TWELVE
Angela was halfway home from having worked late at the bookstore.
That book on staves was finished, packaged, and ready for the auction house to collect in the morning.
She was now ready to celebrate and kick off her shoes, collapse on her couch with a glass of wine, flick on something to binge-watch and decide what to get delivered for dinner. Easy, right.
When a sharp pain came out of nowhere to stab below her ribcage—she nearly steered the car off the road. It was only when she clutched at her side that she realized it wasn’t her pain.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, as rain streaked across the windshield, blurring streetlights into long white smears. Her mind stuttered for a justifiable source for the pain.
Until one name roared through her like a command.
Zarek.
Instantly, she slammed her foot on the gas, and the car surged forward, her heart pounding as the ache burned beneath her ribs. It wasn’t her pain, so how was she feeling it? And how the hell did she know where to go?
“This is ridiculous.” Even though she was already turning down a side road when a narrow alley appeared ahead of her, slick with rain.
Another alley?!
You’d think she’d learned her lesson about going into dark places after last time.
But she couldn’t stop.
A figure in a hooded black cloak moved at its mouth. It somehow stirred the air into a metallically foul stench that she remembered only too well from her first encounter with the Black Cloaks.
But as her headlights swept over the scene, that thing was standing over Zarek, who was sprawled on the ground holding his side, his blades scattered out of arm’s reach.
“Oh no, you don’t.” A potent protectiveness tore through her chest like fire. Gritting her teeth, again she floored the gas pedal.
Metal screamed as the car struck the cloaked figure, the impact jolting her teeth. The Black Cloak slammed onto the hood with a hollow thud, its claws scraping against the paint as it tried to rise.
Angela yanked the handbrake, and the tires screeched to a halt.
From her handbag, she dragged out a cloth pouch. It opened, spilling coarse white salt crystals across the passenger seat. It was ridiculous to carry, but nothing compared to the chipped and scarred athame she also dragged along with her.
Her heart raced as she pushed the driver’s door wide, the headlights gave an eerie glow as the windscreen wipers shifted across the windshield.
Following her instincts, as if something else had control, she threw the salt in a wave like snow falling across her car’s hood, where the Black Cloak was pushing itself upright.
The Black Cloak hissed as the salt struck its chest, forcing it back.
Steam erupted on both fabric and flesh that blistered like it was coming off a boiling pot.
It unleashed a horrifically inhuman scream that should have broken glass.
Even though it hurt her ears, she again reacted without thinking, and drove the athame down.
The blade sank into the creature’s chest.
The scream cut off instantly.
Its body stiffened, then turned into gray stone, only to collapse and disintegrate into a fine layer of ash that slid off the hood of her car and across the wet pavement.
In the heavy silence, Angela stared at her hands that had thrown salt over winter ice, or tossed into boiling water to cook her pasta, but now she had just used it to kill.
She staggered back, her eyes widening at the ash where a body should have been. Still holding the blade that lived in her junk drawer of her kitchen that had—had—
“Oh, mercy…what have I done?”
She’d stabbed it.
Wait. That was after she ran it down!?
Oh no, there would be witnesses. Right? Cameras. Someone would have seen it. There was always someone watching with a camera phone.
But was it self-defense?
Wait, who was the victim? There was no proof of death, except for the weapon in her hand that held no blood.
Murder required intent. Right? When this was the most unplanned thing she’d ever done in her life. She was supposed to be going home after locking up the bookstore, not steer her life so far off-course to commit a crime against whatever that thing was that turned to ash.
But laws against manslaughter didn’t care about intent. Negligent homicide didn’t care about monsters.
“How many years?” Ten? Twenty? Life?
She wanted to collapse or grip her head tight to make sense of what made her do this, even better if she just woke up in bed to find it a new sunny day. Anything but this dark alley where she couldn’t even see the stars.
But then the hot pain tore viciously through her side, dragging her attention back to where Zarek lay against the brick wall on the edge of the headlights’ glow. Half-curled on his side, dark blood soaked through his leather armor, spreading beneath his gloved fingers.
Fear washed through her like ice. “Zarek?”
“No,” he said hoarsely as she rushed toward him. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re bleeding.” Ignoring him, she dropped to her knees, checking his armor. The thick black leather etched with symbols like complex runes was warm, as if alive.
“What happened? And don’t tell me you’re fine when you’re clearly not.” And neither was she, not after what she’d done.
“It should not have cut me,” he said, breath hitching. “The armor—”
“Has a hole in it.” She tugged her scarf free and pressed it hard against his ribs. “Put pressure on it.”
He inhaled fast. “You shouldn’t be able to touch me.”
“Well, I am. And right now, I’m more concerned with the fact that you’re bleeding. So, unless you’ve got a better plan—”
“I do not,” he admitted through clenched teeth.
She pressed harder. The blood soaked the scarf far too quickly.
“Keep that pressure up.” She ran back to the car, sloshing through wet puddles, and grabbed her spare scarf from the back seat. By the time she was back at his side, he was pale, clenching his jaw tight with pain.
“I’ll wrap this around you.” The smell of blood was making her ill. “It needs to be tight.”
“You don’t need to do this,” he muttered. “We self-heal quicker than mortals.”
Mortal? What did that make him? Zarek looked human, yet in her gut she knew he wasn’t normal. Nothing about this entire scenario was normal.
“Then you’re doing a terrible job of this healing thing,” she shot back, wrapping the fabric snug around his torso. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital? I think I should. They’d know what to—”
“No. I can’t.”
“Can’t… or won’t? They only call the police when it’s a gun—”
“I cannot go home.” His words were weighed down with more than just pain.
“What do you mean?”
“They used the Poison Blade,” he hissed. “A black blade that paralyzes our magick. It has the power to cut through our wards, armor, anything, to destroy us.”
Wait! He didn’t just say what he said, right?
Magic wasn’t real. When none of this was real.
Yet the blood seeping through his leather armor, and the pain he tried to hide, was so wrong that it could only be real.
What’s worse was that she could feel it, stabbing into her side. How was that possible?
“The poison from the blade…” Zarek winced. “It’s inside, eating through what I am. I cannot heal properly… or travel. Helviti.” He gritted his teeth.
Vulnerable is what she heard, and for someone like Zarek, dressed like a warrior, it must be rare for him to need help.
And she never said no to anyone who needed help.
“Then you’re coming with me.”
“But—”
“No buts. I know you’re hurt. And I know you’re not safe here because more of those black cloaked things might show up, like they did last time.
So don’t complain.” She didn’t want to think about them, or what she’d done, but only focused on Zarek.
She helped him to his feet, sliding his arm over her shoulders so he could use her for balance.
“You worry for me?” he asked softly, while wincing with pain.
“Yeah, I do. Even though I don’t understand you, or what this is—where the whole thing terrifies me, I can’t help it.
So, please let’s get you out of here, or I’ll be no good to you when I have a panic attack and faint from the fear.
” And then she’d think about what had possessed her to deviate from her simple trip home from work.
She guided Zarek to the car, easing him into the back seat and helping him lie flat. “Keep pressure on the wound so you don’t lose more blood. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?”
“No. Like I said, we are self-healers.” His gloves were already slick with blood as she pressed them against his ribs.
“How long does that take?” Because she could feel the depth of his pain, the way it burned and hollowed him from the inside. Again, how was that even possible?
“It depends on the wound. It should not be long.” He peered at her with questioning eyes. “Can you feel it? Me?”
“Yes. And as much as I’d love for you to explain all of this, save your energy for whatever it is you do and let’s get out of here.” She closed the door on him, then scooped up her athame and pouch from the alley floor. The flickering overhead lights revealed…
The murder scene.
Her stomach dropped so much she wanted to be ill.
But there was no evidence. No victim. Only intent and the weapon in her hand.
They wouldn’t care that the body had turned to ash. They’d just say she destroyed evidence while trying to clean up the crime scene. A murder—
“Angela.” Zarek’s voice carried out through the open driver’s door, cutting through her thoughts. “Take a deep breath. This was not murder.” He winced, pushing up from the back seat. “Not by any law you know, and certainly not by mine.”
She swallowed hard. “You don’t understand how this looks.” She didn’t understand any of this.
“I do. Look at me.” He dropped his head, his stunning eyes locked on hers as he gripped the driver’s seat to stay upright. “I am telling you that your laws do not matter here, as there is nothing here for them to see.”
His certainty wrapped around her like a hand that held her upright, even though her mind wanted to collapse. It was enough for her to take a shaky inhale of rain-filled air, roll her shoulders, and straighten her spine. “Right… Let’s do this.”
She rushed back to the car and tossed the remnants of her weapons onto the passenger seat. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
Zarek nodded at the oddities on the front seat. “You carry warding salt. And a consecrated blade.”
“Yeah, well, um…” She shrugged at the ridiculousness of it all.
“It’s just kitchen salt. But ever since that first night.
” She pushed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to pause.
Hearing her say it sounded worse. “I used to carry pepper spray until I saw up close how useless it was against those things.”
“And the athame?”
“It sits in my junk drawer in my kitchen. I use it mostly for opening boxes and letters, and it’s good for getting to those small screws in certain appliances, like my kitchen scales. Don’t tell my aunt, huh.” The giggle escaped her.
And for the first time since she’d met him, Zarek laughed. But it was cut short as he winced in pain and collapsed back onto the seat.
“Hold tight, and no back-seat driving.” In a matter of moments, she reversed down the alley.
Under the glow of her headlights, she took one last look at the crime scene, then headed for home.
***
Before the car’s taillights disappeared down the street, the air in the alley shimmered as Martar materialized with blades in hand. A thin frost misted faintly along their edges as his boots hit wet pavement. He scanned the alley in a single, efficient sweep. “Zarek?”
No answer.
Rocharde appeared beside him without sound, his dark eyes narrowing at the scene as the streetlights caught on his blades and gold earring. “Where’s the Captain?”
“I know he was here.” Martar’s boots were heavy as he stalked to the end of the alley that faced the road. “Dammit, he’s dropped out again.” Zarek had been doing that too many times of late.
“Dropped out?” Rocharde sheathed his weapons, checking over the alley’s surface for signs.
“Going off on his own.” Which Zarek did not do in the mortal realm. As field commander, he would bark out to each new shift of the Vanguard: never go on your own in the mortal realm.
Rocharde crouched, brushing his fingers over the ground.
“We’ve got signs of a skirmish here. There are three sets of footprints, a few drops of blood, fresh car tracks, and…
salt?” He poked at the white crystals dissolving in the puddles.
“And, hello…” He pointed to the gray ash coating the pavement. “Black Cloak ash.”
“What’d I miss?” Condorr appeared as solid as a dropped anvil. Tall and broad, with blond hair plastered to his skull from the rain. He peered around as if expecting Black Cloaks to come charging out of the shadows—which they’d been known to do.
“Zarek’s missing.” Rocharde nodded at the wall. “And look what got left behind.” He swore under his breath in his mother tongue.
As soon as Martar clocked eyes on the reason, it made him want to spit. “Don’t touch it.” Martar’s scowl deepened. “It’s the Poison Blade.” It lay on the wet cement with its black metal swallowing the light while blood streaked along its edge.
“Zarek must have been struck. There’s blood here.” Condorr stripped off his coat and carefully covered the weapon.
“And if it’s Zarek’s blood,” Rocharde said with a low voice, “he’ll be powerless.”
Martar closed his eyes, reaching with his magick that helped them sense each other within this realm.
He felt the magick of his brothers beside him, and the faint trace of those at the Bone & Whistle. But there was nothing even faintly resembling the intense, fiery power of Zarek’s heat signature that he’d learned to recognize since they were boys.
“Is he—” Condorr started.
“Zarek is alive. I’d know if he wasn’t.” A thought Martar did not want to spend time on.
“But I can’t feel his magick.” With the coat holding the Poison Blade tucked under his arm, Condorr frowned hard at the ground, his hand out, using his gift for reading magickal signatures. “He was here, but now it’s like he’s been cut out of the world. Or he’s been taken. That Black Cloak—”
“Is gone.” Martar used the tip of his blade to poke at the Black Cloak ash on the floor of the alley as cars passed in the distance.
The stench of wet concrete and fossil fuels polluted the air filled with invisible radio waves, but he couldn’t sense Zarek anywhere.
Only emptiness. “He’s alive. We’d know if Zarek was…
” He didn’t want to even say it. They’d all felt the loss of their brothers in the past, which gave him hope that his best friend was very much alive.
“We’ll take the Poison Blade to the Seer for clues and organize search parties,” Martar ordered. “Let’s go.”