Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

The drive from Homewood Park to the pack house is made with one hand on the wheel and the other on Az’s pulse. Daniel practically leaps out of his seat when I thrust my phone at him, but he follows instructions well. Greta picks up after the second ring. I can’t go into details over the phone, not if I want to get us home in one piece, but I give her enough to know that the shit has hit the fan.

Greta, Hank, and Jose meet me on the porch. I nudge a shell-shocked Daniel toward Hank. “Check him out, Hank. Contact Pernice Sutherland at the ‘dome and let him know we have the kid. We aren’t a delivery service, and this isn’t a daycare. I want them to pick the kid up now.”

Hank wrenches his eyes away from the blonde bundle in my arms. He nods and gently guides Daniel into the house. Greta and Jose stand between me and the doorway. Not a smart place to be. Not right now.

“Move.”

Neither complies.

“Fucking move right the fuck now.”

Jose reaches for the dangling end of Az’s braid. It’s only his cat reflexes that keep Jose from winding up with a handful of my canines. Greta steps forward to protect her pack mate. A growl and flash of fang freeze her in her tracks.

“Get out of my way. Now.”

It’s the last warning either of them will get. Failure to comply will be seen as a challenge and dealt with swiftly. Very swiftly.

They’re smart enough to back off. Greta moves to the living room to contain the unusually silent pack. Jose follows me like a puppy up the stairs. In the hallway, he darts in front of me to push open Az’s bedroom door. Points for being helpful but no.

I step into my bedroom instead. I am not leaving Az’s side until she’s awake, and there’s no way in hell I’m spending more than a minute in the Pepto Palace. I don’t even let go long enough to put her on the bed. The fear that if I stop touching her she’ll fade away is irrational. I know this. That doesn’t make it any less powerful.

The dirt, blood, and grass coating both of us stain my sheets Just one more reason why I am going to kill her, absolutely kill her, when she wakes up. She’ll be running with Greta and me until her legs fall off. No more leisurely jogs with her pseudo-brother. No more piggy back rides.

Jose perches on the edge of the bed beside me but wisely keeps his hands to himself. Tears fill his eyes. His entire body trembles. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive. Pulse is slow. Breathing is steady.”

Gradually, the heat fades from her skin. Sparks of magic stop dancing around her head. The eye movements stop, but her pulse remains the same.

She doesn’t wake up.

Composing a list of punishments takes my mind off the panic clawing at my chest. She’s going to be responsible for Uriah and Quinn, which means she’ll attend every teacher conference, every PTA meeting, and every extracurricular activity. She’ll be in charge of checking homework and making sure they actually go to class. I’m also going to put her in charge of the household chores schedule. Let her deal with the whiners who don’t want to clean toilets or claim that mowing the grass bothers their allergies. I think I’ll also make her organize the three cabinets full of client files.

Princess had better enjoy her naptime, because as soon as those baby blues open I’m putting her ass to work.

I don’t realize Greta is in the room until she has her hand on Az’s shoulder. I wrap my fingers around her wrist and squeeze. Her bones creak.

“Don’t touch her.” Nobody touches my void.

Greta winces, tries to retract her hand. “She needs a bath, Rick. Both of you do.”

“She’s fine.”

“She’s a mess. Let me clean her up and then have Hank look her over. If she stays out for too long, he’ll need to start an IV to make sure she doesn’t dehydrate.”

“No.”

Greta yanks her wrist free. Her lips curl back in a sneer. “You’re being an emotional idiot.”

My growl bounces off the walls. I’m sure it reaches all those prying ears downstairs. Jose whimpers and presses himself against the headboard. Greta recoils. Her chin falls to her chest, and she immediately drops to her knees. Okay, so I won’t rip out her disrespectful tongue. Yet.

“Alpha,” she starts, tone soft and low, “no one here would ever hurt Az. We won’t know the extent of her injuries unless we clean her off. Please, allow us help her.”

Ah, logic. Silly, deluded Greta assumes that it will work on me. My own brand of logic trumps hers. Az is in my arms and alive. If Az is not in my arms, is she still alive? Not a question I’m keen on getting answered.

“Please?” Jose peels himself off the headboard long enough to give me his best kicked-kitty look. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“No. The next person who asks me will be wearing their fangs as a necklace.”

Greta scowls but keeps her head bowed and shoulders slumped as she slinks out of the room. Jose stares wistfully at Az for a moment before following Greta. Finally, a little peace and quiet.

The silence stretches out.

I count Az’s breaths. Calculate her pulse rate. Count the freckles across her cheeks. None of it keeps the terror at bay.

Maybe it’s a little too quiet.

“I won’t forgive you for this,” I tell the unconscious woman in my lap. “Not for a good, long while. There’s going to be a lot of heavy-duty groveling in your future, Princess.”

No response.

I detail my punishment plans. In addition to everything on my earlier list, I’m going to make her my permanent liaison with the local law enforcement departments. She’ll be the one Greer bitches to when I solve his cases first. She can handle the others at the ‘dome, too. The Patriarch likes her, and I have faith in her ability to wrap anyone around her little finger.

“I’m going to buy a chalkboard just so you can write ‘I will not do stupid shit’ a few thousand times.” I lean back against the headboard and close my burning, gritty eyes. It feels like I’ve been awake for years. “You know, you really screwed us over by doing this. So Olivet isn’t in the picture. What about the puppet master? You think he’s just going to go away because his little marionette had his strings cut? You can’t quit at halftime, Princess.”

I expect movement. I expect her to punch me in the shoulder and berate me for calling her a quitter. Hell, I’ll settle for having her set my hair on fire again.

There isn’t even a change in her respiration rate. Her pulse doesn’t skip or, thank God, falter. Just the same nothingness.

“I am exceedingly pissed at you.” I pull off the elastic holding the end of her braid and rake my fingers through her warm, smooth hair. I have to comb out the occasional twig or leaf. “It’s this kind of reckless, thoughtless behavior that makes me question your sanity and mine. It also makes me wonder about the odds of a relationship actually working. You can’t do this to me again, and I can’t put your safety over that of the rest of the pack.”

I’m sure she’d argue that she drained Olivet for the good of the pack. Or to save me. And it worked. She got us out of a damn sticky situation, but that doesn’t negate the fact that she didn’t trust me enough to come up with a plan. She didn’t stop to let me know what was going on in her fool head. This isn’t a solo operation. The sooner she learns that, the less likely it is that she’ll give me an ulcer.

My lips find her forehead. Her skin no longer scorches me. She’s soft and pliable and fits against me perfectly. My legs have gone completely numb. My back starts to complain about the position, but I’m not moving.

I’m not moving another muscle until her eyes open.

Thirty minutes later, my bladder reminds me about the two cups of coffee I drank before our little jaunt to Homewood Park. As if jumping on the bandwagon, my stomach rumbles to let me know that it’s been hours since breakfast. My back chimes in again just for the hell of it.

“There are easier ways to get me to cuddle you, Princess. No need for theatrics. Next time just ask.”

I shift the arm supporting her head just enough to relieve some of the strain on my shoulder. Her head falls back exposing the long, pale line of her throat. Small finger-shaped fresh bruises dot the base. It’s a shame Olivet’s dead. I wouldn’t mind putting my fist through his smarmy face a time or two.

Without warning, the metallic clang of a large gong reverberates through my bedroom and the rest of the house. The glass rattles in the windows. The entire house shutters.

Something pretty fucking powerful just slammed into our wards.

I wait for another mini-earthquake or the sound of a banshee’s howl. Either would mean that the wards were breached.

Nothing else happens.

Okay, so something only sorta powerful slammed into our wards. Slammed into but not shattered. Almost worth setting Az aside and investigating.

Greta, every trace of meekness wiped from her face, appears in my doorway. Her hands are wrapped around her Desert Eagle Mark XIX .50 AE. Behind her, Ike holds up a large jug of holy water and a pair of iron scissors.

Iron scissors? Just what the hell is outside of my house?

I have to do it. I can’t put Az over the rest of the pack. It hurts, actually physically aches, to carefully place her on the mattress. My arms are cold and there’s an emptiness I don’t want to contemplate.

I drag myself away from the bed and to the large street-facing window. Greta and Ike flank me. Greta keeps her gun at her side, but Ike brandishes the scissors like they’re capable of stopping an apocalypse.

A tall, voluptuous middle-aged woman hovers in mid-air near the edge of the wards. Her arms are raised as if she’s calling down the heavens. Long, dark hair streams behind her like a banner. Faint blue sparks cover her fingertips.

Eh. Not that impressive. Dressed in khaki capris and a pastel blue twinset, she looks like she’s head of the PTA or something. Does she squeeze demon-summoning in between bake sales and soccer games?

It’s what’s standing next to the witch that holds my attention.

Olivet.

Or what used to be Olivet.

The should-be-dead warlock is severely bloated and easily twice his original height. His puffy cheeks have a black tinge and his eyes are milky white. Zombie? No. Not quite right.

The window creaks when I open it. The overwhelming stench of decaying flesh is carried on the breeze. Greta gags. Ike slaps a hand over his mouth. I concentrate on breathing through my mouth.

Draugr, then. Mildly impressive. Unlike zombies, draugar keep their magical abilities. They aren’t entirely mindless, either, though they are more susceptible to control.

Is this the puppet master? God, I hope not. That would mean we’ve been kicked around by a soccer mom. I bet she even drives a minivan. I’ll never be able to show my face in public again. If she is the puppet master, though, why isn’t she surrounded by not-Shifter bodyguards? Is she so sure of her power that she’ll challenge my entire pack by herself?

“Give me the girl!” the witch shouts, fingers curling into fists. Dark clouds gather behind her. The wind picks up and pulls even more rot-scented air into my bedroom.

“Come and get her.” If she manages to break through my wards, I’m more than ready for a fight. I’m tired of being batted around like a cat toy.

The witch doesn’t strike my wards. She doesn’t send the draugr on a rampage, either. She cocks her head as if listening to something on the wind. Plush pink lips twist into something ugly and angry. “I must have the girl!”

“Is that desperation I hear? You’re not the one in charge, are you?” I raise an eyebrow when she spits out a string of curses that merely bounce off the wards. “Didn’t think so. Tell you what, you bring your boss here and I’ll think about letting him peek at Az.”

The draugr bashes fat, gray fists against the invisible wards. The house shivers but the wards remain intact. He throws back his head and wails. All the dogs in a three block radius start howling and yipping. Great. Just what I need: the HOA on my ass for creating a disturbance.

“She’s nothing but a burden,” the witch says. “You don’t need her. Can’t possibly want her. She belongs to her family.”

I’ve seen photos of pretty, polished Annabelle Vardan. Let’s just say that it’s easy to see where Az got the fairy princess genes. The witch trying her damndest to break through my wards is not Annabelle Vardan, and she sure as hell isn’t Leo Vardan. That narrows down the list of ‘family’ considerably.

“Evelyn Dubois Shica?” I ask. It makes sense. The witch could capitalize on the Dubois connection to get to Olivet. Az and I are going to have to have another discussion about full disclosure, too. It would have been nice to know that her godmother raises draugar.

The bitch neither confirms nor denies her identity. Not that it really matters. She’s threatening my pack and my void. I don’t have to know her name to kill her.

“Do you know what she is?” the witch taunts, rising a few feet in the air so that the soles of her flats are near the draugr’s waist.

“All around know-it-all and pain-in-the-ass?” I shrug with feigned nonchalance. “Trouble?”

“She’s a weapon! One you aren’t capable of wielding. Give her to me!”

It’s probably a good thing Az is locked in dreamland right about now. She wouldn’t like being called a weapon. Then again, my response to the witch likely would have gotten me smacked.

God, I wish Az would smack me.

“Not a chance in hell,” I say. If anyone wants Az, they’ll have to pry her out of my cold, dead, probably furry hands. “You have two seconds to get off my street before I give you a third eye.”

The witch tosses her hands in the air and cackles. The draugr tries to laugh but it comes out as an asthmatic snort-and-wheeze combination. Okay. Not quite the reaction I was going for.

A soft, pained whimper underscores the laughter. It doesn’t come from beside me but from behind me. I spin around just in time to catch the figure on the bed, the one that’s been doing its best statue impression, writhe like a snake.

All it takes is a pointed look to keep Greta and Ike at the window while I race back to the bed. Sweat beads across Az’s forehead. Her legs kick wildly. One of her bony elbows catches me in the solar plexus. Before I can catch my breath, she jerks upright and swings her feet over the side of the bed.

Her eyes are still closed. I press two fingers over the pulse in her neck. Her heart rate hasn’t increased at all. Her breathing is still slow and steady. She tries to stand. I push her back down on the bed. Whatever’s driving the body isn’t Az, and I’m not letting a hijacked void go anywhere.

The aunt? No. Surely whatever it is that makes Az a magic killer would protect her from a witch’s mind control. The draugr, then. I’ve read that they can cause nightmares. It’s not a far leap from causing nightmares to causing sleepwalking.

“Ike. Get Sparky.”

Ike’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. His feet thunder across the floor as he rushes to the supply closet down the hall. He returns moments later with a shotgun and a handful of dragon’s breath shells. Greta offers to switch positions with me. I hesitate only a second before waving her over.

Ike reluctantly hands over the shotgun and the ammunition. I load the gun and aim it at the draugr. “You want her? You’re going to have to do better than a wannabe zombie.”

The draugr catches fire as soon as the incendiary round hits him. Ah, hell. Roasted draugr smells worse than the non-flambé version. The witch hurriedly floats away from the human torch. She opens her mouth, probably to curse me again, but her eyes roll back in her head and her jaw goes slack.

She crashes to the ground in a boneless heap.

Definitely not the puppet master. My ego will survive another day, at least. Ike retrieves Greta’s Desert Eagle from the windowsill and puts two rounds in the witch’s body. Good man. There’s no such thing as overkill. It’s better to be safe than hexed.

Unlike dead not-Shifters, neither corpse in front of my house dissolves into a puddle of goo. I give Ike the always pleasant task of calling Greer. Greta takes the shotgun from me and steps away from Az.

“She stopped moving,” Greta says.

I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. It means she’s not suffering from draugr-induced nightmares. It also means that she’s not awake to help me figure out just what in the hell is going on. I need to get my head back in the game. The puppet master needs Az for something and is willing to kill a Mage’s wife to get her back. That definitely smacks of desperation.

If he needed her so desperately, why would he let Vardan send her to Houston? Why not take her from New Orleans or Minnesota? Why not woo her into cooperation? What did Shica’s wife mean when she called Az a weapon? Who is controlling the not-Shifters now that Olivet is unquestionably dead?

There are so many questions that need to be answered.

But a few minutes won’t make much of a difference. I gather Az up in my arms again and bury my face in the curve of her neck. Dust fills both nostrils when I inhale. While it’s better than the lingering aroma of draugr, it’s not particularly pleasant.

“Okay, Greta, you win. Time to give Sleepy Beauty a bath.”