Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 30
Adrenaline ushers about my next move. I move swiftly to my dresser and retrieve the moonstone pendant necklace. With shaking hands, I place it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt.
The only way these thugs will take the necklace is from my dead body.
A crash from downstairs startles me from my state of shock. It’s followed by various shouts, and I dart to the window to peer outside. A new car haunts the end of the driveway.
The voices below continue to rage on as a strange electricity seeps into the air. I hesitate for half a second before pushing aside my barricade and opening my bedroom door. Another loud crash sounds from downstairs, followed by a piteous moan.
The air vibrates with tension. It makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end as I creep forward. With my heart in my throat and wolf at the ready, I tread close to the wall and toward the commotion below.
“You can come out now!” a feminine voice calls from below.
Startled, I continue my approach just as cautiously, peeking only my head out from around the corner of the stairs. Three women stand, each holding a different item in their hand—a different weapon, I correct myself—and all in black.
“You, Winter?” the shortest asks. She has her dark hair pulled up into a ponytail and tugs down the odd piece of cloth covering her mouth and nose. Without the garment in place, I see how young she is.
“Yes… and you are?”
The three share a brief, unreadable look. “One of our seers foresaw the intrusion, and the Elder Triad commanded us to assist.”
Relief floods my body, and I slump against the wall. Thank God.
“The big one got away. He tore past our enchantment somehow,” the dark-haired girl continues. “We’ll be taking this one into our custody instead. Do you know who he is?”
I meander around the corner and down the first step of the staircase, eyeing the Wselfwulf lycan with disgust. “Only that his name is Jason. He attacked me a couple of weeks ago. Along with the one who got away.”
She nods, then her sights narrow on me. “Got it. Grab him, ladies.”
The other two witches move with confidence toward the fallen lycan, tucking away their weapons into side holsters. With their hands outstretched, strange green shimmers tint the air and his unconscious body rises. I hold back the sneeze that threatens as their magic permeates the air and press a hand against my nose just in case.
The dark-haired witch mutters something foreign under her breath as the two walk past, and they slowly begin to disappear from sight. By the time they are out the door, they’re no longer visible at all.
“Thank you,” I say, taking another step and surveying the damage.
The coffee table is cracked and flipped on its side. The couch has a scorch mark slashed across it and indecently displays its stuffing around crisp fabric edges. Other bits and pieces from the sitting room are scattered and broken across the floor as well. Even the stairs aren’t spared. The front right railing is broke and hangs by a few precious wooden strands.
“Whatever,” she says and delivers a scoff.
My eyes widen at her sudden callous nature. But as a pretty sneer snakes its way across her lips, I’m no longer confused about her sudden hostility. Zoelle.
“Let’s go. You’re coming with us too.” I swallow but nod, noting the way she clutches a long, thin knife in her hand.
“Okay.”
Aces all the Way
Chapter 17
The car ride is particularly hostile and grabbing a parking spot near the Elder Triad’s home is no picnic either. At least a dozen cars take up the street parking, and as a tingling sensation grows across my body with each car we pass, I can only assume more witches are in my immediate future.
Perfect.
“Don’t drag your feet,” the dark-haired witch commands, prodding me in the back with her hand after we exit the car.
My lips thin, but I refrain from making a retort. I don’t need to provide any more reasons for them to hate me. The leader of the trio makes her way around me once we are halfway up the drive and opens the door for us. Unsure of where the other two witches and unconscious lycan stand due to their invisibility, I scurry ahead but stop before the door.
“Well?” the witch asks impatiently.
I grimace, reaching out a hand tentatively to feel for the magical barrier that barred me earlier. No electricity spikes violently out at me, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I step inside.
The magic bustling around inside is too much to withstand. An unnatural heat fills every inch of the air, and it gently burns me from the inside out with each breath. An iridescent haze trails after an older woman who walks by with her nose in a book.
My nose gives a telltale twitch before I erupt into a sneezing fit. I crowd up against the nearest wall in the hopes of being out of the way. The witch behind me snorts at my reaction, then proceeds to unveil the other three with more muttered words and an elegant motion of her wrist. The air waves in front of her, like a ripple of water, and slowly the others come into view.
My awe is momentary, for I am quickly hit with two matching glares from the revealed witches. I duck my head, my fingers pinching my nose to halt my sneezing fit.
“Stay there,” the dark-haired girl commands. She shuts the front door with a flick of her wrist and marches off.
I wish I could sink into the wall. Too many witches mill about. They dash upstairs or around to the kitchen, all of them with their own streaks and currents of magic dogging them. They vanish this way and that, but the ones who hurry into the room on the other side of the entryway capture my attention the most. I try my hardest not to stare, but my curiosity and unease make it difficult.
It’s clear some know who I am. Their glares and body language keep my wolf on edge. Others merely allot me a cursory glance. It’s a day and an age—or so it seems—before the dark-haired witch returns. Her face is carefully blank as she points toward the kitchen. She leans against the staircase railing with a knowing look in her eyes.
“Mo will see you now. The others can’t be bothered to deal with the villainous bitch who went turncoat on her allies.” I’m left with a parting smirk before she takes the stairs two at a time.
My stomach twists. I’m unsure if my feet will obey and take me farther into the household. I last set my feet inside this house hours ago, only to be zapped out of it. I scan the near vicinity for the fairy but see no sign of her pearly hair or glittering wings.
I mutter to myself the worst pep talk ever. “Just get it over with.” You’ll have to face them sooner or later, I add silently to myself as I force one foot in front of the other.
When I enter the room, it quiets with eerie synchronicity. Maureen is studying a hefty tome on the dining room table. She wears thick glasses that tread dangerously to the tip of her nose.
“Leave us,” she commands absentmindedly. She flips a page, the action only adding to the odd air in the room as the witches stare me down. “Now,” she adds politely.
The witches in the room file out, only one of them daring to exit through the doorway I stand under. Her shoulder knocks into me, delivering a fiery pain along with it. I grit my teeth and release a hiss but say nothing.
Maureen spares me a glance, her eyes traveling knowingly to the offended body part. “Jessie has a bit of a temper,” Maureen explains, returning to her tome. “She’s a brewer like Zoelle. She's very talented and works closely with Zoelle on potions for the coven.”
“Noted,” I mutter, rubbing at the strange and painful heat radiating down my arm.
“Sit.”
I do, and with each step feel irrevocably more uncomfortable. It’s not just the witches’ magic anymore. It’s potions brewing on the stovetop. Their fizzling and smoky discharge fill the air with supernatural energy that makes me cringe.
“Apologizes, dear,” Maureen says, pushing aside her book and taking off her glasses. She rubs the bridge of her nose, eyes shuttering as she continues. “I realize being around magic like this is not a pleasant experience for your kind.”
My jaw sinks open. “Maureen… you don’t have to apologize. I should be—”
She interrupts me with a tsking noise. “Call me, Aunt Mo. Haven’t we had this conversation before, dear? I can’t quite recall.”
My dumbfounded state continues on a second longer. “Aunt Mo… it wasn’t supposed to be Zoelle,” I say, my voice soft. “She isn’t dead, is she?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be here right now. Or rather, you wouldn’t.”
A touch of resentment stirs in my stomach at her nonchalance. “You’re the one who said I’d get someone killed. Besides, Lucy said the tonic was intended for a fairy, not a witch. What if it affects her differently? What if—”
“Hush, now,” Aunt Mo says sternly. “As it happens, and quite unfortunately at that, it does seem as though the tonic is having a strange effect on Zoelle. To curb any other unwanted side effects that might crop up, they’ve spelled her into a kind of suspended animation. It will stall the tonic and ensure her and the baby’s safety, but it also cuts deeper into the connection of the soulmark.”
I work my jaw a moment before speaking. “What do you mean? Xander said before it wasn’t working properly… is it worse?”
Aunt Mo’s shoulders sink a fraction.
“In its own way, yes. The spell we’ve put Zoelle under, in addition to the tonic, has dulled the bond between them further. While we suspect Zoelle able to feel Xander while incapacitated, we no longer believe so. It must be excruciating for them.”
I slump back into my chair as the words settle in. “That’s….” Unbearable.
And it’s all my fault.
“Is there anything else you can do? Surely there’s a way to reverse the tonic’s effects,” I ask.
Aunt Mo stands slowly, both hands flat on the table to steady herself. “It is true that all magic done can be undone,” she states. “Would you like some tea, dear?”
I balk. “No, thank you.”
She ignores my reaction and shuffles over to a long cabinet, rummaging inside its contents to pull out a single jar. “We are doing our best to identify the components and enchantments put in the tonic to make a remedy. But it will be far easier to do if we can speak with the witch or warlock who concocted it.”
“I don’t know who my parents would have contracted to have the tonic created. They don’t exactly like to… mix with other supernaturals. I’m sorry.”
The kettle lands on the grates of the stove with a light clatter. Aunt Mo nods along as I speak.
“It’s all right. We’ll figure something out. We have very talented witches among us. If we cannot learn directly from the source the means by which Zoelle was incapacitated, we’ll figure it out ourselves.”
Her short speech doesn’t sit well with me. How long will it take them to find a way to reverse the effects of the tonic? A week? A month? If it does take long, how will it affect the pack and the coven?
“Maybe they’ll be able to get more information out of Lucy,” I suggest, though my skepticism shows in both my voice and the downward tilt of my lips. “I offered to help, but they didn’t think that was a good idea. At least, Atticus didn’t. I’m assuming he speaks for Xander.”
At the sag of my shoulders, Aunt Mo makes another tsking noise. This one is far more exasperated in nature.
“You must realize the position this incident has placed both pack and coven in. Though your plan to subdue Luna went awry, you’ve no less managed to deal a blow to the pack. We cannot afford to let our enemies on the outside know what happened.”
“And I’m the enemy,” I reply, voice thick with emotion. I inhale deeply, biting back the dreaded guilt that surfaces. “No wonder they don’t want me near a phone.”
“You’re not the enemy, Winter,” she scolds sharply. “It is paramount for us all to remain silent on the events of today.”
Aunt Mo rejoins me at the table, each hand carrying a mug of piping hot tea. She sets one down in front of me and then one on her own spot before winding down carefully into her seat. I eye her with worry. When she notices, she waves away my concern.
“I’m doing just fine. Don’t concern yourself with me.”
I avert my gaze to the tea before me—the one I said I do not want. Studying the liquid does little to change my mind for its murky depths are far from appetizing. Peeking through my lowered lashes at Aunt Mo, I catch her pointed look and feel a prickle of apprehension.
“Is it…?”
“Poisoned?” she asks. I bow my head an inch. “No. Just a little something to ease your mind.”
I frown. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” I mutter, fingering the bulbous curve of the mug. “I doubt anyone wishes me to be at ease, given my hand in the events of today. They probably wish it was poisoned.”
“Nonsense. Drink up.”
I take a reluctant sip, the tip of my tongue scalded from the taste. But a taste is all it takes. The tea’s magic flows effortlessly through my veins to chase away the harsh grip of guilt. I sniffle and rub my agitated nose.
“Aunt Mo, you told me at Christmas I would get somebody killed. If it’s not Zoelle, then who?” I raise my gaze to her and meet her frown with one of my own. “Please, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“The cards do not relate to me who, only a certainty that death will occur by your hands.”
She might as well have slapped me with her placid delivery. The color drains from my face, and instinctively I take another sip of the tea. The relief it delivers is far more than I deserve, but it doesn’t wash away my anxiety completely.
“I want to see for myself,” I say. My fingers curl tightly around the mug as I tense in anticipation for her rejection. “I want to see you draw the cards yourself.”
Her eyes narrow, but after a moment she bends her head in my direction. “Very well. Bella!”
It takes a moment for my lycan hearing to hone in on the sudden rush of footsteps that race our way. I hold my breath in anticipation. Seconds later, footsteps thunder down the steps and a figure comes rushing down the hallway. Bella slides across the kitchen floor in her socks, her hip colliding with the table's edge as she stops. Tea sloshes over the side of my mug.
“Yes, Aunt Mo?”
The girl can’t be older than eight or nine. Her almond-shaped eyes are the color of warm caramel, and her voice holds a note of reverence as she addresses Aunt Mo.
“Bring my cards, child.” The little Asian girl’s hair swings happily as she gives an enthusiastic nod. Then she spins and races off. “Bella is Kimberly Moon’s younger sister. She’s a seer, just like Moon.”
“Oh,” I murmur, my eyes tracking the girl's movements until she’s out of sight.
“She’s the one who saw you were in trouble.”
“Oh.”
“It quite frightened her,” Aunt Mo admits. Her lips thin.
I don’t know what to say to her confession, but it’s clear she doesn’t expect a response from me, not with the way her eyes seek out something far in the distance behind me, where only a wall resides.
The harried sound of footsteps comes back into range. When Bella reemerges, I’m prepared for her turbulent landing. The table rattles with her collision, but my mug is in hand and out of the danger zone.
“Here,” she pants, thrusting out a thin arm.
Aunt Mo takes the worn deck and gives the girl a smile. “Tell the ladies upstairs I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
The girl’s brown eyes wander my way as Aunt Mo delivers her instructions. I stay as still as possible, getting an eye full of Bella’s short stature.
“Does that hurt?” she asks, her eyes flickering to my bloodstained hand. My mouth opens and closes, and I look down at my wounded hand as well.
“No,” I tell her. “It’s already healed in fact, thanks to my lycan abilities. The cut wasn’t deep to begin with.”
Aunt Mo clears her throat pointedly, but Bella continues to stare at me unabashedly.
“Everybody’s mad at you,” she says rather matter-of-factly, but without any genuine malice.
I smile sadly back at her. “Yes, I know.”
“Bella.” There is a warning lilt to Aunt Mo’s voice, but the child ignores her, choosing instead to rock back and forth on her feet.
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” she says, eyes roaming the ceiling in favor of looking at either Aunt Mo or me. “They’re not going to forgive you.”
“Go,” Aunt Mo says sharply, her hand slapping the table. The little girl startles back, a sour expression on her face.
“Fine,” she snaps, folding her arms over her chest and marching out of the room.
“Don’t mind, Bella. She has no finesse when it comes to abstract readings.”
“That was a reading?” I choke out.
Aunt Mo passes along a grim smile to me as she slides the deck from its casing and begins to shuffle the cards.
“In its own way. Now, cut the deck.” There’s no masking my sudden hesitation, but with Bella’s eerie prediction, my conviction dims. “Don’t go shy on me now, Winter. Cut the deck.”
I do. The stack I pull from the top is far thinner than what I leave on the bottom. I place it to the side, and Aunt Mo restacks them.
“Pull the top three cards,” she instructs, folding her hands over her lap and closing her eyes.
Tension fills the air, one drawn thick by anticipation and fear, if not the smallest dash of curiosity. “Aren’t you the one who should be drawing the cards?” I ask, unsure of her methods.
She doesn’t bother opening her eyes when she replies. “The cards will not change for the hand which draws them.”
Nervous fingers caress the soft edges of the dark cards. They hesitate in their task, and no amount of willing their cooperation works. My gaze darts to the serene picture of Aunt Mo. Her long white hair holds several small beads, and from her ears hang a daring set of turquoise hoop earrings.
