by Ann Gimpel
“Can’t. Hurts too much.” Breana’s mind voice was weak, wispy.
“I know it hurts. Losing a child is the worst thing a mother can live through, but we’re all in danger. Your husband is outside fighting for his life. We need your magic.”
“I don’t give a shit about him. Death’s too good for that bastard. Just leave me alone and let me die.”
Abigail hoped Breana’s words about her husband were true. Assuming they were, waking the woman was even more critical because she could help. Abigail considered slapping Breana, but focused her desperation and let it spark through her next words. “Yes, you’re hurting, but you scarcely have a corner on that market. We’ve all lost a lot. Luke lost his sister. He’s not curled up in a ball with his head up his ass. I almost lost my life for chrissakes. We need you, Breana, so long as you fight on the right side. You can sink yourself in self-pity once we’re safe. We’re badly outnumbered.” Abigail ran out of words and inhaled sharply. She didn’t know what else to say, so she just whispered, “Please,” and held onto Breana, hoping against hope she’d gotten through.
Something crashed against the bedroom door. Not wraiths. They weren’t corporeal enough to pound that hard. Must mean humans had joined their ranks. Because she was frantic and didn’t know what else to do, she sent out a call to the enforcers and hoped to hell they didn’t die trying to save her and Breana.
The woman stirred beneath her hands and wrenched herself away from Abigail. She opened her eyes and her face twisted into a grimace, distorting her beauty. “Right now I hate you,” she said, her words slurred and harsh.
Abigail cracked a grim smile. “We all hate duty when she calls us. Pull your magic together. It’s only a matter of time before the bastards break down your door. We need to be ready.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Try me.” Abigail kept one eye on the door, watching it shudder. “But hurry.”
Breana whipped her bloodshot gaze to the door and barked a word in demon-speak. She curled her lips back from her teeth. “Yes,” she hissed. “I know their language and for the best of reasons. Don made a deal with them, but it cost me my daughter.” Fury blazed from her like a white-hot tide. “I tried to kill him last night, which is why he buried me in spells.”
The door splintered and a two-inch long crack opened. Abigail took a chance. “Will you swear on whatever you hold true that you’ll help me?”
“If I won’t?”
Abigail gathered killing magic, let it hover in the air between them. “Then you’ll get your wish about dying.” She gritted her teeth together. “I’d kill you right this minute because you admitted a cardinal sin in knowing the Satanic tongue, but I need your help. Keep in mind I have no power to offer anything, but if you do the right thing now, the Coven may spare your life.”
Breana clacked her jaws together. “I’ll help you on one condition.”
Abigail quirked a brow. The door splintered again, about to fall in. “You’re scarcely in a position to bargain. What?”
“If Don’s not dead by the time we get out of here, you’ll help me kill him.”
“Done.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Breana lurched upright and joined Abigail. They clasped hands and lobbed power at whoever stood on the far side of the door. Breana was amazingly strong, dazzlingly so. Abigail concentrated on getting both of them out of the house alive. If she could do that, there’d be time to unravel the Girauds’ sad tale—and burn the rest of those blasted books.
With a wrenching, tearing thud, the door blew inward. Abigail jumped out of the way just as a tall man with tawny hair, jauntily dressed in white buckskin, strode through followed by a nondescript dark-haired fellow. The second man radiated danger with hard, dark eyes and deep furrows in his face. A black shirt and leather pants hugged his spare frame. By contrast, the first man looked as if he’d been invited to a social event.
“Top of the morning, ladies.” The man in white grinned, blue eyes glittering mischievously.
“The hell it is,” Breana spat. “No morning that has you in it could possibly be good, Alistair.” Power flew from her hands, but it sputtered and died before it reached either man.
“They’re warded.” Abigail grimaced because she should have known.
Alistair shrugged. “So are you, witch. Why would you expect less of me?”
Her stomach clenched with fury, but she forced herself to conserve her power. No point in bombarding the men if nothing she sent had any impact. “What do you want?”
“Trouble,” Breana said succinctly. “It’s what he feeds on.”
“Oh, come now. I’ve told you if you ever tire of that husband of yours—”
“Shut up!” Breana howled. “You killed my daughter.”
“No. Goody killed her. I swear, that woman never had any sense.”
Breana’s features distorted into pain laced with fury. “That isn’t what you said when you talked Don into letting her travel inside Carolyn.”
“My clairvoyant skills must have been taking a holiday.” Alistair shrugged.
Breana snarled low in her throat and lunged toward him, but Abigail dragged her back. “He’s baiting you,” she hissed. “Ignore him.” Breana opened her mouth, and then clacked her jaws shut. Rage sparked from her blue eyes.
Abigail eyed the tableau in front of her and tried to see what she could possibly do to pound her way through the shielding around the men. Magic bubbled in the air around her as she experimented with different combinations of elements. No reason to be stealthy since the man, Alistair, apparently saw himself as invincible.
He focused his unsettling gaze on her. “Don’t waste your effort, witch. I’ll deal with the two of you later.” He barked a few words in demonspeak and the doorframe took on a flame-tinged appearance. Darker air wafted where the door had stood.
“What do you want me to do, boss?” the second man asked.
“Make certain the ladies are comfortable.” Alistair grinned with all the warmth of a piranha. “No one will be able to get in or out of the door now I’ve spelled it.”
The dark-haired man grinned ominously. “Comfortable, eh? Sounds like fun.”
“Just make sure they don’t get away from you.” Alistair narrowed his eyes, loped across the room, and muttering more demonspeak, jumped through the open window.
Abigail ran to it and looked down, not surprised he’d disappeared. “Damn. I was hoping he’d be a splotch on the dirt.”
“It takes more than wishes and hopes to hurt him,” Breana said bitterly. “I’ve wanted that bastard dead for years.”
“Hey now!” the man walked briskly to her side. “I’ll not have you talking disrespectfully about our lord and master.”
Breana twisted away from the man and screeched, “Blast him, Abby. He’s not as strong with Alistair gone.”
Abigail focused the magic still thrumming around her at the man in black. It shimmered and crackled when it ran up against his wards. He sent blows her way and Breana’s, but she and the other witch stayed on opposite sides, forcing him to split his attention. Even so, they felt evenly matched. She ran Alistair’s name through her mind, paired with their opponent calling him lord and master, and an unsettling thought intruded. “What’s Alistair’s last name?” she panted, almost sure she already knew.
“MacDuff,” Breana answered.
Aw crap. The head of The Alchemical Council. Fear threatened to immobilize her. For the barest moment, she began walking toward the spelled doorframe, knowing intuitively it would kill her, but unable to stop herself.
“Stop!” Breana cried. “He wove compulsion into the spell. But it’s a compulsion that feeds off hopelessness. Get hold of yourself.”
Abigail froze in her tracks and tore her gaze from the mesmerizing black light flaring around the doorframe. “Thanks,” she said shakily. She took a steadying breath, turned, and lobbed more magic at the man leering at her. The simple act of fighting back went a long way to
ward clearing her head.
Alistair’s not here now. Just fight. Breana’s still on the right side of things. If we can kill this guy, whoever he is, it will be one less soldier in black magick’s army.
Chapter Eleven
Luke started when he heard Abigail’s voice in his mind. He’d left her safe in the barn, goddammit, layered in protection spells. He and the other enforcers and Don were scattered in a rough formation, blasting the living shit out of mad wolves and humans who’d been turned. So far, they’d dealt death pretty handily, and all of them were still alive.
Because Sam had been on top of things, the war was unfolding out by the main road rather than in front of the Girauds’ home. Bodies littered the ground, which ran red with blood. Flies had landed in immediate droves, their buzzing loud and angry; crows and turkey vultures were just now closing in. It wouldn’t take long for the rest of the native cleanup crew to make an appearance.
Luke took a breath and gagged. Between ruptured guts, spilled shit, puke, and the overarching, coppery reek of blood, death always smelled appalling. Someone had to be behind this, probably one of the black magicians. Luke wondered if other Salem witches were still kicking around, spreading their venom. It was possible a few had copied Goody and borrowed living bodies to do their dirty work. Still, there had to be a mastermind behind everything. For the first time in a long time, he longed for Aethelred. The mage kept a level head and was one of the best strategists Luke had ever known.
“Who’s going back to help the women?” Sam asked.
A column of mad wolves raced out of thick timber across the road. Mouths open, tongues lolling, their canines glistened with blood. Christ! Who’d they just killed?
“None of us are going anywhere yet,” Luke yelled and focused killing blows at the pack of wolves. For each one that fell, two more sprang out of the evergreens and aspens, ravenous for victims. His nose twitched and shock registered. It couldn’t be, but it was. He smelled the books. Luke glanced at Sam, Chris, and Joshua, wanting to ask if they scented them too. He couldn’t use mind speech or Don would hear. Luke wasn’t certain quite how Don had found out they were engaged in a fight, but he’d shown up a while back and simply joined them.
“Let’s use our brains,” Don suggested, his voice silkily smooth.
The air shimmered menacingly, and Luke felt magic pour from the Coven leader. It took him a moment to understand and then he shifted his power to block him. Rather than taking down individual wolves, Don was merging their power, driving them forward. Luke was impressed. It was the sort of thing Aethelred would have done. Neat, clean, minimal magic for maximum effect. Too bad Don wasn’t fighting on their side.
At least fifty of the new crop of mad wolves rushed them. Luke blocked Don’s power in individual wolves until the pack milled about uncertainly. Don nodded his approval and shouted, “Nice work,” as if the whole thing had been his idea. To cover his earlier command to attack, Don polished off his spell with an elegant touch: compulsion to return to being forest wolves. Luke heard the words, subtle and seductive, exhorting the wolves to blame the dark for their misery and have nothing more to do with them. Grateful to finally have a clear path before him, Luke laughed grimly and planted himself in front of Don. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“That does it, at least for now.” Joshua loped to where Luke stood.
“Oh no, it doesn’t,” Luke said.
“Luke’s right,” Don agreed affably, an unreadable smile on his face. “Whoever’s masterminding this charade is still out there. I can’t feel him all the time, but an occasional twinge of wrongness tipped me off.” He pounded a fist into his open palm. “Got to make sure the women are safe.”
Luke narrowed his eyes and bit back an accusation that Don was masterminding everything. He get to that soon enough, but now he needed information. “Speaking of women, why’s Abigail in the house?”
“Because Breana was out cold. I have no fucking idea what happened. She finally cried herself out and fell asleep in my arms.” Don’s nostrils flared. “When Abigail woke me to tell me what was going on out here, Breana was sunk so deep I couldn’t reach her. I knew you four’d need my help, but I couldn’t leave my wife. Abigail’s got that healing gift, so I ordered her to sit with Breana.”
Luke had been listening carefully. Don was smooth, but his words pinged sour off Luke’s truth spell. Not very sour. If he hadn’t been paying close attention, he might not have noticed. Don turned to leave. “Not so fast.” Luke grabbed his arm.
“What?” Sam chugged to his side, followed by Chris.
“We need to bind him,” Luke barked.
Don writhed in his grasp, but Luke held fast and Sam grabbed the man’s other arm. “I’ll have you dragged before our council for treason,” Don snarled. “Unhand me this instant. I outrank all of you.”
“Enforcers are independent of Coven government,” Chris ground out. “Or did you forget that little fact?”
“Luke’s word is good enough for me,” Sam said and began to chant.
Joshua, Chris, and Luke joined in. Don mounted a counterattack, calling fire and a hail of small stones, but he was no match for the four enforcers. When mad wolves lumbered out of the forest, Luke targeted one and it exploded, showering its fellows with blood, sinew, and gore. Snarling, snapping, and howling, they took off the way they’d come, but not before they grabbed chunks of their dead companion.
Don sank to the ground, still breathing, but unconscious. “What should we do with him?” Joshua nudged the body with his boot.
“I’d like to kill him, but we need either him or Breana to tell us the truth,” Luke said.
“Fine. Everybody grab something. We’ll haul him back to the house and bind him with magic until we make sure the women are okay.” Sam took a leg. The others followed suit.
“Abby?” Luke called, worried because it had been at least half an hour since her frantic summons. When she didn’t answer, he broke into a run with the other four men flanking him. Don’s body flopped between them. Damn it! He should have taken off and let the others fight the mad wolves—and corral Don. What the hell was in the house with the women? He threw his magic wide, seeking information.
Wraiths. Stinking, nasty, undead bastards. Hundreds of them from the feel of it. And the book stench was stronger too. “Books,” he panted. “Can you smell ’em?”
“Son of a bitch,” Joshua swore. “How the hell did they end up here?”
“Ask a stupid question,” Chris snapped.
“Maybe we should forget about finding out the truth,” Sam muttered. “We can throw this piece of shit in mage fire along with his precious books.”
Luke ran faster. He’d never seen more than a handful of the wretched undead in any one place. Maybe Don had inadvertently disclosed part of the truth about an unseen puppeteer manipulating strings from the sidelines, and there was a second black magician in the vicinity. “Come out and fight like a man,” he muttered. Fury sparred with fear he wouldn’t make it back in time to save his love. Guilt over losing Tamra had devastated him. If he lost Abigail, he didn’t know how he’d find the heart to go on living.
“Hang on, love. Hang on. We’re nearly there.”
“Hurry.” Her mind voice was faint, but it leant wings to his feet. Luke steamed into the yard and dropped Don’s arm, leaving it to the others to wind magic around him. He pounded up the stairs into the house. Wraith stench had hit him in the yard, but inside it thickened to a nauseating miasma that threatened to choke him. He coughed helplessly, moved his bandana up to cover his nose, and hoped he wouldn’t puke. Wraiths stank, but their dismal reek had never been so overpowering before. Sam pushed past him and spun, blocking the kitchen door.
Luke raised his brows. “That didn’t take long.”
“Because we didn’t worry about using too much magic and killing him by mistake.” Sam shrugged. “If he’s gone, good riddance. The others will be along soon. Let’s finish this.”
> “Abby’s still alive,” Luke said. “She just answered me.”
“Breana?” Sam asked.
Luke shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Sam mowed up the stairs, power blazing from his entire body. Luke followed in his wake. It was like plowing through mud, thick, magical mud, but at least it cut the wraith stench. The foul creatures lined the stairs and were packed into the balcony and upper hallway. As Sam cut their connection to whoever was driving them, they faded and flickered.
Luke stared at what was left of the Girauds’ bedroom door. Something had splintered it as if it had been matchsticks, not inch-thick oak. Magic sparked across the doorway, black around the edges. Abby’s dear form came into view. Burns tracked across her face and arms and her hair was singed, but at least she was on her feet. He started forward.
“Don’t touch it,” she shrieked. “The magic in the doorway is spelled to kill you.”
“Bitch!” sounded from inside the room.
“You shut up or I’ll snuff your sorry life out,” Breana cried, her voice hoarse and gravelly.
Rage set Luke’s insides on fire. What in the goddess’s name was in that room with them?
Sam and Joshua surrounded him, one on either side. “Let’s tackle that spell,” Sam muttered.
“Sounds as if the women have things under control.” Joshua grinned. He turned around. “Any of you know where Chris is?”
Dread speared Luke. Chris should have been with Joshua. “Goddammit. Don must have broken through your spell.” He felt torn. Chris needed them, but Abigail and Breana did too.
“I’ll see to him just as soon as we’ve got this door taken care of.” Sam gave an encouraging thumbs-up and added, “Hey, Josh, why don’t you polish off those wraiths?”
“On my way.” He trotted a few paces down the hall and it lit with targeted blasts of mage fire.
The air flickered where Sam sent exploratory magic toward the doorway. His spell burst into flames; Sam yelped and jumped back. “Shit. Whatever it is has a bite to it.”
