drifting on his tongue, the fine lines of some terrible stress. Something bad was happening.
He joined Koni, and the two pulled hard on the steel bars, the ends of which had been embedded in the rock face on either side. What light had been at the mouth of the cave was gone. Night had fallen.
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