It’s not ‘665’ anymore, she realized with a peculiar stab of pride. With the brass number plate gone, along with the entire façade that had contained it, this was nothing but the heap of stone and wood occupying Lot 666. Gone with the structure of the mansion was any pretence that it had been something other than what it was.
Jane patted various parts of her body experimentally, but other than a few bruises, scrapes, and burns, she seemed largely unhurt. Filthy, of course – the once-blue irises on her dress were no longer distinguishable from the once-white background – but no more injured than she had been before falling five stories. It was either a miracle, or magic.
She looked around again, this time focusing on the rubble itself. There was no sign of either of the prehistoric witches who had battled there earlier in the evening, and Jane’s hand went half consciously to the amulet around her neck. It was cold and still; whatever had been humming inside of it was thoroughly gone now. But she knew, even before she tried to re-create the events from the bedroom in her mind, that Ambika had won. How else could it have gone? The fact that Jane was more or less still standing and the mansion was, well, not seemed like all the proof she needed.
Ambika is gone, and she took Hasina with her, but I’m still here. That must mean that Annette was somewhere in the chaotic pile, too. Jane scanned the moonscape around her, but between its broken, pitted surface and the flat, unhelpful light from the streetlamps, she couldn’t make out any sign of where the other witch might be. Crushed, probably, she thought, but uncertainty lingered in her mind. If Annette had somehow managed to survive the collapse of her house, it was highly unlikely that making amends would be her present goal. Jane may have banished Hasina, but she had left behind another enemy who was nearly as dangerous. No matter how much Jane would rather walk away right now, the safest plan was to find Annette.
She inhaled slowly, reaching inward to seek out the magic in her blood. It was there – she could hear it, feel it inside – but it was discouragingly faint. She hadn’t made any effort to hold some in reserve while she fought Annette, and now she had almost none left. It’ll come back, she reminded herself, wiggling her toes idly. As long as I’m alive, it will always come back.
She clambered stiffly to her feet, discovering new soreness in her muscles with every movement. After a quick glance, she decided to start with the back of the house, so that no one could sneak up on her while she searched. As she moved, the thing underneath her (a largish piece of some interior wall, she guessed), shifted, slanting dangerously, and her foot slipped and wedged between it and something that looked like it had once been an armoire. She hissed her breath out between her teeth, pried her foot loose, and started again, this time more cautiously.
She stayed mainly in a low crouch or on her knees for better stability, testing each ruined piece of the house gently before trying to move it. Some were too heavy to lift at all, but she was unwilling to use the remaining dregs of her magic in her search. There was too much of a risk that she might need it all once she found what she was looking for. Still, she made decent enough progress to feel that she really was looking, working her way from one back corner of the lot to the other, then back again in a tight zigzagging pattern. She tried to pay some attention to the rest of the rubble as she went, too, in particular training her ears toward the street in case something started to shift in that direction.
But nothing did. How has no one noticed this yet? she wondered, grunting a little as she pushed aside three wooden stairs, still attached by their risers. Surely the fall of the mansion had made a massive clamour, and no matter how late it was, plenty of people would still be awake to hear it. But every time she raised her head from her work, the street remained oddly empty, with nothing more than the occasional car passing incuriously by. Some kind of spell? she guessed, recalling that the street had been empty the night they had broken in to interrupt Hasina, as well. There was a good chance the spell wouldn’t last much longer than the house itself. She tried to hurry her search a little, nearly slipped again, and decided that she would just have to deal with one problem at a time.
A faint scratching noise came from somewhere behind her, and she froze in place. The sound came again, and Jane began to make her way carefully toward it.
It seemed to take forever to crawl the twenty-five metres, and in the back of her mind she wondered nervously how long she had already been clambering around the wrecked mansion. When she reached the place where she thought the noise had come from, she noticed that a rectangular stone she hadn’t been able to move earlier was, on closer inspection, leaning at a bit of an angle. She braced herself against a section of drywall and, taking a deep breath, managed to tip it over to the side.
In the space that it left, Jane saw something that, if it hadn’t been so covered in dust and plaster, looked like it would have been a rich, deep red. She was wearing a bracelet that color, Jane was almost certain. Her shoes would have matched.
She began clearing away bits and pieces, following Annette’s leg up to the hem of her skirt, then guessing at where her head might be and starting again there. A heavily massive headboard had been blocking it, but once Jane managed to shift it aside she saw that it had been resting on a few skewed posts from the same bed, creating a small protected shelter for Annette’s head.
When the light struck her face, Annette’s dark eyes flew open.
‘Stay down,’ Jane snapped.
The witch’s eyes narrowed, but she did as she was told. Jane brushed away a little more of the plaster and splinters, wondering what her next step should be. She couldn’t bring herself to kill someone in cold blood, even someone who so thoroughly deserved it. But walking away from Annette would be like turning her back on a wounded boar. Then, along the length of Annette’s right arm, Jane’s fingers brushed warm metal, and she knew what to do.
‘I’m not going to dig you all the way out,’ she told Annette in a conversational tone, brushing away the rest of the dust from the object that had caught her attention. ‘You might be hurt, and I could just make things worse. Besides, I don’t really like you all that much anymore. But I’ll tell you what I will do: I’ll call 911 and tell them exactly where to find you. And then I’ll go away. But that will make twice that I’ve knocked you out and then spared your life, so this time you’ll have to do something for me.’
She pried the object loose, shaking the last bits of debris from it and rocking back on her heels. Its mirrorlike blade glittered wickedly in the moonlight, and the ancient carvings on its handle seemed to writhe a little against her skin. I wonder if it’s the same one. I wonder if it’s the one Ambika used to give Hasina her inheritance, and the same one Hasina used to steal her sister’s.
Annette’s eyes fixated on the athame, following its every slight movement. ‘Let me guess,’ she whispered, and Jane could tell that it took some effort.
‘I think you can,’ she agreed pleasantly. ‘You’re going to take your last breath as a witch right here and now, and then I’m going to take this pretty little knife. And then you and I are done, for good.’ She switched the athame over in her hand so that its blade pointed downward toward the thin skin of Annette’s throat where the girl’s pulse beat visibly. ‘There are alternatives, but I’d prefer to dwell on the positive. We don’t even need to talk about how I’ll put you down like a rabid lapdog if you don’t agree right the hell now.’
Annette took a fraction of a second longer than Jane would have preferred, but when she managed a half nod, it was a definite yes. ‘Hold it for me,’ she rasped, setting her square jaw stubbornly.
Jane moved the blade of the athame to Annette’s dusty lips. The girl closed her eyes, and Jane felt the same pressure of magic that she had once felt while standing with Lynne in Central Park. She was ready for it this time, and she listened attentively to the almost inaudible sound of it rushing into the athame. When it was done, Annette opened her eyes again. They were bright and alive with hatred.
�
��I know you’re already planning your revenge,’ Jane said to the trapped girl, turning the athame idly in her hands. It whispered darkly to her, the power in it pulling at hers like a magnet. Jane stood, gathering her own magic into the hand that held the athame. She still didn’t have much, but it was already more than she’d had when she had first woken up. It would be enough. ‘But before you do, please listen carefully. I’m not going to hide from you. I’m not going to run away or gather an army to fight you or hoard my power against the day when you come after me. Because if you’re smart, you’ll stay as far away from me and mine as you possibly can. I promise you now that if you ever lift a finger to hurt me or anyone I love again – hell, anyone I even kind of like – I’ll find you and finish you. There’s a world of difference between a rich girl and a witch. Remember that no matter what money and connections you may have inherited, all of your real power is gone. For good.’
Her magic flared, and the silver in her hand began to glow red. Malcolm had told her how to destroy silver that held magic once, and she whispered a silent thank-you to him as she performed the necessary alchemy. The athame held its shape for a long moment, then the blade began to sag unnaturally. Its luster faded as the entire thing dissolved into a stream of liquid mercury. It ran from Jane’s hand to splatter on the rubble beside Annette’s pinned form, finding the cracks until most of it had disappeared entirely into the debris. Jane held her hand up, showing that it was still unburned, and gave Annette a little wave.
Then she turned on her heel and walked toward the street.
Chapter Thirty-one
MALCOLM DORAN’S FUNERAL was nearly the state occasion that his mother’s had been. Even without Hasina’s well-honed sense of propriety, Annette had made good use of her BlackBerry. St. Paul’s had been packed to the gills, and now the cemetery was covered in a sea of black couture stretching as far as the eye could see. Jane spotted Madison Avery, a striking brunette whom Malcolm had briefly dated, in a hat that wouldn’t have been out of place at the British royal wedding.
She leaned her head against a maple tree and watched from a distance, afraid of the media frenzy that would erupt if Malcolm’s mysterious wife of less than two months were spotted. She had decided from the moment she heard about the services that she would keep her distance. She believed that Annette would take her threats seriously, but there was no need to test their truce if she didn’t need to. It was enough for Jane just to be there – she didn’t need to be centre stage or turn it into some kind of face-off with Malcolm’s sister.
Jane reached half consciously into her purse, her fingertips finding the little wooden box with the ease of practice. She had hoped that being closer to Malcolm’s remains might encourage it to pick up more traces of his spirit, but none of the love and warmth that the box radiated felt like him. Still too soon, she sighed to herself. Apparently it wasn’t the kind of magic that could be rushed.
‘Is this where the persona-non-grata picnic is being held?’ a voice chirped from behind her, and Jane jumped a little. ‘I brought the caviar.’ Maeve’s elfin features and black Issa dress were appropriately somber, but she really was holding a wicker picnic basket. In spite of her own sadness at the occasion, Jane smiled warmly at the sight of her.
‘Harris is parking the car,’ Leah added, picking her way around another maple tree on perilously high heels. The rest of her family was straggling behind her.
‘You guys didn’t have to come,’ Jane told them, her throat swelling with gratitude.
‘That’s what makes it a gesture, love,’ Charlotte reproved mildly, but with a twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘That basket of my niece’s contains a bottle or two of rather nice champagne, and we thought that it would be appropriate to toast Malcolm’s memory with you, if you’re willing.’
Jane glanced back toward the crowded gravesite; the parade of eulogies showed no sign of slowing down. ‘We should have plenty of time before anyone comes back this way,’ she guessed, and Maeve slid a green bottle of Salon 1997 from her basket to pop its cork in one fluid, practised motion.
Harris arrived with a large, plaid blanket in hand and shook it out across the grass. ‘I had a dream last night,’ he told Jane softly when the champagne was poured and they were all settled on the blanket in a companionable little group. Jane startled a little, but waited for him to go on. ‘Dee was in it. I hadn’t – she hadn’t – since—’ He stumbled over the words, and Jane reflexively placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own after a moment and squeezed it lightly. ‘I’m trying to apologize,’ he explained eventually. ‘I don’t remember most of what she said, but she set me straight and then some. Maybe I should have been more open-minded when you wanted to talk to her the first time – it would have saved me a lot of needless grudge holding.’
Jane smiled fondly. ‘No, I think you were right about that. It’s better that she got to choose her own time to stop in.’ She raised her champagne flute to her lips, then hesitated self-consciously, the bubbles tingling her skin. After a moment she set the full glass back down again on the blanket.
There was a small silence, and then Harris spoke again, more hesitantly this time. ‘It might not have actually been her,’ he admitted. ‘It looked like her, but I’ve been pissed off at you and Malcolm and the world in general for a while now, and maybe I’ve been thinking it was about time to stop.’
Jane considered that. ‘I think Dee would be really happy to be a part of that moment. Whether it was her own idea or yours.’
‘I think so, too,’ Harris agreed mildly, a sad smile brightening his freckle-dusted face. There were some faint new lines around his brilliant green eyes – stress, Jane thought, and pain as well – but when he smiled he looked like his old, optimistic self. ‘I’m sorry you lost him,’ he finished.
‘I’m sorry you lost her,’ Jane answered, and she leaned her upper body over to fold him into a half hug. There was the faintest hint of an electrical tingle, a tiny throb of her magic that would, she knew, always respond to the magic in his blood. But it felt different now, more like recognition than need. He was, in a way, a part of her family, and it was only right that family should get along.
‘I was worried that it was too early for peaches, but try this,’ Maeve ordered, pulling herself across the blanket to sit on Jane’s other side and thrusting a little bowl of fruit salad into her hands.
Jane obediently scooped some into her mouth, though she was too overwhelmed by the day to taste much of anything. ‘They’re great,’ she agreed absently, and Maeve’s eyes narrowed.
‘There aren’t any peaches in it,’ she said, sighing, and rested her curly head on Jane’s shoulder affectionately. ‘How are you holding up?’
Jane craned her neck for a minute, trying to get a sense of how the funeral was progressing. Although the gravesite was thronged with people, Annette looked alone and somehow frail. Hasina hadn’t occupied her body for very long, but Jane wondered if her presence hadn’t done some lasting damage to her hostess all the same. It would serve her right. ‘I’m okay,’ she replied honestly. ‘The hardest part is the regret. I know you never get a chance to correct mistakes, but usually you at least get a chance to make amends.’
Harris glanced up at her as if he had heard his name spoken, then returned quickly to bickering good-naturedly with his cousin about the proper size of a scoop of caviar. Maeve picked a grape from Jane’s fruit salad and popped it into her mouth with her fingers. ‘I can see how that would be hard,’ she agreed. ‘And Malcolm was absolutely, madly, head over heels in love with you. But, Jane. Do you really think he would have done half of what he did for you if he didn’t also know how you felt about him?’
Jane opened her mouth to reply, but found herself needing more time to really think about Maeve’s question. Her friend took the opportunity to shove a strawberry into it and gently pressed Jane’s chin to close her mouth around the fruit. It had a little more flavour than the first bites she had taken.
&nb
sp; ‘Thank you,’ she said when she had swallowed. ‘I guess I know he knew,’ she conceded. ‘But he still deserved to hear it from me. More often, and without all the drama and qualifications and reversals. He kept fighting on my side until it killed him, and I never got to . . .’ She shrugged helplessly.
‘The specific events, the details, won’t matter to him wherever he is now,’ Emer assured her, and Jane blushed to realize that she had been speaking loudly enough to be overheard.
‘Souls don’t keep score,’ Charlotte agreed, patting her loose bun absentmindedly. ‘That’s a part of what made Hasina such an abomination – she never had to lay down her arms between lives and let her grudges go.’
‘But Malcolm will have by now,’ Emer finished for her, sipping delicately at her champagne. ‘So there’s no need to fret. He’ll remember the love, and he’ll feel it, even now.’
‘A lot of love, apparently,’ Leah added, her voice dripping with irony as she gestured toward the mass of mourners across the cemetery. ‘We should all find out we’re so popular after we’re dead.’ Her mother clucked her tongue reprovingly, but Jane had to chuckle a little.
‘I’m thinking of not going back to MoMA,’ Maeve whispered to Jane when the conversation had moved on around them. ‘I don’t think it’s fair to stretch out my “medical leave” any longer; Archie’s going crazy. And all the other witches in this city have gotten back to work – Harris and I noticed the other day that Dee’s friend’s bookstore was open for business again. So I definitely should be doing something, but it seems like I should be doing something a little . . . witchier. Now that I am one.’
‘Well, this witch is thinking of becoming an architect again,’ Jane suggested, ‘but you’d need a whole new degree for that.’ Maeve pulled a face.
‘I was thinking more like a wedding planner,’ she countered. ‘Aren’t most of them witches? Wouldn’t you almost have to be?’
The Lost Soul (666 Park Avenue 3) Page 21
