Chapter 59 Delilah
Chapter fifty-nine
Delilah
Creeping through the maze, I stayed close to Mex, my heart in my throat as we got closer and closer to the center. There were more raised voices now, more angry snarls and muttered curses, all underscored by Genevieve’s desperate sobs.
“Je ne sais pas. S’il te pla?t, je ne sais pas!”
“If we split up, can you hold your own?” Mex asked, her voice barely a whisper.
I nodded, even though I really didn’t know. For the most part, my magic seemed to be instinctual, not so much responding to my commands as my needs. I could only hope that, when the moment counted, it wouldn’t fail me.
Mex looked doubtful, but didn’t comment, for which I was grateful.
“Alright. When we round this corner, I’ll go left, you break right. Do not hesitate. You hear me? You kill anything that fucking moves in your direction.”
“I—yeah.” The words sounded small, even to me. “Okay.”
Not okay, but also not something I had the luxury of wavering on.
I’d never killed anyone—not directly, anyway—and I wasn’t ready to examine my part in some of the events of the last few days.
There may have been blood on my hands, but this was not the time for a moral reckoning.
Genevieve was in trouble, the second piece of the Fallen Key was within my grasp, and Archer—my angry, broody demon—was still fighting his way out of that house of horrors.
The thrum of our bond told me he was pissed, but confident, which settled my worry for him enough that I could focus on my own task.
With one quick nod over her shoulder, Mex slipped around the corner, immediately darting to the left, knives at the ready.
Not allowing myself a moment to over think, I followed her into the center of the maze, moving to the right and keeping my back against the hedge, hoping that the wall of greenery would provide some protection from attack in that direction.
The scene before me was a mess, violent and depraved.
Genevieve knelt at the center, her delicate face streaked with tears as she continued to sob.
Her arms were spread wide, each of her hands run through with a long wooden stake, pinning her in place like a butterfly under glass.
One man stood behind her, his hand fisted in her hair and keeping her upright, while another stood beside her, frantically muttering an incantation as he read from a tattered grimoire.
I could feel the spell he wove, an oily, sinister thing that laced around Genevieve, ensnaring her in its net, preventing her from moving, from reaching for any of the vile witches who held her in place.
It was heartbreaking; she’d been awful to us, but that didn’t mean she deserved this.
Knowing she didn’t have long, I scanned the rest of the clearing, taking stock of what, exactly, Mex and I were up against.
Before Genevieve, another man stood, his vicious expression proving just how much he was enjoying her pain.
He was huge, thick and broad with dark hair and hard eyes.
His arms, heavily tattooed with strength and protection runes, were crossed over his barrel chest as he stared down at the Nest Queen where she trembled before him.
Next to him was a severe-looking woman, her thick frame encased in tactical gear, hair cropped short.
Her posture spoke of coiled aggression and a readiness to fight.
And beside her was a hell hound, a hulking beast of an animal with red-tinged fur and eyes like hot coals. It looked like a Doberman on steroids, a nightmare on four legs.
It was horrific and frightening and the first to notice our presence. The hound’s ears perked, head tilting in our direction as a low rumble built in its throat, and it didn’t take long for the other four to turn our direction.
“Who the fuck are you?” called the man holding Genevieve, a rough English accent dragging the words out messily.
The big one with the tattoos said nothing.
“Let the Vamp go,” Mex called, stepping forward like she owned the night. “The Order is not welcome in New Orleans. You are in violation of the treaties of the Umbra Fratrum. Leave now, or face retribution.”
The hell hound pulled back its lips, acidic saliva dripping from its massive jaw to land in a sizzling puddle on the grass.
“Violate this,” called the Englishman, rudely grabbing at his crotch. Mex only stared.
“Baby, down here in da bayou, you’ll need more than that little Andouille sausage to please a woman.”
His face lost its gleeful expression, falling to confusion and then anger, and I couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped me.
Unfortunately, it also drew the attention of the tattooed man, whose gaze settled on me like a cold October wind. I shivered, a wave of fear rolling through me as I tried not to shrink beneath his stare.
“Imagine,” he grunted, his words full of gravel and salt.
“After weeks of searching, the biggest prize in my lifetime just strolls right into my hands. Beliel and the Storm-bringer will reward me for your capture.” His smile was grim, showing off a missing tooth on one side.
“Orla?” he called, and the woman straightened. “Bring the bindings.”
He took a step toward me, but froze when Mex was suddenly there, her body between him and me.
“You’ll keep your filthy hands off her,” she whispered, the threat clear. Crouching low, Mex held the knives up, her body ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Inside me, my magic stirred, and I got the feeling it was watching, waiting for something, but I didn’t know what.
“What do you mean to do about it, Murmur?” the man questioned, his tone mocking. “After all, it’s not like you have a great track record for keeping those in your care alive, is it?”
Her back to me, I saw Mex’s shoulders stiffen and the insult landed, but her knives didn’t lower an inch.
“Yeah, you right,” she said, her tone sad. “But all that means is…I ain’t got nothin’ left to lose.”
With that, she leapt at him, her blades flashing in the moonlight.
He reacted, but not quite fast enough, one knife slicing down his cheek before he could duck out of the way.
Blowing out a curse, he moved, taking up a new position beside Orla and the hound and drawing his own weapon, a fancy-looking pistol.
“A gun?” Mex questioned with a brittle laugh. “How terribly boring.”
“I thought the same thing when I was gifted this little beauty by the Order. But it turns out they’ve been cooking up some pretty impressive shit.
Let’s see if you think this is boring,” he called, then raised the gun and fired.
The bullet struck Mex in her shoulder, the impact spinning her around, and as she met my eye, I could see the shock and pain on her face as her body landed heavily in the grass.
“No!” I called, rushing to her, my bare knees sliding against the damp ground as I pressed my hand to her shoulder, trying to stop the black blood that was leaking out. “Mex!”
“Careful, cher,” she whispered, her face a shocking shade of gray. “They—they gonna take you.” Her words were quiet, her Creole accent deepening as she shook with pain. I could feel the life draining from her, the blood pooling on the grass beneath her body.
I couldn’t believe what was happening; I had thought demons were practically immortal. How could something as simple as a bullet have caused so much damage?
“What did you do to her?” I screamed, unable to take my eyes off my friend, even as the tattooed man approached to stand over us both.
“Neat little trick, isn’t it?” he asked casually. “Turns out if you etch an exorcism ritual onto a slug, you can cause a lot of fucking damage.”
“Hold on, Mex,” I whispered, my hands pressing against the wound.
Closing my eyes, I tried to fix it, doing my best to shove my magic into her body, begging it to do what it could to help her.
Panic and desperation raced through me, the shadow collar at my neck vibrating at a frequency that I hadn’t experienced before, and as I stared down at my hands, I could see both the light and the dark magic pouring out of me, shadows and sunlight mixing before my very eyes.
But it wasn’t enough.
“Time to go.” The tattooed man grabbed me, his rough hand curling under my arm as he began to haul me away from Mex.
“No!” I screamed, twisting and scrambling, as I tried to stay with her, unable to bear the thought that she could die due to my stupidity.
I should have waited. I should never have left Archer’s side.
This was all my fault.
“Get off me!” I screamed, and without thought, a blast of my magic erupted from me, striking him in the chest and throwing him back across the clearing where he landed hard in the grass. Stunned, his companions could only stare as he shook his head and climbed to his feet.
The man chanting the ritual stuttered to a halt, his words freezing in his mouth as he watched his leader stagger back toward me.
“Merde!” Genevieve hissed, the loss of the binding spell allowing her to attempt to shake off the hand in her hair.
“Jed! Hold her!” the tattooed man shouted, and the man—Jed—began the ritual again, his tainted magic once again holding Genevieve in place, her body frozen, her face painted with horror at her predicament.
Ignoring them all, I hurried back to Mex, once again holding my hands to her wound, trying to feel the bullet inside her and the spell it contained.
The ritual was working its vile magic on her body, essentially unstitching her demon soul from the flesh vessel that housed it.
I could feel the separation, the way her body wanted to expel the soul, as if doing so would stop the damage the spell was causing.
I had to stop it, but I didn’t know how.
My heart raced, my head nothing but panic, the tattered threads the exorcism ritual was leaving behind dancing in and out of my grasp as my magic fought me at every turn.
I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t hold tight enough to keep the separation from happening.
Mex was going to die because I was a useless, untrained witch.
I choked on the truth of that statement, my hands shaking as I fought my magic, my panic, my own self-doubt.
Suddenly, a wave of calm washed through me, like a cool rain on a hot summer day. I could feel my heart slow, the steady beat a comforting cadence that soothed my soul and tempered my mind.
Archer.
He’d felt my panic, my fear, and he’d tried to help in whatever way he could, sending me calm reassurance and strength through our bond. Taking a breath, I attempted to send my gratitude back to him, then focused once more on the task at hand.
I was close. I could feel it now, the silver bullet that festered in Mex’s shoulder like a parasite, the hex that had been inscribed on it infecting her body as the life bled out of her.
I just needed a moment—just a few seconds more—then I could get it out. If I could remove it, the bullet and the hex, I knew Mex’s natural healing would take over and she’d be okay.
I just needed time.
But that was something I didn’t have.
Behind me, I could hear the struggle and sobs of Genevieve, still attempting to beg for her life at the mercy of the witches who bound her.
The hell hound growled, his mistress doing little to soothe his temper as he fed off the pain and suffering that was flooding the maze.
And the tattooed man, now angrier than ever, was approaching me, his steps heavy on the dewy grass as he headed my way, ready to rip me away from Mex once more.
Just a little more time.
The tattooed man grunted, his shadow falling over me as he neared, and I could feel the hate pouring off of him.
“I had planned on being nice, but you had to go and pull that shit,” he scoffed, the sound rough and judgmental, but I didn’t even bother to look at him, too focused on my task.
“Well, we may need your blood to bind the pieces of the Key, but that doesn’t mean we need you in one piece, bitch,” he snarled, and I watched as his shadow raised one hand, bracing myself for the strike.
But it never came.
Instead, the entire clearing was suddenly engulfed in darkness, the moon and stars hidden from view as shadows crept in from all sides.
Dark and insidious, they rolled across the ground like an advancing army, rising up to create a walled fortress all around us, locking us into the center of the maze with no way out.
The tattooed man faltered, looking around wildly for the source of the latest wrench in his plans, but as his head whipped from side to side, he neglected the most important direction of all.
Up.
Out of the sky, swooping down like an avenging angel, Archer flew, his wings wide as he circled over us once. Twice. I could see the moment they realized he was there, the moment they understood what was happening.
Death had arrived, not on a pale horse, but on wings of night, ready to mete out Hell’s Holy vengeance.
I watched as Archer circled lower, my pulse racing, my love for him so powerful, I could hardly contain it. The feel of his own love, his overwhelming concern for me, flowed through the bond between us, infusing my magic with his, bolstering it, holding it up where it looked ready to fall.
My hands, still covered in Mex’s dark blood, began to glow even brighter, the light and shadow magic flowing into the wound almost without conscious direction.
Mex gasped, her eyes wide and her whole body straining against the pain.
Wrapping my thoughts around the hateful intrusion, I could finally begin to draw the bullet back, removing it carefully so as not to inflict more damage.
In almost no time, the bullet had been pulled out of Mex’s body, the ritual hex drawn out of her system, and before my eyes, the wound began to close. She sat up slowly, letting out a rough breath and offered me a tremulous smile.
“Merci.” Her voice were quiet, one hand dragging down her face as she wiped off the sweat and blood. “Fuck, cher,” she grumbled, climbing to her feet. “This sure is a Hell of a night.”
We stood, the two of us watching as Archer continued to circle, drawing the attention of everyone in the clearing, their frightened eyes taking in his every move, a predator hunting its prey.
Suddenly, his wings pulled back, his body hurtling to the ground as he landed heavily before me, crouched and ready for a fight.
Taking in the witches before him, Archer slowly stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and then growled, “Which one of you dared to put your hands on my mate?”