Chapter 8
“Demon spell,” Rachel exhaled, panic and fear threading through her voice clearly enough that I could feel it through the car speakers.
I’d called her the moment I was in the car, hoping she knew a spell that could translate Etruscan.
She was fixated on Amelia’s current state being the result of a demon spell and not a curse, and the level of power lust or malice a witch must harbor to drive them to deal with a demon.
Even more troubling was the level of duplicitous connections and reach a witch had that they could manage this without dealing with a demon.
If this was a fleeting troubling thought for me, it must have posted residence in Rachel’s mind.
Could this be a hint of a hostile takeover or war between the covens that no one anticipated?
“Translation spells work when there are other spells in that language. It’s like Google Translate for witches.
Or the witch has to be fluent in the language, and the spell just takes from her knowledge to translate it.
Translation spells are exhausting and screw with your cognition.
No one likes performing them. They’d rather manually translate them.
” She seemed distracted as she told me the last part.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if Google translate has Etruscan,” she admitted. “Hey, it was worth a try!” she defended in response to my laughter.
“It is. And?”
“Nope. The only dead language they have is Latin.”
“Latin isn’t a dead language.” Officially it was considered one, but as it was used by witches and in religious ceremonies, I considered it a rich and useful language.
“If someone speaks to you in Latin for any other reason than a spell or a religious ceremony, there’s no way you’re not giving them the side eye. It would be weird, and you know it.” She took my silence as agreement. “So, what do we do?” she asked.
“Find someone who can translate Etruscan,” I said with the confidence of someone who could easily recruit an elderly neighbor for help. Of course it wasn’t simple, but I wanted to ease the regrowing desolation I heard in her question.
“Will translating even help? We’d need a reversal spell,” Rachel mused.
“It looks like there are several spells on the page. Hopefully one is a reversal.”
“We still need to find the source,” she said.
Even if we could reverse the curse, we had to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
I’d prefer to monitor the person; I suspected that Amelia’s coven would want a more permanent solution.
De-escalating the situation needed to take a back seat to undoing the curse.
After it was over, I may just be inclined to look for a permanent solution as well.
Whoever it was, they wanted me dead. I needed to know why.
“I have to go. You work on finding the practitioner and I’ll work on getting the spells translated,” I told her. Before the call ended, I added, “If you have any connection to the Nightshade Coven, it might be a good idea to talk to them. Of the covens, they’re the most likely to be involved.”
Caught in traffic, I took a longer alternative route.
The increased car time gave me an opportunity to contact anyone I thought could translate the book.
It wasn’t surprising that Belham had connections with people who possibly could help.
It would have been easier if he could do the translation himself.
“We have trouble?” he inquired in a low brusque tone.
Of course, it’s we until it’s discovered a demon could be involved and then it becomes an imperial we.
“I’m sure William has caught you up,” I said.
“He has. Your visitor?”
“He’s gone.” This time I wasn’t providing a lie of omission. I hoped he stayed away. I didn’t need the reminder of the oath and my bond to him.
“Shame. I’d like to meet him.”
“He broke a ward created by kinborn witches and nearly took William’s head off with a mango. Are you sure about that?”
“Those are the reasons that piqued my interest in meeting him.” The thirst for revenge was heavy in his voice. Between him and Corrine, perhaps he was the more unhinged, because getting into an unnecessary power-measuring contest with a shadow god displayed poor survival instincts.
“Saving Amelia comes first. Then I’ll make it my business to introduce you to our visitor.”
“Good,” he growled. “I will have information for you in an hour or so.”
“I appreciate this, so much.”
“No appreciation needed. I am interested in meeting the person who made the attempt on your life.”
At home and in my makeshift library, hunger and fatigue were making themselves known.
My stomach rumbled and my eyes felt like sand was in them.
I needed food and sleep. There wasn’t time for sleep, but I could refuel.
Heading down to the kitchen, the sounds coming from it had me rushing into the living room, dropping the grimoire on the coffee table, and grabbing the Taser from the drawer.
Padding lightly in the direction of the sound, I found a carry-out bag on the table and Cirrian rummaging through my cabinets.
He turned around as I entered. He’d changed into dark-gray pants and a pinstripe button-down that wasn’t as crisp as the shirt he’d worn earlier.
Was this his disheveled look? His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearm muscles that bulged and tensed with the most minute movement.
He looked at the purple weapon and the room filled with a low roiling chuckle.
“You think its color determines its effectiveness?” I challenged, keeping it aimed at him.
He smirked. “The question is, will it work against me?”
“I’m willing to test it if you are.”
“I think I’d enjoy that,” he said in a suggestive velvety smooth tone. The inviting glint had its intended effect of trivializing my threat. That was more annoying than him being in my house. In my kitchen. I wanted him gone.
“Why are you in my house?”
He leaned against the counter and crossed his legs. “Because I’m your coerced guest and I’ve accepted the hospitality imposed on me.” He returned to opening my cabinets.
“Get out.”
“Guest, remember?”
“You had no problem leaving earlier. Why don’t you stay gone?
” My suppressed anger roiled while he made himself at home, nonchalantly rifling through my cabinets, while Amelia’s life slipped away with every ticking minute.
The weight of her dwindling time pressed against my ribs, sharp and suffocating.
Thoughts of civility were crowded out by my rage and frustration.
It was difficult seeing his indifference when my emotions were unraveling.
The clatter of dishes and the carefree shuffle of his hands over my kitchenware served as fuel to the tinderbox of emotions.
Frustration, hopelessness, and impatience had me clenching my free hand into a fist. My nails biting into my palm was the only thing anchoring me. I hated how unmoored Cirrian made me.
He stopped. His shoulders lifted and lowered slowly. A sigh. There was no mistaking he’d sighed. “I had collections. My job doesn’t stop because I’m captured, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling!”
“Is minx more to your liking?”
“Don’t call me a cat, either,” I shot back.
He turned around, amber eyes darkened and narrowed on me.
His lips quivered at the concerted effort it took to resist smiling.
“A minx is more than a simple cat. It carries many descriptors. But for me it aptly describes a scheming woman with torrid cedar eyes, menacing scowls, and chaotic ways.” His eyes drew together, his scrutiny intensifying.
“I believe it’s more apropos than I imagined.
At this moment, like a wily feline, you seem to be scheming.
Are you exploring ways to default on your oath? ”
“The oath stands. And feel free to call me Kara.”
“I find your compliance cute.”
“People tend to think I’m cute. Cute and harmless. I wonder why? Maybe it’s the hair.” I tugged at a strand that had escaped my bun. “Or the dimples.” I turned my cheek to him and made a half-smile to reveal them. “It’s a gift and a cur—”
The word fell without completion. The word curse no longer carried the frivolity it once had. My friend may die because of a curse, and I was oath bound to a shadow god because of a curse.
The headache I’d managed to keep at bay was insistently at my temple. A pulsing pain that was a combination of hunger and the situation.
Cirrian strolled toward me with the same enigmatic look that settled between intrigue, challenge, and comfortable arrogance. A storm dwelled in his deep eyes and when he was just inches from me, he leaned down.
“Kara. I have food. Would you like some?”
I had perfected the art of being a Petty Princess, but Cirrian made me want to take it to embarrassingly extreme levels.
If my stomach hadn’t rumbled so loud, I would have declined out of pettiness.
The enticing aroma of the food made that impossible.
The bag bearing the logo of my favorite Indian restaurant ensured I’d eat something.
I took a seat while he placed chicken masala and naan on the table.
He revealed a large bowl of chatpata tikka, and I wasn’t declining any of it.
I pointed to the cabinets with the plates.
He found silverware in the drawers without issue.
Noting how familiar he was with my home, I savored the food although I wanted to eat quickly because every moment spent eating was time taken from tasks.
Instead of eating, Cirrian’s attention had settled on me.
I could feel the weight of it as I cut into the chicken and ate a piece, the flavor blooming over my tongue.
I tore a piece of naan, still warm, and dragged it through the sauce until it soaked through, then folded it into my mouth.
Hunger won. Any pretense of restraint evaporated as I moved from chicken to rice.
I barely paused to breathe, the flavors stacking on top of one another, satisfying the hunger I had ignored.