A Spell to Die For

by Gretchen Galway

  I’d thought it was my mysterious mother’s line that held the demon print, but what if it was my father? Had I inherited the mark from him? Bosko might’ve shaken his hand, discovered the hint of demon energy, and was now going to use it as an excuse to execute him.

  Flooded with adrenaline, I jumped over the candles and charged through the bed of flower petals. I believed the stories about Bosko; I believed he’d done far worse. Perhaps he’d been carrying a grudge against my father since they were children, and now he had his excuse, his stature as an agent, to act without consequence.

  I wouldn’t let him. If I caught him by surprise, I could give my father and Vera time to run away. They wouldn’t have the powerful bond of the Circle, but they’d have each other, unmarried but happy and free. Unmarried but alive.

  Launching myself between Bosko and Malcolm, I lifted my arms in a protective X, muttering a spell under my breath—probably useless inside the enchanted Circle but worth a try. Other than magic, I only had my body to slow him down. It might be enough.

  But Bosko strode past me without a glance. I spun, seeing the glint of a knife in the air above my father’s shocked face.

  Bosko plowed past Malcolm.

  And charged Vera.

  Oh Brightness, I’d misjudged everything. It wasn’t my father, it was his bride. Of course a Protectorate agent couldn’t kill a Bellrose witch on his wedding day in front of so many witnesses, no matter what the opal ring had revealed. But an outsider had no protection.

  I lunged forward, reaching for something I could grab on Bosko’s body, the hem of his jacket, an elbow, but I was too slow. Too slow.

  Alone at her side of the Circle, eyes wide and unblinking, Vera watched Bosko drive the silver blade into her chest.

  Chapter Eleven

  I screamed. The magic of the Circle blended my voice with the piercing cry of the violin, and every witch on the rooftop slapped their hands over their ears to block out the sound.

  Vera collapsed into the bed of flower petals. Apparently satisfied with his work, Bosko stepped aside, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at her.

  I dropped to my knees to help her, try to seal the wound, at least prevent Bosko from getting in another blow. Malcolm fell to her other side and pulled her up into his arms.

  “Vera, Vera, Vera…,” he said.

  Her eyes were open, her expression slack as she watched Malcolm sob. Then a sigh ran through her, seeming to give her a second wind. She smiled at her groom before turning her head over to me, where I knelt in the blood-spattered petals. Holding my gaze, she slowly reached out her hand.

  I took it without thinking. A dying woman wanted comfort; how could I deny her? But the second her skin touched mine, I felt a sucking drain on my power as if the cork on a bottle had been popped. While I froze helplessly, my energy poured onto the ground. A wave of nausea choked me. My abdominal muscles cramped, and I slumped to one side, braced my weight on my hand, then slid to my elbow. The flower petals were soft, fragrant, seductive. I began to black out. Chaos was erupting around me—Malcolm shouting now as he held Vera.

  The other witches didn’t enter the Circle. It was bad luck, or worse, to interrupt the matrimonial enchantment. Perhaps that was why I was about to lose consciousness: more bad luck. I couldn’t see Bosko, but I felt a dark, angry figure standing above me. He was the one who deserved bad luck. A lifetime of it. Yet he was standing tall, and I could hear him laughing.

  Why did the very worst people always seem to win?

  My strength continued to fade. Absently, I noticed my hand had gone numb, as if I’d dunked it in ice water. Then I realized it was actually hot, that it was in agonizing pain. I yanked it out of Vera’s grip and brought it to my mouth, whispering a cooling spell into my flesh.

  As sensation returned to my hand, a tendril of smoke began to rise from Vera’s body. I blinked quickly, commanding myself to stay awake. I had to witness this for myself. The only eyes I could trust were my own.

  The skin on Vera’s arms shimmered like white flame and then, in spots and patches, began to char. Face breaking with a different kind of shock, Malcolm let her fall from his embrace. Vera’s rigid body cut a path through the petals like a knife through wedding cake. The white and yellow flowers, so beautiful and fragrant a moment ago, disintegrated into a boundary of stinking gray ash around her body.

  Bright moon and stars. How could she have fooled me? How could I have missed the demon sign?

  Bosko was wearing the opal ring. As soon as he’d shaken her hand, he must’ve discovered she had the demon mark. With that clue, he could’ve used stronger magic to uncover her full-blown demonic possession. I hadn’t detected Vera’s true nature, but I wasn’t Kurt Bosko, famous demon killer. He hadn’t hesitated to kill Vera only hours after meeting her. What would he do to me if I ever let him shake my hand?

  Vera’s limbs, torso, and face began to hiss.

  Witnessing the unmistakable signs of demon corporeal death, the guests erupted in panic. Some shouted, some cried out in fear; others bolted for the exits, sweeping weaker witches aside. But every one of them cast a defensive spell as they looked out for their own interests, terrified the recently bodiless demon might select one of them as its next host, its next victim.

  I hugged my body, too weak to run. The Circle prevented me from casting any wards of my own even if I’d had the strength to use one.

  Somebody grabbed my arms and pulled me away from Vera’s smoldering form, dragging me between the ring of candles marking the perimeter of the Circle. Idly I noticed the wax pillars didn’t move even as my elbow raked across one of the wicks, and my foot another; the magic flames blazed as strong as ever without burning me or my clothes.

  My vision hazy, I clung weakly to consciousness. Bosko stood above the corpse, gesturing at witches—no doubt more Protectorate agents—to control the crowd.

  The killer had taken command of the crime scene.

  No, not a crime, though, was it? She was a demon. Did I really want such a creature to marry my father? Malcolm couldn’t have known what she was.

  I looked up and saw it was Flor who had dragged me out of the Circle. Freed from its enchantment, I felt stronger, enough to sit up and make eye contact with my father. He shook his head imperceptibly and reached up to his left ear, where he’d always kept a powerful platinum-and-diamond cuff. It would focus his power as my beads did mine.

  I’d never seen him look so forlorn. My eyes burned with unexpected tears. Hurry, Dad. Get out of here. Apparate while you can.

  But Flor, my old classmate and rescuer, jumped into the Circle with a cry, her hands formed into fists, and tackled him. They fell, the herbs in her hands flying into the air around them, and I felt Flor’s arrest spell pierce the Circle’s wards and ensnare my father.

  I staggered to my feet, horrified and disgusted that she’d used the herbs gifted to the wedding guests as a weapon to shatter the protection of the matrimonial bubble.

  “I’ve got him,” Flor told Bosko, casting another spell around my father’s head.

  “Dad!” I shouted. “I’ll get you an advocate!”

  He looked as drowsy as I felt; his eyes were fluttering shut, and he sagged into Flor’s arms. Five agents in silver jackets appeared amid the crowd—at the top of the stairs and at each corner of the rooftop, calling for calm, demanding everyone stay where they were for questioning.

  “Nobody leaves this property without an interview,” Bosko shouted.

  I glared at Flor. She met my angry gaze with a shrug. “I didn’t know,” she said.

  Malcolm had lost consciousness. Flor bent over him and began removing his jewelry, beginning with the ear cuff.

  Feeling hollow, I looked over at Vera, now a rapidly decomposing husk with gaping eyeballs and a hideous, toothy smile. The last corpse I’d seen like this hadn’t been a bad guy in my opinion, and maybe not even a demon, but it wasn’t my opinion that mattered.

  I thought of Seth, another
creature the Protectorate wanted to kill in the name of peace, safety, and justice, and wondered why it was that I couldn’t seem to form lasting bonds with human beings.

  Bosko, Flor, and two of the silver-jacketed agents hauled Malcolm away. I stopped myself from begging, fighting, or arguing with them; it would make no difference. I’d have to talk to Raynor. And if he didn’t listen, I’d hire the nastiest advocate witch in the country to come down on Diamond Street and free my father from this travesty of justice.

  My head spun. I was too weak to get so upset. The front-door agent and one of the silver-jacket women lifted me and helped me down the steps to an unfurnished bedroom on the second floor. Somebody brought a cushion, another brought a glass of springwater, and they propped me in a carpeted corner and told me to drink.

  “My father is innocent,” I said. “He never would’ve… He didn’t know.”

  “What happened?” a voice demanded. There were at least six agents now in the room.

  “I have no idea.” I looked into my glass and frowned. “Could I have a real drink, please? One of you was probably pretending to be a bartender. How about a Manhattan?”

  “How long did you know the demon?” another voice asked. I felt the truth spell pierce my weakened defenses and wrap around my mouth.

  “I met her on Sunday,” I said stiffly.

  “Four days ago?”

  There was no reason to fight the spell. The truth was my friend. “Yes.”

  “Had you been in contact with her any other way? Through glass or water, paper or speech?” asked another witch.

  It was a formal interrogation phrase that went back centuries. Glass would be an enchanted crystal globe, used in the old days to communicate; water was probably also a similar, archaic form of communication, but I’d never seen it described in detail.

  “I received a wedding invitation from my father listing her name,” I said. “That was the first time I’d ever heard of her.”

  “How many times have you met with her since your meeting at the hotel on Sunday?” the woman from the front door asked.

  So, they’d been following us. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “The only other time was just before the ceremony tonight,” I said. Swamped with exhaustion, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall. I felt another magical probe scrape over my boundary spells, then another. They were searching for any sign of subterfuge. I let them.

  They spoke among themselves, and then all but two of them left the room. They had to interview dozens of guests before letting them leave, and some of them were powerful enough to complain to high places if they were kept too long. When I opened my eyes, I saw two young, unfamiliar agents—Flints, the entry level—standing guard. I was a little offended Bosko thought I didn’t need higher level witches to contain me.

  They looked bored. Probably felt like they were missing out. I was just a half-conscious, botanical-wearing witch with an Incurable Inability, but just a few steps above us was a (literally) smoking-hot demon.

  I dozed until I heard Raynor himself speaking in the doorway. At his side was Darius. They cut an impressive pair, especially in their black leather jackets heavily adorned with silver. Raynor had light-brown skin, a shaved head, and the massive build of a movie-star superhero. Darius, a decade younger and slighter of build, looked less likely to crush his enemies with sheer force, but looks were deceiving; when we’d worked together, he was quick, clever, and fierce.

  Raynor dismissed the bored Flint agents and came over to me with a glass in his hand. I climbed to my feet, bracing my hand on the wall for balance, and blinked away the waves of dizziness before I met his gaze. He could scan me better than any witch alive, and I didn’t want him to see anything I didn’t mean to expose, such as the fact that the missing torc was at my house in a filing cabinet.

  “Here, this might help,” he said, offering the glass.

  “Springwater doesn’t fix me the way it fixes the rest of you,” I said.

  “It’s not springwater.” He pushed the glass into my hand, brushing his fingers against mine. I felt concern… anger…

  Fear.

  Both of us needed to avoid shaking Bosko’s hand tonight. I’d been safe so far—Bosko had been busy with the scene upstairs—but my luck might run out. How would Raynor avoid detection?

  I lifted the glass, sniffed it, and smiled as I took an eager sip. The whiskey burned a path down my throat and reignited the dwindling fire inside my belly.

  “Darius couldn’t find a cherry,” Raynor said. “He’ll do better next time.”

  “I’m not a bartender,” Darius said with a sniff, taking out his notebook. He licked the tip of his pencil and gave me an irritated-but-concerned look. “You all right? They told me the demon burned your hand.”

  I lifted my glass with the hand to let him see. “It’s fine. Thanks.” Whatever Vera had done to draw energy from me hadn’t left permanent damage, although I still felt weak, even with the booze.

  “Wrap it anyway,” Raynor said to Darius. “White gauze, half-inch thick, with a layer of blocking wards.”

  “It’s fine—” I began, then cut myself off. Bosko couldn’t shake my hand if it was injured. “Good idea. Thanks.” I drained my glass and set it down on a table.

  Darius stared at both of us a moment, then put the notebook in one pocket, took gauze out of another, and wrapped both my hands. He knew about the ring and our secret.

  “I need to get to Diamond Street. My father needs an advocate.” I leaned against the wall, trying to look casual about it, but my head was spinning. I wasn’t sure I could stand up on my own.

  “It’ll only make it look worse.” Raynor ran a hand over his bald head. “You’re lucky they didn’t bring you in as well.”

  I closed my eyes as if to show annoyance, but really I needed the moment to rest. “For what? I met her Sunday.”

  “That’s what you claim,” Darius said.

  I opened my eyes to glare at him. “They probed me. It’s the truth. Ask them.”

  “Relax,” Raynor said. “Darius believes you. He’s just explaining why you’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, I’m real lucky.” I held up my bandaged hands. This wedding was supposed to be a diversion from my real problems, but it had turned into a fresh, juicy one all its own.

  “Go home,” Raynor said. “Rest. You’re in shock. You can barely stand up.”

  I brought my burned hand to my lips and cast a cooling spell around it—then frowned when the ward Darius had put around the gauze prevented my spell from getting through. “My father needs an advo—”

  “He’ll get one,” Raynor said.

  “You won’t want any lawyer from San Francisco,” Darius said. “They’ll be too connected. You’ll want an outsider. Try to reach somebody in New York.”

  I was surprised Darius cared enough to offer an opinion. I gave him a grateful nod.

  “She won’t need to reach anybody,” Raynor said. “Her father already has advocates. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting them personally, but they negotiated the agent presence here tonight.”

  “But if he doesn’t have the freedom to call for them—” I began.

  “Every witch in Protectorate orbit will know what happened here before dawn tomorrow,” Raynor said. “And his advocates were probably here in person to witness it for themselves.”

  “Which means they won’t be able to represent him,” Darius pointed out. “They’ll be tied up for questioning themselves. She’ll have to find a witch who wasn’t here.”

  Their argument had become too hard for me to follow. The air around Raynor’s head was cloudy. And around Darius, too. The whole room was filled with some kind of mist. Was it just fog? I hadn’t lived in San Francisco for a couple of years, but I didn’t remember the fog actually coming inside…

  “She’s about to pass out,” Raynor said. “You and your sister can bring her home.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just an unusu
al weather pattern.” The wall began to fall over, and with it, me.

  “I got her,” Darius said, his voice loud in my ear. “Can you tell Rochelle to come up here? I can’t carry her by myself.”

  Carry me? How ridiculous. I didn’t need anyone to carry…

  “Her car is on Broderick…”

  It was the last thing I heard before the darkness took me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Alma, wake up. Alma! You’ll have to let yourself in.”

  I opened my eyes and looked into Darius’ serious eyes. He seemed to be holding me. Remembering something about his sister, I looked to my right and found Rochelle Ironford, younger and even more serious than her brother, supporting my other side.

  “Your wards are too strong,” she said. “We can’t get through.”

  I heard barking. Random, inside the house, scratching at the door. I closed my eyes, glad I was home. Honestly, why did I ever leave?

  “She’s out again,” Darius said.

  “No, I’m fine.” My voice sounded far away. “Thanks for the ride. You can go now.”

  “We’re not leaving you just lying here,” Darius said.

  Rochelle pulled my head toward hers and spoke loudly in my ear. “There’s a gnome watching us from under that big tree. Is he dangerous?”

  Last year, I might have laughed. But I’d seen gnomes do some powerful things since then. Rochelle must’ve had some experience of her own. “No,” I said, yawning. “Let go. I’ll manage.”

  “We’ll leave when you’re inside,” Darius said. “OK, Rochelle. Go ahead. Do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, forcing one eyelid open.

  “He wants me to smack you,” Rochelle said. “That’s why I asked about the gnome. Will he retaliate if I slap your face?”