All Things Wicked (19 page)

She knew how to hurt him.

Screwing her eyes shut, she reached inside herself with her metaphysical nails bared. So much easier than she’d ever expected, she ripped the moorings of her skin loose. Magic welled up in a white-hot tide of sorrow and rage.

She primed it. Focused it.

Let it free.

Caleb’s eyes widened. “Shit!”

When he moved, it was all Juliet could do to force herself to raise her arms.

Too late. Stony expression unreadable, he caught her by the collar and raised his free hand.

The world, already dark, spiked on a note of crystal, mind-altering pain, and then slid to nothing.

C
aleb bent, sweeping his arm under her knees and catching her before she fell to the broken ground. Her weight curled trustingly into his chest, and though he called himself six kinds of a fool, he savored the weight of her. The shape of her.

It was something he knew he’d never feel again. Not while she was conscious.

His chest burned with everything he wanted to say. Everything he swore he never would.

Tears burned in his eyes.

They weren’t his. “She’s fine,” he muttered, his voice overly loud in the sudden silence. “No thanks to you.” His fingers stroked her jaw. “Or me.”

Not that it mattered. Talking wouldn’t make it any easier. The part inside him that was Cordelia wasn’t any less guilty than he.

I could have. . .

“What?” he said to Juliet’s pale face. To her lashes, thick and dark against her cheeks. “You could have what? There was never any way this could end well. We’ve lied to her since day one.”

Grief hit him in the chest, hard and sudden and so sharp, his throat closed around a hoarse sound. His arms tightened around Juliet’s still body, cradling her gently. God, what a mess. What a fucked-up mess he’d trapped her in.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. Roughly. The shadows looming beyond the faint sphere of blue light ate the echoes. Swallowed them whole, stifling and abrupt.

Caleb sank to his knees.

She’s just a little rose. . .

In a nasty, killing world. What a fool he was. As much a part of this corrupted city of lies as the coven he tried to destroy.

Juliet slept in his arms, breathing, alive, and all he could do was hold her. Cherish the warmth of her skin, the solid beat of her heart.

Remember her tears, silvered tracks of grief. He’d done that.

It was better for her to think he’d done that.

How could he explain that Cordelia had known she was dying? That she’d sacrificed herself to save the little orphan she’d raised as a sister?

Would Juliet even understand?

No, and he couldn’t blame her.

Much better for her to think that Caleb had murdered her sister, give her something to focus on. Someone to bend all of her grief and hatred and revenge on.

She’d understand.

No, she wouldn’t. What fool in her right mind would?

Her breath caught in her chest, and Caleb bent his head over hers. His face buried in her hair, he fought back the urges assailing him.

Protect her. Cherish her.

Love her.

Not his to do.

You’re a liar.

Caleb always had been. Second only to his own sister and determined to see it through. He hated this city. These people. He hated the coven, the Mission, the goddamned ruins.

But Jessie loved New Seattle, in her own way.

And the Coven of the Unbinding had threatened that. Had threatened her. Killing them all had seemed the best idea at the time— Damn it, why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t they all died?

Why hadn’t
he
died?

Because she needed you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth locking on a low growl. His fingers slid into Juliet’s short, tangled hair and he blew out a hard breath, his temple pressed to hers.

As long as Alicia was alive, Juliet was in danger.

He needed to end this, once and for all.

Matilda said she could heal Jessie. Maybe Juliet could live with her and Silas, rebuild a life for herself. Learn to live with her anguish if she had somewhere to direct it. Time cured everything.

Footsteps crunched behind him. A light shimmered, its wide beam focused at the ground by Caleb’s knees. “Leigh.” Silas’s voice rebounded back in a handful of muffled echoes.

Caleb unfolded, rising to his feet. “Take her,” he said.

“Is she alive?”

He met the ex-missionary’s foggy eyes, a muted shade in the ambient light from his flashlight, and saw suspicion. Concern. Fuck, sympathy.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Take her, get her back to the sanctuary.”

The big man shifted his grip on the light as he approached. “You realize Jessie won’t like this, right?” He cupped his arms under Juliet and took her weight easily as Caleb stepped back.

Her black-capped head rested against Silas’s shoulder, hands tucked under her chin, and everything in Caleb snarled to rabid attention.

Mine.

He shook his head, deliberately straightened his fingers before they clenched into fists. “By the time Matilda heals her, it won’t matter. I’m going to end this, one way or another.” A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, tugging at the scarred corner of his lip. “For real, this time.”

Silas shifted her weight, but his gaze searched Caleb’s face. Intent, and too damned knowing. “You’re throwing me to the wolves, man.”

“I know.”

But they’d get over him. Jessie would know it when he died, and Juliet . . . Hell, she’d be relieved. Vindicated.

He tucked his fingers into his pocket. Delia’s ring, warmed from his own body heat, winked as he withdrew it. He held it out. “Give this to Juliet.”

Silas took it, eyeing it thoughtfully. Then he grunted. “Fuck me.”

Caleb said nothing.

“Fine,” he added after a moment. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“That her sister’s murderer is dead,” Caleb said, turning away.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The man’s mouth tightened. “Don’t let me go back there and tell Jessie I didn’t do anything for you.”

“Just tell her you didn’t find me.”

“No.”

Caleb glanced over his shoulder. “Not even to spare her?” He read the truth in the man’s features before Silas said anything. Smiling crookedly, he shook his head. “Of course you wouldn’t lie.” He sighed. “Fine. Tell her the truth. Tell her I went to end this.”

“How—”

Caleb looked away. “Take care of them, Silas.”

The man hesitated. “I will.”

Without looking back—God, without looking at Juliet one more time, memorizing the way her hair fell over her forehead or the way her lighter eyelashes fanned her too pale cheeks—he stepped into the dark.

“Caleb, wait.”

Caleb paused mid-stride, foot raised, but he didn’t turn around.

The silence lengthened. Stretched taut. Then, Silas rumbled quietly, “There was a body fourteen months ago. A woman, carved to pieces. Blond hair, about—”

“Five-seven, long-limbed.” Caleb smiled humorlessly into the dark. “That was Cordelia Carpenter. Her sister, yeah.”

“Did you really murder her?”

He closed his eyes.
Promise me.
“Yes,” he replied, as simply as if he commented on the darkness, or the rocks beneath his feet. “She died brutally.”

He pushed into the smothering gloom before Silas could ask anything else, his heart slamming in his ears. Every step took him farther from Juliet. Farther from the accusation in her eyes, from the touch of her hands or the feel of her mouth under his.

Farther from the insistent ache centered over his heart.

Always a liar.

First, he’d track Alicia.

Then he’d make up for every mistake he’d ever made.

That won’t help her.

Ignoring the insistent pressure in his head, the voice at the edges of his mind, he gripped the pointed pendant hanging from a chain beneath his shirt and felt it warm in his palm.

This time, he would kill them all. Every. Last. One.

Chapter Sixteen

S
he’d been saving the bottle of pinot noir for decades.

Matilda held the glass tumbler up, admiring the way the firelight scored through its diamond facets. The wine glowed a brilliant jewel red as she swirled it gently.

She adored the old world’s wine.

Relaxing into the embrace of the old wooden rocking chair, her aged bones fit into the carved slats in comforting familiarity. It was like leaning into the arms of an old friend, or a lover.

It was like home.

She sipped at the wine and swirled it in her mouth, wincing faintly at the aftertaste. Aside from the unexpectedly sharp finish, she tasted black cherry and plum. Notes of cedar, wild fruit, and fresh herb hovered on her tongue, and as she closed her eyes, she remembered what it was like to travel across a world still innocent and carefree.

What it had been like to link fingers with the man she’d loved while they mingled with others who enjoyed the fruits of the harvest as much as they had.

She remembered, as she often did, the time before the disasters. So different from now.

So much death.

So much to answer for.

Metal clicked. “Don’t move.”

In abject defiance of the terse, masculine order, Matilda raised her glass to her mouth once more. The wine slipped between her lips, warmed by her hand, and as fresh and plummy as the first taste. She swallowed, opening her eyes, and smiled into the barrel of a gun trained in her direction.

Hazel eyes met hers over the sights. They flickered in the light, dancing and crackling with the fire she’d coaxed to life in front of the house.

Matilda raised her glass in his direction. “I wondered when you’d get here.”

“You practically left out a welcome mat,” he said. It was a question, for all it didn’t end like one. “What the hell are you up to?”

She rested her head back against the rocking chair and sighed. The wine gleamed like blood in her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Simon.”

He stepped around the flame, gun held as easily as if it were an extension of his own hand. His black clothing made him as invisible as a shadow, but she didn’t need to see to know when the borders of her sanctuary were crossed.

That’s what magic was for.

His eyes narrowed, suspicion etched into every line of a face she’d always considered handsome. And why not? He had the best of her. Carefully, she drew the glass tumbler up between her gnarled palms, watching him over the rim. “I’m alone,” she offered. “More or less.”

“What game are you playing this time?” he asked sharply.

She only smiled, sipping the rich wine.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Humor me, dear boy,” she replied, stretching out her overall-clad legs and hooking her ankles together. Her yellow galoshes squeaked loudly.

“What did you steal?” he demanded. “We’ve got you on camera—”

“What makes you think I stole anything from you?”

Simon approached the porch, but he didn’t climb it. His eyes tracked the surroundings, picking out shadows. Shapes.

Sensing.

“You’re a good boy,” she added, raising a faded red eyebrow, “but too suspicious. There’s a sick girl that I suspect interests you greatly, and she’s asleep in my bed. Other than that, we’re alone.”

She knew his senses would confirm what she said. Heedless of the gun he continued to train at her chest, she watched the play of light in her glass instead.

Jessie wouldn’t wake up for this. Very little would wake her up now. She was too busy
seeing
, trapped in an endless stream of visions. It overwhelmed her, forcing her consciousness outward to witness God only knew what.

This, perhaps.

To see the present. What could be more terrible? Except, perhaps, seeing the future.

Her poor children. All of them. She had so much to make up for.

Mentally apologizing, Matilda drained half her glass before Simon lowered his gun. “I need your research,” he told her.

“As I thought.” She laced her bent fingers around the glass, bracing it on her stomach, lazily comfortable. “Is this your game, then, or are you still playing on someone else’s board?”

His mouth tightened. “Don’t do this. Just give me the codes so this can be done.”

Her smile was slow. “Ah, so. Laurence is still pulling your strings.”

“I don’t answer to him.”

She shook her head sadly. “No? He’s still got your soul, baby.”

Simon’s grip tightened on the gun. “Just give me the goddamned research.”

“What were your orders?” she asked slowly. The wine moved rapidly through her head, it always did. It polished the world into a pretty, unfocused shine. “Let me guess,” she continued as he only stared at her. “Get the data, then kill me. Or, if at all possible, kill me anyway.”

His lips compressed, and a wash of longing, of regret, slid over her. She sighed. “Don’t fret, my darling. Consider your duty discharged.”

Confusion tightened the skin around his eyes. He studied her, studied the wine she lifted to her lips, and his foot hit the first step. “You took poison, didn’t you?” he demanded.

She sipped delicately.

He leaped to the porch, snatched it from her hand. The remaining dregs sloshed over the lip, spattering to the ground like watered-down blood as the glass shattered in the fire pit.

Matilda didn’t get up. She wasn’t sure she could. Instead, smiling up into Simon’s angry eyes, she said thickly, “You can’t disobey him.”

“God damn it, Mattie.”

Mattie.
Not many called her that anymore. Not for years.

Mustering every reserve of energy she had, Matilda tucked her hands into her overall pockets and studied the shape of his features. The square line of his jaw, his strong, slightly hawkish nose. He had her cheekbones. Her mouth. Familiar, and so alien all at once.

“You won’t be lying now,” she said, her tongue struggling to shape the words. “You did your job. But you won’t,” she added carefully, “you won’t get the data. I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Fuck the research,” he said roughly, his fingers digging into the sides of her throat. Checking for swelling. Trying to figure out what she’d taken.

He’d never stop it now.

Her chuckle was bone dry. “Foolish.”

“Parrish will deal,” he muttered, tipping her face up. His eyes swam in her vision. Dimmed. She withdrew her hand, and Simon froze as he found himself staring at a small, old-fashioned revolver. “Mattie.”

“You know how he thinks,” she said softly. She pulled the trigger. The muzzle flare lit up the porch, gunshot echoing from canyon wall to wall.

The recoil jerked the weapon out of her hand, and Simon spun with the momentum of the impact. He hit the dirt, swearing. Crimson spattered the wall beside the porch steps.

He shoved back to his feet, hand splayed over his side. Blood glistened wetly on his fingers. His teeth clenched. “Motherfucker.”

Her hand hit the porch floor beside her chair, fingers trailing limply against the rough wood. Her head lolled, eyes drifting closed as the poison slid like acid and silver through her body. Sweet, painless, but so clear she could all but feel it as it filled her.

Killed her.

“Mattie?”

Strong hands grabbed her shoulder, pulled her upright again as the chair rocked forward. His palm cupped the back of her head, and she smiled. Slow and warm.

Simon seized her chin. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get out of this that easy. I have questions. You
knew
.”

She sucked in a breath through lungs already constricting. “Tell,” she began, and choked. Her throat swelled. “Tell him,” she managed hoarsely, “I was dead when you got here.”

“Mattie!”

Dying, she reflected, wasn’t so bad. It was a long time coming. The nearly daily pain of her creaking joints and old bones receded on a comforting swell of golden light.

The feel of his hands at her face, the sound of his furious voice faded.

Everything was in place. Her role in the tale was over.

She had faith in these children. Faith that they would do what was right, faith they could fix the past. Fix the future.

That they could right her wrongs.

Bless them.

Smiling, the old witch let go of her tenuous bond to this world, to this time. Now it was up to them.