Witch Blood

TWENTY-FOUR

“ISABELLE?”

Thomas woke and turned over, groping for the warm body he missed. After finding only air and blankets, he cracked his eyelids. She wasn’t in the room.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as his intuition kicked in. Something wasn’t right.

He pushed the blankets aside, found his pants in the dark, and slid them on. Making his way carefully through the dimly lit apartment, he found the living room empty. He could feel that the entire place was empty except for him.

Outside on the street a motorcycle vroomed to life.

He knew the sound of that cycle.

Thomas rushed to the window in time to see Boyle pull away from the curb…Isabelle on the back. Just before Boyle accelerated, she looked up at the window wearing an expression of total desolation.

And then they were gone.

Clear, cold certainty quickly killed the jolt of shock that ran through his body. He knew Isabelle hadn’t left with Boyle because she wanted to…and he knew exactly where the demon was taking her.

Thomas didn’t waste time for anything but his car keys and cell phone. Barefoot and shirtless, he raced from Isabelle’s apartment, dialing Jack and the Coven as he went.

THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH ISABELLE’S HAIR AND blew up her shorts, making her shiver. Of course the shiver probably had less to do with the wind than it did the demon she rode with.

The bike ate up the streets between her apartment and the warehouse a lot faster than she would’ve liked. She watched the pavement fly by under her feet and wondered what it would feel like if the copper affected Boyle like she hoped. How did it feel to die in a motorcycle accident? Would she end up with gravel three inches under her skin? Would her head split open? She supposed if her head split open she wouldn’t much mind the gravel under her skin.

Lady.

It was the only way and stalling any longer would be criminal. Now was the time. Her last chance. By doing this she’d save her mother, her sister would be avenged, and the worlds — both of them — would be rid of the likes of Erasmus Boyle.

All she had to do was move her hand, grab the syringe from her pocket, and shoot it into him. Then, if the copper injected straight into his body did as she hoped, she would die in a horrible, fiery motorcycle accident. Piece of cake.

She could do this.

She could.

Boyle flipped every stoplight they approached to green. Either that or he had some great luck at hitting the lights just right. Green light. Green light.

Green light.

They were getting near the warehouse and Isabelle knew she had to do it. It was time, past time. Her heart pounding so fast she thought she’d have a heart attack — preferable to the way she was about to die — Isabelle moved.

Boyle roared in protest as she took her arm from his body, but Isabelle ignored him. She plunged her hand down her shirt, sought the syringe, and yanked it out. Gripping the top between her teeth, she pulled the needle free, stuck it into the demon’s neck, and pushed the plunger down.

The liquid copper shot into Boyle’s throat.

Syringe empty.

Boyle gurgled. The bike wavered. Isabelle looked down at the swiftly passing road beneath them. They righted for a moment and then the demon made a choking, snorting, screaming noise.

And they tipped.

The bike fell to the right and spilled Isabelle to the pavement. They’d been going about fifty miles an hour and in the split-second before Isabelle made contact with the road, her mind went completely blank — totally clear. Then she hit. No pain exploded through her. Nothing but softness met her head and body as she slid and rolled across the road and onto the sidewalk.

Isabelle lay on her side, motionless and aware. Clearly, she’d gone into shock and that’s what had blocked the pain of the crash. If she looked down at her body now, she’d see blood, ragged flesh, and twisted limbs.

She decided not to look.

Instead she watched the bike scrape against the pavement, screeching in a fiery symphony of destruction down the middle of the street. Boyle went with it, his leg trapped under the twisted metal. The cycle came to a halt near the curb, the demon motionless.

Had she killed him? Was this nightmare finally at an end? She was still conscious. Did that mean she’d actually lived through the ordeal as well? Or was the numb coldness stealing through her body merely a precursor to death?

The sound of scraping metal once more filled the air. The motorcycle moved and Boyle shifted beneath it, groaning.

“No,” Isabelle whispered, lifting her head. “Oh, no.”

“Get up!” Thomas’s voice. Strong hands under her arms, lifting her. “Isabelle, get up! He’s not dead.”

“What?” She pushed to her feet and glanced down. No blood. Not even a scratch. Not even her clothing was torn. “What’s—”

“I cushioned your fall. Concrete is part of my dominion as an earth witch.” He hauled her down the street as he spoke. “We have to get you far from here in case Boyle recovers and comes after you.”

“Wait!” She pushed at him. “No, I can’t run.” Isabelle turned and headed back toward Boyle.

Thomas grabbed her and lifted her off her feet, carrying her up the street toward his still running car. “Have you lost your mind?”

She fought in his embrace. “No! You don’t understand. Let me go!”

“You can explain it when we’re five miles away, okay?”

Unable to break Thomas’s iron-strong grip any other way, Isabelle focused on the water in his fingers, hands and arms, forcing it to momentarily heat up. Thomas yelped and dropped her.

Isabelle tumbled to the ground and righted herself, struggling to her feet. “I can’t leave now. Boyle will pick another witch to take my place. Either he dies…or I die. I won’t allow this to happen any other way.”

Thomas stared at her for a moment before replying. “You made some kind of deal with Boyle? You either go willingly with him or he takes another witch in your place?”

She nodded furiously, her gaze straying behind Thomas to where Boyle was rousing from the ground. “My mother, in point of fact. He meant to take my mother in my place. Yes, I have issues with her, but I can’t let Boyle kill her.”

Boyle looked badly injured and hope flared within her. Judging from the way he moved Isabelle doubted he could get very far from his current location, which was comfortably distant from their own.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

She made a frustrated noise and clenched her fists. “Because I knew you’d do this! You’d rush in all knight in shining armor and let the demon kill you before he hurt me. I tried to keep you out of this so you would be safe. The Coven needs you, Thomas. Witchdom needs you. No one in the world needs me.”

Thomas’s response came swiftly. He reached out, grabbed her and crushed her to him. “I need you, Isabelle.”

For a split-second she melted into him, closing her eyes at the emotion in his voice. Then she pushed away, putting him at arm’s length. “Thank you for that, but I won’t let Boyle put another witch in my place.”

“No, you…won’t.” The voice came from behind her. Low. Rasping. Forced. In pain.

Boyle.

He put his hands on her shoulders. Apparently, she’d been wrong about Boyle’s ability to move. Unfortunate.

Isabelle held Thomas’s gaze for a moment. She knew she looked resigned.

Boyle poofed her.

SHE COULD STILL HEAR THOMAS’S AGONIZED BELLOW ringing in her ears when she suddenly found herself in the warehouse, her stomach roiling and her head pounding. Isabelle took two steps forward, staggered and went down on her hands and knees. Bile coated the back of her mouth and flooded her mouth with bitterness.

Her hands pressing into the cold concrete, she closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on not passing out. Boyle’s way of transporting people really sucked. She’d prefer a car to that any day.

Behind her came heavy, shuffling footsteps and a low groan. Keeping her head bent, she opened her eyes and stuck her hand up her sleeve, her fingers closing around the hilt of her copper knife.

“You won’t live long enough to kill me, Boyle. You’re done.” Her voice echoed steady and harsh in the quiet of the warehouse. “It’s in the sound of your voice and the cadence of your step. Death.”

No sound. Not even a whisper of breath filled her ears. Isabelle hoped for one wild moment…then four shuffling steps toward her. Huge hands thrust under her armpits and lifted.

She’d expected to be yanked, thrown, hit, something violent. The demon’s touch was gentle instead, almost caring.

“I’m going home,” he whispered as he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t you understand? I’m going home.”

“Not if I can help it.” Isabelle stabbed him in the throat.

Boyle dropped her. She fell to the concrete and this time Thomas wasn’t there to cushion her fall. Isabelle hit her elbows, tailbone, and jarred her teeth. Boyle screamed and backed away from her, pulling the blade from his throat and tossing it across the warehouse.

Maybe his immune system had been weakened by the straight shot of copper into his body. Maybe he’d run out of “allergy shots.” In any case, the wound she’d made with the blade smoked and popped, the gash growing larger. Acidic blood dripped and sizzled onto the floor.

Isabelle crab-walked back away from him, toward the door. She knew she couldn’t leave until the demon was dead, but she went for the exit involuntarily anyway. Boyle held his hands to his throat, screaming, and tossing his head. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him, like a child needs to escape the monster in her closet that isn’t imaginary after all.

She backed through the sticky part of the air that Adam had found. Her stomach lurched as the tendrils of half-baked magick pulled at her clothing, skin, and hair. Made up of the power from the murdered witches, the partially open doorway stung her nostrils like undiluted evil, like she’d snorted dark, bitter ale through her nose.

Isabelle gasped and shot backward, out of its range. It was much stronger than the last time she’d gone through it. Boyle’s spell was nearly finished. She was the last key. Apparently, he’d taken another witch before her. They’d made it harder on Boyle with their list, but they hadn’t stopped him.

Even free from its grasp, she couldn’t shake the cling of the partially finished doorway from her skin and hair. Her breath came in short, brutal bursts as she waited — prayed — for Boyle to fall. For it be over.

Lady, please. She didn’t want to be the last piece of that gateway of utter yuck.

Boyle turned and stared at her, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes glowed red and his lips parted, revealing razor sharp teeth. Slowly, he removed his hands and straightened, showing her clearly that his knife wound had healed.

Then he smiled.

Isabelle pushed to her feet. Base fear rocketed through her, burning down her veins and shooting up her spine. She wished she could be stronger, braver, but watching that demon smile at her made her whole body quake.

“Why won’t you just die!” she screamed at him. Because, Lady, she didn’t want to.

He took a step toward her and stumbled, his smile fading a little. “You don’t understand my motivation. I’m leaving this place.” He said this place like someone might say maggot. “I’m going home to my people, to the places I remember and love.” He stumbled again, but then straightened and walked steadily for her, as if gaining strength from the very idea of returning home. “I refuse to die.”

Isabelle backed up farther and farther. She simply couldn’t stop herself. It took every ounce of her willpower not to run, just as it seemed to take every ounce of Boyle’s not to die and keep slowly advancing on her. The bad thing was that she suspected Boyle’s will was stronger than hers.

However, the copper she’d injected into him was taking its toll. If Micah’s theory was correct, the copper was eating him up from the inside out. His body struggled to heal itself and regenerate tissue, just as he did with the external injuries inflicted with copper weapons. But copper taken internally would be far more harmful. Now it was simply a question of which was stronger, the killing effect of the liquid copper or his body’s healing ability.

She kept her gaze on Boyle’s shuffling feet as he neared her, completely unable to look up into those red, burning eyes — the ones that told her the end was near. “What tells you the sacrifice of five witches is all right? Because you have killed five, haven’t you, Boyle? You took another one before me.”

Shuffle. Pause. Shuffle. “Six witches. You haven’t yet discovered the third I killed. The one after your sister.

Her stomach lurched.

“You are aeamon, only half-breeds. It’s like slaughtering cattle, like hunting. It is nothing to kill you. Some aeamon I might take a liking to, like a human might care for a pet. I have taken such a liking to you.” Shuffle. Pause. “But make no mistake; I will still kill my dog if it means I can go home.”

Boyle stopped about five feet from her. Isabelle had backed herself up against the wall that had been farthest from him. The metal felt smooth and cool through her T-shirt.

“And the doorway? How does it work?” Her voice sounded hoarse and ravaged, as if she’d smoked a pack a day for the last twenty years. Really, she was just trying to stall, hoping the copper would do its work.

“I suppose you are owed an explanation. It appropriates the magick of the witches I sacrifice. Certain types of magick in certain amounts at certain times. Some witches I was able to take remotely, some I had to kill here. You, the last, must be killed in close proximity to the doorway.”

Boyle covered the last few feet that separated them with more strength than he’d displayed since she’d injected him. The rest of Isabelle’s hope died with a sick whine. The injected copper hadn’t worked.

“Will you fight me?” he asked.

She stiffened and gritted her teeth. “How can I? How can I when I know you’ll take my mother or some other witch in my place?” Even though every fiber in her body wanted to lash out at him, kick, punch, and scratch…then run for her life.

“That’s why it will not give me much pleasure to kill you.”

Much.

Boyle pulled her into his arms like he might a lover. Her mouth pressed against the smooth black leather of his jacket. She tasted something warm and salty and realized she was crying. He cradled her in his arms for a moment, long claw-tipped fingers brushing through her hair.

Then he lowered his mouth to her throat and bit.

Demons were like spiders, their venom squirting from their mouths into their prey, rendering them paralyzed.

Boyle’s sharp teeth pierced her skin like twenty needles. Pain shot through her body, making her twitch in something close to a convulsion. When she jerked against his teeth, it hurt even more so Isabelle went still and keened softly as blood ran down her neck. The demon groaned, as if in ecstasy, as if he loved the taste of her, and tightened his embrace.

The venom shot like acid straight into her bloodstream and Isabelle arched her back in agony, unable to do anything more. Her vision faded from color to black-and-white. The images she viewed were blurry around the edges.

Was this how Angela had felt?

No, she didn’t want to think about Angela. Anything but Angela.

A coat brushed her cheek for the millionth time. Darkness had swallowed her whole. She didn’t even know where the door was in the middle of the night when no light spilled beneath the crack. Hunger gnawed at her stomach lining. She’d gone through all the jacket pockets already and found nothing, not even any of those little plastic wrapped crackers from the restaurant. Her only comfort was Angela, slumped in sleep beyond the closet door, her breathing steady in the night.

The only steady thing in Isabelle’s life….

She came to lying in the center of the floor, not far from the doorway. Moving her limbs was fruitless, just as the involuntary scream that tore from her throat remained soundless, ineffective. Silent. Mute. Motionless.

Prey.

Just waiting.

Boyle lowered himself over her, her vision still in black and white. His mouth opened, but she heard nothing. The demon grasped her arms, cold fingers digging in. He lowered his mouth to hers and began to suck out the magick from the center of her.

Inwardly, she screamed. She writhed. She died.

Outwardly, she could do nothing but endure it.

Her heartbeat was the only thing she could hear. It beat loudly in her mind, growing slower. Her vision changed from black to white to blacker and then blacker still. Maybe she would be lucky and she would die before Boyle began to feast.

Had Angela died before that point?

Then Boyle was gone. The pressure on her chest eased and her magick snapped off where Boyle had bitten into it, sending a flash of searing pain through her and then nothing.

Unable to move, unable to see clearly, Isabelle only caught bits and pieces of the movement around her. Long black hair. Flashing copper sword.

Thomas.

Damn it. She’d known he’d show eventually. Fear for herself disappeared. Dread for Thomas replaced it. Movement flashed out of the corners of her eyes. Sword. Blood. Claws. Teeth.

Then, again, nothing.

Nothing but a pulsing, purring noise to go along with the beating of her heart. Soft at first, it grew louder and louder. Magick prickled against her skin, letting Isabelle know that the demon’s venom was wearing off.

Where was Thomas? And what was that alien magick scraping along her body?

The texture of the power rippled and grew stronger. The same stink of evil teased her nostrils and then Isabelle knew what it was. She felt a tug on her body like tiny hands that grew stronger.

Somehow, the doorway had opened.

Thomas appeared over her, blood running down his temple and coating his long black hair. He scooped her up into his arms. “We’ve got to get away from here,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “The doorway is appropriating Boyle’s magick as he dies and it’s opening, but it’s unstable. Pulling…pulling us in.”

Alarmed, Isabelle tried to move. It was like her arms had been wrapped in cotton, but she managed some mobility. Color now tinged the edges of her black-and-white vision, too.

Thomas dragged her a distance away, far enough that the pull of the doorway ceased, and lay her down. Isabelle sat up, scanning the room for the demon. Boyle lay a short distance away, on his stomach. Multiple stab wounds marred his back and his blood crackled and popped on the pavement around him. He still lived. His limbs twitched and a low, thick moan wafted from his throat.

About five feet away from him the doorway gleamed almost prettily in the air, a riot of shimmering colors that pulsed and flickered with magick. Isabelle was no earth witch, but even she could sense the volatility in the spell.

She glanced at Boyle and shook her head. “No, he’s not dying. He doesn’t die. He’s like something out of a horror movie. You only think he’s dying and then—”

Thomas shhhed and rocked her in his arms. “He’s dying, believe me. He was more than halfway done for by the time I arrived. I just finished the job you started. It’s over, Isabelle. It’s over.”

Could it be? It seemed like it had been forever since it had begun.

“Home.” The groan came from Boyle. Bleeding and beaten, he pulled himself toward the doorway. He went inch by inch across the floor by willpower alone, leaving a trail of hissing blood behind him. “Home.” This time it sounded more like a sob.

“Let’s go,” Thomas said, helping her to stand. “I don’t know what that doorway is going to do.”

She climbed to her feet and took a quick inventory of Thomas’s wounds. His clothing and probably his skin were singed from Boyle’s blood. Cuts marked his head, his cheek, and his chest. His own blood soaked his thigh from a gash, but she couldn’t tell how deep it was. “Thomas—”

“Come on. We both need medical attention.” He slid his arm under her waist and helped her walk toward the exit.

The door at the far end of the warehouse opened, revealing Adam and the rest of the Coven witches entering the building.

Adam’s gaze focused on something behind her and Thomas. “Watch out!” he yelled and started to run toward them.

Isabelle glanced back and saw that Boyle had reached the doorway and was crawling through. The doorway had grown larger and brighter. Magick flared and rippled outward from the unruly, half-finished spell.

Light flashed and the pull intensified. Isabelle screamed as the thing sucked them in like some kind of black hole. Hell, maybe it was a black hole.

Magick, light, and sound exploded.

THOMAS CAME TO FACEDOWN IN A PATCH OF GRASS, his upper thigh throbbing in agony. His hand still gripped the handle of the sword. He had to physically force himself to relinquish it, one finger at a time.

Isabelle was no longer in his arms. He sat up and groaned, pain shooting though his body from his wounds. The pounding in his head had increased ten-fold and now nausea roiled in his stomach to boot. His hand went to his thigh and came away sticky and hot with his own blood.

He pushed all that away, pushed it back, and almost passed out from the effort. None of that was important. Only Isabelle was important.

“Isabelle?” he croaked.

It was dark. Wind creaked through tree branches not far away and the air smelled strange. Not at all normal. It smelled faintly of…demon magick.

“Isabelle!”

“I’m…here.” She groaned and something thunked. “Damn it. I’m here.”

Thomas groped toward the sound in the darkness and finally found warm flesh. He gathered her against his chest. “Are you all right?”

She took a moment to answer and when she did her voice sounded thin. “I can’t take any more poofing today. It makes me sick.”

“Poofing?”

“The transporting through unconventional means.” She groaned. “Poofing. We went through the doorway…I think.”

“I think so, too.”

“Where do you think we are?”

He looked up, studying the night sky. It looked just like any other clear, perfect night sky — a few wispy white clouds and a whole lot of bright stars. Except…“Wherever we are, it’s not Chicago.” He pointed skyward.

“What?” Pause. “Oh, shit.”

Above them hung two moons. One large and luminous, the other smaller and pale blue.