Chapter Eighteen
Walker
“S o, she banged on the door and left?” I asked Cady.
I sat beside Ryder in the middle of the crowded café. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows.
“I’m telling you,” Ryder said, “I’ve never seen Freya eat that much sugar. She just got sick. Did anyone check the other bathroom?”
“I’ll check,” Cady said. “C’mon, Arion.”
I shifted in my seat. “I don’t know, man. Something is off.”
“Check her location,” he said.
Feeling like an idiot for not thinking of that myself, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up the Find My Friends app. The four of us had shared our locations with each other in case of something like this.
No Location Found.
I cursed, and Ryder echoed it.
“She never remembers to charge it,” Ryder complained.
“Or someone turned it off,” I argued, but Ryder was probably right. Freya thought of technology how most people thought of magic—she found it utterly ridiculous and nonsensical.
Breathless, Cady returned to the table.
“She’s definitely not in there,” she said, “and there’s a large man who is very annoyed with me.”
As my worry grew, magic thrummed in my blood. My power urged me to act, but I didn’t know what to do. Without an outlet for it or a way to find Freya, my magic mimicked my growing panic. The heat in my veins worsened, and the café lights flickered.
“I know this is a spooky city,” Ryder muttered, “but maybe cool it with the light show?”
“Not helpful,” I spat.
Cady snapped in my face.
“Try to track her,” she instructed.
“I already did,” I grumbled.
She shook her head. “I don’t mean with your phone. Track her magic.”
As I struggled to contain my power, desperation cracked my voice. “How?”
“Close your eyes,” Cady instructed.
When I did as she asked, Cadence continued.
“Imagine casting your magic out like a net. Let it touch everything in the city without harming it. Think of your power like an extension of all five of your senses and search for Freya. Search for the familiar flicker of her magic.”
With my eyes squeezed shut, I breathed deeply and embraced the heat of my magic in my veins. I imagined that heat sweeping over every inch of the chaotic city. As if I touched the very magic of New Orleans, power buzzed in response to my search. I shook from the force of it.
“God,” I whispered, “it’s overwhelming.”
“Throw it back!” Cady urged. “Whatever magic doesn’t belong to Freya, release it. Don’t try to hold onto it—just let it go and keep searching. Let your magic stretch wider and wider.”
I loosened my grip on my power and allowed it to roll over all the unfamiliar energy. When my magic touched something dark and sinister, I shivered but dug deeper into the sensation. Hidden among the wave of cold, epic power, familiar magic hummed in harmony with mine. My magic sang louder in response.
When I opened my eyes, Cady, Ryder, and Arion stared at me.
“I found her,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Without argument, they followed me. As I led them out of the café and onto the bustling sidewalk, Freya’s location was locked in my mind. Arion jogged at my side, and magic rumbled from him. Whatever trouble Freya had landed in, he sensed it too.
“She’ll be okay,” Cady said, but she didn’t sound sure.
I didn’t have it in myself to comfort her. All I could think about was Freya. All I could do was get to her.
Block after block, we weaved through the crowds. My magic simmered under my skin, and I used it periodically to check Freya’s location. As we grew closer, she didn’t move and neither did the dark cloud of magic. I quickened my pace.
When we reached a huge, gray mansion, we skidded to a halt. Though it was in mint condition, people on the street veered away from it. Darkness loomed behind its windows, and acrid magic poured from its depths. I cast my magic senses once more.
Amid that terrible magic was Freya.
Arion recognized her too. He hissed and raced across the street. Without hesitating, I followed the familiar and frowned at the padlocked door. Cady and Ryder stopped right behind me.
“How did she get in?” I wondered and picked up the lock. Despite the sunshine and high temperatures, it was cool to the touch.
“Portal?” Cady suggested.
“Freya doesn’t Portal,” Ryder and I said at the same time.
We met each other’s stares.
“Something drew her here,” I said. “She wouldn’t have gone off on her own without good reason.”
“Do you think she found it?” Cady asked. “The chimera?”
“Why would she go after it alone?” Ryder asked. “She didn’t even take her familiar with her.”
“She wouldn’t have left Cady by herself,” I realized, “ and she would’ve done anything to keep the chimera from getting away.”
Guilt and worry turned my stomach. If not for me, Freya never would’ve ran headfirst into danger alone.
I couldn’t let anything happen to her.
I pulled the Sol Sword from where it was sheathed at my back and raised it to break the chain.
“Wait,” Ryder ordered with a feral grin. “No need to dull your blade.”
After making sure we hadn't garnered attention, Ryder morphed his right hand into a grotesque mash-up of a wolf paw and a human appendage. Fur lined his muscular knuckles, and claws replaced his fingernails. Ryder grasped the padlock and wrenched it a part. I shielded Cady with my body and opened the door.
A shadowy entryway greeted us. Warily, we stepped inside. Marble floors shined despite the dim light and unnatural quietness pressed in on us. Though no air conditioning ran, it was as cold as the vampire’s castle.
I swallowed. “Freya?”
No one answered. Cady studied our surroundings with open-mouthed horror. “This is Madame LaLaurie’s mansion.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine, and a scream shattered the heavy silence.
Freya.
???
Freya
As I floated in darkness, lost to the rocky sea of pain, familiar magic skittered down my senses like a caress. My magic hummed in response and pulled me back toward awareness. Agony echoed down my shoulder and up my neck, but I refused to slip away again.
I recognized the magic that had woken me.
It belonged to Walker.
I forced my eyes open, but I couldn’t see anything in the shadowy room. Though I wanted to thrash upright, I made myself pause—I couldn’t afford to succumb to my anguish again. I took stock of my wounds. My side ached from the crash into the stairs, but my shoulder was the biggest problem. Luckily, my shackles were not magic binding, which meant I could heal myself once I got them off.
But why are they immune to unlocking spells?
I wondered if in my panic, I had rushed through the spell and screwed it up. Blocking out the scent of rot and blood and death, I murmured the spell again.
Nothing happened.
I cursed under my breath and considered my options. Downstairs, voices rose. I could stumble toward them, but shackled, I was useless to my friends. The shackles didn’t bind my magic, but the dislocation of my shoulder made me too easy of a target. A memory came to mind and with it a solution.
Never let magic limit you, dearest. Some situations are so dire, they require ordinary solutions.
Though I wanted to convince myself the advice had come from my mother, the words that rang in my head were Josephine’s.
And she was right.
With a deep breath, I forced myself to sit up and tried to use my core to ease the burden on my shoulder. A whimper escaped my lips, but I gritted my teeth and bared the pain. It was the least of what I had to endure.
Dark magic clashed with Walker’s humming power. Buzzing earth magic and growling animals joined the fray, and I remembered my goal. As I focused on my friends’ struggle, I forced my pain into a small box in the back of my mind and grabbed my right thumb. I wedged my other thumb at the base of the appendage and called on the Goddess to strengthen my will. With my magic singing in my veins, I pressed down and popped my thumb out of socket.
As my joint ached in protest, I slipped the manacle off my bad thumb and clutched it to my chest. Cursing under my breath, I forced my thumb to straighten and jammed it back into place with my other hand. Stars danced in my eyes, but I breathed through the pain and stood. When I was certain I wouldn’t pass out, I grabbed the arm attached to my bad shoulder and raised it. Before I could second guess myself, I yanked on it.
A scream—filled with agony and victory alike—crawled out of my ravaged throat.
Bones crunched, but my shoulder slipped back into place. As I caught my ragged breath, I faced the larger problem at hand.
The witches were impervious to magic.
But they’re not just witches, I remembered. They’re ghosts.
I recalled how the shortest sister had recoiled upon the sight of my tears.
Ghosts don’t like salt.
The solution was so obvious, I wanted to curse myself for not thinking of it sooner. I was mere miles from the planet’s greatest well of the purifying substance—the ocean. I recalled how Walker had pried the very molecules of water apart in order to breathe. Surely, the same could be done with the salty sea breeze.
And I know just the young witch to help me do it.