by Jenna Black
“Well, uh, it just seemed logical is all.” But I had to admit, as sound as my logic had been, the shoe store hadn’t exactly been a likely place to look.
“It was more logical to assume someone had walked off with it than to assume I’d put it in my coat pocket, that it had fallen out close to the coffee shop, that a Good Samaritan had found it, and that that Good Samaritan would turn it in at the shoe store. I’d given up, so why didn’t you?”
I shrugged. “It was just a hunch is all,” I said, unable to explain it better than that. I cracked a smile that felt fragile and tenuous. “Besides, I was trying to impress my big sister, and I wasn’t going to do that by assuming the wallet was gone for good.”
She returned the smile. “And do you have those same kind of hunches when you’re searching for people that other investigators have been unable to find?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s really just thinking a little outside the box. I figure everyone’s tried the most likely places already, so I try to come up with someplace less immediately obvious.”
“So have you had any hunches about where Emma is buried?”
I sighed. “Not really.”
“Do you think she’s buried at one of the properties you checked out?”
“Yeah, probably, but I have no idea which one.”
She nodded sagely. “There are a million other places she could be. What makes you think she’s at one of those properties?”
I saw what she was getting at, but I was far from convinced. “It’s either a hunch, or it’s wishful thinking because if she’s somewhere else, I’ve got nothing. And even if it is a hunch, and even if my hunches are supernaturally fueled somehow, I don’t have it narrowed down enough to matter.”
“Yet.”
I appreciated her faith in me, but honestly, I didn’t exactly feel hopeful. Would Anderson still have his people protect Steph if I turned out not to be able to find Emma? The warm, easygoing Anderson might, but I had my doubts about the cold, implacable leader who’d presided over this morning’s tribunal. I told myself not to worry about that, but I didn’t listen.
“I hope you’re right,” I told Steph. I had no idea if Blake had told her that she was under Anderson’s protection only because I’d agreed to search for Emma. Even if I couldn’t stop worrying about what would happen if I failed, there was no reason why Steph should worry, so I didn’t elaborate.
“Big sisters are always right,” she said with a grin.
I snorted. “You’ve been trying to convince me of that for years.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying. Now I think it’s time for you to stop coddling me and get back to work.”
If she weren’t so beat up already, I’d have given her a good smack on the arm for that. “I’m not coddling you!”
“You’re hovering. I’m going to be fine. If I feel like I’m going to break down and need a shoulder to cry on other than Blake’s, I’ll come find you, okay?”
I knew I wasn’t doing Steph any particular good by being at her bedside. Though I hid it fairly well—at least I thought I did—every time I caught sight of the bruises on her face, I suffered a hammer-strike of guilt. So I let her talk me into leaving her bedside no matter how convinced I was that I should have stayed.
I spent the rest of my afternoon at the desk in my suite, eyes glued to the computer screen as I tried not to think too much. I looked over all the information I had on the Olympian properties, searching for something I’d missed, something that might point me toward one choice over all the others. I also looked for some subconscious hint that one was more likely to be Emma’s gravesite, but discovered it was really hard to look for a subconscious hint. My conscious mind kept yammering away at me, arguing logic and casting doubt, until I had to give up or go mad.
Hoping to clear my mind, I decided to take a different tack and did some research on Artemis. Maybe if I learned more about the goddess who was my ancestor—a concept I still had trouble wrapping my brain around—I’d be able to figure out how to use the powers I supposedly had.
I read through a lot of Greek and Roman mythology that afternoon, scouring the stories for something that might hint at a secret power I was missing. The only thing that rang anything like a bell with me was the fact that Artemis, aside from being a huntress, was also a goddess of the moon. It made me wonder if any of her descendants’ powers were moon-based. If that were the case, then perhaps I’d been making a mistake by doing all of my investigating during the daylight hours.
I felt like I was grasping at straws. It seemed more likely that my newly enhanced aim was my only supernatural power. Then again, it had seemed more likely Steph’s wallet had been stolen, but I’d gone with my gut all those years ago and my gut had been right.
I can’t say I exactly got my hopes up. But I at least tried to keep something resembling a positive attitude as I gathered the paperwork for some of the most likely properties and mapped out a route I would travel tonight, after the moon had risen. A faint hope was better than no hope. Whether Anderson would kick me out if I failed or not, my position here would still be stronger if I somehow managed to find Emma. I would do anything in my power to strengthen my position and protect myself—and Steph—from the Olympians.
TWENTY-TWO
Sunset officially came around five that night, but it took half an hour more before most of us were gathered in the kitchen, which was near the back door that would lead us to the clearing where Jamaal’s first execution would take place. Everyone was in a grim, nervous mood. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I felt like everyone except Maggie was giving me a mild version of the cold shoulder. They might not have been all one happy family before I came along, but they’d been a lot happier than they were now. I couldn’t blame them for holding me at least partially responsible.
Someone had left a bunch of lanterns on the kitchen table—actual oil-fueled lanterns, not the Coleman variety. I picked one up because everyone else did, lighting it with the long-barreled lighter that was being passed around.
We were milling about, no one talking, when Logan stepped into the room.
“Head on out to the clearing,” he told us. “We’ll meet you there.”
“We” apparently referred to Logan, Jamaal, and Anderson, because the rest of us were all present and accounted for. If anyone objected to being ordered around by Logan, they kept their mouths shut. Still tense and unnaturally quiet, we filed out the back door.
When I’d first arrived at the mansion, Maggie had given me a thorough tour of the house, but I’d never been out on the grounds. I had no idea where we were going. I glanced up at the sky as we walked, but though it was a clear night, the moon hadn’t yet risen.
We walked past the nicely manicured garden that dominated the view from the kitchen windows, plunging into the woods behind it. The woods were as meticulously pruned as those that surrounded the driveway. Although we weren’t following a path, it was a simple matter to slip between the trees without tripping on undergrowth.
It was an eerie sight, this silent procession of grim-faced Liberi. The lanterns barely penetrated the dark, and it was easy for the mind to imagine terrors that lay just beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow. Or maybe that was just me and my nerves. Except for that terrible night when I’d killed Emmitt, I’d never seen anyone die before, and though I knew Jamaal would not stay dead, I desperately wanted to run back to the house and hide in my room. But Anderson had been very clear this morning, and I knew I had to bear witness, just as the rest of the Liberi did. I might not feel like I was truly one of them, but just as I’d had to in my many foster homes, I had to go through the motions and pretend I belonged.
We walked what I estimated was about one hundred yards before the trees gave way to a perfectly circular clearing. Someone—probably Logan—had already set the stage. A double row of torches flickered just far enough from the edge of the trees to avoid being a fire hazard.
My heart leapt into my throat when I saw
what was in the center of the clearing: a low wooden block with a semicircular notch carved into the top. I might have been able to convince myself it was a stool or something else innocuous, if it weren’t for the huge sword, held upright in a black iron stand just to the left of it.
I swallowed hard and sweat trickled down my back despite the brisk temperature. Maggie had walked beside me the entire way, offering her silent moral support. I didn’t think she’d completely gotten over the suspicions that awakened when I’d found Emma’s ring, but she was still friendly, even if not as warm. I reached out to clutch her arm.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” I hissed, too freaked out to speak above a whisper.
She spared me a sympathetic glance. “Sorry, no can do.”
“They’re going to cut his head off?” This time, my voice came out in something more like a squeal. Nausea roiled in my stomach at the thought of it.
Maggie patted my back in a gesture that might have been comforting if I’d been capable of being comforted. “It’s a mercy,” she said. “It’ll be over too quickly for Jamaal to suffer any pain.”
I swallowed again, hoping to keep my gorge down. Maybe it was a mercy for Jamaal, but it sure as hell wasn’t one for me. I looked around at the other Liberi. Although everyone still looked grim, I seemed to be the only one close to passing out or hurling. Even Leo, with his mild-mannered accountant look, didn’t seem particularly disturbed by what was about to happen.
“We are none of us young, nor have we led sheltered lives,” Maggie said, correctly reading the expression on my face as usual. “We’ve seen horrors you wouldn’t believe, especially those of us who were Olympians for a time.”
I took a deep breath, wishing it would settle my nerves. “How the hell can he survive being beheaded?”
“He can’t. That’s the point.”
“You know what I mean!” I snapped, nerves making my temper brittle.
Luckily, Maggie wasn’t put off by my snappishness. “It’s magic, Nikki. I don’t know exactly how he’ll come back. All I know is that he will.”
I was saved from further embarrassing myself when Anderson entered the clearing, closely followed by Blake and Jamaal. Jamaal held his head up proudly, no flicker of emotion on his face when he caught sight of the block and the sword. If he was afraid, he was hiding it well.
I expected speeches and ceremony, but Anderson merely joined our silent ranks while Logan gestured Jamaal to the block. Jamaal scanned the assembled Liberi and caught my eyes. I wanted to look away, too squeamish to deal with what I was about to witness—and too afraid of his continued anger. I managed to hold onto my courage and meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said, so softly that I only understood him by reading his lips. I suspected that apology was harder for him than his actual punishment.
I doubted I’d completely won him over, but I believed the apology was sincere, so I nodded at him in acceptance. He held my gaze a moment longer, then knelt before the block without having to be prompted. Holding on to the block with both hands, he laid his neck in the notch. Logan bent over and brushed Jamaal’s braids to the side, baring his neck. Then he grabbed the sword.
Maggie reached over and took my sweaty hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, for which I was absurdly grateful.
“When you’re ready,” Logan said to Jamaal, “let go of the block and put your hands to your sides.”
Logan held the sword in both hands, poised to strike, while Jamaal took a deep breath. The moment Jamaal’s hands moved, I shut my eyes tightly. Anderson had insisted I be present for this, but he couldn’t force me to actually watch.
I heard the whistle of the blade as it sliced through the air, then the wet thunk as it made contact, then the soft, sympathetic gasps of the onlookers. They might not be as squeamish as me about it, and they might have seen worse horrors during their long lives, but they weren’t completely hardened. That made me feel better even as the wind carried the scent of blood to my nose.
“It’s over,” Maggie whispered to me. She was still holding my hand, a very welcome anchor.
“Good,” I said, but I didn’t open my eyes. I knew without a doubt that I would hurl if I did.
The light behind my closed eyelids grew dimmer, and at first I was afraid I was about to pass out. Then I realized someone was dousing the torches.
“I’ll stay with him until he revives,” Logan was saying, and I heard the gathered Liberi starting to stir.
I was tempted to let Maggie lead me out of the clearing without ever opening my eyes, but at the last moment, morbid curiosity got the better of me. Still sure the sight was going to make me hurl, I opened my eyes.
There was a lot of blood, though with the torches doused that blood was black enough I could pretend it was just pools of shadow. Logan had laid Jamaal out on his back, placing the head right up against the neck so that I could almost believe the two were attached.
“He’ll heal,” Maggie reminded me yet again, giving my arm a little pull.
I turned away and followed her back to the house, my stomach unsettled, but so far under control. Despite everything I knew about the Liberi, I would have to see Jamaal up and walking around before I could fully believe he could survive beheading.
The moon was just beginning to rise as Maggie and I headed toward the kitchen. If I were following the plan I’d made during the afternoon, I’d immediately get in my car and go visit a couple of properties. Instead, I made a cup of coffee and parked myself in the kitchen. Logan and Jamaal would almost certainly come back this way when Jamaal was healed. Then, once I’d seen with my own two eyes that he was still alive, I’d be able to concentrate on my hunt enough to have a hope of success.
I sat in that kitchen, drinking coffee and waiting, for more than three hours. I don’t know how many times I halfway convinced myself to go back out to the clearing and see what was going on, but every time I made it to the back door, I changed my mind. If something had gone wrong, if Jamaal was truly dead against all expectations, I didn’t want to know about it until I absolutely had to. There comes a point when you just can’t deal with any more shocks, and I had passed that point a long time ago.
I was so wired on caffeine that I jumped and spilled my coffee when I heard the back door open. Lucky for me, the coffee had gone cold as I held it and stared off into space, so I didn’t burn myself. I put the mug down on the table, then dried my wet hand on the leg of my jeans as I stood up and listened to the approaching footsteps.
Logan went by first, the sword belted to his side, though I’d seen no sign of the scabbard earlier. He gave me an unfathomable look as he passed by, not stopping for a friendly conversation. He’d voted to expel Jamaal, but I got the feeling he resented me for putting him in the role of executioner—though maybe that was just my own guilt speaking.
Jamaal did not look good, though he looked far better than he had the last time I’d seen him. A bloody, bruised scar circled his neck where his head had somehow reattached itself to his body, and there was dried blood caked in his hair and on his shirt. More dried blood mixed with dirt speckled his face, and behind that blood his skin was unnaturally pale.
He came to a stop when he saw me, swaying on his feet and grabbing onto the doorjamb to steady himself. I took a couple of steps forward. Maybe I was a fool to dismiss him as a threat because of his current condition, but it was obvious from the tightness at the corners of his eyes that he was still in pain, and I knew from personal experience how weak the supernatural healing made you.
“Do you need a hand?” I asked him, because even if I didn’t feel threatened at the moment, I didn’t think touching him without his permission was the best idea in the world.
His eyes widened at the suggestion, and he swayed a little more. I hoped he wasn’t about to fall down, because I knew for a fact I wasn’t strong enough to get him back up if he did.
“Thanks,” he said, and he didn’t even sound sarcastic. “I think I need a
rest before I tackle the stairs.”
Why Logan wasn’t helping him was anyone’s guess, since it was clear he was still in bad shape. Maybe he was in Logan’s doghouse, though why Logan should get mad on my account or even on Steph’s, I didn’t know. I’d had only the briefest interactions with him since we’d met, and as far as I knew, he’d never even set eyes on Steph.
Doing my best to ignore the blood, I draped Jamaal’s arm over my shoulders and supported him to the nearest chair. He was built of solid muscle, and the operation would have been a heck of a lot easier if I were bigger and stronger—like, say, Logan. However, I managed to get him into the chair without either of us going down in a heap. He closed his eyes and breathed hard from the exertion. He’d probably have been better off lying out in the clearing for a little longer, though I supposed that would have been cold and unpleasant.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked. “I made way more than I should drink.”
He opened his eyes, frowning in puzzlement. “Why are you trying to help me? You of all people …”
What could I say? To properly explain, I’d have to lay out my life’s history, and I wasn’t about to do that. Instead, I shrugged in what I hoped looked like a casual manner.
“I’m not the type to hold a grudge. If you’d intended Steph harm, that would be one thing, but I know you didn’t believe me.”
“I intended you harm.” His expression was almost challenging, although I heard no hint of threat in his voice. It occurred to me that he wasn’t very used to people being nice to him or forgiving him and that he was looking for some hidden motive.
“Well I took out your eye, and you just got your head chopped off, so I think that makes us even. Now do you want some coffee or not?”
He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head like he’d changed his mind. “Yes. Thanks. Black.”
I poured him a mug of the now rather stale coffee, then set it on the table in front of him. That should have been the end of our conversation. After all, I had a plan for the evening, and through the kitchen window I could see the moon, almost full, gleaming in the clear night sky. It was a perfect night for me to go hunting if the moon would indeed help me in some way. Yet I couldn’t just walk out and leave Jamaal sitting here by himself. Not in the condition he was in. I wasn’t sure how he would make it downstairs without falling and breaking his neck—again. So I pulled out a chair and joined him at the table.
