The Problem with Promises Read online

  I didn’t want to be here—playing hide and seek in the tombstones—while the ward was being set. And I didn’t want the bikers sneaking up on those dear to me. Clapping my hand over my glowing arm, I shot across the grass toward the first group of markers. And made it safely. Nobody pulled a trigger and came thudding after me.

  And so it went. For the next four “Mississippis”—as Itchy bitched and Gerry sighed—I made progress. Hopping like a hare with serious commitment issues, zigzagging from one marker to another, but still making definite progress toward the cliff, and my guy.

  I was about three tombstone groupings away from a clean escape when Itchy backed out with his prize. “Holy shit. It’s a heavy mother when it’s loaded. I feel like Robin-Fucking-Hood.”

  When someone says “loaded,” a person can’t help but think “with what?” So, even though I was half crouched behind a distressingly narrow marker, I couldn’t squelch the knee-jerk instinct to peek.

  What the hell was Itchy crowing about?

  Fae. Stars.

  My stomach curdled. A crossbow? Worse—one that was preloaded. The bolt was long, metal, and capped with a silver-toned head. A bolt like that would tear through you, piercing flesh, mangling important organs …

  I mentally tapped Fae-me. “I need you,” I told her. She impudently brushed past my inner-Were, and surged upward, a merry little stream of Fae magic coursing through my veins. At the base of my throat she did a high five, then split to run down my arms. My Fae talent fattened the ends of my fingertips—paused there for less time than I could summon up the tally-ho—then streamed out of the ends of my hands, a long, supple coil of bright green light. A serpent, whose scales shimmered with lovely bits of pretty iridescence.

  “There is magic in the air,” Fae-me breathed.

  It is bad magic. You pay attention to the guy with the bow.

  Fae-me heard the phrase “bad magic”—tested it, found that it made no sense, and decided to look for herself. Which is dumb, because she’s blind, and her “sight” is limited to whatever I’m looking at. She took a brief comprehensive look, then did a periscope pivot toward the cliff and all the delights of the bad magic. No! I gave her a jerk. She whipped around, clearly annoyed, and in so doing, dislodged a small stone that had been propped on the edge of the tombstone behind which we hid.

  It landed with a nice loud click on the grave marker’s cement footing.

  “What was that?” hissed Itchy.

  Old instincts made me roll myself into a ball. I am a small little mouse, invisible behind this tombstone. Light played over the gravestones. The golden beam slowed on the monument stone to my far left—maybe he didn’t see it—then outlined the stone next to it—surely he can’t see me curled up like a hedgehog behind this marker—and then finally on mine.

  “I can see you,” I heard Gerry say.

  Make yourself smaller.

  “I can still see you.” To prove it he played a circle of light on my knee.

  “Don’t fucking move!” Itchy shouted, precisely at the same time Gerry told me to put my hands over my head.

  Screw that. I had magic. I raised my hand—

  * * *

  I never saw the horseshoe coming.

  The biker threw the piece of iron at me like a prize-winning ring tosser. I saw the briefest glint of metal, then the U-shaped piece of misery landed with a thump and minicloud of dust around the stake of my size-six sneaker. Immediately, my big toe began to burn with cold, and I had that same sinking sensation I got the day I put my wet tongue on the frozen flagpole.

  Iron. Pure and terrible.

  My Fae recoiled like a cobra meeting a mongoose. “Poison!” she hissed. Then she took off in full retreat, skimming the tops of the tombstones, heading toward the safety of the pond—all very much, Good-bye, Hedi.

  She got ten feet and no farther. Because, well, she was attached to me. I gave her another hearty jerk, and she returned.

  “Attack them,” I said through my teeth.

  “Poison!” she sobbed, curling herself behind me.

  I’m not the only coward. A wave of languor swept over me. Numbing, drugging cold right through the canvas of my shoe. I told my foot to move. My toe said, “Forget about it.”

  “That saved us some time.” Gerry ambled up, carrying a light-colored blanket, and a length of rope. “What the hell was she doing in the cemetery?”

  Trying to even up with Karma.

  I counted to five, and when Itchy didn’t fire, I raised my gaze. To find myself staring at the end of the crossbow pointed at me. To be honest, it’s not a good feeling. He’d embellished the end of the bolt with what looked like a handcrafted arrowhead. I stared at the dull sheen of the silver-toned flange, knowing someone had told him to come loaded for Fae.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Itchy. “Is that really her?”

  “Think so.”

  “She walked right into our arms. Damn, how’s that for luck?”

  About par for the course, thank you very much.

  “This is going to be a whole lot easier than we thought.” Even so, Itchy approached me cautiously. “Don’t you even breathe. I know all about you Fae bitches.”

  Yes, because there are so many of us. Myth-believing asshole.

  “Watch her other hand,” said Gerry.

  “I got it.” Itchy balanced the crossbow in the crook of his elbow as he reached behind himself. The bolt wavered as he struggled to unhook the other horseshoe from his waistband. “That should do it,” he said, pitching it near—but thankfully not on—my other foot.

  Gerry tossed the blanket on the ground. “Put this over your head. Be careful doing it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we want your hands immobilized.”

  Change in plan. Nail him with your mighty flare.

  I lifted my heavy gaze, feeling the burn in my eyes. But no matter how willing I was to strike the spark that heralded a flare—thanks to the iron in the horseshoe—I never got past a really mean, very mortal, impotent glare. The ore was sucking the magic out of me as fast as my body heat was seeping through the wet canvas of my sneaker.

  My foot was officially numb and licks of fatigue were already lapping their way toward my right knee. If I ran, I was going to be doing it one-legged.

  “You haven’t got a prayer of getting out of the territory,” I told Gerry.

  The old biker gave me an agreeable nod, then reached for the gun he had tucked into the back of his pants. “Did you hear that, Itchy?” said Gerry.

  “I’m shitting myself.”

  “Now, little girl, pick up your blankie or Itchy will do it for you, and I’m guessing you don’t want Itchy to do it for you.”

  Evidently, they did know all about Fae.

  Mortals and their awful, awful touch. One accidental brush of their skin against mine could cause stinging burns. They healed, but they hurt. Like a steam burn. Or an oven burn. A hot, spiking pain that throbbed until the skin’s blisters had broken and wept.

  For one single inhale, I was frozen by indecision. Putting the blanket over my head was a bad idea. Going with the bikers was a worse one. If they didn’t touch me now, they would later. A little privacy often leads to a lot more brutality. But doing so would lead them away from Trowbridge … and there were so many cross-points and sentries along the road. Surely one of the pack members would remember the truck?

  Opportunity. It’s always been my friend.

  And for the life of me, I couldn’t think past the immediate hurt—devastating, lasting, possibly final—of that arrow-tipped bolt aimed at my head. Nor could my Fae serpent. She drooped behind me; a serpent whose sparkly bits were dimming by the second.

  Gerry’s leather vest flapped in the wind.

  Test a woman and her true nature will come out. Turns out, I’m a gambler. There will be an opportunity to even the odds. With my free hand, I slowly picked up the blanket and pulled it over my head, and immediately felt like one of those kids at Hallowee
n whose parents opted for the dead-easy costume. Make two eyeholes, and I was a Casperella.

  Itchy bent to pull the blanket evenly over me, then cinched the rope tight around my waist, trapping my arms to my sides. The horseshoe slid off my foot as he hauled me upward.

  “Move,” said Itchy.

  It’s hard to blindly walk up an uneven incline, dragging your reluctant Fae serpent behind you, while your amulet’s anxiety is an uncomfortable ball of heat between your boobs and the right foot is still seven-tenths useless. But I did it. And by the time we got to the truck, I was feeling stronger.

  I heard one of them shove the rollback cover wider.

  Oh hell no.

  I shouted, “Trowbridge!” and made a break for it. I even made it past a couple of headstones (though one caught my hip) before I was tackled.

  Gerry said something about mothers and fuckers, then Itchy grabbed me around the waist—change your cologne, buddy—and threw me, none too gently, into the truck bed. A second later, he tossed in the bonus. The horseshoe did a cartwheel down the length of the truck bed.

  Merry moved against my breast as Itchy closed the back gate. I bit down on the sting of a scratch from her ivy as she worked in close quarters to unfurl a vine. She planted two feet on my breastbone. My T-shirt tightened as she began to tear at the rough blanket’s fabric.

  Before I could ease myself onto my side, the rollback made a tick-tick noise as Itchy pulled it closed. I steeled myself against the claustrophobia that would surely come. “It won’t close,” he said.

  Thank you, Goddess.

  He threw it wide again, then pulled it back with enough force to shake the truck.

  “Don’t mess with it!” snapped Gerry. “Let me see.” He tested it. “There’s something blocking it from closing.” I drew myself into a ball as his meaty hand patted the area. “What’s stuck?”

  My Fae, you asshole. My Fae is stuck.

  “It’s this place,” said Itchy. “This place is all wrong, man.”

  Gerry figured it out quicker than Itchy. “Nah, she’s doing something,” he said, after another couple of experimental tests of the lock. “Shoot her with your crossbow.”

  And with that, my Fae must have finally appreciated the fact that our destinies are tied together. The hard tug on my aching fingers eased. I felt her brush against my legs, and follow the curve of my hip, all the way to my waist. She rested in the dip of my waist as the lock clicked. Faintly twitching. Kind of like a hungry cat sitting on her human, wanting to be fed.

  Together again, huh?

  Evidently, this week’s chosen theme had something to do with pairs. Twice now, I’d been tied up and threatened. Coincidence? I think not. One-and-one-equals-two was evidently going to being worked and reworked until I picked up on whatever the hell I was supposed to learn from this life lesson. Of course, that’s only if one believes Oprah and subscribes to the idea that all events in life are lessons.

  Some lesson. All I’d figured out from the last few body blows was that bad things for me seem to come in twos. Two bad guys. Two mages. Two trees.

  “You got it now?” Gerry said. “Stay here with the girl. I’m going to take care of the other problem.”

  What other problem? Merry stiffened, and so did I.

  “Liam said no guns,” Itchy reminded him. “We’re supposed to use the crossbows.”

  “Like I give squat what Liam says,” said Gerry. “I’m using my piece.”

  “I’m not shitting you.” Itchy’s voice was strained as he shouted over the moaning wind. “They need the Alpha alive, so they can prove that he’s dirty. Gerry! Don’t fuck up the bonus,” Itchy shouted.

  Then I heard him curse, and felt the vehicle dip on the passenger side as he reclaimed his seat. A second later, I heard a loud thump, as if someone had brought their fist down hard on the dashboard. Then there was no more talking or movement. Just the wind’s cry.

  Gerry’s going after Trowbridge.

  No, no, no.

  In my mind I pictured him heading down the slope toward the cliff overlooking the pond. Finding the perfect place, amid the pine trees and utter darkness, to aim his gun.

  Scream. Even if he can’t hear you.

  I opened my mouth for a howl to rival a banshee—

  And with one invisible tick of the world clock, the witches’ ward went from an improbable premise to an immediate promise.

  * * *

  The hags had called to the elements, and they had answered.

  Suddenly, we could sense the leylines, my Fae and I. Right there. So close. Even with my eyes closed and my head wrapped in a blanket, I could see them. They lay underneath the soil, thick rivers of mystery and magic, as invisible to most mortals as underground springs. Untapped by the average man but ready to be exploited by sorceresses with payback on their agenda.

  One flowed nearby.

  Hell, if I wasn’t trapped, I could have walked out of the cemetery, knelt down on the road, and touched the exact place it crossed to the side. That’s how strongly I felt the connection between my magic and the earth.

  Those leylines were calling every piece of magic in me. Fae and wolf.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see a thick band cutting through the northeast edge of the bone yard, moving straight through the riot of growth of what remained of my mum’s herb garden. Knew with absolute sureness that it went straight through the roots of the old maple on the edge of our point.

  And then—oh, the sweet irony of it—proof that the witches knew squat about real magic. Can’t make magic over water, huh? I knew without a doubt that the thickest line ran right under the pond. The last ice age had left my pirate rock sitting right on top of it.

  Stupid witches. Elizabeth had been close as she searched for the leylines, but she’d been as useless as a mortal sniffing for smoke. So easily distracted. She’d only caught a faint, distracting whiff of it. Enough to know it was within reach, but unable to detect its originating source.

  Imagine what the coven could have done if they’d actually tapped into that hidden reservoir of power square-on?

  As it was, they’d unleashed something evil.

  Chapter Six

  The pressure in my ears and sinuses turned into a swift agony when Fae-me and mortal-me met the vile corruption unleashed by the coven’s summoning.

  I couldn’t see it. But I could sense the evil. An intangible presence as frightening as if a hoof-footed, scaled creature had crawled up from hell. Now, it floated in our world, and it sucked in deep hungry breaths. Tasting the air for magic.

  My Fae slid off my hip and found a place to huddle against my belly.

  Those stupid, stupid, ignorant women. This unseen entity—this manifestation of bad—was so much older, so much stronger than any coven of witches. And he would demand such payment that a thousand Fae Tears could not absorb his evil.

  I would not pay that bill.

  Nor could I protect my Fae or myself from the pain of his desire. So we endured, the four of us. Merry, sparking at my throat. My Fae, a flinching coil of misery. And my wolf, who howled and bayed, as if she’d seen the opposite of the moon and now knew true terror.

  My eyes ached in their sockets. Goddess, they could burst under this pressure.

  Don’t surrender to this evil. Don’t give it anything.

  You’ll lose pieces of yourself forever if you do.

  But it was a literal agony to suffer it. I rolled, looking for release from its call. And as I did, my Fae spasmed and thrashed with me. Hitting the sides of the shaking truck with dull thuds that released a scent of crushed flowers. Filling my head with her high cries of hurt and fright.

  The vacuum grew stronger. Winds that once howled now shrieked.

  I flinched as something clawed at the cover over our heads.

  Stay away!

  There was a bang, followed by a quick, sharp crack as the wind sucked away the back window. “Shit!” I heard Itchy shout—his curse almost simultaneous with the sound of
the hailstorm of glass hitting the cover over my head.

  Don’t come in!

  The air was too thin, and I cried out in fear as an object, solid and heavy, hit the back bed hard enough to fold the side panel inward and send the car skidding to one side. Itchy shouted—though I couldn’t make out what he said—and the truck lifted on both wheels.

  Please, no.

  I felt sudden, bowel-loosening fear that the unseen evil would pick up the vehicle like it was a Matchbox car and toss it right over the edge of the cliff, and then we’d drown in our very own fairy pond, trapped in the back of some biker’s vanity truck.

  That’s when absolute panic broke loose inside that truck bed. My Fae went bat-shit. And me? Can’t breathe! Can’t get out!

  I guess I went a bit crazy too.

  * * *

  “Trowbridge!” I screamed over the howling wind. “Cordelia!”

  “Harry! Biggs!” I frantically swung my legs, trying to break Gerry’s precious rollback cover, but I couldn’t get enough swing to do much damage. With every desperate kick, I screamed another name. Trowbridge. Cordelia. Harry. Biggs.

  Then finally, even Casperella.

  With every wild flail of legs and core, my Fae swung wildly from the end of my hand, thumping against the lid and the lift gate until she met the infamous rounded hump of the tire well with a loud hard smack that I felt from wrist all the way to the bottom of my spine.

  She fell limp as a discarded sock puppet.

  Fear is never good and panic is never a thing you want to endure. But doing it alone? It’s fertilizer to your anxiety; water to your worry.

  I’m alone, I’m alone.

  Stay small, stay quiet.

  It took going that low—to the gut-level despair of a terrorized mouse—to fan anger in my Were. She did not like the wind, or the noise, or my whimpering fear, or the fact that my Fae—who’d always been so dominant and proactive—was out for the count. If me and my Fae weren’t on the job, who the hell was looking out for Trowbridge? She growled, deep in my belly. Her obsession with him was the thing that transcended every other reason in her entity.