Mist, Murder & Magic Page 7

  ‘But you don’t want to be hidden,’ Abby said. ‘You want to be seen. But first you have to be cautious. There are tunnels under this town. Did you know that?’

  The demon almost looked like a human man, well-built with broad shoulders, in a shining suit. But his black mist still trailed about him and his yellow eyes glowed. ‘I did not.’

  ‘After the “earthquake” of 1915, the first humans to resettle here had a feeling it was not a natural disaster. I mean, come on, you took out an entire country. So, they built an escape, in case it ever happened again. Together, when you’re ready, we can work as a team. When you and your ilk descend upon Mill Valley and the neighboring towns, we can block off the tunnel.’ Maddie padded forward just enough to see the gleam in Abby’s eyes. ‘We can all have some fun together. You devour the humans, and we can help.’

  The demon licked his lips, and Maddie started. He had a long, black forked tongue. Maddie didn’t like the idea of helping to commit a genocide. She backed up a few paces, Luca at her side. Humans were mostly trash, of course, and their ‘better half’ of the Cambions could entirely go screw themselves. They had always treated wolves like dirt. But this was an extreme. Surely Abby wasn’t really planning to do this? She was just baiting the demon, perhaps, or wanting to scare the other Cambions.

  Abby was a strong and fearless wolf, but did that extend to this level of bloodshed?

  ‘Do you speak for your entire pack?’ the demon asked, practically drooling.

  ‘I do,’ Abby said.

  The demon’s eyes grazed over the other wolves for the first time. ‘And what of the vampires? They already have a certain taste for human blood.’

  ‘We don’t speak for them,’ Abby said with a measured voice.

  The demon stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Abby grasped it. They shook on it, and the pack howled, baring their canines.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Malachai

  Valhalla’s training area spilled out over hundreds of hills, the green expanse seeming endless. Malachai thought it might literally go on forever; the hundreds of thousands of soldiers that fought on these bloody hills needed some elbow room to fight.

  It was early morning. Here, the sun was not so much orange-yellow as a pale pearl of light. Mal instinctively flinched from it, but the soft rays would not burn his skin. Even if he was still an angel. It was more like he was human. A punishment if ever there was one, he thought.

  On his first evening here, the Queen had handed him a pile of handmade leather armor and a stick of pointed steel: a sword. A plaything that humans used to cut each other with. Mal had scoffed at it and been rewarded with a sharp clang over his ear with her own short-bladed sword. His ear rang loudly as he winced. Here, it was easy for him to get hurt. He was weak now. And he hated it.

  He fumbled with his armor. He’d never needed bodily protection before. There was something about needing it that made Mal feel as if bugs were crawling over his skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable. When he had imagined the place after death, this had not been it. In his mind, there had been flames and shouting and humiliation. That’s where he had hoped his brother would fall. As an angel, Malachai had never seen Hell, but he had expected this to be a different version of it. Mal glanced around the endless field. He had not yet seen Nerretti, the traitor. But he must be here. As uncomfortable with everything as Malachai was, he hoped Net suffered too.

  Now, Malachai faced another fallen angel on the grassy slope. He stood near Mal, on a slight incline, and Mal frowned at the psychological edge his opponent had over him. They had been placed here, together, by the Queen. The other angel was his bunkmate, and an angel he knew. They were told to train together until they were switched.

  ‘You have to fight each other, learn your new weaknesses, and your strengths. He is not only your opponent, he is your ally. Spot each other’s flaws and help each other. You are still brethren,’ the Queen had said.

  His name was Ramiel. His auburn hair glowed in the pale light. In Heaven, Ramiel had been Malachai’s boss. He was not at the battle at the witch’s store, but he must have met his fate elsewhere. He was ‘dead’ now. Mal heaved the surprisingly heavy blade, favouring his right arm. Even as he lifted it his shoulders strained with the unfamiliar weight. Ramiel mirrored his motion. Then he attacked. They had not been given shields, so Mal’s only defense was the blade—he blocked Ramiel’s attack then pushed him backward, noting the other angel looked tired, unrested. In this place, angels slept like humans, and apparently, Ramiel had not found rest last night. He stumbled backwards, then slipped as the hill suddenly dropped away. With a thud, Ramiel was on his back, and Mal smirked, driving his sword forward. A flash of fear lit Ramiel’s eyes as he rolled away at the last second, but not without a scrape. Mal’s blade slashed down the arm that he had raised protectively.

  In a very human—or Cambion—way, he cried out. ‘Malachai! We’re supposed to be helping each other.’

  Mal stuck the sword in the grass and leaned on it as Ramiel’s red blood dripped down the metal. ‘I helped you realise you shouldn’t lay on your back in the face of an attacker wielding a sword at you.’ He smiled. ‘You’re welcome. Now, personally, I already knew that. So, we can keep going if you’re done crying about it. Get up.’

  Ramiel sat on the ground like a child, his hand quenching the blood flow stemming from his upper arm. It was his left arm. Ramiel stood, glowering at Malachai, and picked up his blade. He swung it clumsily, his balance lost. Mal side-stepped him easily.

  Malachai thought how difficult it was to be human once you’ve been an angel. He watched Ramiel stumble over the uneven ground. There’s no grace in humanity. A wound even so superficial as the glance he’d dealt him was distracting and painful. Humans must be very easy to kill, Mal thought, letting his mind wander during this pathetic excuse for a fight. As an angel, Mal had rarely seen Ramiel fight—he had been a leader, not always on the front lines. Mal wondered if he had always been so clumsy.

  Mal smirked as Ramiel got to his feet after tripping over himself again, then decided to take a little break.

  Ramiel took several panting, deep breaths, then looked up at Malachai with scorn. ‘I think I hate being a human.’

  ‘I think you’re pretty bad at being a human,’ Mal said. Though, really, even a good human was probably rather pathetic. Unless he was a strong warrior. Mal let his gaze wander over the grassy fields as other teams seemed to struggle too. He could spot the better fighters easily, the ones who knew where to put their feet, and how fast to move out of the way of a swinging blade.

  Pain blossomed in Malachai’s right shoulder and he flinched as he looked down to see a small dagger buried in his skin. It was excruciating, he realised. His head swam as he fell to his knees. Red blood flowed down his arm. His hand spasmed and he dropped his sword.

  Ramiel approached, looking his usual angel-smug. ‘I would have thought you already knew not to let your eyes drift from your opponent, little brother.’ Ramiel came right up to him and put a hand on the dagger. Mal cried out, and immediately hated the sound. ‘I guess we both learned something today.’ The malice in his eyes made Mal want to laugh. Until Ramiel tore out the blade and a scream ripped through him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Are you headed home, Jensen? I think you’ve had enough. Why don’t you give me your keys. I’ll call you a cab.’ Someone took the keys from his hand and made a phone call. A minute later, the bartender escorted him outside. A soft, warm breeze drifted past, making him want to go to sleep right here on the pavement.

  ‘Get home safe,’ the key-thief said.

  ‘Yeah, right. Thanks,’ Jensen said, walking straight past the cab. The walk would do him good, he thought. Fresh air. Take his mind off things. His vision swam before him as he walked, the pavement doing funny loop-de-loops before him, swirling this way and that. It had been a while since he’d taken to the drink. His girl had kept him going straight—until
he’d seen her with someone else, that is.

  It wasn’t a long walk home, but it felt a marathon to put one foot in front of the other. Bright lights glowed overhead, the streetlamps keeping him from wandering into the road. The street over from the bar, he walked past a store he did not recognize with a strange name: Witches’ Wares.

  What a weird thing to call your store, Jensen thought. No such thing as witches. Demon-worshipping freaks. He stumbled by, wondering what on earth kind of person would shop in such a place. No one he knew, he hoped.

  The walk was longer than his jelly-legs could cope with. He found himself sitting on a park bench and very much wanted to lie down, but screwed his nose up at the thought—what if someone mistook him for a homeless person? He thought about going past the Bottle-O on his way home, then discarded the idea. Walking was already difficult enough, and a detour would only be further. Once he got home, perhaps he could drive there. Surely he was fine enough to drive. Then he cursed. The bartender had taken his damn shiny metal things. Keys, he thought after a minute.

  At the mouth of his street, shadows loomed in pools of darkness. There was a single streetlamp by his house, but not down here at the end of the street. He patted his pockets, hoping he still had his house keys. He found them and giggled. Jensen wandered toward his house, but something caught his attention. There was a rustling of leaves in the bush behind him. He made an interested, Ooohh noise and approached the bush. A figure leapt out at him. A woman. A very beautiful, pale woman who seemed to glow in the darkness. Her lips were painted purple, her dark hair cascaded down around her shoulders. A tight black dress hugged her curves.

  Jensen smiled. ‘Hello. Were you hiding?’

  The woman smiled, showing oddly pointed teeth. ‘I was,’ she said. ‘But not any longer.’ She pounced on him in a way Jensen might have found sexy, but the sharp pain in his neck certainly was not.

  ‘Ow!’ he said, trying to squirm away. Then she clamped a hand down over his mouth, muffling his cries.

  The woman’s head tilted up and Jensen was startled to see what must have been his blood running down her mouth. ‘You’ve had quite a lot of alcohol,’ she said. Jensen saw her swallow and he could not process the two pointed teeth that showed as she smiled down at him. He shook his head, not willing to acknowledge the impossible. The woman peered down at him slyly as she held him in the shadows at the mouth of his quiet street. ‘You don’t believe in vampires, do you, little human?’

  Jensen struggled then, and she slightly removed her hand from his mouth. ‘Of course I don’t, you lunatic. Get off me! Some crazy bitch with fake teeth—’ She clamped her hand back in place, muffling him.

  ‘That was not polite,’ she said, leaning in again. ‘And honey, I assure you. These are real.’ She bit down on him again. This time, Jensen could feel the blood flowing too freely out of his neck. Too much, he thought, desperately hoping that one of his neighbours would wander outside and help him.

  ‘It’s so nice to hunt freely,’ the woman said, as Jensen began to lose consciousness.

  ‘Is that a vampire bite?’ Sam said, looking up at his boss.

  Jones leant over the body and squinted. ‘Yup. Quite a few, actually. Vamp really tore into this one.’

  Sam knelt on the edge of the pavement by the otherwise normal suburban street, glancing around. The Force’s black Jeep was pulled up onto the curb, spilling out equipment. Jones pulled the gurney down and set it aside. ‘This is the middle of a human neighbourhood. Would a vampire really be so bold to attack here?’

  Jones snapped some photos, getting in real close on the victim’s neck. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen.’ He glanced around, his brows furrowed. ‘This is weird,’ he admitted. ‘But we wouldn’t have been called if it were anything else.’ He set the camera back in the Jeep and picked up the man’s keys, put them in an evidence bag, then checked his pockets and pulled out a brown leather wallet and flicked it open.

  ‘Jensen Bartese, thirty-two years old.’ He slipped the wallet into another plastic evidence bag. ‘Sorry, Jensen,’ he said to the victim. ‘Let’s load him up.’ He added to Sam. Together, they put Jensen onto the gurney, and loaded him into the van.

  ‘There’s something strange about this, don’t you think?’ Sam said, climbing into the passenger seat.

  ‘About collecting a dead body, chewed on by a vampire?’ Jones asked, now in the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t really notice anymore. Been doing this a long time.’ He started the car and pulled off the curb.

  ‘No, not that,’ Sam said, though, he was still getting used to it. ‘I mean, look. We’re in a pretty public area. Do vampires usually attack so close to—to houses and other people?’

  Jones shrugged. ‘If they’re hungry enough, I guess. But there were no witnesses. This town ain’t too curious, Sam. People don’t tend to notice things. Makes our job easier.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, now more to himself. ‘Something’s definitely off.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hella

  Harrow’s blue eyes vanished as he was hauled out the door by The Force’s armed guards. Angered by the murder of one of their own, Dimitri, they shoved their newest hostage none too gently out onto the pavement.

  Hella didn’t know what to do. She was still handcuffed. Nerretti, Piper, Lola and Hunter were all still bound by handcuffs too, their expressions equally annoyed and confused as Hella’s.

  Hella ran out into the street to stop them from taking Harrow the way she imagined he had tried to stop them from taking her. Piper called out to her, told her not to go—but Hella was already outside in the cool night air. Under the cover of darkness, in a sleek black van, they pushed Harrow inside, shoving him, until he was chained to a pole inside the van.

  ‘Harrow!’ Hella called after him. She caught his eye, saw the surprise there. He reached out for her, too, but the chains did not allow for much room. The guards rounded on her as Piper managed to free herself and came running outside.

  One of the guards approached Hella, holding up a finger in warning. ‘Leave it alone, witch.’

  Hella watched over the guard’s shoulder as two of his colleagues held Harrow still, though he was not struggling, and then one of them tasered Harrow and he seized up, his face screwed up in pain. Hella’s fire engulfed her hands before she realised it, and she tried to throw the fire at the guards—but Piper held her back.

  ‘Don’t,’ the witch whispered in her ear, holding her arms by her sides. Hella’s wrists stung with melting metal as her fire chewed through her handcuffs. ‘You’ll only make it worse, and even hurt the boy as well. Don’t worry, if you care for him, we can get him back. I’ll make sure of it.’

  The guard closest to Hella had raised his gun, and then lowered it again as her fire dimmed. Boldly, he approached her with a contemptuous twist of his lip and slapped her across the face. ‘Filthy witch. I’m going to watch your boyfriend squirm.’ Hella rocked back on her feet and barely saw Piper move. One of her coloured blades was in her hand, and then she buried it in the guard’s shoulder. He cried out, clutching at the athame, as he slipped to his knees.

  Piper’s purple-white fire lit up her hands and she glared at the other guards who had frozen. ‘Raise your weapons, and I’ll kill all of you right here,’ she promised, standing between Hella and the van. Hella believed her.

  One of the guards approached, hands raised. ‘We need to take him.’ He nodded to his fallen colleague who was still moaning. Piper nodded, and he pulled the wounded guard to the van.

  Hella stepped forward, projecting her voice. ‘I’ll come for you, Harrow.’ Then she spoke to the guards. ‘Whatever you do to him,’ she said, ‘I will to do you ten-fold.’ She let her eyes glow bright purple. Harrow grinned. The guards had all frozen, then slowly nodded and hastily slammed their doors closed, speeding off into the night.

  Hella and Piper re-entered the now-restored Witches’ Wares with a sigh. ‘I can’t bel
ieve I let them take him.’ Hella rubbed her eyes with her hands. The melted metal around her wrists hurt. She managed to peel most of it off before it cooled and set on her skin. Net and the two other witches were still struggling, and Hella watched on in amusement as Net managed to get a hold of a dagger and was trying to cut at the metal.

  ‘Let me,’ Hella said, taking the blade from him and using her fire to burn through the metal, just the middle section; the lock. After a moment, the handcuffs clattered to the ground, glowing red.

  Nerretti rubbed his wrists. ‘Thank you, Hella.’ He smiled ruefully at her, all too aware of what she had lost.

  Piper had freed Hunter and Lola of their handcuffs too. ‘We’ll get him back,’ Lola said, more sympathetic than her girlfriend.

  ‘He tried to kill Tess.’ Hunter frowned.

  It had taken Hella a moment to notice the shards on the floor, then she recoiled as she remembered that the bloody pieces were actually Dimitri. ‘We really should—umm—clean this. And he never meant to hurt Tessa,’ Hella said quietly. ‘No one knew of our connection.’

  ‘The fact that he tried to kill you isn’t bad enough?’ Hunter pressed. Lola put a calming hand on her back, but Hunter stepped away from her touch, too angry to be consoled. ‘That tail-twitching bastard slashed me up’—she pulled her shirt up to reveal a deep gash along her stomach—‘and tried to kill you, my little sister, and attacked the rest of us. Why the hell do we need to go and rescue him? Just because you’re the promised witch doesn’t mean you’re our coven leader. We don’t even have a coven anymore, and I’m not taking orders.’ She expelled a breath, then huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

  Hella nodded calmly. ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, uncertainly.

  ‘Good,’ Hella said. ‘Let’s sit in here, where there’s less… bloody remains.’ They all moved to the adjoining room and sat down. ‘Look, I’m not giving you or Lola any orders, Hunter. I’m not your leader. I’m not even going to ask for your help. Not with this. I’ll go and get Harrow back myself.’