Night Latch

by Anela Deen

  I lowered my hands and rubbed the unnerving tingle away on my jeans. “If it’s not a bother, could you all give me some room and maybe look another direction?”

  “Of course.” Their leader said motioned to the others, though Hazel moved to my side.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, her tone thankfully one of neutral inquiry.

  “No problem. I’m mapping things out, that’s all.”

  She paused. Surprise filled her gaze. “You’re nervous.”

  “Am not.”

  The mask hid her face, but a glint of wry humor touched her eyes. “Are too.”

  “I’m strategizing. Stoically.”

  “Does stoicism typically look this sweaty?”

  “That’s not sweat. It’s determination.”

  “The virile kind, no doubt.” There was no mistaking the amused note in her voice.

  I pressed a knuckle against the smile tugging at my mouth. Here I was, bantering with a witch while breaking into a museum to steal the sword of a dead saint. Quite the work week I was having.

  “Do you need anything from us to do…what you do?” Hazel asked. “For our people, abilities are often stronger when we work collectively.”

  The offer of solidarity calmed me a bit. “What I do is a solo thing, but I’ve never applied it this way before.” I exhaled a breath. “Give me as much time as you can.”

  “We will,” she nodded, turning to step back. After a beat of hesitation, she added over her shoulder a quiet, “Good luck.”

  “I’ll need plenty of that, too,” I muttered.

  Closing my eyes briefly, I cleared my head of doubt. There was a life at stake and I had a job to do.

  I concentrated my thoughts on the shards of the sword, on narrowing my focus to pulling away the jagged energy encasing the display, the same as I would a locked door I wished to pull open.

  Slowly, I pressed my hands to the glass…

  The current seized my arms and held me immobile while a thousand white-hot needles raged across my body. My back arched with a snap; the breath ripped from my lungs. I couldn’t pull away. I couldn’t move.

  Images pushed behind my eyes. Nightmares and pain; A woman crying, pleading. Hands positioned her head over a bowl. A knife slipped across her throat. Blood followed it, a dark stream as it spilled into the vessel.

  There appeared a hawk, caged. A loop went around its neck. It went taut as a garrote, lifting the creature up. Rough fingers gripped the wings. Fragile bones snapped; sleek feathers torn away. The swipe of an axe.

  There came a young girl next, dressed in white, bound to a stake surrounded by oil-drenched wood. Prayers fell from her lips while crowds hurled filthy insults. A cheer went up with the flames. Smoke and screams consumed her.

  My staggering mind recognized the sights and sounds as a hallucination, but it was real too. I felt it. This suffering had happened. The images repeated on an endless loop until I thought I might collapse beneath them.

  Despair, they murmured into my thoughts. Surrender and be released.

  Realization pierced through my horror. This was the binding spell, the power that locked the sword in its vault. The pictures continued to rush behind my eyes in a red cascade. Blood. Torture. Flame. Over and over again. It was meant to fill me with hopelessness. To make me give in.

  A rush of unmitigated anger filled me instead. I stopped trying to pull away, and surged my will toward it.

  The challenge leapt from my mouth, my voice a command. “These innocents are gone. Their hurt is over. And you, you who did this, I won’t let you use their pain for your power anymore.”

  I shoved past the shield of terror and anguish, and there it was.

  The spell. The lock.

  “Open to me,” I whispered to it. “Please. Open.”

  It bowed to my request and released with a flash of light. The spell drifted apart, disbursed like dandelion fluff caught in an updraft. I watched it go, staying close to ensure nothing remained. A moment before it fully dissipated, the weight of another presence shadowed my thoughts and something peered back through the haze. A face. Eyes. A mouth. The details were too fogged to get a true glimpse, but I felt its terrible gaze looking.

  Looking at me.

  Then it vanished.

  Chapter 16

  It took a second to understand that the twinkling lights above me were not stars, but the museum’s dimmed recess lighting. I was on the ground.

  Had I fallen down? I didn’t remember that.

  “You did it. You broke the spell.”

  I glanced over to find Hazel crouched beside me.

  “That was more than a little discomfort,” I said groggily, sitting up.

  The others were gathered around the display case. The glass covering had been put to one side while they carefully set the fragments of the sword into a black case.

  “Are you all right?” Hazel asked. “Can you stand?”

  Did I detect a note of concern? Maybe I’d hit my head.

  “I’m fine,” I said, getting slowly to my feet. “See, I told you I wasn’t nervous. I got it done in record time—if there’s a record for this kind of thing.”

  She didn’t say anything. Then, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “You seem to be under the impression no time has passed. It’s been two hours since you began.”

  “Two hours?” My mouth dropped a few inches. “It felt like only minutes.”

  Their leader approached with an urgency to her step. “We have to go,” she said, and something about the way she glanced about made worry rise up in my stomach. “Dawn is approaching, and with it, the end of our spells.”

  A groan came from the doorway where they’d left the unconscious guard.

  “Do you have the sword?” Hazel asked.

  She lifted the black case in one hand. “Yes, we have it.”

  “You should go,” Hazel told her and nodded my direction. “We’ll distract the guards so you can escape.”

  Wait, who did she mean by we?

  “Then we’ll meet you on the other side of the gardens behind the museum,” their leader said. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Yes,” Hazel answered. “Hurry, while you can still pass through the outer wall.”

  The other nodded before turning her eyes to me. She touched my shoulder lightly. “Thank you.”

  Seconds later, she and the others fled from the room.

  The guard made more sound, starting to sit up. Hazel pulled me up and into the concealing shadows beside the doorway to the next gallery.

  “I don’t remember volunteering to stay behind,” I whispered.

  “They need time to get away or it’ll be for nothing,” she whispered back. “And I can’t open doors after dawn. You can.”

  There was logic to that. As usual, not in my favor.

  The guard was on his feet now, rubbing at his eyes. The radio at his collar buzzed with reports from other guards.

  He pressed the radio with one hand and leaned into it. “This is Davis, Ten-Five to main security,” he said, his voice foggy. “Something knocked me out. I—I don’t know what. Over.”

  From our distance, the response was an unintelligible drone. Still facing the other way, he hadn’t seen the glass casing still on the floor next to the empty display.

  He took a step toward the outer gallery, looking left and right. “All clear in the Damascus room.”

  “Get ready to run,” Hazel breathed.

  Exactly how should I get ready for that? Was there time for leg stretches?

  The guard turned around. He stared blearily for a moment and then jumped like he’d been stung.

  “Ten-Ninety-two! Ten-Ninety-two in special exhibitions,” he cried, rushing to the empty display. He pulled his gun from his holster. “The sword is gone.”

  The radio exploded in a flurry of sound. More guards were on their way. Maybe now would be a good time to run.

  I turned to tell
Hazel as much when she leapt out of the shadows and rushed the guard. The guy barely had time to shout before she delivered a brutal side-kick to his chest.

  My eyes bulged. What was I dealing with here, a witch-ninja?

  The guard fell backward with a wheeze and flopped there breathless. She leaned down and pulled the gun from his hand. Tucking it into the waistline of her pants, she hustled back to me where I stared open-mouthed.

  “What do you need spells for if you can do that?” I sputtered.

  Alarms blared and the lights came on in full.

  “Time to go,” she said, turning me about and shoving me through the doorway. “Follow me.”

  While I’d done a quick once-over of the museum’s layout in the hours before we’d arrived, it became obvious Hazel had committed it to memory. In and out of galleries we wove until I was completely turned around. Flashes of paintings caught my eye as we ran past them. Landscapes. Bowls of fruit. Holy renderings.

  The raised voices of guards called to each other as they pursued us.

  “Lock down the exits!”

  “Police are on their way!”

  Somehow, she kept us a step ahead of them, and for any who go too close, well, at least she didn’t break any bones.

  Finally, I spotted the red exit signs. We turned down a long, narrow hall lined with sketches to the left and a bank of windows to the right. The museum’s Japanese Gardens were just outside, the access door at the far end. We were almost there.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall adjacent to the door. Hazel cursed under her breath and skidded to a stop. She glanced about and then grabbed me by the arm.

  “This way,” she hissed and pulled me back a handful of steps to a door facing the windows.

  Utility Closet, the sign read.

  She tried the knob. Locked. Her gaze went to me, eyebrows raised.

  Right. That’s my cue.

  The door clicked shut behind us just as the guards’ entered the hall. A pair of anxious moments passed as they approached but they hurried right by the door without pause. I slowly released the breath I’d been holding.

  Their voices faded away but we remained hidden in case others followed. It didn’t take long for me to realize how small the utility closet actually was. We stood almost on top of each other. I tried to shift back but my shoulder blades were already pressed against the side wall.

  “Stop wriggling,” she murmured at me.

  “I’ll stop if you will.”

  “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one with an elbow jammed into my ribs.”

  “And if you move your knee one more inch, I’ll be limping out of here.”

  There came a pause before the absurdity of the moment made both of us choke back a laugh.

  Carefully, she eased her leg away from me and the danger zone. “Sounds like they’re gone. Let’s get out of here,” she said, half a smile still in her voice as we fled into the gardens.

  Chapter 17

  The grey sky hinted at dawn. Hazel and I kept to the shadows that remained as we made our way past tea houses and sculpted hedges. When we were only another minute or two from the back fence, Hazel motioned me toward a waterfall enclosure surrounded by trees. I frowned at her but followed. She’d gotten us this far. Maybe there was a security system up ahead she knew about.

  From a high ridge of arranged rocks, water cascaded into a pond full of koi and lily pads. Pale mosaic tile arched around the curve of the pool with a pair of benches set on top. Juniper and reddish ferns grew around the stones.

  Even in fear for my freedom, I still appreciated the beauty of the place. My mind wandered to Nana. She would love a place like this to read in and garden. Calm would be good for her heart. Maybe I could convince my mother to build it into the back yard. Other neighbors had Japanese gardens, but none that included a waterfall. A good selling point.

  Hazel strayed beside the pool, her back to me. “The sound of the waterfall will cover our voices. I wanted to tell you, before anything, I’m grateful for what you did.”

  Praise always made me uncomfortable. I rubbed my hands together, unsure where to look. “Don’t mention it.”

  “We felt the effects of the binding spell,” she went on. “We heard what you said as you fought against it. I was wrong about you.” Her hand went to the waistline of her pants. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

  “Like I said, it was nothing. Hey, I think our ride should be there by now—“

  I broke off as she turned around. My eyes went to the gun she held. The gun pointing at me.

  A cold knot twisted in my stomach and my hands went up. “If this is about gas money, I’m happy to chip in.”

  Without a word she removed the mask. Curly, auburn-brown hair tumbled around a slender face. Those hazel eyes had gone remorseful in a way that made me sweat.

  “What’d you do that for?” I asked.

  “You have the right to see the face of your killer.”

  My what?

  “Wait a minute, you’re going to kill me?” I said incredulously. “After what I did to save your sister?”

  Hey, I was all about humility unless ditching it meant saving my own life.

  Shame touched her face, but clearly not enough to change her mind. The gun remained fixed on me.

  “This has nothing to do with that. It’s a personal matter.”

  “A personal matter,” I repeated. “So, your sisters, they don’t know about this?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “We don’t participate in violence unless it’s taken up against us, but I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry.”

  She cocked the pistol, aiming for my chest.

  “Hang on, don’t I get to know why at least?” The words came out breathless. “I mean, you said it was personal.”

  “I have no choice.” Regret twisted her mouth. “Why couldn’t you have been what I expected? Hating you would’ve made this easier, but after the things you said and what I saw…I can’t even have that.”

  She didn’t hate me. Maybe there was some wiggle room. Keep her talking. Talking kept the blood in my body.

  “You say you don’t have a choice. Is someone making you do this?”

  “It’s for my brother.” Her hand trembled on the gun. She steadied it with the other. “I wasn’t raised in the coven, you know. My childhood revolved around the Catholic church. My father was a deacon. He read as a lector every Sunday.”

  There was a bitterness to the way she spoke of him.

  “But that’s not the man he really was?”

  Her expression hardened. “Everyone thought he was so pious, all along beating and starving his children. My brother and I lived in fear.” Her gaze wandered in memory and then refocused. “My sisters found me at the bottom. They saved me from my own darkness.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “He remained with the church,” she said. “Even after the many times he nearly drank himself to death, he said God would save him.” Her eyes shone with gathered tears. “After all his devotion, they wouldn’t even bury him beside our mother. They told me a suicide has no place amid the lambs of God.”

  I hadn’t attended mass since Nana pushed me through confirmation classes, but I remembered my lessons. A line from the Catechism surfaced in my thoughts

  It is God who remains the sovereign Master of life.

  Suicide was a mortal sin, one the church said consigned the soul to hell. That had always rubbed me the wrong way. If salvation wasn’t a rubberstamp next to a check-marked list of actions, neither was condemnation. Nana always went on about the mercy and forgiveness of God. Even if there was no great plan, there had to be some truth to that at least.

  Hazel swiped at the moisture in her eyes. “I couldn’t save him in life, but I’ve been given the chance to save him in death.”

  “You think killing me releases him from hell?”

  “Your life in exchange for his soul, that was the bargain.”

  T
his was starting to sound like a business transaction.

  “What bargain? With who?” The answer hit me the second before she said it.

  “He called himself Sebastian,” she said. “I knew right away he was from the darkness, but how could I refuse?”

  My arms lowered to my sides. “Sebastian.” I spat the name.

  She seemed surprised. “You know him?”

  “We had a run-in not too long ago. You can’t believe anything he says.”

  “I—I signed a contract.” Her voice quivered just slightly at the admission. “If I do this, my brother goes free.”

  Despite the anger, her sacrifice moved me. “But what about your soul?”

  “I won’t fail my brother again.”

  There was no changing her mind, that much was obvious. Then again, maybe I didn’t have to.

  “Tell me your name,” I said gently.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “If I’m to die, I’d rather not be with a stranger.”

  “My name’s Jo. Joelle Spain.”

  It fit her. I liked it immediately.

  “Would you consider another option before you do this? Give me the chance to help you.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “Help me how?”

  “Intercession. You know, a saint’s main gig.” Said with confidence, it almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about.

  She set her jaw. “Why would God help him now? My brother thought God would save him, that He would take his suffering away and put him on a better path. But He didn’t. He abandoned him.”

  Her anger was like a twin to my own. I knew what she was thinking; if God loved us so much, why didn’t he protect us better? But anger wouldn’t help either of us now. Maybe it never had.

  “Despair’s a slippery thing,” I said quietly. “It can make you forget hope. It can make you forget you’re loved by anyone, even your sister.”

  Her resolve wavered.

  “Look, if it doesn’t work, you can follow through with the contract.”

  “You—you would do that? For my brother?” She stared at me in disbelief. “Why?”

  “Because, in a sense we’re all lost lambs. At one point or another we all need someone to carry us home on their shoulders.”