by Anthology
Michael frowned.
She waved a hand in irritation. “I’m not saying you were lying before. I just meant honest in the sense that it was…unrehearsed.”
“So you believe me?” Michael said.
“I don’t know,” Rhiannon said honestly. “You’re asking me to go against everything I was taught, everything I know…on your word.”
“My word has always been good enough.”
She took a deep breath. “Not for this.”
He nodded. “I suspected it would come to as much.”
She watched him with wary eyes as he stood in the center of the room and performed a quick incarnation.
“What exactly do you think it is that she would gain from hastening a cerebral event?”
The minotaur smiled, a scary expression in itself. “She thinks she’s protecting the human race.”
“By lobotomizing it,” she scoffed in disbelief.
“By making it a lesser of two evils before something much worse can happen,” he said softly as he concentrated on the magic convalescing in front of him.
“Worse like what?” This time it was the demon who asked the question.
The minotaur turned to look over at him. “Worse like the apocalypse itself.”
Rhiannon sighed. It was never anything easy, was it?
“So what do you want me to do?” she asked slowly. “Reason with her?”
“Found out why,” the minotaur said. “Why she’s taking such a drastic option. What could possible warrant such extensive and damaging use of magic.”
Unease roiled through Rhiannon.
“Do you think the warlock was really sent to kill me?”
“Kill or immobilize,” the bond-demon said. “They work out to the same thing. Without your magic, which he would siphon off, you’re a sitting duck—as good as dead.”
“Well, thank you, Captain Obvious,” Rhiannon muttered under her breath. “I was hoping for an ‘of course not.’”
Even if it was a lie, she thought to herself glumly.
Shaking herself from reverie, she said, “All right, I’ll handle her...but I have conditions.”
Michael stared. She assumed it was his silent way of telling her gone on.
“We do it my way. I talk to her first. You two come later.”
If at all, were the words she added in her minds.
“Done. And?”
Reluctantly, Rhiannon said, “I’m going to need some supplies.”
“The demon can go to the witch-supply store,” Michael said curtly.
Rhiannon looked between and then shook her head. “I’m thinking something more…festive is in order. Do either of you know what eggnog is?”
The minotaur looked at the demon. The demon looked at the minotaur.
“No,” they said simultaneously.
Rhiannon sighed. “I didn’t think you would. We need to go to the grocery store.”
“Why?” demanded Michael. “The witch supplies are one thing. To risk a confrontation in human territory quite another.”
“You don’t know the woman we’re meeting quite like I do,” said Rhiannon drily. “She’s big on two things. Custom and holidays. The custom is for the guest to bring a gift to the host’s home. The holidays are already here as well as quite nearby depending on what you celebrate. This concoction of egg and whisky is one of the few beverages that holiday practitioners of both the Samhain and Christian faiths recognize.”
The demon blinked. “Then why have I never heard of it before?”
Rhiannon shrugged. “It’s kind of an acquired taste.”
Michael snorted. “Let’s go, let’s get it.”
Rhiannon nodded. “And don’t forget the pie.”
She may have been going over for a confrontation, but she wasn’t going empty-handed.
She would be carrying her dagger, gun, a quart of eggnog, and a pie that would knock her host’s socks off.
There were many things that Rhiannon had learned over years, but number one was that a good Southern woman was both a proper guest and a proper host—irrespective of circumstances. And if there was a time to respect tradition, this was definitely the time.
Eggnog and pie might be the only thing that got her across that threshold after all.
She was quiet as she walked to the door.
The demon put his hand on the knob and then touched her shoulder hesitantly. “You do know who we’re going to go see, right?”
Rhiannon smiled up at him. “I wasn’t born yesterday and as common as the name Sarah Beth is…she is quite an unforgettable witch.”
Compassion filled his eyes. It was quite disconcerting since his pupils were still red. The emotion that filled them only made the deep red shine brighter, almost like his eyes were filled with glowing blood.
“And how do you feel about it?”
“What is this, therapy time?” she asked impatiently.
“I need to know the witch who’s at my back for the rest of the day can handle her own.”
“Don’t worry,” she grumbled. “I can handle my own. You just stay clear and hope that Mommy Dearest and I don’t kill each other on the front steps.”
He was silent as he followed her out the apartment door.
8
Rhiannon gulped nervously as she walked up to her childhood home.
It was not like she believed the notion that her mother was out to kill her…but you just never knew with Sarah Beth Slater.
She had actually tried to kill Rhiannon and one of her sisters when they were younger. Over laundry if you can imagine.
Most people couldn’t, since the laundry had been djinn possessed and Rhiannon as well as her sibling had been in their mother’s way when she had tried to stop the djinn from getting away.
Her mother had had to make a split second decision, kill the djinn and save millions, or save her daughters and doom the entire city to die.
She’d made her choice, Rhiannon had seen it that day in the determination and the regret in her eyes. For that Rhiannon didn’t blame her.
Fortunately for her, Mary Beth, her mother’s firstborn was quite good at deflective shielding. So the dark incantation sent to kill the djinn had bounced harmlessly off then as it sought its target.
Mary Beth, the eldest daughter, had been in the hospital for two entire weeks after that from magical exhaustion, but they had both lived to hear their mother lecture their ears off on witch responsibilities.
So Rhiannon didn’t really count that situation as the same as this one. But she was no fool—her mother had no qualms about killing a daughter for the greater good.
Taking a deep breath, she walked up the sidewalk, festive with Samhain-related decorations.
It was the witchiest holiday of the year after all and her mother wouldn’t be caught dead not celebrating it.
For a witch to not celebrate Samhain, was like a Catholic from the human religions not celebrating Easter. Although in reality, Rhiannon considered herself a practicing witch of two religions, as did most southern wiccans, she recognized her mother’s intense devotion to the Gaelic rights in her own heritage.
She knew it was a bit early for the actual festivals, which was fine. Decorations however were perfectly-timed. After all, most humans started putting up their Christ holiday decorations in as early as November.
“Not Christ,” she muttered to herself as she tried the shake the fear-filled fog from her head, “Christmas, you know that.”
She knocked on the door in hesitation.
It swung open with a creak and she walked in.
“Mom,” she said hesitantly.
No answer expect for the whoosh of a fan circulating in the family room. Mouth pursed in distaste at a foul smell that was wafting through her nostrils, Rhiannon walked further into the home. She looked left and right, hoping and not hoping, to find the matriarch of the family seated either in the formal living room or across the hall in the dining room.
She was in neither.
The house was silent…too silent.
Cursing slightly, Rhiannon reached down and set the eggnog and pie on the floor. She could have walked a few feet into the interior, past the formal dining room and into the kitchen. But she knew her mother well enough to know she wasn’t in there.
Demon-hunting badass she was. Kitchen connoisseur her mother was not.
Eyeing the old hardwood stairs leading up to the second floor, Rhiannon stood, unsheathed a dagger and proceeded up them as stealthy as she could.
She was a trained Void agent, but she’d never been very good at what Michael called ‘detective work’.
Rhiannon was a run ‘em down and shoot ‘em kind of girl. Not a search and clear the home type woman. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and what was more desperate than a potential apocalypse of humankind?
As she hit the second-floor landing the smell got worse. Not better.
She heard a squeak on the first floor below and turned stealthy to get the advantage. She had the wooden wall of the landing at her back and open air to all her other three sides.
Not the best way to fight a battle, especially on two fronts. But she made due.
Fortunately for her it wasn’t an enemy looking up at her from the floor below. But a demon. Her demon.
She sighed in relief.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed down.
He followed her up the stairs and then whispered in her ear. “Something’s wrong.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t smell that?” he said in an irate whisper.
She smiled. “I shook my head in disbelief that we actually agree on something.”
“Miracles be praised. Let it be known witch when this day is done I never want to be assigned to you again,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Feeling’s mutual.”
She sheathed her knife and pulled out the gun.
Now that she had back-up at her side she was less worried about a fight in close quarters.
He could take on anything that jumped them in surprise. She would shoot whatever opponent came across them from afar.
For one moment, she really wished she had her crossbolt with her though.
“Let’s go,” she hissed while moving forward.
They walked down a long dark hallway, customary for her mother not to have the lights, but Rhiannon’s sense of unease continued to grow. The smell got worse the further they went and the bad feeling that was crawling down her spine only grew.
Finally they came to her mother’s master bedroom door.
“This is it,” Rhiannon said.
“You sure you want to go in with guns drawn,” he said quietly. “We wouldn’t want to spook her.”
“I know my mother,” Rhiannon grumbled. “She doesn’t spook easily.”
Nevertheless, she also knew that bringing a loaded weapon into a demon-hunters home with no provocation was asking for trouble. Normal she would have checked in with her mother and all would be well.
Today’s events was just one aberration among many that had her hackles on the rise.
She put the gun on the holster and put her hand on the door.
Rhiannon didn’t bother reaching for the knob as she opened her mouth to say an incantation to open the bedroom door with a bang.
“Let me go first,” said the demon.
She angled herself so that her body was flush against his right arm as he crouched to bring forward.
With seamless coordination she whispered the spell and he rushed through the door with a guttural shout.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting to find when he finally stepped aside.
It wasn’t the best demon-hunting witch the South had ever seen nailed to the floor with a pike through her chest and rats eating out her eyes.
Demonic rats, but rats all the same. They went scurrying into the corners.
“Mother,” she whispered in a horrified gasp before he could say a word.
The noxious smell that had been wafting throughout the house finally hit home. It was the smell of her mother’s rotting corpse, dead for days on end.
Trembling Rhiannon walked forward and looked down at the corpse just to confirm.
“It’s her?” the demon said.
Lucius, she thought, That’s his name.
“It’s her,” she said in choked whisper.
“Well, looks like we were barking up the wrong tree,” he said while eyeing the corpse. “She’s not fresh. She certainly couldn’t have summoned the hellcat on your tail.”
Rhiannon clenched her jaw. “I have doubts she would have from the beginning.”
He tossed her a piercing look. “She’s your mother but let’s not deify her just yet.”
She snorted and walked forward to grab the base of the pike that ran all the way down, straight into her mother’s heart.
Rhiannon eyed the insignia carved into the pommel and she could see the tell-tale sprigs of green that marked decaying mistletoe at the head of the pike.
Mouth dry, Rhiannon said in a whisper “I know whose pike that is.”
She looked over at him. He raised an eyebrow. “A demon’s?”
His voice was filled with sarcasm as if that was the most logical conclusion…and it was.
Too bad he was wrong.
“No,” she said with a gulp of air that she immediately regretted. “It’s my father’s.”
Dread filled her stomach.
“Lucius?” she said quietly.
“Yes?” he whispered.
“What’s today?”
He looked back at her with a frown. “Monday.”
“No,” she hissed, “What’s the date?”
“According to what?”
She hissed, “According to demons, you idiot?”
He frowned at her language but replied quickly.
“It’s the day of the Rising.” He sounded a little too glum.
She closed her eyes, laughed, and walked away from her mother’s corpse. “Of course.”
Following her into the hallway, “Of course, what?”
“It’s time to go demon-hunting,” she snarled. “In truth this time.”
“Any place in mind?”
“Somewhere where patricide is not a crime,” she said as she walked back down the stairs and exited the house to the sounds of Samhain-celebrations in the streets. An odd sound on a day with so much terror, but it was better than the alternative—death and terror in a time of holiday cheer.
The End
About Terah Edun
Terah Edun is the New York Times Bestselling Author of several epic and urban fantasy series. www.teedun.com
Wrapped Up by Cathryn Fox
Stone Cliff Series
Thanks to a little holiday magic, Carter Reed might finally get off the naughty list.
Once upon a time Carter Reed believed in Christmas magic, but now he lives by two rules: never ask anyone for anything, and forget being nice, it never pays off. When he gets stranded in the small town of Stone Cliff and gets rescued by a woman who loves the holiday as much as he hates it, he can’t help but get caught up in her spirit of Christmas. Soon they’re making new memories, and when he’s finally free to leave will he get on the plane and turn his back on the one girl who has thawed his frozen heart or find the courage to break his rules and ask for everything he’s always needed?
1
Carter Reed stuffed a stack of legal papers into a manila folder and tried to ignore the distress on Mayor Walker’s face as he glared from the other side of the boardroom. Turning sideways, Carter snapped his briefcase shut with a little more force than necessary. At least the loud clicking sound gave him something other than Walker’s anger to focus on.
“Carter—” Walker began, clearly refusing to let it go.
“The deal is done,” Carter said. “You signed the final agreement yesterday. The contract is legal and binding.”
“That was before I f
ound out the buyer wanted to turn the church into a casino,” the older man retaliated. Walker ran his hands through graying hair, and Carter studied the letters emblazed on his briefcase to avoid the concern in his opponent’s dark eyes. It was not his concern. “There must be something you can do,” Walker continued.
From his peripheral vision, Carter caught the mayor shifting his gaze. Carter didn’t need to turn to know Walker was scanning the ski vacationers through the boardroom’s glass walls as they bustled around the lobby at Stone Cliff resort. “This is a small community, Carter, and the resort caters to those wanting to get away from it all, not those wanting to gamble. We don’t need that kind of trouble around these parts.”
“What my client does with the property after purchasing it is not my business.” Carter grabbed his wool coat from the rack near the door and picked up his suitcase. He’d check out of his room earlier that day and brought his bags to the meeting, wanting to put Stone Cliff Resort and the festive town of Deerfield in his rear view mirror, sooner rather than later. All the Christmas music, carolers, lights and parades were giving him a damn headache. “I’m just here to see that the legal work gets taken care of. Any problems you have from here on out will have to be taken up with the purchaser.”
Mayor Walker rested his elbows on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on. It’s Christmas and that church is currently being used as a food bank. Right at this moment, the space is filled with volunteers preparing meals for those less fortunate. We can’t just close up in the dead of the winter, especially since we’ve yet to find another location to set up a kitchen. When we started this deal, your client said he wouldn’t be touching the property until spring and we would continue to use it.”
“Things change.” Carter wrapped his gray woolen scarf around his neck and pulled up his collar.
“Right, so then why can’t the deal? Let’s face it. If we had known things were going to go down—”
Carter held his hand up. “The law is the law, Mayor.” He really didn’t have time to keep rehashing the same argument. He was going to be late for his flight. “I don’t make the rules, I just abide by them.” Besides, even if Carter could reverse the sale—and there was no way he could—he wasn’t going to blow his first job out of law school.
