No Rest for the Witches

 

N
O
R
EST FOR THE
W
ITCHES

A Dark Mission Novella

K
ARINA
C
OOPER

 

Contents

 

Chapter One

“W
e aren't
doing
anything!”

The headache Jessie Leigh had been nursing all day erupted into a full-blown migraine, scattering black spots at the corners of her vision. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hard enough for her short nails to leave half-moon indents, and tried for logic one more time. “Naomi, I'm sorry you're feeling cooped up—”

“That's a laugh.”

“—but it's not like we have much choice right now—”

“Bullshit!” Naomi West cracked her fist against the old convex refrigerator, an action that sent shockwaves of pain through Jessie's skull as the metal loudly gonged.

The kitchen was too small for the three people already taking up space in it, and Jessie felt as if she were holding court behind the wooden island counter. A very small, very tense court. Sweat bloomed across her forehead, gathered between her shoulders; only partially a side effect of the volcanic hot springs buried in the Old Sea-Trench. As pain drilled holes through her head, the balmy air ratcheted toward sweltering.

“We've been over this and over this,” Naomi continued, well on the way to the same old rant as she jerked the abused door open. The glass bottles inside clinked, shrieking across Jessie's nerves. “We can't just sit back and wait for crap to happen anymore. We need to
move
. Something. Hell, anything! I'm
sick
of this.”

She couldn't handle another argument with Naomi. Not now. Pressure filled her head.

Jessie scowled down at the vibrant purple tubers she held under the sink's modified faucet, fighting for patience. Fighting the temptation to lay her head down on the cool counter and take three freaking seconds to get herself back together.

It wasn't Naomi's fault. The ex-missionary was wired for action. Jessie didn't know how many years the other woman had served in the Holy Order of St. Dominic's witch-hunting unit, but a mere three months of deprogramming wasn't going to work miracles. Hell, the woman didn't even know how to take a day off. Every morning, Jessie found her out in the crescent-shaped bay that served as their refuge, working up a sweat. Punching, kicking, push-ups.

Naomi West was, in a word, exquisite. Or would be, Jessie thought as she viciously scrubbed caked dirt off the vegetables, if it weren't for her foul mouth and balls-to-the-wall temper. With her half-Japanese features, blue-violet eyes, and trim, supermodel physique, she made Jessie feel like the ugly stepsister just by breathing the same air. She was taller than Jessie at a sleek five feet and eight inches, and much more exotic with purple streaks in her choppy, chin-length black hair and an array of facial piercings.

And yet, the woman was a walking powder keg of intensity. So much so that there were days when Jessie felt too damned wrung-out to deal with it. Like today.

They were supposed to be a team. Outcasts hiding outside the city, deep in the fault that had split underneath the old Seattle territory five decades ago. They were all criminals on the Holy Order's list, and they all wanted to help other people like them. They counted on each other.

That was the goal, anyway.

The ache intensified behind Jessie's eyes as the woman slammed the refrigerator door shut. To her migraine-ridden brain, Naomi may as well have shattered glass and ground it into Jessie's too-sensitive ears. Even the splashing water from the faucet grated.

She gritted her teeth. “Naomi.”

“Wait, wait.” Naomi gestured with the hand still holding her uncorked bottle, green glass flashing in the wintry sunlight. “Let me guess: everything is still too dangerous after Timeless,” she intoned in a falsetto that didn't sound anything like Jessie's own voice, raising her black eyebrows high on her forehead. One glittered silver in the light streaming inside through the wide bank of windows, courtesy of two small rings pierced into the fine arch. “We have to keep our heads down until the Church isn't looking anymore.” She set her retrieved bottle of filtered water on the counter. The sound cracked; Jessie winced. “Well, guess what, princess? They
aren't
going to stop until I'm dead or processed.”

“We're trying to avoid either of those,” Jessie managed between clenched teeth.

“Good for you. I'd rather risk it out there than hide.”

“Naomi—”

Silas Smith straightened from his position against the far wall. “That's enough, West,” he said, and his deep baritone sheared through what little amount of defense Jessie scraped together.

She buckled, grabbed the edge of the counter. The sound of two of the tuberous vegetables striking the floor was like thunder between her ears, painful and overwhelmingly deafening.

The knock in her head, in her willpower, intensified. Insistent.

See me.

She clutched at her skull, lips flat with strain.

“Jessie?”

“
Fuck
.” Silas moved, faster than her streaming eyes could place him. He was just suddenly beside her, one thick, muscled arm gentle around her shoulders, supporting her weight. “Why didn't you say?” He did his best to soften his voice to a murmur, but she still flinched as she met his angry gray-green eyes.

Not angry at her, Jessie knew. Not really. Concerned as hell, but he usually was.

Six months ago, he'd been a witch hunter out for her brother's blood. He'd had no idea that the sister he'd tried to trick into helping was also a witch, and all things considered, it was a miracle they'd survived the whole mess.

Silas had captured her heart, and for his part, he'd turned his back on the Mission that had raised him.

But that didn't make settling into a kind of semi-retirement any easier for him to bear. She hated feeling like a burden; she'd already cost him everything else. Jessie managed a tight, crooked smile. “Just started.” Every word felt clipped to the quick, but she didn't have it in her to moderate it anymore.

“You should have said.”

The headaches had crept on her slowly over the past couple of months, just a jab here and there. A twinge of pain, an echo of an ache that didn't seem to be linked to anything in particular. Her first migraine had sent her to Naomi, who'd done
something
with her magical healing ability. The pain had eased, but it had never gone away.

Now, they came at Jessie the same way her visions did: slow, steady, building to a climax. Until now, she'd been able to control her own power, unlike her little brother, who'd often been blindsided by it.

Her ability was to see the present;
see
what was going on anywhere she wanted, if only she knew where to look. It was much better than her brother's far bleaker ability to see riddled aspects of the future, but now with the world pressing down on her hypersensitive senses, she wasn't feeling all that superior.

Her second sight didn't want to wait. Magic filled her mind. Her skin. Every breath and heartbeat and mote of light seared into her vision.

“Jesus Christ, princess.” Despite her aggravation, even Naomi gentled her tone. “You know I can help.”

Temporarily. That was true, but Jessie hadn't been feeling all that cordial as Naomi'd railed at her. Now, she just felt like an idiot.

Jessie let Silas sweep her into his arms, resting her throbbing head against his shoulder as he cradled her against his chest. Even with the pain slowly deconstructing every brain cell she had, her heart still thumped hard and fast when he touched her.

She never expected to fall in love with a witch hunter.

She curled her hand at his neck, felt the warm skin there and the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and closed her eyes. It helped. Smelling the raw male scent of him, so familiar at this point and yet so new.

Six months into this relationship, and she still didn't know up from down.

Especially when he carried her, which he liked to do. She slit open one bleary eye, grimacing when daylight exploded into a corona of pain. “I'll be fine,” she mumbled. Not her best lie.

“I'm taking you to bed,” Silas countered, and though the rumbling thunder of his voice in his chest caused her to wince, Naomi's snort cracked it into a smile. Painful as it was.

“By myself?”

“I'm on your heels,” Naomi said behind them. “But I'm not getting into bed with you.”

She didn't have it in her to laugh.

The world tilted, muscles in Silas's chest and arms shifting, and Jessie knew he was carrying her out of the kitchen, across the small room that served as foyer, den, and meeting room all in one.

The first time Jessie had ever been here, she'd been awed by the array of pre-quake bric-a-brac strewn throughout the house. The owner, Matilda, was an old witch from the time before the quakes that took out Old Seattle. Fifty and some years of forgotten items filled the house. She called it nostalgia; the collection incorporated everything from art to crates of worn toys and baseballs with frayed stitching. Glass vases and wooden boxes with polished hinges served as shelving and decoration, often filled with the lush flowers Matilda cultivated in her garden.

Matilda had let them settle in with a patient, indulgent air, including giving over the house's single bedroom to Silas and Jessie. She, like Naomi, had a small tent outside, nestled by the bay that served as the canyon's most obvious gateway.

The mattress creaked as Silas laid her down, a scream in Jessie's ringing ears, and she winced.

“That bad?” Silas asked, gentleness and concern clear in his carefully even voice. He didn't want to worry her.

She knew him better than that. “One of the winners.” She forced a smile, risked peering through her lashes as he pulled the sheets up to her chin. His face was square, made of harsh lines and impressive planes, now all pulled taut with apprehension and blurry around the edges, as if she looked down a tube at him. His brown hair was longer than he typically liked it, beginning to brush his temples. He'd never be what delicate women would call handsome, but his rugged countenance and soul-deep compassion conspired to make him the best damn man she'd ever known.

He cupped her cheek in one large, scarred hand. “Nai's going to take a look.”

“I'm fi—”

“I'm annoyed at the situation,” Naomi cut in, shouldering Silas aside with casual familiarity. “Not at you, okay? Shut up and let me do my heretical thing.”

Spoken like a true ex-hunter.

Naomi and Silas had been partners, once. Though they'd only been reunited for a few months, the camaraderie between them hadn't faded. It seemed stronger, somehow. More intense.

Silas nodded at some unspoken look exchanged between the two, and a twinge of envy filled Jessie's heart.

She quashed it mercilessly. “Fine.” She draped her arm across her eyes.

The bedsprings squeaked again, dipped as Naomi settled by her hip. Her fingers were cool, callused like Silas's but gentler as she cupped Jessie's jaw.

Something clicked into place, something quiet and indefinable. A lock undone.

A door swung open.

He's bleeding.

She stiffened.

“This won't—”

“Damn it,” Jessie hissed through clenched teeth. As if that was all the encouragement needed, the vision flattened her.

Gunfire shatters the silent street. Men in black body armor. Missionaries?

“Easy, princess.”

Operatives. Windows blown. Blood on the glass.

A comm hummed, filled Jessie's ears with static that had nothing to do with real sound.

Silas cursed, hard and angry. “It's the safe house alarm.”

A single apartment in New Seattle's mid-low tenements. Blood on the street. Crimson splashes on the wall.

Jessie struggled to open her mouth, but the place of power—that core of her where all the magic waited—welled up. Overflowed, into her eyes and nose and mouth. Filled her hearing.

“Jessie?” Naomi's voice. Her grip on Jessie's cheek tightened, near pain, but it didn't help.

“What's wrong? Jess? Jessie!”

The vision railroaded her.

“Sorry,” Naomi said tightly, and a fiery point of pain sent shockwaves through Jessie's cheek. She gasped, head turning with it, blinked hard and blearily as two worlds collided in the same sight.
Blood on the walls.
Blue-violet eyes.

She found herself holding onto Naomi's wrists, tight enough to feel her own knuckles grinding. She pulled herself together, twisted and clawed her mental self away from that place of power, but it opened beneath her like a starving void. Seeking.

Demanding.

She had to
see
.

Silas touched her forehead; she didn't feel it. Couldn't see him as the vision overwhelmed her. Blood on the walls, blood on the floor.

Blood on pale blue linen.

She summoned up every ounce of willpower she had left. “
Phin
,” she gritted out.

And the vision swallowed her.