Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
The three of them lay breathing on the filthy floor of the station for several long minutes.
Joan kept thinking one of the others would speak first, but time stretched out and they didn’t. Perhaps they were each individually going over how close Joan and Astoria had gotten to a point of no return.
Joan was still in Astoria’s arms, leaning into her as Astoria leaned into the wall.
In another world, she’d be in a panic, because damn if she didn’t really like this woman.
In this one, she was too tired and achy to freak out.
She curled closer into Astoria’s arms, and it was likely just reflex that made the Wardwell heir tighten her grip.
Joan was safe. For the first time in what must have been two days, she was safe.
Her fist curled in the sleeve of Astoria’s long black shirt. She licked her lips. “Fiona,” she rasped. “She left.”
“Her magical trail is faint,” Wren said, voice cracking briefly before she leveled it out. “It heads to the surface, then gets lost up there in the crowds.”
“CZ, Mik, Grace…”
“Are all fine,” Astoria rumbled, chest vibrating against Joan’s cheek. “Worried sick about you, but fine. I’m…” She swallowed, hard. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.” Her hand twitched up, thumb brushing against Joan’s jaw.
Joan’s breath hitched.
“Her wards were good,” Wren said, a voice at Joan’s back, startling her back to the present. “Really good, confused all sorts of tracker spells.”
“It took two hours for us to realize you were missing, then another forty to find you,” Astoria said. “Too long.”
“Grace cracked it, in the end, refined the map enough to tune it to your specific magical signature,” Wren admitted.
“We should get back to them; there’s no reception down here, and they’ll be anxious about not hearing from us.
CZ wanted to come but we had to leave someone to guard Grace and Mik.
We only have thirty minutes left on the clock before they call the Greenwoods and tell them where we went. ”
That was enough to get Joan to try and sit up. Astoria’s grip was too tight for a second, but Joan must have imagined the hesitation, because a second later she helped Joan sit properly.
“I can walk,” Joan announced. “But I might be a little slow, sorry.” An understatement. She was fairly certain crawling was her best bet.
“Don’t apologize,” Astoria said, an undue harshness to her tone. Joan turned to her in surprise and found that they were nose to nose.
Astoria’s eyes were a shifting tempest in Wren’s hovering light. Tension pulled the corners of her mouth into an unhappy frown. She was grimy, but Joan could still detect hints of her cherry soap.
“Don’t go soft on me, Wardwell,” Joan whispered, and Astoria’s gaze flicked to her mouth.
The fearsome woman swallowed. Again. “I’m not,” she said roughly. “We need you alive to tell us what Fiona’s after.”
Joan knew a lie when she heard one.
Wren rose to her feet, breaking the spell, and Joan looked away to take Wren’s outstretched hand, rising with a groan.
She was not well, not at all.
But she was alive when she was supposed to be dead. She’d do a little tap dance if she thought her feet would obey.
“Fiona set Mik loose on purpose to get Grace to solve the spell, or the magic poisoning part of it specifically,” Joan said, as Astoria stood behind her. She was close. Really close or a normal amount of close, Joan couldn’t tell.
Wren swore, rubbing the back of her hand against her temple. “And she went after you because…?”
“She wanted my magic,” Joan said, wincing as she took a step.
Astoria was there instantly, slinging one of Joan’s arms around her shoulder and guiding her forward.
“Grace didn’t help, so she used me as a guinea pig to test out magic-poisoning cures and to try to mimic my channeling ability so she could boost her own power.
“I said I can walk,” she protested, Astoria’s touch sending a riot of goose bumps across her body.
“Sure you can,” Astoria said. “It was someone else who was almost exsanguinated a few minutes ago after being tortured for two days and then resurrected in a magical miracle.”
“And then I was healed, and now—”
“I’m not letting go, Greenwood,” Astoria said. “Walk. And explain more about Fiona.”
Joan walked.
She laid out all the bits and pieces she had.
Fiona wanted power more than anything, not just physically but in the witch world too.
Her focus was on some level of systemic change, not solitary fame and fortune.
She was smart and well resourced, at least in terms of knowledge of the city and spells.
She had gotten whatever it was she needed out of Joan and set her trap.
Now she could be anywhere.
They climbed a set of old steps to a door, and when Wren pushed it open in front of them, the world was so bright, Joan had to squeeze her eyes shut completely. Wren murmured an apology, guiding them out onto a New York side street.
“I wish one of your friends had a car,” Astoria grumbled. “We can’t go on the HERMES or subway looking like this, and we’re too worn out to portal.”
“Walking’s out of the question,” Wren added, surveying the street. “And we need to figure out where Fiona’s going next. If she’s got a grudge against your family, Joan, I hate to say it, but it might be time to warn them. Your sister’s been texting CZ a lot asking about you.”
Molly. Gods, Joan had almost died ignoring all of her sister’s texts. She’d helped Joan get out of that house, and Joan had repaid her by not even confirming she was okay.
They took a few more steps, Joan grimacing as each one shot pain up her body. They did need a car, and Joan knew only one person in New York with one. Her father.
She tugged Astoria to a stop. “Can I borrow someone’s phone?”
CZ cried, unashamedly, when he heard Joan’s voice. There was a fair amount of blubbering, and it became so much, he had to hand the phone off to Grace, who seemed kind of shell-shocked, and so it went next to Mik, who was the most coherent.
“I’ll get him to call Molly,” Mik confirmed. “Hanging up now to do so—Joan, holy shit. I am gonna hug the fuck out of you when I see you.”
They found a bench in a nearby park to sit on and wait. The grass wiggled happily at Joan’s feet, and she managed to discover they were in Queens. Not too far from CZ’s pack headquarters. They could swing by and say hi to his parents.
Joan giggled, then smothered it at the odd looks from Wren and Astoria, who were sitting on either side of her like she might keel over at any minute.
The air was so delicious. Had air always been this delicious? Gods bless you, New York City, and your dirty streets, and your car horns honking, and the way summer settles on you like a veil.
Another giggle.
“Now I’m getting worried,” Astoria said.
Everything had taken on a shiny new cast. Gorgeous Astoria Wardwell, worried about little old Joan! When was the last time she’d sat on a bench? Weren’t benches a wonderful invention? And parks, they’d really done something when they’d invented parks.
“Californians,” Joan said grandly, leaning back, “I may disagree with your way of life, but I adore you both right now.”
Wren laughed, bumped Joan with her shoulder. “See, I told you we’d be friends.”
Astoria looked suspiciously like she was blushing. Joan poked her side—why was she so muscular and firm?—and Astoria caught her hand before she could do it again.
“Enough out of you,” Astoria said, but the haunted guilt had faded out of her eyes a little, and there was some amusement settling in there. “Is everything funny to you?”
“Everything is horrible to me,” Joan said. “My dad always said I was too sensitive. That’s funny to me.”
Astoria’s face darkened. “Merlin Greenwood is a fucking loser.”
Joan couldn’t help her shocked inhale. Wren was cackling madly.
“Wardwell! I didn’t know you could curse,” Joan said.
“I save it for the Greenwoods,” Astoria said, a little pleased. “And don’t worry, I have always found Merlin smarmy, so this isn’t just because CZ explained that he’s been a huge dickwad to you.”
“Dickbag,” Joan corrected. “CZ’s partial to that term.” Oh, CZ. She wanted to rub her cheek against his like a cat.
Astoria’s rejoinder was cut off by a shadow that crossed her face. “Wren,” she said.
Wren was already sitting forward, looking a bit less tense than Astoria was, but only marginally. “I know. No sudden movements, Story.”
“Witches,” someone said behind them, and Joan was the only one uncool enough to twist on the bench to see who had spoken.
A group of four people stood behind them, two Latino men and two Black women. Joan had no idea how Wren and Astoria had sensed them, because their appearance was sudden enough to startle her. Her eyes flicked across them. The predatory stillness, red-tinted eyes.
Vampires.
“We aren’t doing anything but sitting,” Wren said, casually leaning back. “Our ride will be here at any moment.”
“Covered in blood?” one of the men asked. “We don’t want trouble from your kind, and you’re too close to vampire territory for your own good.”
“You know those boundaries aren’t official,” Astoria said.
Wren shot her a sharp glare. “We understand and acknowledge your territory; we genuinely aren’t looking for any trouble. Our friend here needs medical attention, that’s it.”
Not just any vampire territory—LaMorte territory. Wren and Astoria were clearly on edge, and while Joan had been ensconced in the world of witches for the last week and a half, she’d known tensions were high between species after the Night Market.
But Joan couldn’t quite be afraid. One of the women looked familiar to Joan. Strikingly so. “Aunt Lila?”
The woman stepped forward, peering more closely at Joan. She had tied-back braids and the same cheekbones as CZ. “Joan Greenwood?”