Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

11

"Mariketa, no!" Rydstrom bellowed. "Let me deal with him!"

Mari could barely hear him. Magick tolled in her ears and danced through her veins, pure and perfect for the first time in her life.

It feels delicious.

She tightened her hold around MacRieve's throat once more, vaguely noticing his missing hand, the bandages on his face.

"Give him to me!" Tierney had drawn his blade. Cade and Tera closed in on MacRieve, each wanting the pleasure of killing the Lykae for what he'd done.

Mari wouldn't give up her catch. Not until his head had left his body—

A sharp pop like a gunshot sounded in the near distance. She heard it even over the din inside her head.

"Mariketa," Tera began in a wary tone, "drop him and run. Now."

Wary? After what they'd just lived through? More pops—definitely gunfire.

She'd sensed Hild had raced from the clearing, and now he returned. "Two guerilla armies engaging in the brush a mile to the west," he reported between breaths. "Each with at least two hundred humans. They've got rockets, mortar. We actually might have to consider them in our decisions."

Bowe saw it all unfolding but could do nothing. Frustration welled in him, matching the torture of her strangling grip. The force was pinning his back against his bag, pulverizing the contents.

Then the witch's eyes changed, becoming a shade of silver—one color, unbroken—shining brilliantly. As he stared in incomprehension, he could see... could see they were... mirrors. Nïx's strange rhyme flashed in his mind, even as Mariketa was killing him.

With her other hand, the witch emitted a pulse of energy at Bowe—a beam that made him feel as if he'd had a transfusion of acid. Turn your blood to acid, she'd told him.

Rydstrom grabbed her wrists and moved to draw her magick from Bowe's direction, then frowned that he hadn't budged her thin arms. With both hands, he heaved back and finally got her to aim away from Bowe—toward the tomb.

Freed of her hold and the scalding pain, Bowe sucked in air, scrambling away. As he rubbed circulation back into his throat, her beam battered the stones. The entire structure trembled. The first rumble shook the trees growing over it. The second rattled them, stripping bare their swaying branches.

The witch's eyes, so brilliant, appeared fascinated.

Rydstrom yelled, "It's going to blow!" He yanked Mariketa up to his side. The light from her ceased, and she fell limp.

But it was too late.

The tomb exploded with atomic force—even the great foundation stones erupted into the sky—leaving nothing but a gaping crater behind. Whatever lived inside had been annihilated.

With the witch in his arms, Rydstrom sprinted, following the others as they darted for cover from the plummeting stones. Though Bowe dashed off right behind them, for some reason, he lunged down and plucked the gold headpiece from the severed hand, then worked the heavy prize into his pack.

Just before Rydstrom reached the tree line, an immense stone landed on his leg, trapping him. The demon kept his hold on Mariketa, struggling to protect her head.

Bowe sensed what was about to happen, even before the towering hardwoods of the jungle began to bend and rock toward the crater where the tomb had once existed. "Give her to me!"

Rydstrom gritted out, "Directly after... she was about to kill you?"

Bowe didn't have time to explain, so he simply snapped, "I vow I'll get her to safety."

"You don't understand, MacRieve! She can die—"

"Aye, mortal, now release her!" When Rydstrom still hesitated, Bowe said, "You doona know what's coming?" The tomb had been a place of power. Extinguished power created a vacuum.

Rydstrom glanced back. He shook his head hard, and his grip on Mariketa eased. He eyed Bowe. "Another scratch on her, and I will take your head, Lykae."

Mari came to with a moan, blinking open her eyes to find herself firmly strapped over some male's brawny shoulder—and looking straight down the side of a mountain. Hundreds of feet below, trees and earth poured into a vacuous chasm that used to be the tomb.

Shaking violently, she drew a breath to scream, but a rasping voice said, "Hold your shrieks, and hold on to me. And doona dare try anything like before, witch—no' if you want to get out of this alive."

MacRieve. Hadn't she killed him? She clutched at his broad back for a hold. "Wh-where are the others?"

"Scrambling for safety below us."

"Why d-did you go up?" Faced with her worst fear and forced to trust her life to this Lykae.

"Doona like heights, then? I went up because the humans canna."

He was ascending by climbing a vine? "You'll drop us—you only have one freaking hand!" He'd been yanking down on the vine and catching it higher, propelling them up inch by inch.

"Aye, and I'll be havin' it back. Along with my eye. Now. Remove your curse and heal me."

"Never. I hope you die from it," she hissed.

"Then also hope my hand does no' slip any more on this slick vine. We go much farther down and that vacuum will catch us for sure. Ach, I can feel the pull on my feet already. And now it's starting to rain."

She raised her head in disbelief. Fat drops of water beaned her in the face.

He deliberately let go, allowing them to plunge several feet before he snatched the vine back, jouncing her over his back as her hands frantically fisted in his shirt.

"Stop that! Ah, gods, stop that!"

"Give me my hand back!"

Think! She did believe she could successfully remove the curse, even as weak as she was. Removing spells wasn't as difficult as placing them, she reminded herself. Elianna always said, "A toddler can't inscribe calligraphy but can easily erase it."

Silently vowing to stick a new, worse curse on him at the earliest opportunity, she laid her flat hand on his back, then drew it outward, pulling at the hex.

Nothing. Gritting her teeth, she returned her hand and attempted once more. This time her hand met resistance, as though she'd laid her palm in a pool of glue. She had a grip on the hex!

Mari drew her hand back again. Stretching... pulling...

His hand began to regenerate—growing, bulging in his bloody bandage until his new claws ripped through the cloth.

As he stared at his healing hand, he murmured, "You've almost done it." He sounded partly mystified and partly disgusted.

"I'm too weak."

"More of it, witch!"

She shook her head against his back. "I'm going to pass out again."

"Doona care."

"I do! Vow to the Lore that you'll get me safely to Rydstrom."

"To Rydstrom, then?" he snapped in a strange tone. "Do this and I'll vow it."

Inhaling a deep breath, she made another shaking attempt, growing dizzier with each second.

"That's it." His hand appeared restored, and still he demanded in a husky voice, "More."

She gritted between her teeth, "Doing everything... I can... "

With his new hand, he ripped at the bandage on his head and raised his bared face to the rain. "Good girl. Now only one more spell to go—"

Was that her strangled cry? And the world went black once more.