2 Minutes to Midnight: Urban Fantasy Midnight Trilogy Book 2

by L. M Hatchell

  Vlad stepped forward, looking down at Vicktor with a sneer of disdain. “You say the witches are all dead?”

  Vicktor hesitated a moment. “It would appear the hybrid got the upper hand on them.”

  Darius raised an eyebrow. Is that so?

  “So, you failed.”

  A low murmur filled the chamber, and the room bristled with tension. Vicktor bowed his head in supplication before straightening up to look at each of the Council members in turn.

  “It’s true. I underestimated the hybrid. However, I have some information that may be of use to you, if you would allow me?”

  Vlad opened his mouth to respond, but Méabh moved forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. Red-tipped nails dug into his flesh as she smiled. Even from his position in the crowd, Darius could see the barely restrained anger darken Vlad’s eyes.

  “Please proceed,” she ordered Vicktor, the seductive invitation carrying a very clear warning.

  Vicktor stood and gave Vlad a smug smile as he brushed down his grey suit; his sense of self-preservation was obviously non-existent.

  “A source has informed me that, aside from the wolf, there is also a witch keeping company with the hybrid. A young girl. I have it on good authority that the girl is a weak link you may be able to exploit.”

  There was a subtle shifting around the room at the news. Darius watched Diana, who had stayed silent to this point but tensed noticeably at the mention of witch involvement. He cast his mind back to the confrontation with Phoenix at his lair. Had there been a witch with her? He couldn’t quite remember.

  “Please elaborate,” Méabh encouraged with a wave of her hand.

  “It appears that the witch lost a sister. An unfortunate accident, so I’m told, but closely related to the issue of the prophecy. Loss can breed resentment, and if the hybrid is the only reason the prophecy exists …”

  “We may be able to turn this witch to our cause.” Méabh tapped a viciously sharp fingernail against her lip as she regarded the CLO rep.

  “You really think a young, inexperienced witch can succeed where your highly-trained witches failed?” Vlad directed the question to Vicktor but arched his eyebrow in contempt at his fae co-Council.

  “That’s not what I’m proposing.” Vicktor shook his head. “An unfortunate side-effect to the failed attack is that the hybrid will run. It’ll make it a lot harder to kill her if you can’t find her. This witch can provide you information about her location. I believe you already have the means to finish the job.”

  The whole room stilled, except for the shadows. At Vicktor’s words they began to swirl and twist, wrapping themselves around the Council before settling once more in the background.

  Chills ran down Darius’s spine and he shivered. Anticipation settled in his gut like a jolt of electricity. For a split second, he forgot that he, in fact, needed Phoenix alive, and he imagined the thrill of facing a true challenge again after so many centuries.

  “You propose we call on the Mists.” Kam cast a glance at the shadows behind him, his face expressionless.

  Vicktor inclined his head.

  The whole room seemed to hold its breath. In all the time Darius had acted as a Witness to the Council, he’d only seen the Mists deployed twice. The result had been a swift and sure end to the targets, despite the fact that both were Supes of immense power. The simple mention of the Council’s assassins was enough to strike terror into the heart of all within the Lore, and their threat alone maintained order. Even the most powerful being couldn’t fight what they couldn’t touch.

  The Council formed a circle, pulling up their blood red hoods as they turned their attention from the waiting crowd. Behind them, the shadows began to shift and take shape. Darius watched in fascination as, one by one, the Mists took their human form.

  Two men and a woman stood in place of the shadows. Black harem pants and long flowing robes covered most of their tanned skin, and hoods were pulled low over their head, shadowing their exotic features. But even in the darkness they used for cover, their eyes were clearly distinguishable, and the most striking feature of all.

  The golden eyes were a feature unique to the Mists, and one rarely seen in the world anymore. The power they signified had resulted in a long history of enslavement for the species, and for many, the Mists were now little more than a myth.

  Thick bands of gold, a symbol of that very enslavement, circled the wrists of the three now standing behind the Council, and hatred blazed in their eyes. Only a spell, controlled by the Council, prevented that gold from touching their skin and draining them of their magic and very life source.

  The circumstances that led to the Mists being bound were a mystery to all but the Council. Darius knew only that it had resulted from the actions of Shayan, the youngest of the three. Stupidly, the male’s sister, Maj, and older brother, Jannah, had sacrificed themselves to save him from death. Idiots.

  After what seemed like an age, the Council broke apart and lowered their hoods. Kam indicated for the Mists to step forward, and they did so as if being forcefully dragged. A wave of power washed over the room, eliciting gasps from a number of Witnesses.

  “By the terms of your servitude, we can only enforce your actions if all five of the Council are in agreement.” Kam paused, looking at each of the Council members in turn. His gaze hesitated at Diana before finally resting on William. “That is not the case here today, so we must instead ask for your assistance.”

  Jannah, the oldest of the three, instantly stood taller, tension leaving his body. His answer was clear in the stubborn tilt of his chin.

  Kam set out the Council’s requirements and their reasoning: kill the hybrid and save the Lore.

  Shayan tilted his head and assessed the Council. “You ask a lot from us. What will you give us in return?”

  “We will let your sister go free.” Vlad leered at the female.

  Maj made to lunge for him, but he held up a finger and wagged it tauntingly. Jannah placed a hand on her shoulder and glared a warning at Shayan.

  The young Mist ignored it.

  “All of us. Let us all go and I’ll do what you’re too scared to do yourself.” Shayan sneered and turned his back, arms crossed as he looked around the chamber, seemingly unimpressed with the proceedings.

  “Shayan.” Jannah’s voice rumbled through the amphitheatre, causing every Supe in the room to shiver.

  “And what if you fail?” Méabh sidled up to Shayan. She walked a circle around him, trailing a fingernail across the broad expanse of his back. Her face was a mix of calculating assessment and carnal admiration as she brushed against him.

  Shayan hesitated. He glanced at his brother and sister, then squared his shoulders and fixed his golden gaze on the fae.

  “If I fail, I’ll be yours to command. With no restrictions.”

  “No!” Maj pushed herself forward and placed herself between her younger brother and Méabh, mouth set in a resigned line. “If he fails, then I shall finish the job.”

  Shayan put a hand on her arm, golden eyes beseeching her. “I can do this, Maj. I can fix everything. Let me do this.”

  Méabh tapped the blood red nail against her lips and watched them quietly for a moment. “I don’t know. I think I prefer his offer.” She pointed to Shayan and smiled suggestively.

  Before Maj could argue further, Jannah stepped forward, his fists clenched by his side.

  “If he fails, we shall both ensure the job is finished. That is the only deal you’ll get from us.”

  Méabh pouted her luscious red lips, then shrugged and walked back to the other Council members, giving Vlad a wink as she passed him.

  The vampire ignored her, turning instead towards Diana. “We have our assassins. Now we need the witch. It’s time for you to make yourself useful.”

  It’s all gone.

  Phoenix faced the charred and crumbling building that used to be her home and bit back the tears that burned her throat. Ethan stood by her side, an unwavering pil
lar of strength. But nothing could comfort her at that moment.

  Abi had been silent since they arrived, and when she walked ahead of them, they hung back to give her some privacy. In truth, she couldn’t bear to see the look of pain on her friend’s face. The pub had been everything to Abi. It was the only thing she had left after her mother died, and now it was in ruins.

  The heavy wooden door was little more than a pile of ash, allowing a glimpse of the devastation inside. Windows were gaping holes of jagged glass, and the roof had collapsed in a number of places. The general shape of the building had been maintained by the brickwork, but everything that had given it its character, its soul, had been destroyed.

  It had taken her two days to gather the courage to come back. She knew she had to see it for herself, but she couldn’t face the truth of what she’d cost them. What she’d cost Abi. Eventually, her friend insisted she was well enough to go and Phoenix had no more excuses.

  Ethan peered inside the doorway and let out a low whistle. “The witch’s fire did all this damage?”

  The memory of the explosion rang in her ears, and she shrugged. “The fire. The alcohol. Who knows.”

  It didn’t really matter how the pub was destroyed. She was the reason it had happened; the how was immaterial.

  To her left, Abi peered through one of the shattered windows. When she saw the wreckage inside, she let out a sharp sob and sank to the ground with her hand over her mouth. Phoenix ran to her side, ignoring the lance of pain as guilt speared her in the chest. She crouched down beside her friend and was surprised to see no tears on Abi’s face. Her skin was still the sickly pale it had been since the fire, and rage blazed in her eyes, but no tears.

  Abi grabbed her hand and gave it a tight squeeze, her mouth set in a determined line as she looked up at the carcass of her home and livelihood.

  They sat together in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts as they assessed the damage. Eventually, they stood and walked back to the main entrance where Ethan waited patiently.

  “It’s not safe for you to stay anymore. You know that.”

  His voice was gentle, but still the words caused her throat to tighten. She couldn’t argue – not when the evidence was laid out so starkly before them – so she swallowed past the lump that choked her and nodded.

  “What about Abi? She needs somewhere to go while …” She looked at the damage before her, not even able to contemplate how it might be undone.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Her jaw dropped and she gaped at the obviously insane human beside her. When all she got in return was steely resolve, she turned to Ethan for support. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he held up his hands, backing away from both of them.

  What the hell? Has everyone lost their mind?

  “Abi, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” She waved a hand towards the incinerated building, as if the obvious needed to be highlighted. “You could have died in that fire.”

  “Yep, and I could walk outside the door and get hit by a bus. I’m going with you, and you’re going to train me to fight.” Without waiting for a response, Abi turned and walked to Ethan’s car, leaving Phoenix and Ethan staring after her in shock.

  A low chuckle from Ethan was enough to redirect her irritation.

  “Surely you can’t think this is a good idea?” She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  “Of course not.” He grew serious. “But it’s her decision, and damned if I don’t respect her for it. We’ll protect her, Phoenix. She’s already a target, whether you like it or not. Leaving her behind won’t change that.”

  She sighed, wishing yet again that she could argue with him. And wasn’t Abi the reason she refused to leave in the first place? One of the reasons at least?

  Needing a minute to gather her thoughts, she excused herself and slipped into the wreckage of the pub. She had one more thing to do before they left.

  The interior was a mess of ash and charred remains, yet there was a clear pattern to the destruction. She followed the path that ran from the entrance – or what remained of it – straight to the door that led to their apartment. There was a gaping hole where the bar had been and only small sections of the stage and seating area were intact, but the route the witch had taken was clearly marked by the lack of debris; as if the fire had burned everything clean away, even the dirt.

  She only allowed herself a brief glance around before she forced her attention straight ahead and focused on her goal. There’d be time to grieve later.

  The stairs leading to their apartment were barely standing. The skeleton structure remained, but sections of steps were missing and the ones that were left looked like they’d crumble under her weight. With a deep breath, she took them at a run, rebounding off the edges and crossing her fingers that she’d make it to the top before they collapsed entirely.

  She did, just about.

  Upstairs had fared a little better than the pub below, with the damage concentrated mainly around the hallway. The plasterboard walls on either side had burned away, and the rooms beyond were visible through gaping holes. Shafts of daylight shone down in the places where the roof was missing, and a chilling breeze filled the once cosy space.

  She reached under her jacket to clasp the medallion that hung against her breastbone and hoped against hope. The floors creaked in protest as she made her way to her bedroom with her breath held.

  While the rest of the apartment looked to only have sustained fire damage, her room had obviously been the focus of some serious pent-up anger. The bed, alone, remained intact, and even that was half buried under a barely recognisable pile of rubble.

  She rushed towards the heap of oak slabs that had once been her wardrobe, and a mix of terror and rage welled up inside her. Panic clawed at her throat but she pushed it back with effort. She knelt and carefully began to move the pieces aside, one at a time.

  When a patch of mahogany came into view, her head swam with relief. The knot of fear didn’t unravel fully until she pulled the long box, miraculously intact, from the wreckage. Intricate Celtic symbols covered the wood, and her heart clenched at the familiar sight. She opened the box to reassure herself the sword was also unharmed, then quickly closed it and stood.

  A niggling thought played at the back of her mind, and she cast her eyes to her bedside locker where she’d last seen the box for the Ritual of Passing. There was nothing there now besides ash, broken wood, and some stray herbs. A chilling sense of foreboding slithered down her spine as she turned and left the room.

  The sharp wind bit at Lily’s skin as she stood in front of the abandoned warehouse. She paid it little heed as she stared at the place where Annabelle had died. The industrial estate around her was silent, all the other businesses now closed for the night, but still she clutched her bag tight to her side. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself drawn to that exact spot, trying to imagine what her sister’s last moments had been like.

  Had she been afraid?

  Had she called for her big sister?

  It seemed odd that such an innocuous looking building could be the scene of something so tremendous like the shattering of her world. Yet something lingered in the air. Death wasn’t a stranger to this place.

  She wasn’t really sure what she hoped to achieve by coming here. Inspiration, maybe?

  Through the cloth of her canvas bag, the heat of the Ouroboros called to her. Judging her. She could feel its power, but still it was out of reach. Despite the cold night air, her hands grew clammy. What if she wasn’t strong enough? What if it was too late?

  Someone cleared their throat softly behind her and she jumped. Lily pulled her magic to her, ready to strike as she turned to face the woman who’d appeared seemingly out of thin air.

  A palpable sense of power surrounded the woman, and her signature was unmistakably that of a witch. She had a kind smile and long blonde hair similar to her own, but it was the green eyes that made
Lily’s heart clench; the compassion and wisdom behind them was so reminiscent of her mother that for a second, she was a child again and wanted nothing more than to be held in the safety of her mother’s arms.

  She shook herself and took a step back. The woman may be a witch, but that did not make her a friend. After all, it had been a witch that killed Annabelle. And their parents.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman made no attempt to move closer, just watched her with those green eyes. “You’re Lily, right?”

  Lily tensed. How does she know my name?

  “I’m Diana.”

  The name hung in the air between them and Lily’s breath hitched. Diana? As in, the head of the witches?

  “You’re from the Council,” she whispered, her heart hammering in her chest as her body’s survival instinct suddenly realised how fucked she was.

  Diana hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “We want to help you.”

  “That’s very kind” – Lily cringed at the tremor in her voice – “but I’m not sure what you could help me with.”

  She took a small step to the left, watching closely for any reaction. A raised eyebrow directed at the canvas bag caused her to clutch it tighter as a new fear settled in the pit of her stomach.

  Diana turned away from her to give the warehouse her full attention. “I knew your parents, you know. They were good witches, powerful. What happened to them was terrible, and it never should have happened.” She sighed. “It must be hard for you to have lost them so young. And then your sister … I can only imagine how painful it is, knowing you couldn’t protect her.”

  The words sent a stabbing pain through Lily’s heart. She raised her hand, half expecting to find a wound there, but there was nothing. Nothing other than her own guilt and the agony of the truth spoken aloud.

  “I tried, I … Annabelle was very strong-willed.”

  Diana gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s a trait of some of the best witches.”