Bitter Night

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  It was time to get out and and go on foot. Max slowed and eased off onto a dirt lane, rolling across an irrigation creek and parking behind a mounding blackberry tangle on the fringe of an apple orchard. She killed the motor and donned her hat again before quietly lifting herself out the window. She reached for and grabbed her cell phone, thumbing it off before tucking it into a roomy thigh pocket on her black fatigues. Next she opened the back door and popped up the bench seat. Beneath it was a small armory of weapons and ammo that included guns and steel knives, flash bombs and grenades, bags of herbs and salt, knives of rowan, hazel, willow, and silver, and a collection of charms. Max ignored most of it, opting for the pistol-grip sawed-off shotgun. It was lousy for distances, but most fights were up close and personal, and it would make enemies of most stripes’magical or human’think twice. She loaded it and shoved a handful of shells into her front pocket before pushing the seat back down and shutting the door.

  She turned, letting her senses unravel across the night like a gossamer spiderweb, collecting every last scent, sound, taste, and texture. Nightbirds sang and an owl hooted. She heard the yip of coyotes and the deep bark of angry dogs. A horse whinnied and a calf bawled. Somewhere close, something scritched in the dirt. She cataloged the sounds, sifting through them for anything that didn’t belong. But there was nothing. Max swiveled her head, sniffing. The stench of magic overwhelmed almost everything, even the tang of the orchard and the wet, green smell of the irrigation ditch.

  Magic slid over her skin like a sticky web, stinging and caressing at once. It was like a runway beacon pointing the way. She slung her shotgun over her shoulder, her right hand wrapping the grip and holding it ready before her. Just in case. She glanced around one more time, then slid like a shadow under the orchard canopy, following the magic.

  She broke into a ground-eating jog, zigzagging between the squat trees. Adrenaline pumped through her. Her arms flexed and her stomach tightened, her muscles rolling beneath her skin. She loved this feeling. She felt powerful’like she could pick up the world on her back, like there was nothing she couldn’t do. As much as she hated to admit it’and she’d die before she ever told Giselle’being a Shadowblade was better than any other high she could imagine. It was better than being the soft, weak human girl she’d been. Now she was fast, strong, and capable. She didn’t wander through her life scared of anything’not roller coasters, not jumping out of airplanes, not the big bad monster in the closet or under the bed. She’d met monsters; she’d killed them. If she could have this feeling of being the hunter and never having to cower helpless’if she could have that without Giselle and without the horrors that went with serving the witch-bitch, then Max would never want anything else. It would be every Christmas and birthday present wrapped into one.

  She covered the sloping ground quickly, pausing here and there to test the air and listen. About a mile along, she picked up the first scent of blood. She stopped and dropped to a crouch beside a knobby tree trunk. The coppery flavor marked the blood as human, and there was a lot of it. Enough to cut through the stench of magic. There was Uncanny blood, too. The smell tingled at the back of her throat, tasting hot and corrosive. She didn’t recognize it. She scowled, something angry rising hot and hard in her. Suddenly she started running. Someone might be alive. Giselle could be wrong.

  A mile farther in, she topped a rise. Between the trees she could glimpse a set of buildings on a hill beyond the orchard. Even from here she could see the lavender witchlight flickering through the trees. The smell of blood was stronger, and there was something else’something wet, cold, and bleak, like winter wind over a frozen lake. It was Divine.

  Max crept closer, clinging close to the tree row. She paused every hundred yards to scan the trees and listen, but there was nothing. Everything was silent except for dogs barking some distance away. The din was unrelenting. Dogs knew the stench of magic when they smelled it.

  She knew when she stepped into the chaos zone. They used to be called faery circles, but faeries weren’t the only cause. The zones were places where magic had exploded out of control. Maybe a spell ruptured, maybe a circle couldn’t contain the conjuring, or a ritual had gone haywire. It wouldn’t be safe until the magic dissipated, which could be a few seconds or a few centuries.

  Max strode inside without hesitation. The protection spells Giselle had carved into her bones and flesh protected her from most malevolent magics. A little wild magic just cleared her sinuses.

  Inside, there were no natural sounds: no nightbirds, no crickets, no mosquitoes, nothing. The barks of the dogs snuffed out like blown birthday candles. Currents of thorny magic twisted in the warm, still air. She jerked as a high shrieking sound wrapped her skull and sent darts of pain down her nerves. She shook her head, crouching low as she jogged forward. When she came to the treeline, she dropped and crawled beneath a John Deere tractor, concealing herself in the shadows of a massive tire.

  A nimbus of lavender witchlight surrounded a two-story, red-steel-roofed farmhouse. A white, crushed-gravel drive led down to the road beween lofty, smooth-skinned English walnut trees. It circled the house, corralling a close-clipped lawn dotted with bushes and flowers and a large gazebo covered by climbing roses and grapevines. Behind it was a barn-style garage with a matching redsteel roof that looked big enough to hold six cars. On the other side of the house was a pool. Max could smell the chlorine. A brass-and-iron sign above the steps leading up to the rustic veranda said JULIAN SPRINGS ORCHARDS.

  From her vantage point, Max could see four human bodies sprawled on the white gravel. One woman, three men. Trails of blood on the ground indicated they’d been dragged there. There was nothing to say who had done it, nor was there any evidence of ritual in the killing.

  A sudden squabbling gabbled up loudly from the other side of the house. Growls and whimpers were followed by a snarling and loud cursing. Max couldn’t make out the words. She was pretty sure they weren’t speaking any language she knew. Then suddenly the shrieking sound erupted again. It bored into Max’s eardrums, made hypersensitive by Giselle’s spells. Max pressed her palms against her ears until it stopped.

  As soon as the noise died, she crawled out from under the tractor and ran down the low hill to the driveway. She carried the shotgun in front of her, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. She stopped at the first body. She wanted to be clinical and detached. She didn’t want to care for strangers who’d never even had a chance. She didn’t know them and she sure as hell couldn’t help them. But as she surveyed their wounds, anger and horror crashed together like locomotives inside her chest. Max gasped, hot tears burning in her eyes as an unexpected need to find them vengeance swamped her. She knuckled her eyes and examined the bodies, not letting herself look away.

  The first corpse had been a young man, maybe in his early twenties. His chest had been ripped open. His ribs were a mangled mess, and his entrails were gone. There was a smell of shit and urine and rotting meat. His legs had been gnawed on and one of his arms was missing. His eyes were open and staring, his mouth wide-open, his tongue protruding. Around his neck he wore a gold chain with a peace sign pendant.

  The other three victims were in much the same condition, although the woman had been chewed on more than the other two. Her legs were twisted and splintered, and most of the flesh had been chewed off them. Both her arms were gone.

  Max’s fury flamed as she looked at the woman. She was wearing shreds of a pink nightgown, like she’d been snuggled in bed when she was attacked. She was hardly a woman’maybe just into college. On her wrist was a butterfly-tattoo bracelet in blues and purples.

  The anger twisted and dug hard claws into Max. She drew a sharp breath. They were all so innocent and so horribly ruined. It made her want to kill someone’find them vengeance. Her mouth drew into a tense line. At least these four had been permitted to die. It could have been worse. She tried to take comfort in the thought, but it was elusive. She wiped more tears from her cheeks and ordered hers
elf to be done with crying over crap she couldn’t change.

  She stood slowly, her jaw hardening. Someone was going to pay, she promised herself.

  She let the predator in her rise, animal instincts flattening human concerns. Her head dropped and turned as she searched the yard eagerly. It was time to hunt. She jogged to a corner of the house. Bushes provided her with cover as she edged into the backyard. There was no one here. She loped across the lawn, hunching down and staying close to the house. At the other corner she stopped and peered around.

  A small swarm of wizened redcaps were milling around the edge of a charm circle, its boundary glowing lavender witchlight to match the nimbus above the house. There were thirteen of the creatures, or had been. Three lay dead. The remaining ones were growling and yipping at one another, pushing and shoving and tearing with their hooked claws and orange teeth. One was chewing on a human arm like it was a turkey leg. Others were garlanded with the intestines of the four murdered people on the driveway.

  It took all that Max had not to blow the little beasts away with her shotgun. She wanted to’oh, how she wanted to make them suffer. Her hands clenched. But more was going on here than a simple murder, and it would be beyond stupid to rush in without knowing what. She gritted her teeth, her lips pulling back in a snarl, and scanned the scene again.

  Inside the charm circle lay something human-size, though Max couldn’t make out what it was through the gyrating little bodies. The one thing she knew for sure was that the vicious little redcaps were Uncanny, and whatever was inside that circle was Divine.

  She needed to get closer. She inched back out of the bushes, then skimmed back around the garage. She skirted the hedge dividing the orchard from the back of the yard, stooping to keep out of sight. The hedge intersected the weathered wood fence that hid the large swimming pool. Max vaulted silently over the five-foot fence, landing in a crouch amid the thickly perfumed camellias and geraniums on the other side.

  The pool was a rectangle of inky black surrounded by a wide patio-walkway. Nothing moved here. Max picked her way out onto the sidewalk. She hurried up to the opposite end, careful not to knock into any of the tables or chairs littering the poolside. The charm circle was opposite the gate. Slowly she eased up the latch at the top, letting the gate drift open a bare inch.

  The redcaps and their prey were only thirty feet away beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree. Now Max could see inside the circle. On the ground, huddled in on herself, was a bony, old woman. No, not a woman. A Hag. Her thin, angular face was almost cobalt, her long hair white as the grass that grows in darkness. She was dressed in rags, her long, thin limbs poking out at sharp angles. She was weeping black tears, and a sound like several mouths whispering came from her lips as she watched the snarling redcaps.

  Max frowned, racking her memory. What did she know about Hags? There were a number of them, from all over the world. With her blue face and white hair, this one had to be ...Max mentally flipped through the pages of the many books she’d studied on faery lore. Yes. Cailleach Bheur’a Blue Hag from the Scottish highlands. But what did the redcaps want with her? Her Divine blood would do nothing to feed them, and redcaps were walking stomachs.

  One of the little beasts shouted and tossed a powdery handful of something at the Hag. It enveloped her in a cloud and she began to shriek again. Max pressed herself back against the fence, covering her ears as best she could as the scream went on and on. It cut into her bones like the ache of winter. Blood seeped from her nose and she pinched it. She was running out of time. They were going to smell her soon.

  Suddenly the cry cut off. Max lowered her hands, firming her grip on the shotgun as she peered out through gap in the gate. The Hag lay flat on the ground. She was breathing, but barely. Her skin was raw and looked like she’d been flayed. The redcap who’d thrown the powder was muttering vehemently at the Hag, shaking his steel pike at her. She did not respond.

  Max scowled. The biggest rule in warfare is, don’t get involved before you know which side is which. But sometimes you just didn’t have time to twiddle your thumbs and wait for the answers to appear. One thing she knew for sure was that the redcaps had murdered the people lying out on the driveway. As far as she was concerned, that was enough reason to return the favor, no matter what her orders were. As she watched, the redcap leader dug in his pouch for more of the powder. Max didn’t think. She pushed the gate open, holding her breath as it made a faint creak. None of the redcaps noticed. She eased out, sliding into the shadow of a walnut tree. Leaning around, she sighted in on the leader.

  As she leaned around the tree, there was a sudden popping of small-caliber weapons. Max jerked back and the redcaps screeched and scattered’those who were left standing. The noise thundered in Max’s sensitive ears. She winced. She’d got so caught up in her hatred that she’d stupidly forgotten to look for anyone else. Selange’the witch who owned this territory’would have sent her own recon team once she got a reading that something was going down.

  A pale-skinned Shadowblade with fiery orange hair to her shoulders emerged from around the pool enclosure, her gun held before her. She didn’t notice Max as she ran forward and dug to a stop at the edge of the charm circle.

  Several more Blades streamed out of the darkness. One of them was clearly the Prime. He radiated authority, and Max could feel the others cowing, turning toward him like flowers to sunlight. He wasn’t physically imposing, topping out at around six feet tall, with short black hair and dark Mediterranean skin the color of bitter tea. His muscular frame was lean and compact, but compared to the two Incredible Hulks on either side of him, he was a pygmy.

  All the same, Max couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. It wasn’t that he was handsome’though he was. No, something about him was mesmerizing. Every lithe movement spoke of confidence and barely restrained raw power. He radiated grace and an aloof magnetism that triggered something primal in Max. He was her equal in ways that most men’most Shadowblades’could never be. But there was more to her sudden lust than just that tangible power. For one thing, she hadn’t gotten laid in close to six months. And for another, the bastard was her type. In fact, he was the dictionary illustration of it’dark, lean, and dangerous. His thin face was chiseled and bleak, and his hooded, dark eyes swam with deadly purpose. He was the bad boy every girl dreamed of.

  Max grimaced. He was also the enemy. If he caught her trespassing on his witch’s territory, one of them would die. She didn’t think the odds were in her favor.

  “Mercury and Attila, go round up the rest of the redcaps. You have fifteen minutes,” he ordered in a soft, almost conversational voice. The two hulks obeyed instantly, peeling away and trotting off with a stealthy grace that belied their bulk.

  Max smirked. Mercury? Attila? They sounded like rottweilers. But a lot of witches thought of their warrior creations that way and gave them what they thought were power names.

  The Prime lifted his head, turning to scan the house and the yard with slow precision. Max pressed against the tree, hiding the telltale paleness of her face against the bark and hoping the stench of blood and magic would continue to disguise her smell. When he didn’t spot her, she eased around to watch again and froze as he stopped in midturn. He seemed to be looking right into her eyes, and the weight of it slammed Max like a Peterbilt truck. She suppressed the urge to leap to her feet. If he’d really seen her, he’d already be at her throat. Instead his attention slid away to the three dead redcaps and the five his Blades had shot, then to the Hag.

  Max let go a silent breath.

  “You going to paint a picture, Alexander?” the flame-haired woman asked snidely.

  Max saw something ripple through the Prime. He didn’t acknowledge the question. She scowled. If one of her Blades had questioned her that way in the field, she’d have dropped her like a stone and the bitch wouldn’t have got up again. Not that it happened often. Apparently Alexander had more patience for fools than she did.

  “Thor, move
the bodies into the house, then rig the gas line. We will burn all the evidence. Tell the others to bring up the trucks. The Hag and the redcaps come with us. Selange will want them.”

  The others hurried off, leaving Alexander and the orange-haired bitch.

  “This is stupid,” she pushed. “We should just leave before the cops show up.”

  “Selange would disagree” was his indifferent reply. And then seemingly tangentially: “Marcus is not strong enough to take me. Do not put all your money on a losing horse, Brynna. You could get hurt.”

  He said it idly, as if he didn’t really care, as if he weren’t thinking about her at all. He was pacing back and forth over the ground, following a trail that Max couldn’t see. She eased herself to her feet for a better look.

  Brynna laughed, a shrill sound. Max stared in disbelief. Brynna was clearly no match for Alexander in strength, cunning, or power. She was one of those women who depended on their big eyes and curvy bodies to pry them out of whatever trouble their mouths, got them into’even as a Shadowblade. And she was digging herself a deep hole. Alexander clearly had no interest in the bitch and she was too stupid to see it.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Brynna pushed. “Marcus is everything you’re not. He’s young and strong and he knows how to make Selange purr. She wants him. Not you. You’re way past your expiration date, and pretty soon she’s going to toss you out with the rest of the trash.”