The Demon Witch of Smokethorn

Prologue

“Who’s next?”

Ronan stood over Benny Tortuga’s body, bloodied but triumphant. His eyes were twin golden suns hidden behind coins of darkness.

“I said, ‘Who’s next?’”

The crowd surged, until I was sure I felt the heat of their anxious breaths, the brush of their hackles, the edges of their gnashing teeth on my body. In truth, it was Ronan they were crowding in on, not me.

“What’s the matter, Pallás wolves? Are you cowards?”

Blood dripped from the wounds in my sides, pooling in small, gruesome lakes on the asphalt of the motel’s parking lot.

The wounds burned, my ribs ached, and my head was on a rocket headed for a solar system far, far away.

Floyd and his henchmen had crushed me, hurt me in ways I hadn’t known a human body could hurt, but they hadn’t touched my soul.

They hadn’t touched Ronan’s either, but there were cracks in the glass, a splinter in his voice, as he stood there, strong and sure and proud, and challenged the wolves he loved to kill him.

“You worshipped this monster.” He flung a hand in Floyd’s direction. “Don’t you want to avenge him?” He pounded his fist against his chest. “Here I am! Avenge away, you cowards.”

He threw back his head and howled, and a few scattered wolves joined in. Ronan hadn’t fully shifted to battle Tortuga, and it still hadn’t taken him more than ten minutes to annihilate the other wolf. Anyone here would be a fool to volunteer, even if they did hate him.

Rory leaned down and nudged me with her furred head. Fennel was beside her, Cecil clinging to his back. The gnome had a scratch on his face and blood staining his hands, yet his eyes shone as if illuminated from behind.

She and the boys had been doing crowd control, holding back the more hostile wolves. Now that Ronan was commanding the pack’s attention, they’d been able to stand down.

“I would like to say something.” One of the wolves separated from the crowd. Rory growled low in her throat, but it wasn’t an unfriendly sound, more one of annoyance. A sound you’d make at a younger sibling.

I didn’t recognize the guy, but she clearly did—and so did Ronan.

“Yeah, Winfield?”

“Well...” He appeared to be trying to fix his gaze on Ronan, but it kept wandering over to me. “The alpha is dead,” he said, “but I’m not empty. There’s no pain. It’s as if I’m still tethered.” He finally fully met Ronan’s gaze. “And not to you.”

A ripple of unease slithered through the crowd. Equally snake-like were the hissed whispers:

“He is not Alpha,” and “Is Alpha truly dead?” and “Then who is Alpha?”

There was a disturbance in the crowd. I lifted my aching head to see Bronwyn bearing down on me, Mason lurching and swaying behind her. Margaux swept up behind him, her hunted gaze darting from the crowd to Ronan to Mason to me.

“Over here,” Ida yelled.

She sat cross-legged behind me, the back of my head striking her bony shin as I lowered it again.

This couldn’t be good news. There was no way the witches would’ve dragged Mason out of healing unconsciousness and put him in front of the wolves who’d tried to kill him unless there was a very bad reason for it.

I was furious at Bronwyn for the part she’d played in my current troubles, even angrier than I was at Mason for his part in it, but damned if I didn’t still trust her.

"Despite her lies, I’d seen the way she behaved when the people close to her were hurting, and I knew the look in her eyes when she was terrified that someone she cared about was in danger. "

Unfortunately, that look was directed at me right now.

“What is it?” My voice was garbled, and when I pressed my tongue to my front teeth, I tasted blood.

“They’re coming,” she said. “Mason has contacts, and one of them just called with a warning. They’re coming, Betty. We have to get you out of here.”

“She’s hurt too bad on the inside,” Ida said. “She’s too close to the edge. The boys and I have been putting pain and healing charms on her, but they’re not working fast enough.”

Margaux wedged herself between Rory and me, which meant something since Rory was a giant wolf and Margaux was a petite witch who preferred not to have her throat ripped out.

“Let me work on her,” she said, and dug a vial of something cloudy and slightly blue out of her pocket.

“This will give her a magic surge. She’ll pay for it in a few hours, but that’s to be expected.

Open.” She uncorked the container and dribbled the stuff into my slack mouth.

“Prepare yourself, Betty. It’s going to feel like someone started up a metalwork furnace in your chest at first, but the pain should bank down to manageable levels in about three or four minutes. ”

“What?” I cough-swallowed the noxious liquid and steeled myself for what was coming.

I am here. We are here. You are here. We, you, I shall stand between these flames and you, me, us.

This wasn’t the best time for my demon side to have a crisis of pronouns, but I understood what she meant. She was going to shield me from the worst of it. I started to thank her, but a pain like hell raining into my heart gripped me, and it was all I could do to breathe.

People spoke, but I only caught snatches of dialogue and couldn’t separate the voices. Answering was out of the question.

“Who’s Ronan fighting now?” someone asked.

“Josiah Winfield,” someone else answered. “Floyd fringe sycophant.”

“Why are they fighting?” Ida asked.

“Winfield threw out a challenge.” Yet another voice said. “Bet he’s wishing he could take it back now.”

A minute later Ida whistled. “Whoa, that was over fast. Is he dead?”

“No. Pallás rocked him, but he’s alive.” One of the voices replied. “Guy’s brother pulled him out of the challenge ring with an apology.”

“He must’ve liked that Winfield guy,” Ida said, “because he’s sure not holding back on the wolf he’s fighting now.”

“Rory and Cecil are keeping the crowd back, but the situation isn’t a good one.”

The entire Side One of Pink Floyd’s album The Wall played in my brain while my heart repeatedly stopped and started, my lungs melted and reformed, and my belly spilled open and closed up.

“Hurry, Betty.” Bronwyn’s soft, princess voice flowed into my ear. “We have to get you to safety.”

I gasped something to her.

“What did she say?” Ida asked.

“She told me to shut up because I was interrupting ‘Mother.’ Is she talking to her mom? Margaux, what the hell did you give her?”

“A Ramirez family rejuvenation recipe. We call it Second Wind,” Margaux replied icily.

“I did inform you all that it would take three to four minutes for her to recover. It hasn’t even been a full minute yet.

” She salted what I assumed was Siete Saguaros soil on my face, neck, arms—anywhere she could find bare skin.

This was not helping the burning feeling. In fact, it was making it much worse.

“Did I wet my pants?” I asked no one in particular.

“I don’t smell anything, so you’re probably good,” Ida said.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, bestie.”

“Please get up.” Bronwyn sounded desperate. “Please. We have to get her out of here. They’re coming.”

“Who are they?” Ida asked.

“No point in running,” Mason croaked. His eyes were ringed with fatigue and there was a grayness to the dark brown of his skin. The man looked as weak and hurt as I felt. “They’re already here.”

“What’re you doing awake?” I slurred the words, but that was understandable since my tongue was on fire.

“Saving your life.” Mason stared down his nose at me. Barely clinging to consciousness, and he still took the time to disrespect me. Got to respect the grind.

“Who are they?” Ida yelled.

“The Esteemed Order of the Removal of the Blight on Humankind,” Mason replied, “better known as The Org.”

If my stomach hadn’t still been a hot ball of glowing gas in my abdomen, it would’ve dropped to my shoes.

“Opportunistic bastards have been waiting for a moment like this,” Mason continued.

“Attacking while you’re weak and close to death makes sense.

You’re alive, but you won’t be able to fight back.

Demon Hunting 101: Can’t permanently banish a ‘dead’ devil—you have to tie the banishment to the soul.

Otherwise, they just ditch that body and respawn elsewhere. ”

“Not a devil and not close to death.”

“Close enough,” he said.

A screech of tires, a series of back-off growls, and the dark look in Mason’s eyes told me The Org had arrived.

Bronwyn and Margaux slid their arms behind my back and under my butt, lifting me in a coordinated move that I would’ve admired if it hadn’t hurt so badly.

“Put me down. I’m not leaving him.”

“Betty…” Bronwyn began.

“Now.”

As the pain from Margaux’s hideous spell subsided, a surge of magic awakened in me. Suddenly, magically, I felt like I could—no, needed to—stand on my own two feet. The witches helped, and though my knees buckled the first time, the second time I was able to do it on my own.

Seven people dressed head to toe in black approached in a semi-circle using slinking, assassin steps, holding heavy guns with muzzles pointed at our small group. The wolves, who until that point had been entirely focused on Ronan, turned to face them.

That single, fluid movement demonstrated the cooperative power of a pack, controlled by a timeless, universal mind, reacting to an instinct handed down to them by prehistoric ancestors.

The wolves surged toward the armed interlopers, and the musky scent of alarm pheromones filled the air. Sweat, fear, and damp fur—the odor was loosely definable, difficult to pinpoint. Teeth snapped, growls like thunder vibrated the atmosphere and shook the darkened motel windows.

The center Org “assassin” spoke: “We are here for the demon.”

Bronwyn, who’d continued to hover at my right elbow, stepped in front of me. Mason came up from my left, standing slightly in front of Bronwyn and entirely shielding me.

“There’s no demon here,” Ronan said. “We suggest you look elsewhere. This is pack business, and you are unwelcome.”