To catch a witch assassi.., p.26
To Catch a Witch Assassin, page 26
Looking infuriated, the old woman raised her palm as if to throw a curse. Kit never gave her a chance, throwing a curse with such strength that it didn’t just snap her neck; it severed it. She fell to the ground, her blood spraying a nice parfait for her vamp to lick up later.
Kit fell to his knees, exhausted and spent from the fight. He had to get up. There was a vampyre following his family. But then he remembered. Amelia. The little girl had yet to be rescued, and that was to be his next mission. He’d have to hope Mary or one of the others noticed their tail. He stumbled up to one foot, so determined to see his mission through that he hadn’t noticed the witch at his back.
A spell hit him in the back, and Kit slumped forward, unconscious.
fifty-three
Drayer
Pure, unadulterated rage filled Drayer when she saw her sister’s headless body lying on the bloodsoaked rockbed of the cave. She’d heard the explosions of their base being attacked, had felt her bond to that useless magic-less girl being tested. This had all been a premeditated attack.
The Weavers must’ve finally figured out her game.
Drayer had been on her way to fetch the girl and flee with Lydia when she’d stumbled on to this mess. Her dead sister. The feeding vampyre. And, finally, the witch who was on his knees. She sent a stunner out and disabled the witch, pleased when his head cracked uselessly on the rock. Then she ran to Lydia, the one person in this world who’d always put her first. She unsheathed her bone needle and waved it in the air, trying to see if it’d catch any residual parts of her sister’s soul. It didn’t.
“Lydia.” This time, she didn’t even care that her voice sounded so unlike her own, so weakly twisted with emotion. “Oh, my sister.” There’d be no making a vampyre out of Lydia’s corpse, not with her head cleared from shoulders. Not even vampirism could fix this. Tears leaked down her face at the revelation. She was alone now. Well and truly alone.
Robotically, she opened her sister’s robe and retrieved Lydia’s half of the bone needle. It felt strange to have both.
Distantly, she was aware of the sounds of a feeding vampyre, knew that she’d have to kill it now that its master was deceased. A vampyre without a master only listened to its hunger.
She rose and beheaded the creature as a particularly loud boom sounded in the distance. There was no time. The Weavers had to be finishing with her hired witches soon. Quickly, she fetched the lock-jawed little girl who she’d intended to bond with.
Lydia’s death was the worst possible scenario. As the seamstress who’d tied her to that magic-less girl, only she would’ve been able to excise the bond easily. Now she’d have to stab the girl, which wasn’t possible with the Weavers breathing down her neck.
Her fortunes were crumbling before her. But luckily, Drayer had always been resourceful.
She resisted the urge to retch when she had to once again enter the same room Lydia’s corpse was in. But she reined herself in and walked over to the unconscious witch who she had knocked out — the one who’d likely taken her sister from her. She levitated him up so she could get a better look.
A handsome man with a scar bisecting his face — a useless detail — but his chest still rose and fell. He was alive, which meant she had time to find a nice, quiet hideout where she could Make her art of him. It’d been too long since she’d made a vampyre.
Drayer walked to the edge of the cliff face and mounted her broom, both of her prizes hanging uselessly in the air beside her. A vampyre slave first. Then a new body. Stealing the little girl’s body rather than using her as a life source was not ideal, but she had no choice. She needed a new body so she could thrust her bone needle into the magic-less girl’s heart and end their bond.
Then she could get her fresh start.
Her time as Drayer Netherton was finally coming to a close.
fifty-four
Gentry
Gentry wasn’t sure how long she’d been unconscious, only that she drifted between her and Drayer’s minds. Feelings of terror and paranoia filled her, and sometimes she could see out of Drayer’s eyes, but sometimes not. The connection was tenuous and difficult to control. Gentry felt a slave to it, no longer in tune with her own body. Secretly, she feared that somehow Wren had cut something she shouldn’t, and now she was doomed to live in a monster’s head forever.
But, slowly, she became more self aware. The tips of her toes were cold. Her fingers hurt from being curled too long. Her back ached to be stretched. The awareness of the physical came first, and then she had to wait minute by agonizing minute for her nerves to connect with her mind.
Her fingers flexed, and finally, Gentry woke up in a strange, ornate bedroom, its bloodred curtains aglow with sunlight that would never reach in the Underground.
“Oh you’re awake,” a familiar necromancer's voice said, “thank goodness. Gentry, I am so sorry. I must’ve not snipped out all of Drayer’s soul because I was too scared to cut a part of you. It’s my fault.”
She looked to the side of the bed to see a miserable Wren sitting in an ornate, Victorian chair that was far too tall for her. Her blue eyes shone with tears, and that’s when everything rushed back to Gentry: the failed excision, Drayer’s escape, and Amelia and Kit’s kidnapping.
“The kids,” Gentry croaked, “did they escape?” That was the one piece of the puzzle she’d yet to know about, and she prayed that they hadn’t sacrificed so much for nothing.
Wren nodded, blinking away tears. “Yes, all the kids except for one are back in Skadra. Our leader, Darisius, is housing them and you temporarily while we hunt for Drayer Netherton. The whole city is after him. And, I’m not sure if you know this or not, but Kit’s missing.”
“Drayer took him,” Gentry confirmed, sitting up and wincing from the residual pains. “She’s planning on turning him into a vampyre and then stealing Amelia’s body. You have to tell someone right away.”
Immediately, Wren ran out of the room while Gentry closed her eyes and tried to see if she could lock on to the bond. It was just out of reach, mocking her. Colors danced behind her eyes and the thoughts were too quiet to hear.
Frustration made Gentry growl and she wrestled herself out of bed, her limbs awkward and cumbersome as she became reacquainted with her body again. But she didn’t have time for such delays. She soldiered on to the door and forced it open. She was surprised to see Adrienne sitting on a golden-brown arched bench, a book in hand.
The Weaver looked up, set her book down, and then steered her to the bench. Then she walked two doors down the hall and knocked. “Clea, it’s time to make good on your word!” It was the loudest Gentry had ever heard the woman speak. Then Adrienne stormed off.
She abandoned her book. But before Gentry could call her back, Clea burst into the hallway, her dark hair plaited into a braid and her entire body encased in leather. Blood coated one side of her neck, but her dark eyes were clear and focused when they landed on Gentry.
“Hey,” the Weaver greeted cheerily, “nice to see you didn’t die.”
Gentry scowled at the Weaver, not really in the mood to deal with the psychotic witch. “What do you want, and why aren’t you out looking for Kit and Amelia? I thought you were a tracker.”
Clea tilted her head as if puzzled by Gentry’s anger. “No hair or body parts,” she said bluntly, “the techs are working on it, but that lair is mostly filled with the bad guys’ blood. I was about to go out and look though, but not without talking to you first. I found someone you might want to talk to”—she hooked a thumb at the door she’d come out of—“he’s in there. I got special permission to put him here instead of the dungeon so you wouldn’t have to walk so far.”
Confusion had Gentry rising to her feet and following the vicious Weaver towards the mystery room. Part of her wondered whether it was a trap, but she dismissed that concern. Adrienne wouldn’t set her up.
Clea paused at the door. “Careful to not let too much light in,” she said seriously, “it’d be a bitch if he burst into flames now.” She then slipped through the door.
Gentry followed to find a suite identical to the one she’d woken up in, only its blinds allowed no light through. A witchlight washed the room in a yellow hue to reveal a man bound to a chair. He was pale and tall, his blonde hair handsomely tossed about an aristocratic face, and he looked thoroughly miserable.
For a second, she didn’t recognize him. His eyes were no longer bright red, and he no longer looked like a vicious monster. “You,” she said, shocked, “you’re the vampyre who attacked me and my dad.” The one who’d gotten away, who they had ran to the desert to escape from.
“Yes,” the man sighed, “that was me.”
“We caught him wandering the streets last night in the direction of the rescued kids, rabid like a dog because Kit killed his master,” Clea provided helpfully from the corner. “He’s been a great source of information.”
Gentry’s eyes widened at the news. For as long as their masters breathed, vampyres were little more than slaves. But now… “You’re a freed vampyre.”
The vampyre smiled sadly. “Yes, a slightly better situation than I was in. Now that I’m freed, I have better control of my bloodlust and likely can tolerate a little sunlight. But with the things Lydia had me do, it’s unlikely I’ll be allowed to leave this complex. The Weavers do not distinguish between crimes I committed willingly, versus the ones I haven’t, but that shouldn’t be your concern. Tell me, you’re Maxwell’s girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Like she had a million times before, she tried to recall that fateful day where everything had changed but drew a blank. “Were you at the warehouse?”
He nodded. “I was with them a long time. Lydia Made me against my will at around the time she Made her sister, Freya. Freya…” He shuddered. “She was in no shape to be changed into a vampyre. Her body had decomposed far too much. I think that’s what drove them to do what they did.”
Gentry blinked, the onslaught of information making her head spin. “Freya, the leader of the Cobalts, was Drayer this whole time? The records never mentioned Freya had a sister!”
“Lydia was her identical twin,” the vampyre confirmed wryly, “but she’d been a private individual and had cleverly married a Netherton at just the right time. After the war, the Nethertons used their influence to wipe the records clean, and the Weavers never pressed the issue after Lydia altered her appearance. It was all swept under the rug.”
Her indignation fading at the incomplete records, Gentry focused on the implications. She now had Freya’s name, but Kit and Amelia were running out of time. “Do you know where Freya went? She’s about to Make someone, and then she’s going to steal a little girl’s body.”
The man lowered his head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t think Freya would be stupid enough to return to any property with the Netherton name on it. Really, all she needs to perform those tasks is a quiet place with no witnesses. A roof would be preferable so she wouldn’t burn her new vampyre. Either that, or she’ll wait for nightfall.”
“Thank you,” Gentry said, unable to hide her disappointment.
“I hope you find them,” he said softly.
Gentry left the room, Clea silent at her heels.
“Can I take the vamp to the dungeon now?” the Weaver asked, straight-to-the-point, “My father will likely throw a bitch fit if he stays up here much longer.”
She looked at Clea, really looked at her, and saw not an ounce of pity on the woman’s face. “You’re okay with putting an innocent man in the dungeons just because it’ll please your father? Didn’t you hear how none of that was his fault?”
Clea shrugged. “There are plenty of innocent people in those dungeons. Quentin the Victim Vampyre won’t be the first or the last to go down there. Also, this isn’t about pleasing my father. This is about not screwing up Luke’s new promotion. Father just put him in charge of the enforcers for discovering the roles the Nethertons played in the kidnapping. Luke has been gathering information on those rich pricks for years.”
Puzzle pieces started clicking in place. “You two helped us just so Luke could get promoted?”
“No, Luke helped because he’s a good person. I helped because I wanted him promoted.”
Gentry stared at the Weaver, bewildered at the unfiltered honesty and selfishness. “Is that why you hired Kit to kill me? Because you wanted Drayer Netherton to croak and for all the Nethertons’ misdeeds to come to light? All so Luke could get promoted?!” She half-shrieked the last part, standing on her tiptoes so that she could glare straight into Clea’s stupid face.
The Weaver nodded, unperturbed. “And now you have a way to save your man because of me. Consider us even.” She then walked away, leaving a stunned Gentry in her wake.
A way to save my man… She had no clue what Clea meant. She couldn’t save Kit. The bond wasn’t working well enough to glean a location. The vampyre — whose name was Quentin?— hadn’t known where Freya would take Amelia or Kit. But — her thoughts stuttered to a stop. Freya. She had that bitch’s name!
Gentry started to run down the fancy hallway without a clear idea as to where she was heading. But finally she ran into a witch with a Weaver tattoo plastered across his face.
“Find Wren for me,” she panted. “I need the necromancer.”
Thankfully, the witch walked off and returned only minutes later with Wren in tow. The little blonde still looked incredibly guilty. “Gentry, what do you need? Are you ill?”
“No, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything. What is it?”
Gentry took a deep breath and then made a request she thought she’d never make. “I need you to repair the bond between me and Drayer Netherton. Now.”
fifty-five
Kit
Kit awoke with his hands and feet chained in iron, his body hot with suppressed magic. He was tied to a chair in a swelteringly hot trailer, and a quick look through the window revealed the distant outline of Skadra.
He also heard crying. He looked down.
Amelia was sitting on the ratty, filthy carpet, her hands rubbing at a reddened throat. Kit realized she’d been scratching at her throat in an attempt to talk. “Amelia, honey, please don’t do that.”
The little girl jumped at the sound of his voice and turned around, her eyes wide with relief. She threw her arms around him and then hissed when the chains burned her skin. Only then did he notice that Amelia was also wearing iron cuffs. Anger went through him at the sight.
“Where’s the person who grabbed us?” he asked, looking around the vacant trailer.
Amelia pointed to the door and then made a stirring motion with her hands. Kit understood at once — he’s outside and brewing a potion on a fire. That couldn’t be good. “Okay, sweetie,” he began, “you’re going to have to start looking for something sharp.”
Just then, the door opened and a tall, handsome man walked in. He wore a suit with the jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. If it weren’t for the dried blood on the immaculate white of his dress shirt, Drayer Netherton wouldn’t have been out of place on the campaign trail. He smiled charmingly at Kit.
“Oh look, you’re awake,” he said, “we can’t have that. Good thing I made this.” He showed off a vial in his hands.
The politician kicked Amelia out of the way when she tried to stop him, and then he used a nasty bit of magic to force Kit’s mouth open. He poured the concoction in.
Kit gurgled on the potion, swallowing only when it was clear that Netherton would let him drown before letting him spit it out.
Drayer pet Kit’s hair like he was a dog. “Good boy,” he said affectionately, “you really will make a fine vampyre. For taking my sister away from me, I’ll make you hurt for a long, long time.”
fifty-six
Gentry
Excerpt from Gentry’s personal journal:
Day 50 in Curse Ward
I thought I was crazy for so long. They told me I was cursed when I set off the magical detectors at a mall Mom took me to after Dad dumped me. It had just been a normal Saturday — I’d been reeling from Dad’s abandonment, but resigned to live with Mom and Beckett. I’d just decided to make amends for years of fucking off, to get to know them again. I was finally ready to give up a life of conning.
But then the government mages had carted me off from the mall to the Curse Ward and then nothing’s been the same since.
They claim they don’t know what’s wrong with me, yet the tests don’t seem particularly comprehensive. I feel fine. Normal. Except my blood doesn’t clot when they take blood. But so what? Give me some medicine and my life back.
The mages here seem to pay special attention to me. To what I’m eating. Saying. Doing. It creeps me out. Something isn’t right.
The only thing that feels cursed is around the time Dad dumped me off at Mom’s. The memory… doesn’t feel right. Yet the mages haven’t done a damn thing to fix it.
Today, I accidentally tripped and sprained my foot during mandatory exercise. You would’ve thought it was an emergency from how they reacted. Tense faces. The kind Dad taught me to target when looking for marks. They’re the sign of a courier, of someone carrying something valuable for someone else.
What the hell is going on?
The only way to find out is to hurt myself again.
Fuck this journal, I’m investigating.
It took a few hours of Wren studying her soul to figure out how to put all the pieces back together.
“Good thing I didn’t cut you two apart all the way,” the necromancer babbled, “or else her soul would’ve floated away and this wouldn’t be possible.” She then began stitching.
The soul stitching tickled pleasantly, not at all like the agony of the failed excision. Gentry hadn’t expected that. The biggest inconvenience was the coolness of touching Wren’s skin too long, but that was the least of her concerns because she had a bit of an audience.
