Clyde takes a seat on the cot. “I’m glad you’re doing better, love.”
I shove some beans in my dry mouth, aware he’s still playing the game. We both know I’m not better. I’m just trying to hide what I did seconds before he came down in my dungeon.
“Have you slept?” he inquires, softly.
I swallow a piece of burrito. “A bit.”
He cocks a brow. “Tell me the truth, Amanda.”
“Why?” I ask, bile rising up my gullet. It’s a familiar taste. Been puking my guts out all night.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you care?” I shove the tray away, sick of the smell. “I’m your whore, remember?” A slave bound to do his gruesome bidding. “What’s it to you how I’m holding up?”
He scrubs a tired hand over his too-pretty face. Clyde’s vessels—he changes them almost daily—are exquisite. This one belongs to a dude who rocks Italian handsomeness—black hair, sun-kissed skin, lashes any woman would kill for, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
After last night, I think he’s something far worse than a monster. A soulless, pain-inflicting thing with absolutely no moral compass. Amanda Bishop times a hundred.
“It brings me no joy to lock you away,” he says when I don’t reply. “But some of my people think you’d betray us, given the opportunity.”
“Betray you?” I laugh. “Why would I do that? The life of every person I ever cared for depends on me honoring our deal. I’m not selfless enough to let them die for the greater good.” And that is nothing but the truth. Last night, I did the wrong thing for the right reason. I hate myself for it. Yet I’d do it again. In a damn heartbeat.
He studies me closely. “You fascinate me, love.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have been around for a very long time,” he says, gaze darting to the rune of Isa, covering most of the ceiling. The straight line reinforces the power of all the other runes. “Came across thousands of witches, but none were quite like you.”
“You mean they weren’t dumb enough to sell their freakin’ souls to you?” The edge in my voice is sharper than B’s tongue.
Clyde smirks. “None of them were as bold and fearless as you are, love.” His eyes pierce mine. “You live life regardless of consequences and opinions. You breathe freedom and embrace danger.” He pauses. “The making of a true queen.” To some, such a statement might be alluring. Charming even. Not to me.
Heat rises from my core. “I’m no queen.” I’m a damn killer.
Clyde reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently. “Why do you fight it?” He’s referring to the power coursing through my veins. A limitless potential that woke the moment I laid hands on the First Grimoire. “You’re stronger than ever. Don’t you appreciate the new you?”
The killer me? I yank my hand back. “No.” I don’t appreciate it at all. I’d rather be powerless than a power-slave.
He laughs. “See, that’s what I’m talking about, brutally honest even in the face of hell.”
I have been accused of a lot of things, but brutal honesty is a cherry popper. “I’m a lying, scamming witch who never cared about anyone but myself. Honesty doesn’t fit in my world.”
Clyde folds his hands in his lap. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He tilts his head to the side, grinning wickedly. “I assume dishonesty no longer bothers you then?”
Tugging my knees under my chin, I cock a brow. “You say that as if it ever did.”
“And it didn’t?” he shoots back.
“No.”
His grin widens. “I see.”
He tries to bait me. Yeah, wrong girl, pal. I hate mind games as much as I loathe the Knight of Hell. It’s why I refrain from engaging in the topic further.
Silence stretches between us, the only noise the squeaking of my new roomies—a bunch of rats. Hey, compared to Chelsea aka the Nun they’re not so bad to hang with. At least, they don’t try to preach to me moral values.
My ankh-shaped birthmark on my back burns like hell. Has been since I performed the ritual last night.
“What is it?” Clyde sounds way too concerned for my taste. Seriously, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he actually cares about my well-being. Ridiculous. He’s the master, I’m the slave. Worry doesn’t fit in the combo.
Digging my nails into the mark, I scratch as hard as I can.
He’s behind me in the blink of an eye. “Let me see.”
“No.” I pull my shirt down, denying the demon access to my skin. “It’s nothing.”
Knights of Hell, like hunters, don’t take “no” for an answer. He slaps my hand away, shoving my shirt upward.
His sharp exhale, followed by eerie quietness unnerves me.
“What is it?” I ask, gazing over my shoulder.
Clyde looks away.
“What do you see?” I press for an answer. “Tell me.”
The click of the camera shutter resonates through the dungeon. Did he snap a pic of my birthmark?
“Here,” he says, holding his phone under my nose.
Yup, he took a pic. And I don’t like what I see on the screen. The veins surrounding my ankh-shaped birthmark are black. I look like Carrie on the night of her prom right before she slaughtered a whole school. The black pest spreads across my body like a freakin’ virus—the deadly kind. “What the—”
The warning on the very first page of the grimoire flashes across my mind. “Great power comes at a great price,” it read. “Be certain you’re willing to pay it.” Those were the nicest words in the whole book. Whoever wrote it, a witch so ruthless she’d make the devil fear for his throne, drifted into madness soon after writing those lines.
“Don’t worry.” He rests his chin on my shoulder, breathing sulfur on my neck. “You’ll be okay. I promise, love.”
“Okay?” I gawk at the pic. “That doesn’t look o-kay to me.” Gosh, why am I even scared? I literally just begged Alex to put a bullet in my brain. It’s the only way to stop the impending end without breaching my deal with Clyde. Nowhere in my contract did he mention Alex would die if he killed me. It’s my loophole. Besides, I don’t fear death. Never have.
Then why are you shaking?
“You’re the witch,” he whispers, tracing his index finger over my blackened veins. “Tell me if I’m lying.” His voice is steady, his breath even and there aren’t any dishonest vibes coming from him—he’s telling the truth.
“Tell me what’s happening to me,” I half plead, half scream.
“Darkness claims you,” he says, pulling me against his chest. “Soon, you will be the queen you’re fated to be.”
Soon, I’ll be dead. Just like you.
After a while, he rises to his feet. “Are you ready for part two?” he asks, gaze darting to the open page of the tome.
Am I ready to tip the scales in favor of evil?
No.
Do I have a choice?
You always have a choice. Even if it’s a rotten one.
If I was braver, stronger, better, I’d tell the bastard to shove the grimoire up his ass and do the next ritual—the second of six—himself. I’m neither of the above. “Yes,” I choke out. “I am.”
Chapter 15
Alex
Icy wind howls through the alley, piling up fresh snow in drifts. It started a little over an hour ago, but there’s already a thick white blanket on the ground. The radio gave a blizzard warning earlier. Not exactly a surprise. It’s way below freezing, the air is moist, and the white crystals fall mercilessly. Great ingredients for a mother of a snowstorm.
“What’s taking you so long?” B snarls, protecting her eyes with her arms.
Jesse scrubs his pick back and forth in the key hole, waiting for the crucial click. “Almost there.”
She hugs her black coat against her chest, probably trying to lock out the cold. “You said that five minutes ago
.” She’s right. My brother did say the exact same thing five minutes ago. But picking a lock isn’t as easy as it looks on screen. You need to apply the right amount of pressure on the tension wrench and have the finesse to set all the pins.
Still, this isn’t Jesse’s first break-in. The door to Madame Josephine’s—the one we’ve been canvasing for over four hours—should long be open. Hell, the witch herself should have swung it open for us. But neither she, nor Boohoo Princess answered B’s desperate, bordering on mad, banging.
That doesn’t give us a free breaking-and-entering card, I know. It’s just, Bonnie was very convincing when she insisted something must be wrong. “You don’t understand,” she said, standing taller than the skyscraper behind us. “They’d never intentionally piss off a Lacroix.” Neither would I. So I sorta believed her.
B taps her foot to an unsteady rhythm. She’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown, has been since I told her about Manda’s prison cell and her suicidal tendencies. What can I say? The mamba knows exactly how to get what she wants. In this case, she didn’t rest until I told her what I saw.
My little brother doesn’t appreciate the sound of impatience. He peeks over his shoulder, drilling holes in B’s head.
“What about you?” she grumbles, paying no attention to Jesse’s ill-mannered look. “You doing okay?” Had she not spit venom at me for the past two weeks, I’d say she’s concerned. But hey, this is queen B we’re talking about. The chick hates my face.
Leaning against the brick wall, I manage a half-hearted smile. “Peachy.” That’s a flat-out lie. My brain is pudding, my chest weighed down by a ton of stones, and a black hole devouring my gut. Seeing Manda behind bars, broken beyond my darkest imagination, fucked me up good.
She squints. “Sure? ’Cause you look like shit.”
“I’m okay.” She casts me a doubtful glance. “Really. I am.” Except for the fact, Carter is on his way, bearing more bad news concerning Manda.
Jesse throws his fist in the air like a boss. “Yes!”
“About time,” B grumbles.
He pushes the door open. B is all set to march in, but he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back. “What are you—”
“Do you have a gun?” he whispers in her ear, lips dangerously close to her neck.
She stills in his arms. “N-no.”
“Then you’ll stay behind us.”
B’s cheeks flush a bright pink. I get the feeling it’s not from the cold. Quite the contrary. “Let go,” she mumbles, her shield of defiance crumbling.
“Will you stay behind us?” he asks, voice low.
A pretentious eye roll later, she nods.
“Promise me,” he insists, still holding onto her.
“Okay.” Her angry breath clouds the air. “I promise.”
Pushing myself off the wall, I draw my Beretta, and build the advance party.
The dim lit hallway smells like roses and incense. Candles in all sorts of colors burn on antique drawers. Walls, on each side, are painted ruby, decorated with golden ornaments.
“Someone’s a little paranoid,” Jesse whispers, pointing at the colored glass shards hanging from the ceiling. An old Romani custom to keep evil at bay.
“A little?” Judging by the amount of glass swinging above our heads, I’d say Madame Josephine tried to lock out the devil himself.
Like promised, B stays in the back. “The curtain,” she says, pointing to the black velvet hanging from the ceiling.
I scan the hallway one last time in case we missed something. We didn’t. Then, slowly and deliberately, I draw the heavy fabric aside.
A sour stink crawls up my nostrils. Rotten meat, drenched in vinegar.
B holds her hand in front of mouth and nose. “What’s that smell?”
Jesse and I look at each other, both aware the mamba won’t like the answer.
“Stay with her,” I order, advancing into the square room.
B—always a handful—catches a glimpse over my brother’s shoulder. “Josephine?”
Across from me at a round ebony table sits an elderly woman. Long gray hair cascades down her shoulders covering her face. “Ma’am?”
She sits there like a damn statue.
I move past suitcases scattered across the floor. Crystals, candles, herbs—all sorts of witch stuff. Shouldn’t surprise me. According to Boohoo Princess, Madame Josephine was scheduled to return from Cassadaga. Yet something strikes me as odd. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.
“Ma’am?” The foul smell of rancid eggs and spoiled meat is omnipresent. “Is everything all right?”
“Alex.” B tries to get past the wall that’s my brother. “What’s going on?”
I reach for the woman’s shoulder.
Cold as ice.
I’m aware what that means even before her head snaps back, bringing forth a scene straight out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Her eyes—or what used to be her eyes—are hollow sockets. Bloody, dried tears smeared across her pale cheeks.
“Shit.” Jesse’s face hardens. “Is she—”
“Dead,” I assure him. Has been for a while, judging by the rigor mortis.
B pushes my brother, escaping restraint.
“Oh. My. God.” The color drains from her face the second she spots the gruesome scene. “H-her…her eyes,” she stammers. “Where are her eyes?”
I search the room for Madame Josephine’s eyeballs. They sit on top of a massive berg-crystal in the center of the table—watching, evaluating, being uncannily empty.
Sadistic bastard.
Sarcastic, too.
C’mon, the irony isn’t lost on me. A fortuneteller’s eyes, decorating the very tool they use to catch a glimpse of the future? You gotta be a real sick piece of shit to pull something like that.
An angered customer maybe?
Did Madame Josephine’s predictions get her killed? Maybe someone didn’t like what the future has in store for him? It’s possible. Most folks have issues accepting the truth, the reason Manda used to lie to them. And that one time she didn’t—to the guy who later tried to rape her, the guy I saved her from—she almost got killed.
Maybe he figured the Roma witch scammed him?
People have the impression the whole crystal-ball thing is nothing but a hoax. A fair attraction, pulling money out of people’s pockets. I did, too. Then I came across Elsa Hartford. Sixteen-year-old Elsa worked a fair in Kansas City while Jesse and I were investigating the suspicious deaths of four teenagers her age. All kids were fine one day. Coughed blood and dropped dead the next. The PAU got involved due to the hex-bags—small cursed bags, mostly filled with bones, herbs, and a personal item of the target—a parent found in the youngest victim’s bedroom. Though Jesse and I had only worked one case before, Carter decided to give us the job. We were the closest agents to the crime scene, having just solved another case in Wichita. Anyway, imagine what we thought when we heard stories of a girl who foresaw all four deaths? Yup. Jackpot. We went straight to the fair, stormed into Elsa’s tent, guns drawn, ready to kill. Little Elsa didn’t even blink. She just sat there in front of her crystal, and assured us she’d expected us. The girl didn’t give off any witch vibes. Only after she told us where we’d find the real culprit—a teacher slash witch at the local high school who was fed up with those brats, her words, not mine—that we learned little Elsa was only a quarter witch. Her great-grandmother had the curse. Elsa only inherited her ability to see what hadn’t happened yet. The girl didn’t just help us end the killing spree of said teacher, she also foresaw Manda. Told me about this girl I’d meet on a Sunday in an alley behind a pool hall. “You might think you saved her, but it’s really her who’s saving you,” she said, before Jesse and I hit the road again.
“Alex,” Jesse chokes out. “You have to see this.”
I move toward him. He hovers over one of the open suitcases, face slightly green. “What’s—”
Jesus Christ is that…an arm? I hunker down, sh
oving a red blouse aside. Yup. That’s definitely an arm. Female. Red nail polish. Two rings on each finger.
B presses her palm over her mouth, muffling a high-pitched scream. “That’s the girl from yesterday.”
Boohoo Princess. At least, part of her.
Angry customer, my ass. Either the two women had an encounter with the next Ted Bundy, or slaughtered by something strong enough to rip a body apart, yet with enough tact to remove the older woman’s eyeballs with surgical precision.
Something inhuman.
The ragged edges of the flesh supports my suspicion. This arm wasn’t cut off. Rather ripped from the shoulder like a lion tears apart its prey.
Jesse wraps his arms around B, desperate to give her some sort of consolation, a bit of security in a damn slaughterhouse. “C’mon,” he says, softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
For the very first time since Manda vanished, B doesn’t protest. Lips sealed, hands trembling, she allows my little brother to take her away from the most vicious side of death—murder.
I stay back, walking about the crime scene, hoping to find a clue as to what the fuck went down in here.
The positioning of Madame Josephine’s body—on display for anyone who enters to see—tells me whoever did this wanted to make a point.
She’s his artwork.
A piece of his soul he needed us to see.
What are you trying to say, you sick mother?
My gaze darts to her eyeballs. She was clairvoyant, caught a glimpse of what’s yet to come. My gut says she saw something she shouldn’t have.
That’s not all. I feel it in my bones.
I’m missing something.
What?
The dead woman’s fists are balled. Upon closer inspection, I spot a piece of paper. I have to break her fingers to get it out of her death grip.
Heart racing, palms sweating, I unfold the note. Words scribbled onto it in an unsteady hand. I have a hard time deciphering them. But I think they say something like, “On the first day, she saved his soul. On the sixth day, she’ll climb the throne. The prophecy is—” The note ends with no further clues as to what the hell any of this means.
Fate Page 10
