by Lauren Dawes
My head jerked up when the streetlight above me exploded, raining sparks down onto the sidewalk and into my hair. I flinched as, one by one, the other streetlights surrounding me died the same death, the bulbs exploding in a shower of sand-fine glass and a whisp of smoke. When the last of the lights blinked out, I was surrounded by suffocating darkness. My opal flared white-hot in warning around my neck, and I clutched it over my jacket, spinning around, squinting into the shadows that seemed to be growing thicker by the second.
The sound of glass ground under a shoe made me spin around…
… just in time to see a fist coming out of the darkness and flying at my face.
“Shit.” Twisting to one side, I avoided the brunt of the hit, taking the punch on the left shoulder instead. Rubbing at the joint, I spun around, retreating to the relative safety of the exterior wall of a nearby building. Blinking, my night vision came in slowly, the shadows and voids turning into discernable shapes before morphing to lank red hair and bared white teeth.
When I got a good look at the muddy-brown eyes of the witch we were chasing, I said, “It’s you.”
“Yes.” She smiled malevolently. Between one breath and the next, a ball of spitting blue flames manifested between her palms. With the flick of a wrist, she sent the fireball careening in my direction. I dove out of the way, the flaming ball slamming into the wall and extinguishing with a hiss.
Determination flashed in her eyes, another fireball forming in her hands. Volley after volley, she sent my way. And I dodged them all until I was doubled-over and wheezing through my open mouth.
With the flick of her wrist, she readied another ball of flames.
“Timeout,” I pleaded, flattening my palm and making a ‘T’ with my free hand. “Timeout.”
She snuffed out the flames, a triumphant smile on her face. “All I want is the necklace. Give it to me, and I’ll spare your life.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. No can do. I barely do what my partner tells me, so you have no hope.”
A cruel smile formed on her lips. “You can’t beat me, you know,” she purred. “My power grows with every witch I kill, and I will continue to kill until I’ve had my revenge.”
“You really like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”
She growled. Oh, yeah, that was a growl of frustration—I’d recognize it anywhere. “Give it to me.”
“Nope. Not going to happen. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain s—” I yelped as a blue fireball came toward me where it crashed into the wall beside my head, the sound of bricks cracking filling my ears.
“Give. It. To. Me.”
My eyes darted around the too-quiet street, and I let out a relieved breath when I saw Reaver propped up against the fender of a parked car. “No. Don’t make me add resisting arrest to your rap sheet. Now, stop being a pain in my ass and let me arrest you.”
Jesus, I sounded just like Sawyer.
I skirted closer to the parked car. “Why have you been killing witches?”
“You’ve found the others then, have you?” She laughed. “I thought it would’ve taken you a lot longer.”
“You’re making quite a mess.”
“Amassing power is a messy job. Now, give me the necklace.”
“No. You’ve been a very bad witch. No necklace for you.” Lunging for Reaver, I felt the hilt immediately warm under my palm and brought it between us, daring her to attack.
She hissed, her eyes narrowing first on Reaver, then my chest where the opal sat beneath my shirt and jacket. Drawing herself up, she cupped her hands and attacked. The fireball she launched closed in fast. I used Reaver to parry the flames like I was playing baseball, returning each and every fireball she sent my way with a satisfying thunk. Reaver hummed in my hands as flames licked the steel like a lover, and I grinned at the witch through the dissipating flames and smoke.
She screamed at me, her face twisting with rage.
“Use. Your. Words!” Another step. I needed to get within range so I could pistol-whip—or rather sword-whip the witch. I needed to knock her the fuck out, so I could arrest the woman, take her to the station, and stop all this madness.
With another scream, she drove into me, sending us to the cold pavement with a grunt. The fall knocked Reaver from my grasp, and it slid across the ground—spinning—and came to rest a few feet away near a building.
Her lip curled off her teeth in a fierce smile when she saw I’d been disarmed. Moving like quicksilver, she straddled my waist, pinning my arms at my side with her thighs while wiping blood from the bridge of her nose. With a smear of crimson across her nose and brow, she slashed at the zipper of my jacket with long, claw-like nails, sending snow-white, downy feathers into a tailspin around my face.
“Hey, this is my favorite jacket,” I griped.
Ignoring me, she slid her hand into the top of my sweater, her sharp fingernails scraping across my collarbones. She loomed above me, her long red hair dragging against my face and neck, getting stuck in my mouth.
“You should try eHarmony if you’re looking for a date,” I said, spitting out the lank strands as I tried to wriggle from her grasp. “I hear their success rate is phenomenal.”
As she got closer to the stone, I sensed a vibration in the opal thrumming through my skin.
Through my muscles.
Through my blood and bones.
Why wasn’t it blasting her away like it had done before with the fireballs?
I wasn’t going to wait around to find out. My arms may have been pinned, but my legs weren’t. Drawing them up, I slammed my knees into the witch’s lower back, throwing her off balance. She toppled over my head, her hand sliding out from inside of my sweater. Before she could recover from the fall, I leaped to my feet, bouncing on my toes like Mike had taught me to do in class.
I glanced over at Reaver, the witch following my gaze. For a beat, we stared at each other, waiting.
I dove for the blade.
She dove at me, knocking me off balance. The collision sent me hurtling in the opposite direction to my salvation. My head slammed into the corner of the building, pain exploding through my temple. Blood—wet and hot—gushed from the wound.
Vision flickering, I tried to remain conscious, reaching my arm out for Reaver.
Then…
… then it was dark.
When I woke, I had no idea how much time had passed. Reaching up my arm, I touched the gash on my head, wincing. Bringing my fingers down, I rubbed the sticky blood between my fingertips, staring at it…
My necklace!
Lifting the neck of my sweater, I searched for my necklace, clutching at the empty space it used to occupy. A cold ache settled into my chest, an icy throb that mimicked my breaking heart. It felt as if I’d lost a piece of my soul. I looked around for Reaver, but it was gone too.
Slowly getting to my feet, I began making my way back to the Astoria Building, praying that Sawyer wasn’t home when I got there. I didn’t need him to see me like this—with a bloody face and down feathers stuck in my hair. It was like I’d lost a fight with a gaggle of geese wearing brass knuckles.
The doorman stared at me as I walked through. He opened his mouth—clearly to ask me if I was okay—but shut it when I glared at him. Once I was inside the elevator, I looked at my reflection in the doors. The gash on my head looked horrendous, blood streaming from the wound, dripping off my chin to the floor.
When the car slowed to a stop and the doors opened, I stepped out, looking around to make sure there were no witnesses. Pulling the keys from my zippered pocket, I opened the apartment door.
Sawyer was in the kitchen, so he got a good look at me before I could escape down the hall and into my room.
“Cat?” he asked, dropping his dishtowel onto the counter. When I said nothing, he demanded angrily, “Cat, what the hell happened to you?”
Ignoring him, I wandered into my bedroom, into my bathroom, and flipped on the light.
Saw
yer followed me. “Cat?” His voice was cold and deadly.
Dangerous.
I glanced at him as I rifled through the under-sink cupboard, looking for a first-aid kit. “What does it look like? I got my ass handed to me.”
“Who did this?”
Placing the kit on the counter, I shucked my shredded jacket and began looking for the saline and gauze, but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t keep them steady enough. Sawyer took over for me, gently easing me down onto the closed toilet lid.
“Who did this?”
“The witch,” I said. “She ambushed me on the way back from dinner with Sasha.”
“Jesus.”
He crouched in front of me, touching the saline-soaked gauze to my temple. He dabbed at the gash, his eyes serious. They roiled with color, and I could’ve sworn I saw lightning flash in their depths. I kept my mouth shut and continued to watch his face. He looked ready to commit murder.
“Has Reaver shown up here tonight?”
“No. Was it with you?”
“It was until I got knocked out cold.” I looked at him, panic brandishing a gun at my carefully constructed calm. “Do you think she took it?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Dab. Dab. “The sword is only loyal to you.” Swipe. Swipe. “It doesn’t look like you need stitches,” he murmured.
I fell silent, just breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose, trying to calm the calamity of thoughts. My necklace was gone.
It was gone.
The last thing my father ever gave me.
The last physical representation of his love for me.
Gone.
Sawyer stopped suddenly, his arm dropping. “Are you in any pain?” he asked softly, brushing the back of his fingers across my cheek. “You’re crying.”
I swiped at the wetness, at the evidence of my unraveling, and drew back my shoulders. “I don’t think so unless my pride counts?”
He studied me, removing the backing on one Steri-strip and applied it to my head. “Something else is wrong. Tell me.”
A sob got stuck in my throat, and I swallowed convulsively. I touched the center of my chest, praying I felt the necklace there. That it had all been a horrible dream. “She stole my necklace,” I croaked.
“She what?”
“She stole the opal.”
He pulled back. “Why would she do that?”
I shrugged. “If I knew, I would tell you.”
“What’s so special about that stone?” he wondered out loud, pressing down the other side of the butterfly strip and dumping the bloody gauze and wrappers into the trash.
My words came out in a jumble. “I don’t know. All I know is that my father gave it to me for protection, and I was never supposed to take it off. I wasn’t supposed to take it off. And now it’s gone. It’s gone…”
Sawyer suddenly tugged me closer, holding me against him. Burying my face against his chest, I wrapped my arms around his neck and tried to shove my emotions down, down, down, but the tidal wave of grief and pain was too strong. I felt consumed by them.
“Shh, it’s okay, Cat. It’s okay.” Pulling away, he tilted my chin up so I had to look at him. His eyes seemed to reflect my complete and utter devastation, but that compassion was edged with determination, with flashes of rage. “We’ll get it back.”
Sawyer picked me up in his arms and left the bathroom, taking me to my bed. With a gentleness I wasn’t expecting, he lay me down onto the comforter, then moved to my feet, taking off my shoes. “You need to rest,” he said.
I watched him through puffy eyes, still rubbing tears from my cheeks as he removed each shoe. When he reached for the button on my jeans, I let him take them off too. Tucking me into bed in just my sweater and panties, he sat beside me.
“Everything will be better in the morning.”
“How?”
Sawyer shook his head and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Trust me?” He stood, leaned down, and brushed a kiss against my forehead. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”
Ten
“Pussy cat, wake up.”
Sawyer’s voice was soft and low in my ear. I cracked an eye and looked at him.
“There’s been another murder…”
My other eye opened.
“A woman’s body was found in Buxton Municipal Park…”
All my sense came back online.
“Discovered by a jogger this morning. Same injuries as the other victims. Get up. Get dressed. We need to leave in ten minutes.”
Sawyer left the bedroom, and I threw the quilt from my body, sliding from the bed. Although I still felt the loss of my opal, I also felt a little more in control. The shock was gone, leaving me with a fire burning inside me. I was going to get it back and give that witch a spanking she’d never forget. Dashing into the bathroom, I washed my face, used the facilities, and emerged once more to get dressed.
Five minutes later, I was standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. I ate quickly, carefully avoiding Sawyer’s intense gaze.
“How are you feeling?”
I rubbed at the spot over my heart. “Sore. Hollow, but better than last night.”
“I swear we’ll get it back for you.”
Finally raising my gaze, I looked at his handsome, determined face. “I know.” I took a bite of my toast. “I’m sorry about last night…” I paused for a second. “About falling apart like that. Crying like a girl is definitely not my style.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being vulnerable with me.”
Vulnerable. Yeah, that about summed it up. I hated being vulnerable. “I’d rather not talk about it anymore. It doesn’t change the fact that it’s gone, but you can bet your ass I’ll be making sure I get my necklace back. And I’ll make that witch rue the day she ever thought to take me on.”
“Hell hath no fury,” Sawyer murmured, a hint of a smile on his face.
Popping the last of the toast into my mouth and draining what was left in my coffee cup, I put my plate and mug into the sink and dusted off my hands. “Let’s go and catch a witch.”
Sawyer pulled his Ducati to a stop outside the gates of Buxton Municipal Park fifteen minutes later and shut off the engine.
Clambering off the back of his bike, I propped the helmet onto the seat and asked, “When will PIG get unmarked cars?”
A smile whispered across his face. “Not enjoying being on the back of my bike?”
“I’d rather have my truck back.”
“Wolfe is trying to get funding for us, but because we’re—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “Because we’re so small and niche, we’re unlikely to get anything out of the department.” There was police tape on the gate posts, the yellow tape like catnip to curious humans who took a morbid interest in crime scenes. There were at least a couple of dozen there now, most of them dressed in their active wear even though they weren’t currently being very active.
Looking past the gates, I saw that the elm and northern red oaks that grew alongside the winding path were bare having lost their battle against winter, the evidence littered at their bases.
I smiled when I saw Smith wander up the path and duck under the yellow line. Putting him in his place always made me feel better. “I knew this was for the freaks,” he muttered under his breath, flashing me a look filled with rage and hate.
Lucky for him, I had fantastic hearing. “You know you love to see me, Smith.”
He sneered, his top lip curling off his teeth and his eyes darting to something behind me.
“We got a problem?” Sawyer asked in a cold, hard snarl, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back.
Smith’s eyes narrowed on Sawyer and for a moment, I thought we’d have a fight on our hands. My money was on Sawyer. Smith needed an ass-whooping.
“Do we, Smith?” My partner’s voice was a warped growl so low I wouldn’t have been surprised if only dogs cou
ld hear it.
“No,” Smith muttered before turning and walking away. Aww, I was looking forward to that guy busting my chops.
Peering over my shoulder at Sawyer, I asked, “What did you do?”
He looked at me—all innocence and goodwill. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Why was Smith so nice to me just then? And by nice, I mean why did he not start supe shaming me like he did last time?”
He shrugged. “Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “I’d find it more likely that he was threatened with changing his heart than any moves made off his own back.”
We strode through the park, and I took note of the charred trunks of trees as we passed, and when I looked over at Sawyer, he had a frown on his face.
“Lots of fireballs got thrown around last night,” he murmured.
I nodded.
We made it to a white rotunda that was wrapped with more police tape, a half dozen Buxton PD milling around—all not wanting to get too close. I got that. Nobody wanted to mess with a paranormal crime scene, especially not when you could end up cursed, bitten by a supernatural creature, or hunted.
Sawyer held up the tape for me while I ducked under it, my gaze zeroing in on the scene in front of me. An African American woman was sprawled in the middle of the white wooden floor, her curly, black hair fanned around her head. There were scorch marks on her jeans and jacket, and holes and tears in the fabric where she’d been struck by the fireballs.
The front of her North Face jacket was open, revealing a disemboweled torso that had been carved up with the same symbols as the other victims. Around her were small gray and white flecked feathers, the quills pointed in toward her body.
“Well, that’s different.” I pointed to the feathers then followed a trail of blood that disappeared off the rotunda’s white planks. Peering over the edge of the railing, I saw a dead pigeon, its belly cleaved open and its head cocked off to one side in an unnatural angle.
I took my phone out and snapped a couple of photos of it, then looked at Sawyer, who had crouched beside the body.
