Crimson Wind

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  It felt like he had punched her in the gut. The breath went out of her and she couldn’t speak. She gaped like an idiot.

  “It makes sense. And of course, if you were a Sun-spear, you couldn’t be here now.” He was talking more to himself than to her. He’d always done that. He liked to think out loud.

  “How—” She swallowed the dryness in her throat that had more to do with facing him again than with the smoke. “How do you know about Shadowblades and Sunspears? How do you know about witches?”

  “Why, I am one. Not all that strong, I admit, but I do all right. Now, Kyle, he’s got some real juice.”

  Kyle. Her brother. The boy she’d never really known. He’d been born right after she left for college. He was thirty-three now, divorced and remarried, with a daughter from the first marriage and two stepsons from the second. And he was a witch. How had she never known that? But she’d watched from afar, never imagining that they were anything but ordinary.

  “The witch blood had to come from somewhere,” she muttered. Giselle had always told her that the spells that made Max a Shadowblade were made stronger by the few drops of witch blood running through her veins.

  She jumped up out of the ditch, all too aware of the blood slicking her skin and her dirty, torn clothes. She fought the urge to smooth her hair and adjust her clothing. There wasn’t much point, and a slow anger was starting to burn in her stomach. Why hadn’t her father told her what he was? What she was?

  “You must serve a witch. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to get you, all of you. We heard the obake had attacked here. It’s about to get worse. You need to come with us back to Horngate.”

  “Is Horngate your covenstead?” he asked, scrutinizing her as if he was studying a rare bird.

  He had not tried to hug her. That fact was not lost on her. He was treating her like an interesting scientific artifact, not his daughter. She looked around behind him.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked, not bothering to answer his question.

  “Inside. Everyone is going to be so surprised. That witch—Jim—he said someone was coming to help us. He never said it was you, Anne.”

  “My name is Max now,” she corrected tersely. This was not going the way she’d expected. He was not angry, not resentful. Nor was he all that happy to see her. She remembered him from long ago—the way he would put his arm around her when they walked somewhere, the way he would rub her shoulders when she was studying intently for a test, the way he would always kiss her before she went to bed, even when she was twenty-one and thought herself too old for such sappy crap. But this man—he was more witch than father. And she was more Shadowblade than daughter. That hurt more than she ever thought it could.

  She pushed the hurt down, into the cold abyss at her core where she put all things painful. She felt her mask fall into place, emotion smoothing away like sand washed flat and featureless by waves.

  “Where is Jim?”

  Her father frowned. “He’s not doing so well. The smoke has affected him quite a bit, and he has bites that have become infected. Tris has been nursing him.”

  “Is there anybody else here?”

  “Just your mother and me, Kyle and Tris and the kids, and your friend Jim. The hired hands tried to get out the first day. Oh, and, of course, the Leshii.”

  “Leshii?” Max repeated. Those were ….. she racked her brain, resisting the urge to scrape her hands through her hair. Leshii were forest dwellers from Russia. They were powerful in their own way, tricksters, with a love of trees. Like the obake, they could shape-shift, but took the forms of trees or grass. They didn’t usually make friends with humans.

  Her father nodded. “It’s a family group. They’ve lived on this land for hundreds of years. When we bought it, we made friends with them. They helped our trees, and we did the things they needed. It’s worked out quite well.”

  Max could only stare. Her father and brother were witches and friends with a family of Leshii. What did that make Tris? And her mother?

  “We need to get moving,” Alexander said, just as her father broke into a hacking cough.

  It was a full minute or so before he gained control of himself, and when he did, he wiped off a spatter of blood on his pants leg.

  “Smoke is getting to me,” he said. “It’s getting to everyone.”

  “It will kill you before long,” Alexander said.

  Her father narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Who are you?”

  “Alexander.”

  “He’s a friend,” Max said. “Alexander, this is Peter.” She couldn’t bring herself now to call him Dad.

  The two men exchanged wary nods of greeting, each eyeing the other suspiciously.

  “Let’s go into the house. Your mother will be over the moon to see you.”

  Right. Like he clearly was. Max followed him. Alexander fell in beside her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Nothing wrong that a case of whiskey wouldn’t cure.” Not that she could get drunk. Her Shadowblade metabolism made it impossible.

  He brushed his fingers over the back of her neck. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, her eyes burning with tears she refused to let go. Her chin lifted. She reached up and caught Alexander’s hand, squeezing it once before letting go. His gentle touch threatened to shatter the armored walls protecting her emotions, walls she needed more than ever now.

  The house was old, built at least a hundred years ago, if not more. It was three stories, with additions around the outside, dozens of gables, and a couple of turrets. A broad porch ran around three-quarters of it. Benches swung from the overhang, and a table and chairs were set up outside a pair of French doors. Inside the house and up close, she could smell the Divine magic in her father that the smoke and obake scents had obscured.

  A long living room took up the front of the house. It was cozy, with hardwood floors, plush throw rugs, couches, and a flat-screen TV. The dining room was off to one side. A short hallway led to the kitchen, branching off to go upstairs and farther back into the house. Smoke hazed the rooms, despite the fact that the windows were closed tight. The air was stuffy.

  Her father pushed open the swinging kitchen door. It was a modern room, with a large kitchen at one end and a family dining area at the other.

  “Look who I found outside,” her father announced dramatically, stepping to the side and making a flourishing motion at Max. “It’s Anne.”

  “Max,” she corrected automatically, stopping just inside the doorway. Alexander was just behind her, his chest warm against her back.

  “Hello, everyone,” she said, scanning the faces. She saw Kyle sitting at the table, his stepsons playing video games by the window. Beside him was Tris. Her mouth hung open in shock. Like Max, her hair was blond, though darker, more gold than Max’s silver-white. It was graying now. She was slender and soft around the stomach. Her face was tanned and lined, and crow’s-feet fanned out from her eyes. She stood, her wooden chair rumbling back across the tile floor.

  “Anne? How can it be? You’re dead. You died thirty years ago.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and her chin crumpled.

  Her husband, Paul, slid his arm around her, looking at Max with both curiosity and fear. Their youngest daughter, sixteen-year-old Sharon, stood behind him, staring at Max with wide eyes. She had Paul’s black hair. The other one, Tory, was standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee. She was nineteen, with long blond hair. Beside her was Max’s mother. She was tall, with broad shoulders and thick thighs. Her red hair had gone gray, and she wore it clipped short. She held a full coffeepot, several empty cups hooked on her fingers.

  “Anne?” she said, the color bleaching from her face. She slowly went to the counter and set the coffee and mugs down with a sharp clatter. “Where ….. how?”

  “Hey, Mom.” Max’s throat was knotted so tight she could hardly breathe. Her eyes burned hot with tears. She blinked them back.

  “I don’t understan
d,” her mother whispered. “You’re dead—murdered. The police found blood.” She swallowed hard, one hand pressing against her throat. “So much of it. Like your body had been emptied. They said there was no chance you could have survived.”

  “She’s a Shadowblade,” her father declared confidently.

  “A what?” Tris asked, her voice cracking. She’d stood up and was clinging white-fingered to her husband’s arm.

  “A witch turned her into a superwarrior of the night. She has superstrength and superhearing, but she can’t go out in the day or she’ll be burned alive.”

  Tris’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth.

  “Is that true?” Max’s mother asked.

  “It is,” Max said, not missing the fact that her mother wasn’t particularly startled by the notion of witches. Tris wasn’t, either. Peter and Kyle were both witches. After forty years or so, there was a good chance they’d figure it out.

  A tremor quaked through Max. Her father and her brother were witches. She was no less stunned by that fact than they must be to see her still alive. How had she not known? There was a ward shield around the house. She should have noticed that. But then, she had never come very close in case she was seen.

  But Giselle had known.

  The realization sent a jolt down to the bottoms of her feet, and anger whirled white-hot inside her. Everyone in the room blanched and stepped away as the power of her Prime filled the room with deadly rage. Kyle’s boys hunched down, staring in fright.

  She couldn’t pull back her Prime or douse the storm that roared through her. She shifted, facing her father. He alone didn’t look frightened. He looked more like a kid in a candy store. Max’s lips curled as she bared her teeth. “You knew Giselle was a witch, didn’t you?” she asked softly. “She was my roommate for more than two years. There’s no way you didn’t know.”

  He nodded. “Witches recognize each other.”

  “It didn’t occur to you to warn me?” she asked, speaking each word slowly. She wanted to scream them.

  “Warn you? What for? Oh!”

  She watched as realization hit. There was a flicker of guilt in his dark eyes, so like her own.

  “She turned you? But she was just a college girl.”

  Max ground her teeth together. “She was—is—a whole lot more than that.”

  “But she came to see us,” her mother protested, stepping forward to stand beside her father. As if they were teaming up against her.

  Hurt slashed through Max. She held herself still, though she felt like she was bleeding to death. “Giselle came to see you? When?”

  “Many times. She was so sympathetic …..” Her mother trailed away, pressing her fingers over her trembling lips.

  “I swear, I will fucking kill her this time for sure,” Max gritted. Instantly, her compulsion spells seized tight. She doubled over, feeling like her flesh was being peeled from her bones. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit back on her cries of agony. She didn’t give in to the pain. She would kill Giselle, slowly, and enjoy every single second of it. Her body spasmed, and she sagged to her knees. She wrapped her arms around herself and tipped forward until her forehead rested against the oak floor. Her lungs felt full of ground glass; she could barely breathe.

  “What’s happening?” Tris demanded.

  “Compulsion spells,” Alexander said grimly. “It is what happens when a witch binds you and you break the rules.”

  His hands slid under Max’s arms, and he picked her up gently, pulling her against his chest.

  “You have to stop,” he whispered, his hands rubbing her back. “You have every right to hate her, but this will not help you or your family. We have to get them out of here. That’s why we came. Let it go. For now.”

  She convulsed as the spasms in her muscles increased.

  “Max!” Alexander’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Pull yourself together. You have work to do.”

  He was right. She knew it. She had to let it go. Giselle’s further lies and betrayal didn’t change anything about the danger of the obake or the spread of the wild magic from Shasta.

  It took everything she had to push her hatred deep down inside where she didn’t have to feel it. She began to relax as the hate was replaced by cool purpose. She pushed herself out of Alexander’s arms.

  “Thanks.”

  “If you want, I will cut her throat for you.” His mouth was white-rimmed with fury and his eyes were icy.

  “No need.”

  He nodded. “The offer stands.”

  “Thanks. But you’re trying to get her to like you, remember?”

  “I do not give a fuck.”

  She gave him a slow smile before turning back to her family. It was good to have someone in her corner.

  “Are you ….. okay?” her mother asked, looking nervous, as if she didn’t know whether she should offer to hug Max or run to the hills. “That looked—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Max said shortly.

  “I still don’t understand,” Tris said. “What about the blood the police found?” Her face was blotched red, and her jaw thrust out. She was pissed and afraid. Max could smell her fear. “It was yours. They tested it.”

  Max shrugged. “It was better for you if you thought I was dead.”

  “Better for us? Better for us?” Tris’s voice was shrill. “How could it be better? God, I don’t think I ever recovered from losing you. Do you know what it’s like to think your sister was murdered? I loved you so much, and you were alive this whole time! Now you’re standing there like the day you disappeared, acting like it didn’t matter to you at all. Was it that great? Becoming this thing you’ve become? Why did you do it? To stay young? Is that it? You traded us for that?” she asked scathingly.

  Her words hit like bullets. Max’s fury reared up and words spilled from her in a torrent. “Did you see what just happened to me?” she spat. “Do you think that was fun? That I wanted that? If you do, then you are stupider than you look. I never wanted to be a Shadowblade. But once I was turned, there was no going back. I stayed away because of you. All of you were better off if I was dead.”

  “Better off?” her mother asked. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Max’s father slipped his arm around her.

  Max whirled on her. “Have you seen what’s happening out there? The monsters in the smoke? The ones that want to eat you alive? They’re maybe a three on the scale of scary shit I have to deal with every day. Did you want me bringing my new friends around at Christmas or Thanksgiving? Maybe for the Fourth of July we could put on a real show. Of course, if I’d had warning, I could have protected myself, but no one told me my best friend was a witch, did they? Or that witchcraft runs in the family.”

  She glared at her father, who, for the first time, looked a little shamefaced.

  Max looked away and took a breath. She was wasting time. “Where’s Jim?”

  “In here,” her mother said, and led Max through another door into a TV room. Jim lay on the couch inside a sleeping bag piled with blankets. He was shaking. His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was sallow. He lifted a hand in greeting as Max came to crouch beside him.

  “’Bout time you showed up. Thought you said you’d be here by dawn yesterday.” He coughed, his throat sounding raw.

  She waited until he was done.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  He shrugged and snugged the sleeping bag tighter around himself. His lips were blue, his chin speckled with blood from his coughing. “You know me. One foot in the grave most of my life. No point changing now.”

  She frowned. “How bad is it?”

  He coughed again, and the sleeping bag and blankets pushed down. Bruises patterned the skin of his chest. She covered him again as his cough subsided. He drew a ragged breath, wiping his mouth and looking at the blood on his fingers.

  “I got attacked coming in. Pretty sure I’m done for.”

  “The hell you are,” Ma
x said softly, brushing her fingers over his forehead. He was a seedy little man, with receding brown hair, a narrow chin boasting a scraggly beard, and a wicked sense of humor. “I’m going to get us out of here. Tonight. We’ll find you someone to help.”

  “Gone too far, babe. I’m already gone, my body just hasn’t agreed yet. Can’t feel my legs. Cold. Coughing blood. I’m toast.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she said, rising to her feet.

  He smiled and took her hand in his weak grip. “Take care of yourself. Get your family out safe.”

  Her hand clamped around his. “You should have waited for me, dammit.”

  “The shield ward wouldn’t have held long enough. Needed extra juice.”

  She nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek despite herself. She brushed it away. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Lucky you won’t have to pay me back. Besides, I owed you big for what you did in Arizona. Consider us even.” He began to cough again.

  Alexander handed her a glass of water. She looked at him, startled. She nodded thanks.

  “Here,” she said to Jim, holding the cool liquid to his lips. He sipped and then pulled away, lying back on his pillows.

  “I’ll be fine. Go get to work.”

  She nodded. She felt she might snap apart at any moment. “I’ll be back for you.”

  “See you when I see you,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Max turned and brushed past Alexander, unable to take the pity in his eyes without completely losing it.

  She stepped back into the kitchen and several hushed discussions fell silent.

  “I don’t know what Jim told you or what you’ve figured out, but here are the high points so I know we’re all on the same page. Right now, we’re surrounded by smoke, and it’s full of shape-shifters that want us all dead.”

  Kyle and her father nodded.

  “Jim told us they were shape-shifters,” her father said.

  “What do they want?” her brother asked. He was tall and angular, with the same pale hair as Max. He wore it in a short, military-style cut.