Touch of Shadow (The Shadow Sorceress Book 5)

by Bilinda Sheehan

"They were already dead—why would they beg?" I asked. Despite seeing it with my own eyes, I still couldn't wrap my head around why they would have pleaded for an existence that saw them as little more than slaves.

  "Because their souls were restored before he murdered them," Marcel said. I stared over at him and it was then I realised his voice was not devoid of emotion; he was filled with rage, the white-hot kind that left you hollow. The kind of rage reserved for those who had nothing left to lose.

  "Heddou wouldn't do this," I said, staring down at the half-rotted face of the man who lay on his back next to my booted feet.

  "No, they were his pets, his experiments, punishments for those who crossed him...."

  "What happened between the two of you?" I needed to know. Whatever it was, as far as Marcel was concerned, it wasn't over between them, and that made him a liability. What would he do to Heddou once we found him?

  "It doesn't matter. We need to find him," Marcel said, marching from the room. The stairs in the hall creaked as he started up them.

  "Can you walk the scene here?" Victoria asked, gesturing to the bodies.

  It was a stretch. The people had been dead for a very long time as it was, judging by the states of decomposition some of them seemed to be in. In fact, I was pretty sure the large pile of dust in the corner had been at least one of Heddou's zombies, their bodies so old that only his magic had kept them human-looking. Once it was taken away, the years had caught up with them, reducing them to little more than ash.

  "Honestly, I don't know," I said with a shrug. The thought of delving into the terror that had caused the zombies to huddle together and beg for their lives left me cold. I'd already had a taste of it with the vision I'd had, and I really didn't want to go there again … but if I could, and if it gave us a clue as to what was going on here, then what choice did I have?

  Rolling my shoulders back, I closed my eyes and reached for my magic. I'd always seen it as a sparkling blue, but the more my power grew, the more it changed colour. I imagined it coiled in the centre of my body, a place where I could simply reach down and grab it, mould it for my own purpose.

  The second I reached out for it, I felt it stretch beneath my skin, curling upwards to my call. The centre of my power still appeared blue, but as I called it forth, I watched it change behind my eyelids, getting warmer, the blue giving way to a brilliant orange that quickly became a red as it wound its way up to the surface.

  Screams filled my head and I opened my eyes. I was standing in the same place, but the bodies huddled against the walls were gone; so were the bodies on the floor. Instead, the room was filled with the smell of terror, and a magic so powerful that its earthy scent coated my skin as though I'd suddenly taken a dirt bath.

  I craned to see past the zombies standing between me and whoever stood in the doorway to the room. There was another scream and a woman near the wall suddenly clutched at her neck as though something was choking her. Her eyes were wild and terrified as she stared around the room before they finally came to rest on me.

  It didn't seem possible, but then, my magic was utterly unpredictable and I'd grown used to it doing things that shouldn't have been possible. She crossed the room toward me, her hands reaching out in my direction as her body began to rot. Her eyes rolled in her head, reminding me of a wild horse that feels the tug of the harness. Her legs went from beneath her as a muscle in her calf snapped in half, the flesh suddenly sagging, sliding down toward her ankles.

  She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Something caught my attention and I took a closer look into her eyes. What I saw there turned the blood in my veins to ice.

  Marcel hadn't been kidding when he'd said their souls had been restored to them. But it still didn't make any sense. Heddou could return a soul to a body and still stop the person from rotting. So why was this happening?

  The moment I thought his name, I heard his voice, and I turned in his direction.

  Several other zombies were slowly rotting, their hands clutching and clawing as their flesh collapsed inwards. Each and every one of them had a soul, their anguish and torment palpable on the air, making it hard to breathe.

  "Stop this! It is wrong and you know it," he said, his words sparking with anger and power, but his power had no effect on the rotting of his zombies.

  "You care more for them—you always did," the stranger’s voice caught me by surprise. The voice came from someone who stood in the hallway, and where I stood, they were just out of my line of sight.

  I moved forward through the writhing bodies, their mouths wide as they screamed silently. As I approached Heddou, he turned in my direction, his gaze meeting mine.

  "You see, but not all," he said, sending a shiver racing down my spine. "Jasper will raise them all; his anger is a power of its own."

  "Is she here?" the stranger asked, and I felt more than saw him step into the room. His form was shadowed, cloaked by something that moved with him, the power he possessed coming from whatever spirit travelled with him.

  Heddou turned away from me, raising his hands as he moved he tossed a red powder in the direction of the one he had called Jasper. "As vessel to the loa, I command you to leave. Baron Samedi holds sway over this house and you have no place here. Papa Legba commands all power that flows through here; all who stand against him shall be brought low." Heddou brought his hands together and the sound reverberated through the house.

  "Papa, you have no power here. You are merely a messenger; I carry the loa within," the stranger said, his voice losing the heavy Creole accent he'd had just seconds before.

  "Impossible," Heddou said, surprise etched into his face.

  The stranger jerked suddenly, his back arching, and Heddou raised his hands once more and began to weave his fingers through the air, creating strands of sparkling black light in the air around the stranger.

  "Spider's silk to bind you; Papa's arms will hold you; no harm shall you do so long as breath moves you, so long as life owns you."

  "The loa favour me now. Your parlour tricks offend the power within me," the stranger said, and I felt his power reach out through the room. It was searching for something, but I didn't know what. The ghost of it raced across my skin, sinking into my core, smothering the magic I'd called to walk the scene. My eyes watered as something caught in the back of my throat. I watched Heddou begin to fade from view, but not before he dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat.

  A woman's scream echoed in my ears and I started to choke. The vision faded completely, leaving me standing in the room with the remains of Heddou's zombies.

  Coughing, I fought to clear my throat, but whatever was stuck refused to budge. Panic swelled within and my eyes watered. Whatever was stuck felt solid and yet I knew that was impossible. I hadn't swallowed anything.

  Without a second thought, I pushed my fingers into my mouth and thrust them as far back my throat as was humanly possible. The urge to gag washed over me and I retched hard enough that stomach clenched viciously in response.

  The tip of my index finger brushed against something at the back of my throat; the feel of hair and something else my brain refused to piece together caused me to recoil. I gagged again and the hair tickled the back of my tongue as the acrid taste of bile burned in my throat.

  Whatever it was hadn't completely cut off my air supply, but the longer it remained where it didn't belong, the more my lungs burned and screamed out for untainted oxygen.

  Dropping to my knees, I rammed my fingers back my throat once more, this time determined that whatever was caught wouldn't best me a second time.

  Victoria's hand connected with the centre of my back with enough force that I was surprised to find she hadn't shoved my spine out through my chest. The lack of air in my lungs made it impossible for me to cry out.

  I grabbed the strands of hair that my fingers had managed to reach in my throat and I tugged. Pain seared down my throat, all the way to my lungs, and I released the object immediately, leaving i
t be. My fingers came away bloody; the acrid taste of vomit was suddenly overlaid with the strong taste of copper, as though I'd spent the last hour sucking on old pennies.

  "Don't touch it," Marcel said, his voice coming from somewhere over my shoulder.

  He crouched next to me but my vision was so blurred with tears that I couldn't see his face clearly. I desperately wanted to ask him why I shouldn't touch it but there was no way I could form the words. The thing that was stuck inside me was spreading, insidious and destructive; it was rapidly cutting off my air supply with every second that ticked slowly by.

  "This will hurt," Marcel whispered in my ear as his hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing so hard that I became acutely aware of how easily he could crush my throat beneath his grip.

  "Vin lakay ou," he said, the words sliding off his tongue as he lifted his other hand in front of my face. A foul-smelling liquid glistened in his palm. My brain screamed at me to move but the thing in my throat had stopped spreading. I felt it shift gently and the urge to cough once more washed over me.

  I didn't just cough, I gagged, and the small leather pouch slipped from my mouth and plopped into Marcel's waiting hand, leaving the sickly sweet and sour taste of old blood and rot behind.

  Jerking back, I ended up on my ass as I did my best attempt at a spider crawl away from whatever the thing in Marcel's hand was. It had been in my throat and while it was now out, I wasn't taking any chances. Distance was the only way to guarantee it didn't try to get back inside me.

  "What the hell is that thing?" I asked, my throat raw, each word making it burn with the effort of drawing in air over my voice box.

  Marcus closed his fingers over the leather pouch and the sound of bones crunching sent a chill racing up my spine. "Been a while since I seen a gris-gris like this," he said, managing to both ignore and answer my question all at once.

  "Gris-gris?" Victoria said, standing over him. "I thought they were solely for protection."

  "Depends on who you talk to, but like all magic, it depends on the intent, and this was intended to crush the throat of anyone who interfered." Marcel shot me a pointed look as he spoke. "Do you understand now why I interfered with your crime scene before? You are a child to magic and what you don't understand will kill you," he said, placing emphasis on the word interfered. Clearly, he didn't truly see it as an interference, and after what had just happened, I was infinitely more inclined to agree with him.

  "So what exactly is it and why did it feel alive?" I asked, rubbing my throat. I could feel the ghost of it squirming around in there and simply knowing Marcel held it in his hands wasn't making me feel any better.

  "It is alive," he said.

  I started to open my mouth and then stopped. Why couldn't it be alive? Hell, I'd seem some seriously scary shit; in the grand scheme of things, a gris-gris bag that was alive really wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

  "Some call them mojo bags, hex bags, conjure hands, gris-gris. Just depends on where you come from, but ultimately, they all stem from the same thing. Most mojo bags are harmless—powerful, but not intended to cause serious harm. But if you know your hoodoo, and this person clearly does, then you can create a gris-gris to do whatever you please."

  It seemed like a lot of information to take in, but I nodded and swallowed past the scratching in my throat. Everything Marcel had said made perfect sense to me; in my vision, I'd seen the stranger laugh off Heddou's power and I'd felt his magic before. It was no laughing matter.

  "Did you see anything when you walked the scene?" Victoria asked.

  "I didn't really see who was doing it. I felt them, but I couldn't see them."

  "Is Heddou dead?" Marcel asked.

  "I don't know. I saw him, but I didn't see him die...." I trailed off, remembering the way Heddou had looked at me.

  "But?" Marcel prompted impatiently.

  "The magic worker's name is Jasper," I said, Heddou's voice echoing in my head. You see, but not all.... What had he meant by that?

  "Did you see a woman?" Marcel asked, aiming for nonchalant even though there was something strange in the way his voice hitched. There was more to the question than he was letting on.

  ‘There was a woman but she rotted away,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No, a beautiful woman, she would not have been a zombie,” Marcel persisted.

  I shook my head. I hadn't seen a woman like he described, but there had been a scream. Turning on the spot, I stared at the other bodies strewn about. It could have been any one of the female corpses here … but the ghost of a memory tugged at the edges of my mind. The last time I'd been here there had been a woman, the one who was all shimmering skin and melodic voice until I'd used my own magic to dispel the glamour she'd been using.

  Scanning the remains on the floor, I searched for anything familiar, but I came up empty.

  "What aren't you telling me?" Marcel asked, taking a step closer. Desperation flashed in his eyes for a split second before it was locked behind the facade he'd built to cover his true emotions.

  "Why is this woman so important to you?" I asked, giving him the full weight of my gaze.

  "She's not, but I'd heard Heddou had a woman with him. I thought if she was still here then she could tell us what had happened."

  "Well, you've searched the rooms. Did you find a woman?"

  He shook his head and I spread my arms wide.

  "Then this is the only other place she could be, I guess...."

  Marcel eyed the remains scattered around the room before shaking his head. "She's not here."

  "How do you know?"

  "Just trust that I would know," he said, his voice suddenly world weary, and I sensed my opportunity to get past his defences.

  "I'm tired of the games, Marcel. Either you tell us what this woman means to you or we stop helping you," I said, folding my arms across my chest. My throat still ached and it was an effort not to touch the bruised skin. The irony was that he'd been more of a help to us then we had to him. Pushing the thought aside, I schooled my features into a firm glare and waited for him to make up his mind.

  Marcel opened his mouth and my cell phone chose that moment to buzz, completely destroying the moment.

  "I think maybe you should take Graham's call," Marcel said, his shoulders drooping as a slow sigh escaped him.

  Graham's name flashed on the screen and I shot Marcel a considering look. Was it guess work or had he truly known Graham was ringing?

  Answering the call, I pressed the cell to my ear and waited for Graham to rip me a new one for not doing as he demanded the first time.

  "Where are you, Morgan?" he asked, his rage barely contained.

  "Needed to make a stop first, but—" I started, but before I could finish, he cut me off.

  "Peter had another episode," he said, and my mouth went dry.

  "How is he?" I asked, the words sticking to my tongue. In that second, I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.

  "He isn't responding to treatment. There's talk of brain death."

  Graham's words caused my heart to skitter to a halt. It restarted with a jolt and the bile I'd tasted earlier washed back up into my mouth again.

  "Is there anything you can do, Morgan...?" Graham's question caught me by surprise and for a moment the world came to a crashing halt. Graham had never asked me to intervene before, not like this. He knew what I was, knew the magic I possessed, but he also knew the price of interfering with the balance between life and death. For him to ask meant there was more to the story than even I had realised.

  "Graham, do you know what you're asking me?" I asked, feeling like a complete asshole for even hesitating—but ever since my mother's death, I'd been researching the balance, life, death, and death magic. From everything I'd read, the fact that I'd managed to avoid consequences for bringing Mia back had been a goddamned miracle, but I'd come to the conclusion that I'd kept the balance intact by using the demon priest’s death as the counter weight.

  "C
ome down here. See for yourself, and then you tell me if you can leave him like this..." Graham said, and the line went dead before I could answer him.

  "We're going to St Bart’s," Victoria said, and it wasn't a question.

  "Looks like it," I said.

  14

  The smell of bleach and death set me on edge as we made our way down the hospital corridor, toward the intensive care unit. I'd always assumed that hospitals would keep most children out of the main ICU, but St Barts at least didn't have any compunction in adults and kids sharing the same space.

  My gaze fell on Graham, his shoulders hunched over as he rested his face in his hands. I picked up my pace, suddenly sure we were too late. The sound of our boots squeaking across the shiny floors made my ears hurt.

  He sat up, his expression one of relief the second he saw me. The tension that had been ratcheting up in my chest released with a pop.

  "Have they said anything else?" I asked, the second I was within earshot.

  "Nothing—they're still running tests," he said, pushing to his feet as I drew level with him.

  I glanced to the left and caught sight of Karis sitting next to Peter's bed, her fingers wrapped around his bandaged hand, her head resting on the side of the bed as two doctors moved around her and her son, staring at screens and observing the small body of the child.

  "What the fuck is she doing here?" I exploded, my voice echoing around the hall, rage causing my power to rise as the lights overhead flickered.

  Graham grabbed my arm and towed me down the hall as Karis lifted her face and her gaze met mine.

  "Get your hand off me," I said, rage seeping into every cell in my body. She had caused this; she was the reason he was here. I'd seen the marks on his body, the bruises, the branding....

  "You were wrong," Graham said, three little words halting my anger in its tracks.

  "Wrong?" The word felt alien in my mouth, and my anger fought the confusion that had crashed down around me.

  "The doctors have said the marks were self-inflicted."

  I shook my head. "That's not possible, Graham; he's a child. No way he inflicted that kind of shit on himself," I said.