by Michele Hauf
And then he suddenly knew. “Arius Pumpelché. Warlock!”
The woman put up a staying hand when he lunged toward her. “Your rage will kill her, demon.”
“And your rage has conjured foul witch zombies. What do you want?”
The warlock pointed to Tamatha, so still, and her lips were turning blue. “You neglected the most important part to making the antidote work.”
Ed gasped, his chest heaving. He didn’t want to take help from a warlock. But he wasn’t a fool. “What is it?”
“The spell.”
“Spell?” The bleeding thorn removed from his knuckles had weakened him, and yet his anger threatened to bring on the shift to demon form. His wounded hand tightened and the remaining thorns shinged out from his knuckles. The horns at his temples grew halfway. “What is the spell?”
“Touchy, touchy, demon. You watch your anger.” The warlock held up her open palm to reveal another sigil painted in white. Ed felt an intense sting in his horns, as painful as it had felt when he’d sliced off his thorn.
“Tell me!”
“For a trade.”
“Anything!”
Arius opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “I’ll speak the spell and you will bring to me the progeny of those who accused Les Douze.”
So the warlock could set her zombie witches on them and kill them. “Why are you doing this? Why do you need the revenge? How are you connected to Les Douze?”
Arius folded her hands in her lap and looked over Tamatha. “She doesn’t have long.”
“Just tell me!”
“My husband, Martine, was one of Les Douze. Your kind killed him, demon. Now I’ll take my revenge.”
“Why wait so long?”
“I’ve been...preoccupied.”
Tamatha had said something about Arius being exiled to Daemonia for necromancy. “How did you get out of Daemonia? Witches aren’t capable.”
“Does it matter? I’m here. And I am an impatient woman. You want her to live?”
Ed spread his fingers before him. The severed thorn was drawing out his vita, stiffening his entire arm. The demonic sigils on his skin were on fire, most especially the one that had been forming over his heart for days.
Over his heart? Could it be? Did the new sigil signify Tamatha making a mark on his life? He felt the most pain there right now. He couldn’t lose her.
He slapped a hand over his heart.
“You take the deal,” Arius said, “and you will live to love your witch.”
“But I am one of the denizen’s progeny.”
Arius smiled a slimy curve. “I didn’t say how long you would live.”
“You don’t need my help to bring in the others.”
“I will to bring in Sophie. She’s gone off radar. Even my demonic magic can’t track her.”
Ed bowed his head. An arm’s reach away his lover lay dying. The warlock wanted his mother? He couldn’t sacrifice her life for another...
He glanced to Tamatha. Could he?
“You a mama’s boy, Edamite?” The warlock’s eyes were cold blue shards. Ed shivered. Or maybe it was his life slipping away. He shook his head. And made his choice.
“Speak the spell,” he uttered. “And you have my word I will locate my mother.”
“Excellent.” Arius began to chant.
And Ed clutched his arms about himself. He hadn’t promised he would bring in the denizen, only that he would find his mother. But he had no idea where she was. Thankfully.
Chapter 20
Tamatha gasped in a breath. Her back arched and she shot upright to sitting position on Ed’s couch. As she looked over her hands, a residual shimmer of something she recognized as magic escaped her pores and twinkled into nothing as if faery dust. Inhaling, she assessed her physicality. She felt energized, as if ready to go jogging or run a marathon.
Her lover fell to his knees before her and bowed his forehead to her leg. “Thank the heavens Above,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you.”
And why was that? She couldn’t recall... Yes, she could. She’d been cut by his thorns while in the cemetery summoning Les Douze. She hadn’t wanted to make a fuss about it—to give him any reason to feel responsible—until she had started to fade, and then when she’d begun to panic that something might really be wrong, the poison had quickly taken her breath and knocked her out.
“Oh, Ed.” She bowed over him, and he abruptly jerked away, stepping back.
“You can’t touch me. Not like this.”
It was then she noticed his arm was streaked with black, as hers had been in the cemetery. As well, his hand was coated in black blood.
“The antidote,” she whispered, checking her arm and wrist. The black lines she’d seen climbing her arm in the cemetery were gone. “You made it yourself?”
He nodded, clutching his arm. His hand hung there, bloodied and seemingly lifeless.
“Thank you,” she said on a grateful hush. “But the antidote required— Oh, Ed, you removed one of your thorns?”
He nodded again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I want to hold you but I don’t want to poison you again. It was my fault. I’m not good for you. I could have killed you.”
He’d cut off his thorn for her? That was so unselfish, so...loving. “You are in me now.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing. I don’t understand.”
“So it worked? Just the antidote? I’m sure there was a spell I was supposed to speak...”
“Nope. Everything’s cool. Injected the antidote into your heart. Thanks to Libby, I knew to do that.” He winced. “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Tamatha, but that killed me to plunge the needle into your heart.”
She felt over her chest but everything about her was invigorated and hummed with energy. “I’m good. Please, go wash off so I can hold you. I need to get lost in your arms.”
He rushed toward the bathroom, and Tamatha picked up the syringe from the floor. “Thorns, salt and whiskey.” She thought of the black veins running up his arm. “What horror has he incurred to save me? Oh, Ed.”
Did he really love her? Maybe it had been a reaction, seeing her near death. He was an honorable man. Of course he would sacrifice himself for her. For anyone. It was his nature to care about others and not himself. But what would result from removing his thorn?
Dropping the syringe, she ran upstairs into the bedroom. The shower was running. She spun into the bathroom and sorted through the cabinet above the towel closet, finding some medical gauze and tape. When he stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, she motioned he sit on the toilet seat.
“My healing magic isn’t as practiced as Verity’s. I need to prepare an altar and speak a spell to heal, but I can do the human thing and bandage you up and send good vibes your way.”
He held out his hand and they both inspected the damage. He no longer bled, though he cautioned her against touching the severed base of his thorn for fear that it could still contain poison. After he’d pressed a wad of gauze to his knuckles, only then would he allow her to wrap his hand and tape it.
She traced a finger up his arm. His veins showed in black vines that looked hard and felt cold under her touch. He confessed he hadn’t feeling in his hand and could shift his fingers only minutely. Bending his arm at his elbow took effort. And there at his wrist was a dark chain of what looked like thorns. Was it a new sigil or had she missed that one, him wearing the gloves all the time?
“Don’t worry about me, sweetness.”
Always sacrificing, she thought. He didn’t even realize how kind his heart truly was.
“I don’t know what to say,” she confessed. She knew what she wanted to hear from him. Maybe. She wouldn’t force it. She mustn’t. He’d shown her
how he felt about her. Words should mean little now.
“Come here,” he said.
Tamatha wrapped her arms about his neck and melted against him. He shivered and clutched her tightly as he buried his face against her neck and hair. He smelled like soap and cedar and ice, and everything she never wanted to let go of.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said. “You’ve become a part of me. See.” He tilted back a shoulder and tapped the sigil over his heart. It was fully formed but not as dark as the rest of his sigils and tattoos, which she took to mean it could darken yet. “That’s you. You’ve imprinted on me.”
It did look like the Bellerose family crest. “Wow. It’s a rose.” She kissed the sigil and it briefly glowed red. “Is that good or bad?”
“Felt great,” he said with a smile she really needed after the night they’d had. “Makes me forget the pain in my arm and hand.”
“You sacrificed so much for me.”
“Sacrifice? Please,” he said with a grimace that tried to be joking. “It was very little to save your life.” He kissed her and the soft touch lured her deeper into his arms. “Let’s not argue. I have you safe in my arms. And I never want to let you go. You tired?”
She nodded. “Immensely.”
“Let’s fall asleep together. But after I put on my gloves.”
“I’ll get them for you. You crawl into bed. The night has been long and trying. You need the rest more than I do.”
She rushed down to the kitchen, where he always kept his gloves on the counter by the door. She grabbed them and then paused. An unfamiliar scent lingered by the door. It wasn’t Ed’s sulfur or anything remotely familiar. From the zombie witches? No, that had been more a rotting stench.
They’d barely escaped with their lives after the warlock’s presence had arrived in the cemetery. She hadn’t seen her but had felt her there and had known it was the one she’d read about in the book.
“The warlock?” She tilted her head, drawing in the scent again. Dry, metallic, maybe a hint of sulfur?
Could Arius have been here? But she had put up wards to protect Ed from an intrusion. Wards that, admittedly, she hadn’t thought would hold up for long against malefic magic.
Embraced from behind by a man in a towel, she turned and helped him put the glove on over the bandages. “You smell that?” she asked.
“What? Lemons and sex?” He nuzzled into her hair and hugged her against his bare chest. “Come to bed with me, lover. I want to hold you so I know that you are alive.”
She ran her fingers down his arm that felt colder than the rest of him, and when she threaded her fingers through his, he didn’t clasp them. But he managed to sweep her from her feet and toss her over a shoulder with his other arm. And she forgot about the disturbing scent and hoped he had enough energy for a good-night kiss and snuggle.
* * *
Morning shimmered a bright blue beam across Ed’s partially opened eyes. He put up a hand to block the light streaming through the stained glass window and noted it was from a section of Jesus’s eye. If he hadn’t burned to hell living in this place, he certainly could survive a little thing like removing one of his thorns.
Though when he lifted his other arm to try to flex his wounded hand, it felt leaden and he couldn’t move the fingers. And the chained thorns had thickened. That was not good. But so long as it didn’t travel farther than above his elbow, he could deal. He’d have to deal.
What was foremost on today’s must-deal menu was the warlock’s bargain. He’d agreed to bring his mom to the witches in the cemetery. He always kept his bargains. But he hadn’t let on that he had no clue where Sophie was. It could take a while to find her. And in that while, surely he and Tamatha could come up with a means to defeat the warlock.
He should probably explain his deal with the near-devil to Tamatha, but then she’d want to make it better. And there was nothing she could do. The bargain was his cross to bear. And apparently, old blue eyes glaring at him from the stained glass was intent on seeing him bear it.
He’d have to call his mother. But he wasn’t about to give her up to the warlock. He’d tell her to go deeper, to cease all contact with him. Which meant he needed a distraction for the warlock. Perhaps the others in the denizen?
No, he wouldn’t sacrifice one for another. He’d have to hope that Tamatha and her witch brigade could find a way to defeat Arius before it came to that. But really, he wasn’t about to rely on anyone but himself to make this right. It was his mess. He’d dig his way out of it.
He got up and decided to dress before Tamatha woke. He didn’t want her to see him struggling with his gimp arm. He recalled his mother telling him to take care of his horns and thorns. If one were damaged it may never heal and could seriously weaken him. And to lose a horn or thorn? Death was almost assured.
“Let me stop the warlock before that happens,” he muttered as he strolled into the closet and plucked out a black dress shirt.
* * *
Tamatha was aware of Ed kissing her and telling her he had work to do at the office. She could stay as long as she liked, but he wanted her to call him later. In response, she squiggled beneath the sheets and wasn’t compelled to open her eyes. She was so tired.
But when the sound of the front door closing downstairs clicked in her brain, she couldn’t sleep anymore. She was exhausted because she had almost died last night. But worse? Ed could have been torn apart by demons.
“I can’t lie around.” She slid out of bed and pulled on her clothes. “You want a war, Arius? I’ll bring you one. There’s got to be a way to stop a warlock. And I’m going to find it.”
* * *
Before Tamatha could begin to search for more information on Arius, she went directly to the demon room in the archives and pulled out the volume that detailed information about the corax demon. Sliding her finger down the inked text, she passed over the first few pages and tapped the word thorns.
“Deadly poison,” she muttered as she read the details. “Four on the back of each hand. Thorns grow to full length with anger.”
The antidote to the poison was listed, as well. Crushed thorn, salt, whiskey. The words to the spell. And as a footnote in very tiny writing that she had to put on her glasses to read, she learned this: “Thorns regenerate if removed, as do horns. Slow process. Improper healing may cause death.”
“Hmm...that’s good to know. So if he takes care of the wounds, he won’t die from it. Good. I wouldn’t have wanted him to sacrifice himself to save me.”
But still, it must have hurt tremendously. And it crushed her heart to know he’d gone through such pain for her.
She set the book aside and her phone rang. Her mother announced she’d arrived late last evening and had gone directly to the storage chest in the attic and pulled out her grandmother’s things.
“I’ve been reading Lysia’s diary since I got in town. I’m so tired. But, Tamatha, I had to call you before I fall asleep.”
“What did you find?”
“Lysia’s lover’s name was Rascon. She doesn’t detail that he was a demon, but there is a notation about the Libre denizen here. Could that possibly be his denizen?”
“Ah, goddess. Rascon is Ed’s grandfather’s name. And yes, he was a demon.”
“So it’s as I suspected. You two are living your ancestors’ love affair. I’m not sure what to think about that.” Petrina yawned over the connection. “I’m coming over after I take a nap.”
“I’m at the Archives right now, and I’m on to Ed’s when I’m done here. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Be careful, Tam.”
She stroked her wrist where the cut from Ed’s thorns had healed, yet a dark line remained, as if his ink had imprinted under the layers of epidermis. And then she remembered the crest forming over his hear
t. From her? It had to be because she’d recognized the design. How wondrous was that?
“I will be careful, Mom. Get some sleep.”
Half an hour later, Tamatha returned to the witch room. Certainly had delivered a fresh pot of tea, and she poured her second cup. Ginger cardamom today. It was warm and a little spicy. Perfect to keep her anxiety level reined in.
After much digging, and more than a few failed locator spells, she uncovered the Book of All Spells under a pile of warding texts, which made sense because they had completely shielded the book from discovery.
This Book of All Spells was a copy of the original, of which a witch who currently lived in America, Desideriel Merovech, was the keeper. Whenever a new spell was created, cast or devised, it was written in the pages. All spells were recorded there. The book was a living thing, a sort of automated Xerox that took down everything the original recorded.
As Tamatha turned the pages, images moved and text rearranged. Whispers of chants, Latin and simple magics were quiet, but she felt them viscerally move through her veins. Scents of must, oil, earth and even the ocean rose.
She found the section on raising the dead. The pages were stale and fragile. Touching it gave her a shiver.
To her, death was fresh, vital and brief. Following death, the bones were returned to the ground or returned to ash. But even before burial, the soul left the body and became a part of the greater consciousness. But zombies? They were vile, wretched doppelgängers of death. Nothing final or fresh about them.
There were quite a few spells for raising the dead. Dead vampires mostly. But as well, dead humans and a few species of paranormals. When she turned to the page that detailed “lifting thyne witches from thee ashy remains,” the words briefly lit up in a blink. As if to say, Stop here, you’ve found it, this is the page.
“This has to be the spell that Arius used.”
Careful not to touch the paper, for the ink could leach into her skin and impart the malefic magic, Tamatha silently read the spell, being careful not to whisper a word lest it be transformed into something real. The overall spell was simple, but could be enacted only with blood magic. Meaning, in order to raise the dead, one needed the potential zombie’s blood or the blood from a close relative of that zombie. As well, a demonic hex was required, which could be performed by only a demon.
