Chapter 23 #2
Dr. Marrakchi and Nelly from the pub walked the perimeter of the spell from the outside, testing the magic powering it.
It turned out to be a revulsion spell, not unlike the one I had at the Siete Saguaros.
I learned this when Nelly tried to force her way through and ended up hunched over a pool of her own vomit.
Bronwyn and Margaux strode up, taking a stance on either side of me. Turned out, they’d been prepping, too.
“Back off,” Bronwyn said to the assassin nearest her. She held up her hands, palms out, and the man keeled over into the dirt on top of a picked-clean skeleton.
From its position, I would’ve said it was Stephen Yarnell’s, but it could easily have been his wife’s.
“We’re here to talk, Bronwyn Jonas,” a woman’s voice called out. “Attacking your own people isn’t necessary.”
It was hard to tell which one was speaking. They’d not only spelled the woman’s voice to come from everywhere at once, they were all dressed in the same head-to-toe black outfit the Gibson sisters had worn—except these cowards hid their faces behind masks.
“You’re not my people,” Bronwyn replied icily.
“Besides,” I said, “you attacked my wolves. You struck first.”
Mason was on the other side of Bronwyn. He hadn’t stopped growling under his breath.
For that matter, neither had Ronan. He was behind me, much closer than before. His body heat warmed me through my clothes.
“I’ve been authorized to offer you a deal,” the woman said, ignoring me and speaking directly to Bronwyn.
“Authorized by who?” I’d be damned if I was going to be ignored at my own murder attempt. “Emerson?”
Mason’s head snapped to me. “Did you say Emerson?”
I shrugged. “That’s what the necromancer twins called their boss. Why? Is that important?”
Mason smiled. Not a happy one. More like a villain in a DC comic—like he’d just been given the upper hand.
“Preston Emerson? That’s who’s running things since Catherine died?
Explains the stupid outfits.” Mason laughed with his whole chest, and there wasn’t anything joyful in the sound.
It was pure scorn. “Where is he? My guess is not here. He wouldn’t want to risk getting dust on his pretty suit, would he? ”
I kept silent. It seemed the smart thing to do.
“He’d have to put to use that garish gold pocket square that he wears on his chest where an honorable soldier would display medals.
” He stared into the crowd, seeming to know exactly where the woman speaking was.
“Or is he doing that little participation award patch on the shoulder again? Catherine hated that.”
The woman cleared her throat. “We’re not here to discuss Emerson. We’re here to discuss the demon. You’ve been commanded to hand her over, Hartman.”
But Mason wasn’t listening. “He’s never done fieldwork, never fired a weapon, never banished a single demon.
You know, stolen valor is treasonous in a country, but it’s also a betrayal of honor in an organization that prides itself on acting ethically in the face of evil.
” He glared into the crowd. “Emerson isn’t fit to shine Catherine’s shoes, and I’ll be damned if I’ll take an order from him. ”
Salty and catty. My second-in-command was one surprise after another.
“Our focus is the demon.”
“Betty’s not a demon,” Bronwyn shouted. She took a shaky breath. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all. She’s a gardener. She’s a business owner. She’s a coven mother,” her voice trembled. “She’s a friend.”
“And the alpha of the La Paloma Pack,” Mason said. “My pack. My alpha.”
“They are deceptive when they choose to be,” the woman said.
“Have you ever witnessed a demon save a human?” Bronwyn’s voice wasn’t trembling now. She was heated. “She could’ve left me to die. Your necromancers certainly did.”
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I liked Bronwyn and knew she liked me. After all we’d gone through, I knew that.
“Demons will sometimes—”
“Stop calling her a demon, Francine,” Bronwyn snapped. “Yeah, that’s right. I know who you are. I’d recognize that nasally, can-I-speak-to-your-manager voice anywhere.”
Four Org members charged toward Bronwyn in an elbow-to-elbow line. Mason snarled, snapped his teeth. “Pull down your masks, cowards. Show me your faces so I can see who I’m killing next.”
“No need for violence.” Francine stepped between the four and our group. “We’re here to offer you a deal. Hand over the demon, and we won’t hunt you two down for betraying the cause. You get to survive.” The way she said it, I knew she was smirking under her mask.
“But Betty dies,” Bronwyn said.
“It’s the natural order of things,” Francine said in a voice so cold I shivered.
Bronwyn offered her a middle-finger salute.
“So, you choose war with your own over an abomination. I figured as much. Your magic is subpar, Bronwyn Jonas, but your intelligence appears to be a close second.”
Ooo, that pissed me off. Nearly as much as it did Margaux.
But no one, no one, was as furious as Mason. His face and upper body shifted to wolf, and he roared his fury. Drool ran down his slavering jaws.
“Oh, I’m subpar?” Bronwyn strolled up and placed her hand on Mason’s enormous back. A tiny grin played across her lips. “You’re supposed to be a fire witch, and you couldn’t ignite a bag of farts with a can of gasoline and a matchbook from your husband’s favorite stripper bar.”
“Damn, Francine,” I said. “I’ve got second-hand embarrassment over here. That insult had levels.”
Bronwyn wasn’t finished. “I should’ve known you were involved the second I heard about the hunger-demon attack on Betty. It had your name all over it. If it weren’t for summoning low-caste demons, you wouldn’t be able to do any magic at all.”
“I broke through her protection spell to do that, you bitch,” Francine shouted. She fisted her hands and did the slightest heel stomp with her thick-soled black boots.
Nice. Now I knew which one she was.
“Protection spell? So you acknowledge that Betty’s a witch, not a demon,” Bronwyn shot back.
“Do you think demons aren’t capable of magic? Gullible fool. I’ll prove to you that she’s no earth witch.” She turned her back to us and yelled, “Begin.”
The entire back row of people lifted their hands like it was music ministry time at church. They began to hum and sing and chant.
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “This is a waste of time.”
Francine glared at her.
I took a moment to absorb my surroundings.
The sun had broken free of the horizon and blazed over the violent scene, which was not improved by better light.
Although it was seconds past dawn, it was already warm.
It would likely be in the low hundreds today—105, maybe. The air was dry and stale and still.
In the distance, a car engine revved. In the sky above us, a hawk cawed a warning. In the cemetery, a ghoul watched it all from behind the verdant trunk of a paloverde tree.
The chains I’d brought back with me were slung over one shoulder, ready for use. I’d swiped up a handful of dirt when I took a knee in front of David, and it had already been absorbed into my bloodstream.
Not that I’d needed it. With the coven behind me, I was as powered up as ever. Sure, I could’ve attacked. I’d even pictured myself doing it. It would take next to zero effort on my part. But the same could be said for Margaux and Bronwyn, and they hadn’t taken any action. Yet.
I gave them a sidelong glance. Margaux’s mouth was cinched like a drawstring purse. Bronwyn’s was a tightly pressed line. She gave the slightest of head shakes.
So, I continued to wait.
For a full minute, nothing happened.
Then three things happened all at once.
Ida’s LTD barreled into the yard; the woman herself seated on the hood like a homecoming princess in a parade.
When I looked past the glare on her windshield, I spied Gladys Jiménez behind the wheel and a wide-eyed Esperanza Pacheco riding shotgun.
Behind them trailed an eclectic collection of dead animals.
Some were crumbling, others were still … meaty. None were larger than a bobcat.
A roadkill parade. It was hideous.
And wonderful.
The Org chanters continued to sing their magic.
“You’ve built a strange, if loyal, team,” Ronan murmured into my ear.