Mist, Murder & Magic

by Dionnara Dawson

  ‘Then we take them out,’ Piper said. Her rainbow selection of athames shone on her belt, as well as a myriad of small vials.

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ Tommy ordered.

  ‘Relax, little warlock. I meant we will put them to sleep with these.’ She held up a vial.

  Tommy’s shoulders were tense. ‘We’re not killing anyone.’

  Piper looked him in the eye. ‘This is a mission, little one. What makes you think you’re in charge? Hmm? Because you think you’re so responsible? Because your aunt is on the council?’ Piper stepped closer to Tommy, never breaking eye contact. ‘Let me ask you something, when you broke in to see Harrow earlier, to heal the poor little soulless creature, did you feel responsible when you and he were nearly killed? Did you feel that you were up to the task of being in charge of my daughter then?’ Piper was centimetres away from him. ‘Tell me, oh responsible child, how well do you think you handled that?’ she whispered, but they all heard. ‘Do you think you’re in any position to be taking charge of us?’ Piper glanced at Hella.

  ‘Don’t speak to him like that,’ Hella snapped. Tommy had paled considerably. ‘It’s not on him what I did.’

  Tommy swallowed as Piper backed off.

  ‘You’re supposed to be here to help me, not belittle my friends. Besides, need I point out that I have known Tommy—and trusted him—longer than I have you?’ Hella was too tired to be arguing, but she wouldn’t let Tommy be beaten down this way. She stepped up to Piper. ‘You’—she pointed—‘are a stranger.’ She pointed at Tommy. ‘He,’ she said sharply, ‘has fought with me, saved my life, banished the angels with me, and has always looked out for me.’ Her eyes danced with purple fire. ‘You attack him, you attack me. Understood?’

  Piper didn’t look at all as cowed as Hella would have liked. She looked pleased. ‘Glad to see my daughter stands up for her friends. Hella, I wanted to test your courage, your loyalty.’ She glanced up at Tommy. ‘Sorry,’ she said, without a trace of regret. Tommy did his best to shake it off. Net had watched the entire exchange uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, then,’ Net said now. ‘Good. Good. We’re all good then.’

  ‘We go through the front,’ Tommy said, though his usual self-assuredness had waned. It sounded more like a suggestion, and Hella felt a pang for him.

  Hella stood up a little straighter. ‘Bring that book, Net. Are you sure we can do this?’

  Net had been leaning on the bench, his fatigue clear. ‘Yes. We’ll have you and Harrow and we’ll link you two to Piper and Tommy. All we’ll need then is your crystals,’ Net glanced at the amulet around Hella’s neck, then at an identical one around Piper’s, ‘and your blood.’

  Piper held up her vials. ‘And I have potions to help with the guards.’

  Tommy still eyed her athames distrustfully.

  Hella put a hand on his arm. ‘It’ll be okay. She won’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘She better not,’ Tommy said. ‘I already feel bad enough about this. Whatever happens, Hella, they’ll know that Tahlia leaked the information of Harrow’s trial to me. She’ll get in trouble as it is.’

  ‘It’s for Harrow,’ Hella said, wishing she could comfort him better. All he did was nod.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Azazel

  He had called this place, Australia, home for decades. He was almost sad to leave. He smiled as he recalled his adventures here. He had personally attacked, killed, and eaten over two hundred humans in the last two days alone.

  In a little diner on the outskirts of Victoria, Azazel had his feet up on the bench and sipped a cup of coffee. It was actually good: strong, well brewed, flavourful. The waitress glared at his feet, though he didn’t know why, his shoes were perfectly clean. Although, now that he came to think of it, there might be a splash of blood there from his breakfast, but he shrugged. She could glare all she wanted. He was having a wonderful morning. He stared up at the flat-screen television mounted on the wall showing the news. An alarming amount of strange deaths was the headline. Azazel grinned. It was nice to be famous. A hundred years ago, of course, he would have made international headlines. But, he smiled, knowing that in the coming days, he would. He sipped at his coffee and glanced around the diner. He supposed the town was small, quiet; he and the waitress were alone.

  The woman had a white apron tied around her waist. She stood with one hand on her hip, her blonde hair tied back, out of her face. He glanced at the woman. ‘Would you like a menu, sir?’ There was annoyance in her voice, either at his bad-human manners or his feet up on the counter, or because there was no one else to speak to. He smiled at her, showing his tongue.

  ‘That’s okay. I already know what I want.’ He pounced. She screamed, splattering her once-pristine white apron in dark shades of red. While he was eating, Azazel thought, You know, I’ve always wanted to visit London. Take the time. Walk around. Meet some good people. His coffee cup shattered on the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Harrow

  He hated being healed.

  It was the same for all Cambions. It wasn’t like oh no, you’re injured but it’s fine you can be magically healed.

  No.

  Being healed sucked.

  Amara sat on the slim bed with him in his cell (he was surprised the guards had let her in), and the silvery spider-web of magic glowing from her hands crackled threateningly. If he didn’t know Amara, he would never have let her come in. However bad it was to be healed with a shard of glass sticking out of your hand (bad), or two bullet wounds (rather painful), Harrow was sure it would be nothing compared to being over-healed with a lightning-bolt of magic by the most powerful witch on the planet—and she hadn’t even meant to, but oh, the stars how it burned.

  Being healed was going to suck, this time, he suspected, a lot.

  Amara’s silver gaze was soft as she looked over him, anticipating his nervousness. ‘You seem to get injured a lot.’ It had, in fact, been roughly a few hours since she last healed him. ‘What happened to you?’

  He shook his head, unwilling to tell her.

  Amara’s magical spider-web crackled, and was thrust into his skin.

  Harrow immediately blacked out.

  All he could see, no matter how much he tried to open his eyes, was darkness, purple fire, and his dark-blue blood, all swirling together. Not that that stopped the pain. Oh, no. He still felt it. He just couldn’t move or scream or anything. He was stuck in a sort of pain-limbo.

  Harrow wanted Amara to stop.

  ‘Hella, stop,’ he said, though he knew he hadn’t spoken aloud. He knew he meant to say ‘Amara’, but he pictured Hella, electrocuting him. Through the darkness, his voice echoed. Purple fire flared up at him, and then he was drowning in his own blue blood, coughing and spewing it up, all over his hands, down his front, splattered onto his shoes. He couldn’t move. His body cramped and seized. He could feel it. Was Amara almost done? He wanted to lash out at her, to shove her away, to stop this. Why did people keep electrocuting him?

  The darkness swelled then, like a tidal wave, and washed over him and brought with it a chilling numbness. His pain faded away, like footprints on a beach once the tide had come in. He couldn’t feel anything anymore, thank the stars. But he just wanted one thing. He opened his eyes, and this time, Amara was leaning over him, her silver hair tickled his cheek.

  ‘Damn, are you okay?’ Amara asked. He couldn’t remember her ever cursing before. Well, ‘damn’ was a curse word for a ten-year-old, but still.

  ‘Get off me,’ Harrow said, trying to sit up awkwardly, his hands still bound with plastic handcuffs.

  ‘What happened to you? I’ve never seen injuries like those.’ Amara’s hand was on his arm, as if to comfort him.

  ‘None of your business,’ he snapped, looking up at her. She gasped and stood up.

  ‘Harrow, your eyes.’ Amara’s eyes were wide, and she backed up a little. He blinked, and they returned to n
ormal. She pulled out her phone and seemed to text someone. She looked at him again, surveying her work. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  Harrow frowned up at her. ‘Why are you so concerned?’

  ‘You—’ she stammered. ‘You were hurt. Hella asked me to come and heal you. She didn’t tell me what had happened, though, but I have no idea how you could have—’

  ‘Oh, Hella asked you? Well, better do what Hella says.’

  ‘Harrow,’ she chided. ‘She asked me to help you.’ Amara put the phone away.

  ‘I suppose she didn’t mention that it was her who did that to me? With her special stupid witchy powers.’ Harrow could still picture the blinding purple light, feel the searing inside him.

  Amara frowned. ‘How—Why would she do that?’

  Harrow shrugged. ‘I don’t know, who cares? Hella does whatever she wants.’

  ‘Harrow, what’s going on with you? Are you mad at her?’ There was sincere concern in her voice. ‘You’re different. What’s going on? I know you’re usually a bit snarky, but Hella was at Faerie House. She said you…’ Amara trailed off, her delicate soul unable to contemplate little Harrow doing something bad. Harrow stared at her. Amara knew he had tried to kill Hella, but seemed unable to voice it.

  ‘Do you remember when you met me?’ Harrow asked. She blinked at the sudden turn in the conversation. ‘Do you remember what I was doing?’

  ‘You were bleeding,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘I had just stabbed someone,’ Harrow said pointedly. ‘And, you know what? I never regretted doing that. The bastard deserved it.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. ‘You know, I should have stabbed Wyatt, for what he did to me. Sacrificed me to the bloody angels, remember? All I did was break his nose. Little wanker.’

  Amara did the stupidest, most dainty thing: she gasped and covered her mouth. Harrow rolled his eyes as she thwacked him—extremely gently—on the leg. ‘Harrow,’ she said, appalled. ‘What are you talking about? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he growled, blinking his eyes back to black. ‘Hella took my soul.’

  Amara’s eyes popped. ‘She—what?!’

  If she were wearing a pearl necklace, she would have clutched them, he thought. Harrow was almost amused at her surprise. He wriggled his hands in the plastic cuffs, testing their sharpness. He bounded to his feet, off the bed, and held Amara by her throat, behind her, with the sharp edge of the cuff at her exposed throat. ‘Ooooooh, guard!’ Harrow called playfully.

  A Mettalum warlock, dressed all in black, entered, his eyes widening. He opened his hand, to use the sharp metal discs at his belt, no doubt, but Harrow made a tutting noise. ‘Oh, no. You don’t want to do that. Amara here is the only healer this town has. Do you really want to be the one to get her killed?’ Harrow pouted in mock-sympathy. Inside him, darkness pulled him into a beautifully numb abyss. He liked it. He wanted to drown in it.

  The guard froze. Slowly, he shook his head, lowering his hand.

  ‘That’s a good guard. Now, be a peach and open this.’ Harrow nodded at the locked cell door.

  The guard did as he was told, annoyance flaring in his dark eyes. ‘You would hurt her? I thought she was your friend.’

  ‘Well, I guess she is.’ Harrow shrugged. ‘But haven’t you heard? I might be on trial for the Imperium Ceremony so, I’m afraid, desperate times.’ He moved to see Amara’s face. Hurt and surprise chased each other across her delicate features. As he moved, the plastic grazed her throat, and she gasped. Harrow caught the sight of a line of silver blood trailing down her pale neck. The guard’s eyes softened, no doubt wishing he could do something.

  ‘Oops. Move, Mettalum, no time to dawdle now,’ Harrow snapped.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The guard asked, a drool of patronisation colouring his words.

  ‘You know, you would think I would have thought of that,’ Harrow said absently, ‘but I made this plan roughly sixty seconds ago, so I haven’t yet. Be a dear and close that up?’ Harrow nodded at the now-empty cell. ‘Atta boy. Now, you’ve been swell, really, but I can’t have you running off to blabber to someone.’ Harrow conjured a bubble of water and promptly floated it to the Mettalum guard’s head, whose eyes popped with alarm as he was slowly drowned. He clawed futilely at the bubble.

  ‘Harrow!’ Amara hissed. He ignored her as the guard slumped to the floor. Harrow peered out into the corridor, checking for other guards, then chuckled.

  ‘After all that, there was only one guard? How lazy is that?’ Harrow said.

  Amara did not answer.

  Harrow slowly stepped into the corridor that branched off to all the other celled rooms. ‘What do you think I should do, hmmm?’

  ‘You’re asking my advice on how to escape your House’s justice?’ Amara asked.

  Harrow shook her then, violently. The plastic of the cuffs sliced into her neck and she whimpered. ‘Justice?’ he growled, holding her tighter. ‘Justice? Hah. It wouldn’t be justice. The Imperium Ceremony should be a fucking crime. You’d want to see them do that to me? That hurts, Amara.’ He dragged her down the corridor, silver blood dripping onto the ground as they moved.

  ‘Harrow,’ she breathed. He could feel her panic.

  ‘Yeees?’ He peered up the stairs that would lead to the foyer.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I thought my motives were quite clear. Don’t want to have my magic cut out of me. Going to be put on trial pretty soon… sound familiar?’ He started up the stairs slowly.

  ‘Did you kill that guard?’ the faerie asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. Why?’ Harrow said, annoyed at her questions.

  ‘Harrow, how can you not care?’

  Harrow spun her on the stairs, pressing her back against the wall, his face close to hers. ‘I have no soul, Amara. Weren’t you listening? Hella took it. It’s gone, and I’m not about to get it back. It’s not my fault I ended up in here. I’m not going to be punished for her damned spell.’ The plastic cut deeper into her as he spoke, enraged.

  She froze. Amara had shimmered, her wings flapping in fear, but the rest of her was still as a statue. She peered into his eyes. ‘Harrow, you’re my friend,’ she said slowly. ‘Whether you really have no soul or not, that remains true.’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘What’s your point, Amara? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.’ He glanced up the stairs, hoping he wasn’t about to be caught because of her mindless chattering.

  ‘Do you not care at all that you’re hurting me?’ Amara asked softly. Silver blood dripped down her neck. Tears began to form in her eyes.

  Harrow blinked black eyes at her. ‘I needed you to get me out.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. You don’t need to have that at my throat,’ she said, looking down at the sharp cuffs. She seemed to notice for the first time that they were doing damage to Harrow too.

  Harrow tilted his head. He really thought about it for a beat, then frowned. ‘You know what’s funny? I felt like this sometimes when I was younger, going through the change, you know? Well, as a faerie, you don’t know, but still. And I used to feel bad about it. I didn’t know how to use my magic then.’ Harrow lowered the plastic cuffs.

  Amara took a shuddering breath. They were under a lit torch bracket. Harrow looked up at the flickering flame, then froze it solid. ‘What’s funny about that, you may ask, is that now that I do know how to use my powers, I feel better this way.’ He used the frozen end of the wooden torch and hit Amara over the head with it. She collapsed to the ground in a heap of silver hair and blood. Harrow took a deep breath. ‘It’s freeing, really.’ He smiled, swinging the torch like a cheerleader’s baton. He felt like whistling, but didn’t want the attention, so instead he hummed quietly to himself as he ascended the stairs to freedom.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sam

  ‘Do you really think there’s a vampire roaming
around here?’ Sam Serrow asked, wandering around the edge of the parking lot. There were only two cars; he suspected one belonged to the manager, the other, perhaps belonged to a guest or a housekeeper. It was broad daylight, and the streets were almost deserted. ‘No one around here to eat.’ A chill went down his spine even as he said it. His boss, Jones, cast a sideways glance at him.

  ‘Housekeeper called in the deaths of two junkies down here. Victims look like they’ve been torn apart, and there are two small bite marks on each of the vic’s necks,’ Jones said. They had pulled the van up to the motel’s parking lot. Today they couldn’t fly under the radar, so they had to bend the rules a bit.

  ‘Does it seem like we’re getting more of these calls lately?’ Sam asked, still new to field work.

  Jones swung his evidence camera around his shoulder. In one hand he carried a white box of evidence bags, number signs, and rubber gloves. With the other hand he pushed open the ajar door of the room on the first floor of the L-shaped motel. It was the room with the two dead bodies in it.

  ‘It sure does, kid.’ Jones started snapping photos, and got up a little too close and personal with the victim’s neck wounds for Sam’s comfort. He turned and tried not to let Jones see him cringe.

  Sam’s thoughts drifted to his sister, Danielle; she had tried to call him that morning, but he’d declined it. Dany poking around in his business since he joined The Force was not allowed. You see, she was a damned reporter who had been covering a lot of the strange murders around town, and she wanted to speak with Sam, knowing he had something to do with it. He had seen her on the news recently, reporting that an attack had been caused by wild dogs: that poor fella, Jensen, who had been killed at the end of his street. Dany wouldn’t have believed that, he knew, but humans wanted straightforward answers, so that’s what she had to give them. Sam knew she would come poking around sooner or later, whether he answered her calls or not. Dany always got her story.

  ‘What else did the caller say when they reported the attack?’ Sam asked, partly to get his mind off his younger, tenacious sister. Jones didn’t look up from taking pictures.