by Kate Baray
“Wait—poison?” Jack said. Shit. “Not harmless” in Sylvia-speak meant lethal. “I don’t remember any antidotes in your ice chest.”
“I said, don’t touch it,” Sylvia snapped at him. ”What happened to the third man? I think he’s a low-level water witch. No boiling your insides or drowning you in your own blood.” Sylvia spoke so matter-of-factly, without any sign of strain; it was disturbing. Jack wondered if that was key to keeping her calm: give her a task and keep her occupied. Or discuss torture. She seemed really comfortable with torture. And poison. And fire.
“Hey,” Marin muttered. “The fog. The third man.”
“Yeah, see if you can sense him in the woods.” Jack turned to Sylvia and whispered in her ear, “We need to make sure he’s not blocking your exit.”
A loud, booming noise echoed through the small wood. And kept echoing. Jack sank slowly to the ground, the bark of the tree at his back digging into his flesh. That should hurt.
“...tree...poison.” A woman’s voice in the background.
Right. He shouldn’t be touching the tree. God knew what that poison would do to him. Oh, yeah—kill him. He tried to get up. Couldn’t.
Marin grabbed him and pulled him a few feet away. That was good. Poison was bad.
She was saying something—but the echo wouldn’t stop.
Sylvia shoved a handful of weeds at him. She was digging into his shoulder. Burning him. He tried to scramble away. Couldn’t move. Burning, everywhere. His shoulder. And the smell, the noxious smell of burnt flesh. His nose filled with it. He gagged. The world wavered.
Then Marin was holding his head between her hands. Hard. He blinked away the sweat in his eyes.
“Can you hear me?” Marin asked.
“Yes.” Jack’s voice sounded strange in his ears.
Still holding his head, Marin said, “You’ve been shot. Sylvia’s stopped the bleeding.”
“Weeds...” Jack wasn’t sure what part weeds played. His muddled mind finally landed on the answer: earth witch, bleeding wound. Why was his brain so slow? And then he felt it: the fierce burning in his shoulder. He’d been shot. Marin had said.
“The yarrow will keep the bleeding in check. And Marin’s fried the shooter. But I need to...” Sylvia pulled out the ring from under her shirt.
“Right.” Jack reached his right hand over to hold the plants in place on his shoulder. Only halfway there and his vision swam.
Marin, still holding his head, squeezed hard. “Don’t pass out, you jackass. Not until we’re done.”
“Awww, honey.” Jack gasped as he inhaled. “I didn’t know you cared.”
Marin snarled something obscene, grabbed his right hand, and shoved it over the bunch of weeds on top of his wound.
Jack couldn’t manage pressure, but he could hold them in place. For now. “The other two?”
“Inspecting the crispy remains of the shooter—but likely not much longer.” Marin’s attention was riveted to some distant spot in the woods. “And local law enforcement is a problem.”
The fog had dissipated, so the water witch had either lost his concentration or couldn’t hold the fog for long.
“So—it’s time to burn some shit already. How do we get them closer?” Jack asked.
Marin raised an eyebrow, “You sit there and try not to bleed. Besides, looks like they’re headed this way already.”
Jack couldn’t see shit from his vantage point. But even if Marin couldn’t see them approach, she’d feel it. What he wouldn’t give for that ability.
They’d get closer, Sylvia would misfire a fire potion and appear to be consumed by flames, Marin would cover her in a protective layer of flame—Jack still didn’t actually get how that would work—and Sylvia would put on the ring and slip quietly away behind a wall of flames. Simple.
But Sylvia’s escape route had changed. And the angle of pursuit was different, changing the visual effect. And the cops might be on the way. And he was bleeding—barely, but still— and immobilized on the ground. Shit
Marin and Sylvia must have been talking while Jack had zoned out.
Sylvia rolled her stash closer to Jack. “We need you to throw the fire flask.” She pulled out a tiny perfume bottle and knelt next to him.
Jack knew he looked like shit—he felt like death. “Are you nuts?” But he swallowed as Sylvia the tipped the liquid down his throat.
As she held his head and Jack swallowed the last drop, Sylvia said, “Not nuts and mostly harmless.” She leaned in whispered fiercely in his ear, “Thank you.” Then stepped away.
It was heartfelt; Jack knew it. It wasn’t the words; it was the look in her eyes—sad, hopeful, exhausted, grateful, all mixed together.
“Angles have changed, and I need to make a little more fire. That stuff should perk you up.” Marin grabbed the chemistry set-looking flask, the one that basically exploded on contact with air and would set a good five by five area on fire. Handing it to Jack, she said very quietly, “Fire on three.”
Jack pulled his right hand away from his shoulder, waiting for the pain, the burn, the fading vision. Nothing. He wrapped his good hand carefully around the neck of the flask.
Marin held up one finger, two fingers—
Jack could see movement out of the corner of his eye. Three fingers and an explosion of fire.
Tears ran down Jack’s face as smoke stung his eyes. He cringed away from the flames only a few feet away. He couldn’t see Marin. He couldn’t see Sylvia. Had she remembered the ring?
Jack started to stand. He should have a few minutes left on that potion he’d swallowed. The world wobbled, his vision narrowed, but he focused on breathing, beating back the nausea. Finally, the world assumed a more stable aspect. Minor planning fail: how the hell was he supposed to stop the two pissed-off witches just on the other side of the wall of flames?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack reviewed his mental notes for some potion that would help him. But those notes were crap. Labels. Shit, he hoped that would work. He leaned down, expecting to feel faint, but found he was surprisingly clear-headed. Digging through the chest, Jack grinned as he realized that the two witches were still after him. Closing the gap, in fact. Not chasing Marin or the now invisible Sylvia.
Maybe their little gambit had worked. He pulled out the red plastic container that had freaked out Sylvia in the airport. Marked in clear capital letters, the container read, “NOT HARMLESS.”
Jack choked in pain as a laugh escaped.
In smaller letters, there were instructions to throw, very far.
No mention of what it did or how fire would affect it; it was a gamble. Jack checked the progress of his witch buddies, and that was the tipping point. They’d just about found their way around the edge of the flames and were closing in.
Plastic wouldn’t break, so he averted his head and opened the container. Inside were four tiny bundles. Net sachets filled with God only knew what and tied with little pink ribbons.
He picked one up, careful to only touch the netting at the top, and closed the container again. He ducked out from behind the tree that hid him from the witches and hurled the pink ribbon sachet.
Light flashed, the ground rumbled. Jack fell back against a tree, clutching the red plastic container. As debris fell from the sky, Jack hunted some sound past the ringing in his ears. But the world was silent.
He looked down at the container in his hand. Hell. The cops were definitely coming now.
Jack took a breath, steeled himself for a possible witch zap and stuck his head out for a look. One still coming.
He opened the container and grabbed a second sachet-grenade. As he tossed the second grenade, he realized the guy was probably too close...blackness engulfed him.
Jack gained consciousness suddenly. Rhythmic punches of pain shot through his body. Acrid smoke filled his nose and burned his throat. His head felt like it was going to explode.
“Jesus, put me down.” He tried to yell, but a weak croak emerged and h
is breath huffed out on a gasp with every other word.
Slung across Marin’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry, he bounced with each step jogging step.
No answer and the feeling of his skin, muscle, bones shredding with each step wouldn’t stop.
Still. Quiet—no more thudding of his own pulse pounding in his ears. He opened his eyes, took a clean breath of air. He must have passed out again, because he could see the road where only trees were before.
They moved to the road, but in a gliding, smooth motion. A silver Mercedes. Nice. He really shouldn’t get blood on—
“Jack. Come on; wake up.” Marin’s voiced drifted further, closer, and further.
A vice closed around Jack’s finger. “Ahhh!” His eyes flew open.
Marin let go of his hand. “The healer needs you awake.”
“Wha—“ Jack was wedged into the backseat corner of a large car with Marin to his right.
The car door was open and a man was leaning in.
Jack tried to shift in his seat. “Shit.” Pain. A gunshot. Bleeding.
Now he remembered. He held himself as still as possible. Too late. The wound throbbed to the beat of his heart. He shivered as a gentle breeze brushed against his wet skin. It was dark outside.
The man at the door leaned in further. “I have to touch you to evaluate and start the healing.”
Jack winced, but he forced a response from his lips. “Yep. Permission given.” Freaking healers and their bizarre code of ethics. Maybe if he got a little pissed about that, he could distract himself as the man poked.
“Fuck!” Jack yelled as the guy pulled material away from the wound. Jack panted and tried to catch his breath, make his ribs move less, be still.
A cool wash of numbness started in his shoulder and flowed to his weakened arm, his throbbing head, his aching and exhausted body. Jack closed his eyes and almost cried in relief. He took a pain-free breath and then another. He opened his eyes. “Thank you.”
The man, dark-headed but with a bright red beard, nodded without letting his attention waver from Jack’s wound.
Jack didn’t want to say—but it had to be said. “Marin, I—”
“It’s fine.” Marin’s lips were thin, her face tight. “It could easily have been me. I lost the shooter. That’s why he got the shot off.”
Jack coughed out a laugh. “Only one though.”
“Yeah.”
The healer stepped away. “I can’t do much more. Mundanes are harder to heal—no magic to borrow.”
The guy looked embarrassed, like he’d failed.
Jack was confused. “I feel a lot better. I mean, seriously better.”
The healer shook his head.
Another man approached the open door of the car. Arthur. Where did Arthur come from? “Oh—this is your car?”
“It is,” Arthur said. “What Ryan is trying to tell you is that your improved state won’t last long. You need to see another healer when you get back to Austin.”
“He needs blood.” Ryan—apparently that was his healer’s name—gave him a hard look. “Magic can’t replace what’s not there, and you’ve lost a decent amount of blood. Even with your witch’s poultice, all the movement opened up your wound again.”
“I can’t go to the hospital. Any chance you have some saline? Wouldn’t that get me by?” Jack looked between Ryan and Arthur, trying to gauge how big of a problem his injury was going to be.
“It might, but I don’t have any. And, honestly, your witch didn’t do you any favors when she juiced you with, what? Uppers? A strength potion? Not a great idea for a guy who’s leaking blood.” Ryan scanned the horizon.
Jack looked around. They were parked in the middle of nowhere. “Where are we?”
“New Hampshire,” Arthur replied. And when Jack gave him a curious look, he shrugged. “I’m retired. I have a car. It wasn’t a problem. Besides, I’m not particularly worried about pissing off the locals. I’ve decided Salem isn’t really a good fit for me.”
Great. Jack’s guilt ratcheted up about five notches. They’d put their friendly, retired spell caster in the shit with the local Coven reps. Not that the guy seemed remotely concerned.
Ryan reached out and touched Jack’s shoulder again. “If I can’t convince you to go to the hospital, then get to another healer as soon as you can. I’ve done everything I can.”
Jack could almost feel the magic flowing from the man as he gave Jack one last healing push. Certainly, he could feel the effects. He reached out and firmly shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
Ryan nodded and walked a short distance to a parked truck.
As the threesome loaded into the car, Arthur driving and Marin in the back with him, Jack tried to fit all the pieces together in his head. The entire afternoon was a tangle of partial memories and flashes of intense pain. “Sylvia’s safe?”
“I think so. Either our sleight of hand worked, or I completely fried her.” Marin lifted her hands. “I’m kidding, Jack. I didn’t fry the client. She’s fine. Safely uncooked and on her way. Whether she makes it to the cargo ship, that’s another question.”
Jack winced. “We didn’t have a choice, but cargo sure as hell wouldn’t have made my top ten.”
Arthur caught Jack’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “I doubt the Coven would consider it in their top ten, either. You’re lucky you found a ship headed the right direction.”
Jack tipped his head back against the seat cushion. “Two weeks to Germany, then from Germany to—” Jack stopped himself. Arthur was trustworthy, but there was no reason to burden him with the information. Eventually, after a few stops and possibly an IPPC debrief, Sylvia would make her way to England.
“With some luck, we’ll hear from her in a month.” Marin frowned.
“Says the dragon who didn’t get shot. The client’s tail was shaken and means provided for a relatively safe getaway. Mission accomplished.” Despite his words, Jack couldn’t suppress a desire for more closure. Not knowing sucked.
~*~
It hadn’t taken them long to get to the Manchester airport. After a pit stop at a gas station where Jack changed his shirt and washed up, he and Marin boarded a perfectly normal, economy class flight to Dallas where Jack’s buddy Max would meet them. One brief text and Max had agreed to fly into Dallas, pick up Jack’s car from the tiny airport outside of town, stock up on some basic medical supplies, and meet them at the DFW airport. With any luck, a little saline and some pain killers would keep Jack going long enough to make it home to Austin.
And it almost happened.
Marin and Jack’s connection in Chicago was uneventful. And the first half of the flight was pretty good. That’s how Jack remembered it. Marin said he looked airsick and the flight attendant checked on him three times. But Jack knew with certainty that the second half hadn’t gone to plan because he remembered drifting in and out of awareness several times. And Marin being pissed at him and poking him a lot, and finally Max carting him around in a wheelchair at the airport. Yeah—not so great.
When Jack woke up the next morning in the hospital, Marin was slumped in a chair near his bed. He didn’t think that was allowed, but it was good to see a familiar face so he wasn’t complaining.
He desperately needed a pee. That had to be a good sign for a guy that had major blood loss recently. As he got up to hunt down a toilet, Marin’s head jerked up.
She rubbed her eyes. “You look better. Marginally, but at least you can stand on your own.”
“Yeah. Hey, what happened to my stash?”
Marin covered a massive yawn. “Your welcome, Jack. It was no problem carrying your ass through the woods. Or finding a healer in the middle of backwoods New Hampshire. Or faking my way through a flight with a recently gunshot nitwit. Or convincing the hospital staff to treat your serious anemia without running twenty diagnostic tests. No problem at all. But, yes, I did take care of your stash. Arthur’s mailing it. I did let him pick something out as a thanks for packing it
up and getting it here.”
Jack couldn’t restrain a massive grin. He even leaned down and hugged her like madman. Until he remembered he was wearing a hospital gown and had to pee like a racehorse.
“Hey, before you run off—Sylvia made it on board. One of Max’s buddy’s works at a travel agency, and she has a friend, who knows this guy... You know Max. He worked his connections.”
Jack grinned. “That’s all right.”
By the time he got back, Marin had thrown his clothes on the bed and made arrangements for him to check. “Against your doctor’s recommendation, by the way. They still want to run a bunch of tests. They don’t understand why you were so dehydrated, had low blood pressure and anemia but couldn’t find signs of recent trauma or other signs of blood loss.”
“I’m a medical mystery.”
“No, you’re an accident-prone toddler who needs a high-level healer on staff.”
Jack could hardly argue, given the number of times he’d needed a healer recently. “Yeah, but a spell caster sure as hell wouldn’t hurt, either. Um, you’re driving, right?”
Marin rolled her eyes and jingled the keys in her hand at him. “You drive like an old lady.”
But Jack could see the worry behind her teasing. She must not be too pissed off at him. But that didn’t lift the weight that had firmly settled over his chest.
EPILOGUE
Several days had passed since he and Marin had returned from Boston. They’d received a wire from a numbered account. Sylvia of course. Jack had worried. He couldn’t agree that she was mostly harmless, but at least she knew where to draw the line. And the woman had mad skills in the garden.
But one question kept nagging at Jack. There’d been an unsettled, uncomfortable feeling between him and Marin since they’d returned. He wasn’t sure if asking would push the atmosphere at The Junk Shop into an even murkier place or maybe clear the air. Either way, the question buzzed in his mind like an annoying gnat, and he wanted the answer.
He stepped into the doorway of his office, and he asked, “Why do you work for me?”
