by S. M. Reine
James’s head cleared as the spells continued to work, filling his vision with pale blue sparks. It completely obscured his vision for a few tense seconds.
Then he could see—and the stranger was upon him.
It was a girl wearing a skirt that fell to her ankles and a knitted sweater. She crouched to stick her face in his. She had ruddy skin covered in a smattering of freckles and a tangle of wild, strawberry blond hair. “Have you died yet?” she asked with a thick Irish brogue.
James wet his lips with his tongue and tried to speak. All he could get out was, “No.”
“Mum’ll be happy to hear that.” The girl didn’t sound all that impressed, though. She stood and turned away from him, waving both arms over her head. “Oi! He’s over here! Help me pick him up!”
He thought that he recognized the girl’s hair and stubborn chin, but it wasn’t until he saw the women that had come with her that he realized what had happened.
The Talamh Coven had found him.
The Talamh Coven was, like many powerful covens, segregated from mundane society in a small neighborhood of their own. They were protected by a low stone wall and the kind of wards that made James’s hair stand on end.
The girl who had found him on the beach, Mary, turned out to be older than she looked—old enough to drive him to the house she lived in with her high priestess mother. Mary and Sheila lived in a prewar cottage with modern improvements, including solar panels on the roof and a small windmill in the garden behind it. Those, too, were enchanted. James wanted to stop to admire the complexity, but his new hosts wouldn’t let him.
“Techno witchery,” James observed as Sheila helped carry him into the house, his arm over her shoulders.
“We keep up with the times,” she said. “Mary, bring my herbs.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can heal myself,” he said.
“Aye, and draw the attention of the Union to us,” Sheila said, dumping him on her couch. She straightened with a sigh, adjusting her sweater and her hair, which was just as tangled as her daughter’s. She was a very distinguished fifty years old, aged by the labor involved with being a high priestess, and more handsome than beautiful.
“Have they a presence in Ireland now, too?” James asked.
“They’re everywhere,” she said.
Mary rushed out of the kitchen carrying a tote bag that smelled like sage and rosemary. “I found it, Mam,” she said. “Can I do it?”
Sheila sat in the chair opposite James. “As long as you don’t kill him.”
Mary grinned.
He held still as the girl worked on him, mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle and applying the paste to the worst of his injuries. There were few cuts, but many of his bones still felt broken in that numb, distant kind of way, and that was where Mary focused her efforts.
“We received Brianna at the docks this morning,” Sheila said. She clucked her tongue. “Nasty piece of work. We’ve put her in the guesthouse for now, and Declan is tending to her needs. She’s in good hands.”
“Are you capable of healing her?” James asked, lifting an arm to give Mary access to his ribs.
Sheila sniffed indignantly. “Of course we are. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” he said.
“I’ll make you some tea.” She rose and went into the kitchen.
“Well, she’s a good listener,” James told Mary.
“She’s the high priestess. She’s good at what she does, and that means leading, not listening.” It sounded like she was reciting something her mother had told her, probably grooming Mary for being coven leadership in the future. Mary pressed a little too hard on his ribs as she applied a poultice.
James sucked in a hard breath. “Be careful with those.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” She jabbed him with a knuckle.
“Oh, so it’s like that,” he muttered, flinching away from the gesture.
Mary wrapped bandages around him, affixing the herbs to his flesh. “This will sink in and do you up right in a few hours,” she said. “Nobody heals better than we do. Not even you White Ashers. Don’t touch it—don’t want you ruining my craic handiwork with your clumsy magic.”
She gathered the herbs and followed her mother into the kitchen, nose in the air.
Damn fledgling witches. The White Ash Coven had never allowed their initiates to talk to full members like that.
Sheila returned in a few minutes with two cups of steaming tea. She set one in front of James—out of his reach until he was healed enough to bend forward again—and sat down with the second. “Connor’s going to want to talk to you,” she said over the rim of her cup, sipping it lightly.
He grimaced. “Will he, now?”
“You’ll talk to him before you leave. He has a right to know how his granddaughter is doing.”
“And how old is Connor now? He must be well over eighty,” James said.
“There’s no such thing as old enough that it’s polite to ask that,” Sheila said.
And, unfortunately, not old enough to have forgotten that his granddaughter, Elise, had been bound to an aspis from the White Ash Coven. James had never met Connor Kavanagh and didn’t want to. He had produced Isaac, a brutally hard man that James had always regretted getting to know. Any man responsible for raising Isaac was likely to be equally unpleasant.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, leaning forward with a wince to pick up his tea.
Sheila watched him move with a critical eye, as if analyzing the work Mary had done on him. “You’re healing quickly.”
“Only because of your daughter’s excellent care.”
“Keep your flattery to yourself, Mr. Faulkner. I’m familiar with your reputation.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“I’m sure you can’t,” she said dryly. “The fact that you’ve built yourself into having a new coven just months after you shattered the last one couldn’t have anything to do with your charm. And the fact that you’re rumored to have the Half Moon Bay Coven under your thumb, as well, has nothing to do with seducing its new high priestess.”
“As absurd as I’m sure it sounds, I have a vision and a plan to achieve it,” James said. “People recognize worthy causes. It’s not difficult to rally support for something that’s so desperately needed.”
“I agree. Don’t insult yourself by trying to charm me. I know what you’re after, and I agree there’s none better to do it than you. You’ll have my support and the support of the entire Talamh Coven.”
He had expected her to throw in with him, but he still tried to look pleasantly surprised. “I appreciate it, Sheila. That means a lot to me.”
But she obviously wasn’t done yet. She took another drink of her tea and set it on a doily on the side table. “Healing Brianna will be no small feat. It’s a laborious process at the best of times, and she’s one of the worst cases I’ve seen. The Union has already approached us twice. Coven leadership is too busy to nurse her through this.”
“I thought you said you could heal her,” he said.
“We can. But whether we will is a question of what you do from here, Mr. Faulkner.” Sheila leaned toward him, gaze intent. “The Union has coerced three of our initiates away with promises of paper magic. I want the secret. If I can teach it to them, they won’t be as tempted to leave.”
James frowned. Paper magic was no longer the secret it used to be, but he still felt fiercely protective of his aunt’s invention. Still, if it meant getting Brianna the care she needed… “Very well. I’ll demonstrate it to you this afternoon.”
“Good,” Sheila said. “I’m also aware that you have a new advancement in magic, something that doesn’t require any ritual. I saw it on your hands. I want that as well.”
She meant the runes. James clenched his hands, one of which was wrapped in a scarf from Mary’s car. “That won’t be possible.”
“I won’t share it with the coven,” she said, “but I
want it for my personal use.”
“That’s all well and good, but I still can’t teach you. You don’t have the requisite skill.” As far as James knew, only those with angel blood could speak the ethereal language—Elise being the obvious exception. He wasn’t worried about Sheila learning how to do it. He was worried that she would pass the secret on to the angels so that they could cast magic again, and he wasn’t eager to rekindle that forgotten art.
She smiled unpleasantly. “You’ll attempt to teach me if you hope for Brianna to ever emerge from her sleep.”
“Using the life of a young witch as blackmail?” James shook his head. “You’re more ruthless than I remember, Sheila.”
“Anyone ruthless enough to support you is ruthless enough to barter with lives.”
“Should I take that to mean that your support is dependent on this, too?”
Sheila was silent for a long time as she considered the question. The grandfather clock nestled among her shelves of herbs chimed softly. When it was done, she sat back and sighed. “No. Unfortunately, I want what you want. I’m not going to draw the line here.”
“I can’t give you the runes,” he said. “But I have knowledge of another kind for you. I know how the Union heals witches like Brianna. It may be more difficult than your methods, but it’s much faster.”
The lines on either side of her mouth deepened with a suspicious frown. “Is it, now?”
“Indeed.”
“You have my attention.”
“And your promise to help?” he asked.
She nodded.
“The Union binds the witch to a new kopis. It reverses the magical degradation drastically,” James said. “If it’s a good match, the witch may even be restored to her former powers.”
“That’s not merely difficult, Mr. Faulkner. We don’t have any kopides. The Union’s recruited what few lads we had nearby and taken them away for training.”
“You don’t have kopides anymore,” James said with a smile, “but I know where to find one, and I’ll give him to you. Happily.”
The compound that the Talamh Coven lived in was a short walk from the nearest paved road. Anthony left the car he had rented behind and slipped through the grass with his gun drawn and a ski mask concealing his face. It was an overcast night; wearing all black, he was almost as invisible as Elise in the darkness.
The soft sounds of voices came to him first, penetrating the patter of the cold, drizzling rain. He saw the light from the houses next, glowing gold through the curtains to light up the tips of the grass.
He had found the coven.
Anthony felt through the air over the low wall surrounding the houses. He couldn’t sense magic, but a ward meant to keep him out would be as obvious as a punch in the face. Better to sacrifice a hand than try to jump into it.
He detected nothing. Cautiously, he extended his gun over the fence, too. Still nothing.
Anthony hopped the fence and dropped into a crouch on the other side, slipping through the long grass and weeds to the nearest house. A woman was moving on the other side of the kitchen window, her back facing him, talking to someone he couldn’t see.
“Connor won’t be happy,” she was saying, “but that’s nothing new, is it?”
Anthony recognized the responding chuckle. He slipped closer to the window, careful not to rustle the bushes underneath, and peered over the ledge.
James was sitting on a stool at the counter helping the woman clean up after dinner. He wore a grease-stained apron as he cut into a chicken carcass with a knife, separating the meat from the bones. “No, that’s a family attribute.”
Disappointment rushed through Anthony. He had been hoping that James would have died when he fell off the ship—hoping, but not expecting—but he couldn’t find surprise within himself at the sight of James alive and well. James and Elise had traveled the world hunting demons for years before Anthony met them. The aspis was as good at survival as his kopis.
“You’ll be back soon?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I think so,” James said. “Most likely within a few weeks. It will depend on how long it takes me to collect…ingredients.”
The woman began to turn, and Anthony dropped low, back flattened to the wall. He heard dishes clinking. “You should rest if you’re to leave soon.”
Anthony’s heart accelerated. James was already planning to move on. There was no time for a second attempt to fail. Anthony had to kill James tonight.
James and the woman continued to talk. He was planning to sleep in the high priestess’s personal home. The woman—Sheila—said that she had made up the guest bedroom next to the heavily warded room where Brianna was being kept. James wouldn’t be disturbed by Brianna’s tumultuous energies. She shouldn’t prevent him from being able to cast magic if he needed to. He thanked her for that.
Anthony dared another look and saw James remove the apron. He kissed Sheila on the cheek and left.
Crouched behind the bushes, Anthony watched James exit through the front door, and he turned the safety off on his gun.
He’d had a clear shot on the ship, and waited so long to get it. Anthony had been on the ship with James for days, watching for a chance to strike, and had begun to worry that it would never come. James was never alone. He had been on deck with everyone else, or within the medical ward of the ship, sitting next to that girl’s bed.
Then the shot had finally come. James had been alone—talking to himself, no less—and Anthony had set up his rifle, waited for him to walk away from the wall so that he didn’t have to worry about his bullet causing collateral damage.
But once he’d had James in his sights, he hesitated.
James had seemed to be moving in slow motion. Standing by the railing, noticing the laser sight on his shirt, lifting his hand to touch it. There had been endless seconds where Anthony could have squeezed the trigger. But he had struggled with himself internally for a few instants too long.
He had reminded himself of why he was doing it in the first place—doing that which needed to be done, and what Elise could never do—but there was still a difference between killing demons in the heat of battle and shooting an unsuspecting man in the chest. Especially when he knew that Elise would feel James’s death as if it were her own.
By the time he had found the resolve to squeeze the trigger, James had noticed the laser sight.
Anthony wouldn’t hesitate again.
James walked between houses. Anthony tracked him from a few feet back, watching him cross the path at a slow, unhurried pace. It seemed like James should have known that his death was following him. He was a powerful witch; surely he should have figured out by now when someone was out to kill him. But James stopped to inspect an herb garden beside Sheila’s front door before stepping inside. He didn’t even lock the door behind him.
After a count of ten, Anthony followed.
James had already gone down the hall, and it was quiet in Sheila’s house. The rain coursing down the windowpanes cast the outline of blue-gray rivers on the wall, darkening the family photos, the painting over the wood stove. Anthony removed his boots to keep the wet soles from squelching on her wooden floors, placing the boots behind her umbrella rack where they wouldn’t easily be seen.
The first door in the hallway was cracked open. Anthony glanced inside. Brianna was in the bed, hooked up to a saline drip and engulfed in several layers of blankets. Elise had told him what James had done to her—that she had been bound to Seth as his aspis and had immediately gone insane once Seth died. A witch that lost her kopis was dangerous, and not just to herself. But she was as much a victim of James as anyone else. Anthony wasn’t there to kill her.
He stepped into the coat closet between the bedrooms and listened to James move on the other side of the wall, preparing to sleep. The witch settled quickly. Bed springs creaked. The wardrobe hinges whined. And then silence.
Anthony kept waiting, expecting Sheila or another coven member to come into the house fo
r bed. Dinner was finished—surely it wouldn’t be long before they went home. He screwed a silencer on his pistol as he waited. It wouldn’t be enough to keep someone close by the house from hearing the shot, but it would be less damaging to his hearing. He wanted to walk away from killing James with as little personal injury as possible.
The house remained quiet.
Twenty minutes after James stopped moving, Anthony went to his door. It had a window in it, sort of like the room was meant to be an office, though it didn’t open; it presented no possible escape.
He didn’t dare breathe as he slipped inside. James was lying on top of the bed sheets, his back facing the door. His breathing was deep and even. He snored lightly.
Anthony glanced around the room. There was a small wardrobe, a desk. The window was closed. The drumming rain concealed all of Anthony’s smallest sounds. There was nobody else in the room. The only other person in the house was still comatose. This was Anthony’s opportunity to finish what he had started on the ship.
He didn’t like the idea of shooting James as he slept. It didn’t seem sporting.
But James was hell-bent on power, and didn’t care how many lives he destroyed in pursuit of it. That wasn’t sporting, either.
Anthony aimed the pistol at the back of James’s head.
He fired.
The gunshot was devastatingly loud in such a small room, even with a silencer. It felt like spikes jammed into Anthony’s eardrums.
The loudness of the shot almost concealed the sound of the bedroom door slamming behind him.
Anthony whirled, aiming the pistol at the door.
The wardrobe against the wall hung open and empty. The lock clicked on the bedroom door, and it was only then that Anthony realized it was locked from the outside—he wouldn’t be able to get out.
He looked at the bed, expecting blood and a dead witch.
All he found was a pillow with a hole in it.
“You’re lucky I’m not a vengeful man, Anthony,” James said, voice muffled, “or you would be dead right now.”
A hard lump of dread lodged in Anthony’s throat. He turned slowly.
In the hallway, on the other side of the door, stood James Faulkner—alive, unharmed, and looking extremely annoyed.
