No Rest for the Witches (5 page)

 

Chapter Seven

A
n hour later, Naomi was ready to tap out in defeat.

She staggered to the porch steps, wordlessly accepting the cool glass Matilda pressed into her hands as she passed. Raising it to her lips, she drained half the spicy tea before she remembered to take a breath. Her head hit the green siding on a sigh.

She was acutely aware of Phin, his hip braced against the railing beside Matilda's rocking chair. He cradled his elbow in his good hand, supporting his injured shoulder, and watched her. His warm chocolate eyes were filled with all the questions she was too afraid to answer, but he didn't say anything.

Naomi wasn't sure she'd left him anything to say. Not after that dramatic performance by the pond.

“She's done,” Matilda called. She propped her feet up on a small footstool, yellow galoshes scarred and scuffed. Crossing her ankles, she balanced a ceramic mug on her stomach, hands folded around it, and studied Naomi closely. “You're exhausted.”

“I'm fine.”

Phin's jaw tightened. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I said I'm fine,” Naomi replied, but her gaze skated out from under his. “Where's—”

“How is she?” Silas rounded the corner of the house, his nylon holster dangling from one hand. The gun in his other was kept meticulously pointed down, away from the others. Common sense. They'd all had the rules beaten into them.

Naomi's blood still surged when she touched cold metal. Guns still fit into her palms like they belonged. Like she'd been born to use them.

It was the bile in her throat that kept her from going back.

She scrubbed a tired hand across her face and said, “Jessie's sleeping. She seems in good shape, nothing I can see broken or bleeding. She's just . . . out of juice.”

The grim lines carved into Silas's face didn't ease. “What happened? One minute she'd been doing her witch thing, and the next, she's raving something about Lillian. Then the seizure hit.”

Naomi shook her head, too tired to offer any theories.

Matilda studied them both over the rim of her glass. “She was caught in a trap,” she said in her no-nonsense, authoritative way. “Another witch attempted to enslave her.”

Behind her, Phin's eyebrow rose. “Enslave?” he queried, just as Silas growled, “Over my fucking dead body.”

“Thank you, dear,” Matilda replied dryly. “Enslave might be the wrong word, given we're unaware of his or her intentions. Regardless, she was caught unawares by another witch who, somehow, attempted to capture her.” She ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “It's entirely possible, given the nature of Jessie's gift, that Lillian and this witch are connected.”

“How is that possible?” Phin demanded. “They were missionaries, I'm sure they were.”

Naomi shook her head. “If they were, they would have identified themselves. Did they?”

Phin jerked his head, not quite a no. “I was crazy. They didn't exactly stop to introduce themselves before they shot me.”

Naomi flinched.

“But they were all in black bodysuits—”

“Anyone can get replica body armor,” Silas pointed out, his heavy eyebrows beetling into a hard scowl. “Plasteel is expensive, but not impossible to find. Which means if what Matilda is saying is true, they wanted you to
think
they were missionaries.”

“And in the end, it's only speculation,” Matilda added. “However, given Jessie's track record in regards to present events, perhaps it's best that we err on the side of caution. Another witch attempted to overclock her abilities, and she did mention Lillian before she lapsed into a seizure. These are facts.”

Naomi didn't understand much of this. Unlike Jessie, who was born a witch, she'd only been one for a few months. Spells, charms, they were things she filed on the same plane as
breaking the law
and
heretics must be executed
. It was a knee-jerk reaction, impossible to unravel after years of indoctrination.

Still, she tried. Jessie let Naomi knock some self-defense into her, and in exchange, she helped Naomi learn some of the focusing techniques that she said would keep her grounded and sharpen her abilities with the fountain of life.

But theoretical magic-speak made her crazy.

“You're saying,” Phin mused slowly, “that with witchcraft, this other witch could have killed her?”

“Possibly.”

Silas grunted, a wordless note of fury.

“But he or she failed,” Matilda pointed out. “And in so doing, allowed us a method to track the source.”

“How?” Phin asked, looking as confused as Naomi felt. No matter how baffling this world still seemed to her, it had to be twice as bad for someone who'd lived his whole life in the lap of luxury.

Yet another reason they'd never make it.

Naomi toyed with the silver ring in her lip as Matilda straightened in her chair. Her galoshes squeaked against the porch. “When one witch's magic is forced through another's, there is a . . .” The woman paused, gesturing with her tea mug. “A hole, if you will. A path. Think of a worm burrowing through the earth. Through this weft, I can trace the way back to the source.”

Silas glanced at Naomi. She shrugged.

“Will you?” he asked grimly. “Will it put you in danger?”

Matilda's smile was one of those Naomi had long since learned to bite her tongue over. She didn't answer, which tended to be answer enough. The old lady was doing her mysterious stranger routine, and Naomi hated it. Clenching her teeth, she said nothing as Matilda rose, set her cup down on the footstool, and hesitated with her hand on the door.

“Among other talents,” she said, her wise, old eyes pinning Naomi to the step where she sat, “I read the scripture of the soul. And conflict makes all such spying easier. Relax, Naomi, dear. You'll be fine.”

Naomi's features tightened, near points of pain as she locked her face to something desperately neutral.

Phin raked a hand through his curls. “What did I miss?” he asked, firm, sculpted mouth pulled into a bleak slant.

“Nothing,” she snapped, and frowned at Silas. “Do you think it'll work?”

One wide shoulder lifted. “If it does, what then?”

“You heard her,” Naomi said, setting her glass down on the step beside her. “This witch might have Lillian, or know where she is. I say we find the shitfucker and get some answers.”

Phin straightened, his grip tight on the railing.

Silas frowned at her. “Are you sure?”

She knew what he was asking. The last time she'd gone up against a missionary, even a rogue one, she'd nearly lost herself. She sure as hell lost her head, and the scars still hadn't healed.

All the more reason to go.

“Hell, yes,” she said tightly. “Let's go wreck some shit.”

She avoided Phin's searching gaze by turning to angle her shoulder against the house. She studied the layout of the rocky shore and steaming emerald water fanned out in front of the house, acutely aware of the pain Phin wasn't hiding.

Because of his shoulder, maybe. Or because she was being a bitch, and she didn't know how to stop.

Or why she should.

His footsteps crossed the porch, and like Matilda moments before, he opened the door and stepped inside. The door closed softly.

She'd have felt better if it slammed.

Silas stared at the door for a long moment. Then, jaw shifting, she saw his gaze settle on her. In her peripheral, she couldn't read the finer details of his expression, but his tone was flat as he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I'm a missiona—”

He grabbed her shoulder, shook her once. “No,” he cut in, thunderously intense. His eyes blazed, angry again. She was on a fucking roll, wasn't she? “You aren't. You haven't been a missionary for months—hell, Naomi.” He let her go, turned, and hunkered down to the step beside her.

She stared at the ground between her scuffed black boots.

“What is going on?”

“I don't—” Naomi hesitated. Then, she shook her hair back out of her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “Nothing I can't handle.”

“Yeah?” He glowered at her, his square features fierce. Protective. She'd seen him look at Jessie that way; she'd never paid attention if he'd ever turned it on her. “Then you better get your shit straight, West, because we're going back into the field.”

She sighed. “You want a ‘sir, yes, sir'?” But to her surprise, her tone came out dryly amused. Not as tense. Back out into the field was something she'd been itching for, even she knew that.

And this time, she wasn't going to lose the hostage. Not like what happened with Gemma.

“No,” he rumbled. He elbowed her, hard enough to make her breath hiss out between her teeth, fingers splaying over her ribs. “But we're going into a snake pit, so at least go say goodbye.”

Her humor faded. The ache in her rib transitioned to a coiled knot in her stomach, and she nodded slowly as she twined her fingers tightly together. “Yeah,” she murmured.

But she wouldn't. She knew she wouldn't. Maybe when she came back, Lillian safe, she'd have something to say.

Probably not.

What
was
she doing? She was pulling away. Naomi could see it in herself, could see the events unfolding in front of her and felt like a bystander. She was so fucking screwed up.

She hadn't been able to save Gemma. Wasn't able to keep Phin from being hurt, couldn't stop that rogue bastard in time. She'd fallen in love with a man who wasn't equipped to deal with her life, and even now, all she wanted to do was go inside and curl up against his chest. Let Phin make her feel like everything would be all right.

That was his gift. His strength. He could pull a miracle out of his ass with a smile.

Only real life didn't work like that. And she . . . what was she?

Tired. Alone.

Tired of
being
alone.

For a long moment, nothing moved. The steam danced harmlessly along the surface of the vivid green water, curling over the dock. Silence descended on this little fairy tale glade, and she couldn't stand it.

“Silas.”

He grunted.

She glanced at him. “You ever doubt your choice?”

Silas leaned back on his elbows, gaze turning upward. Pensively, he studied the gray sky, tracing the cloudy layers as he mulled it over. He took a deep breath, let it out on a long, slow exhale, and admitted, “The job? I miss it sometimes. Life was easier when it was black and white.”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

“I wonder,” Naomi admitted, “if I could have seen the clinic shrink, figured my shit out. I could still be at the Mission, top of my game. Not having to worry about dying with this—” She thumped her own chest with a fist. “This fucking miracle inside me. I think all the time about what Agatha said before I killed her.”

“What's that?”

Naomi shrugged. “That I had to be careful, I couldn't risk myself because I was the fountain now.”

“And?”

“I still don't listen,” she said, mouth flipping up into a crooked grin. Her humor faded, just as fast. “But it's there. Another chain.”

“Another?”

Naomi looked away. Had she just admitted that Phin was a chain? That he held her down?

She didn't mean to, but as she thought about it now, it appalled her how much sense it made. How much sense she
wanted
it to make.

Silas's gray-green eyes settled back on her, clear. Steady. “There's always a lot of shit to factor in,” he said. “But I never regret choosing Jess. Ever.”

“Yeah.” She flicked her hair out of her eyes. “That's ‘cause you get to live with her.”

His eyebrows rose. Lowered again, winding into a tight, concerned furrow. “That's it, huh?”

Shit. Way to vomit her heart all over his shoes. Shaking her head, she jerked a thumb back behind them, towards the smear of blue buried in the foliage beside the house. Her tent. “I'm going to get ready.”

“Nai?”

She frowned at him.

“We're going to roll this bastard over and see what comes crawling out,” he told her. “I need your head on your shoulders, okay?”

Naomi rose, nodding. She didn't say anything; what was there to say?

Silas loved Jessie. He'd chosen her, chosen a lifestyle that she could be part of. And right now, that lifestyle needed Naomi to be at the top of her game. For Lillian's sake.

For Phin's.

But it was that same reason that kept them apart, wasn't it? That meant they stayed on opposite ends of a city just waiting to jump her shit. The Church's bounty on her head and the investigation into the Clarkes' affairs was just the surface issue here.

At the heart, she was stuck in the lower city streets, waiting for God knew what, while Phin needed to remain where his wealth and political acumen could do the most good.

That was that.

And that was how it was going to have to be.

Steeling herself, she strode away from the green house with its purple flower bower; wrenched the door closed on everything but the mission.

She wasn't a missionary anymore, no matter how ingrained that response was. But she could still pull her weight.

Even without guns.

 

Chapter Eight

T
he rain woke her.

Jessie drifted back into consciousness, every muscle throbbing as if she'd just made it through one of Naomi's bone-rattling mat exercises. Even before she opened her eyes, she could place the sounds—the gentle patter of the rain, the sound of movement in the kitchen. Through her eyelids, lantern light flickered.

They were all so normal. So at odds with the nagging insistence that something was decidedly wrong. Uncertainty tightened in her chest with every breath.

Silas. Where was his voice?

Jessie opened her eyes, struggling to sit up. Her muscles spasmed with the effort.

“Easy.” An arm curved around her back. “It's all right, everything's okay.” Phin smiled down at her, his features jarringly unfamiliar outside of the posh interior of his resort.

It was surreal, having him down here in her territory.

She frowned. “Phin? Were you watching over me?”

“Matilda and I have been taking shifts,” he admitted, but his smile kicked into a slanted grimace of pain. “Can you either sit up or lie back down? My arm isn't completely better yet.”

“Sorry.” Jessie allowed him to help her back down, more out of guilt than because she felt the need to stay lying down. Still, her muscles practically sighed in relief as she settled back into the pillows. Phin pulled the sheet back to her chin, smoothing it down with more finesse than she would have given him credit for.

Then she remembered that he'd owned the fanciest hotel she'd ever seen, and gave up worrying about it. Phin was more than capable of making himself at home.

“How do you feel?” He sat back into the armchair Silas liked.

Jessie looked away before her cheeks turned red. They'd done things in that chair that might make the very proper Mr. Clarke burst into flame from mortification if he knew. “Fine,” she managed, loudly clearing her throat. “Just fine. A little bruised around the soul.”

And that gnawing worry in her gut wasn't easing.

He cradled his injured arm, one hand curved over the sling. “Matilda says a witch attacked you while you were in your vision.”

“That . . .” She thought about it. “That makes a lot of sense. Who?”

“I don't know. Silas and Naomi have gone after him.”

She sat up so fast, hands braced on the mattress, that sparklers flared across her vision. “What?”

“Whoa, easy.” Phin stood again, bent over her as she swayed. “Take a deep breath.”

She tried to wave him away, but ended up hanging onto his sleeve when vertigo kicked her in the side of the head. The room tilted, and she sucked in an obedient breath.

“Matilda said you might be out of it.” Carefully, he sat next to her, supporting her with his good arm.

Between the rolling, rocking motion of the world around her, she couldn't help but smile. Even if it twisted. “How'd you . . . get the short stick?”

“You mean stay here?” Phin kept his voice low, soothing. The man was good. “Still injured. Naomi's gift doesn't work very fast. Faster than it would be naturally, of course, but it still has to go through the normal physiological steps.”

Jessie had noticed that. She concentrated on breathing, eyes closed, until her stomach stopped sloshing around inside the fragile cage of her own body. Cautiously, she slit open one eye.

Her head throbbed, but nothing she couldn't live with.

Phin's handsome features swam into focus. His dark eyes met hers, crinkled at the corners.

A little corner of Jessie's heart melted. No wonder Naomi liked him. “Thank you. I'm okay now.”

“You sure?” When she nodded, he let her go, but stayed close enough to catch her just in case.

“Where are they?”

“Somewhere in the lows,” Phin said. “Matilda told me.” And for the first time, his eyes darkened.

Jessie's brow furrowed, but she didn't probe farther. Maybe Naomi was playing at some kind of game. Maybe there was trouble in paradise.

But whatever the case, she didn't know Phin well enough to pry, and she didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture. She drew her knees up, draped her arms over them. “How far in?”

“The old industrial quarter,” Phin replied. “Thing is, I'm not trained like they are. So even if I wanted to go, I'd just be in the way.”

She stared at him as the glow from the old-fashioned lantern danced over the sculpted planes and angles of his face.

How did he do that? Just . . . vocalized so matter-of-factly what she'd been struggling with for weeks, now.

He caught her staring, raised his eyebrow with a self-effacing kind of smile that tweaked that corner of her heart again. Damn. The man had charm. In spades. “Do I have something in my teeth?”

“A little bit of common sense,” she said. “How do you do it?”

His lips twitched. “Do what?”

“Be useless.”

He sat back, his expression turning thoughtful. “Is that what you think you are?”

Jessie looked away.

“I love Naomi,” he told her, surprisingly candid for all Jessie was as much a stranger as anything else. “I fell in love with the woman she is, and that means all of it.” He braced his weight on his good hand, bed springs creaking. “I wouldn't change it for the world.”

She shook her head. “Even knowing she could be somewhere bleeding right now?”

“Even knowing that.” But he didn't try to hide the pain that thought caused him. “We all have a part to play. The least I can do is play mine.”

“Jesus,” Jessie whispered, and dropped her forehead to her knees.

“It doesn't make it easier,” he added, and rose. “Not for us. But I like to think it makes it easier for them out there. Knowing we're holding down our part, that they don't have to worry about us, too.”

“Common sense,” Jessie repeated, muffled against her knees.

Phin's chuckle eased some of that tension. Just some. “Hang in there,” he said. “I'll go let Matilda know you're up.” He hesitated at the door, and she raised her head. “You've got your friends scared, you know. Be careful.”

“I will,” she said, and wasn't quite sure if it tasted like a lie.

Her head ached, everything felt unsettled. She'd do her best to be careful, but as the door closed on Phin's friendly concern, Jessie wasn't sure she'd have much choice.

***

Neck gristle stretched, ground. Joints locked. With a savage wrench, the guard's head jerked halfway around on his suddenly much-more-flexible neck. Silas caught his limp body in one arm and set him down as lightly as he could.

His heart pounding, he turned and offered cupped hands for Naomi to step into.

Her eyes gleamed back at him, reflected pools of . . . nothing.

Worry flickered somewhere in all the adrenaline slamming his system, but he gritted his teeth and helped her down into the dark.

Later, after they'd gotten out of this alive and with Lillian Clarke, he'd see what he could do about her. Right now, they had a job to do.

The fact that this motto had followed him from Mission employ was an irony not lost on him.

Naomi bent, searching the body. When her fingers found the smooth plates of his plasteel body armor, she jerked her gaze to Silas.

He shrugged.

It didn't make sense to him, either. Matilda had assured them that a witch was involved, but the guard was equipped with state-of-the-art body armor and a machine-pistol—one part pistol, one part machine gun. Military-grade and deadly as hell. The New Seattle Riot Force, as close to a military force as the metropolis had, carried them for the real big problems.

Not standard Mission weaponry, last he knew.

He turned, studying the interior of the warehouse. As far as he could tell in the dark, it was an open floor plan turned into a series of narrow corridors by the metal crates stacked within it. Near the center, a single fluorescent light guttered on and off—the humming voltage shorting through it sent up an echoing buzz throughout the complex. It made Silas's teeth ache.

Shadows loomed out from that flickering light. Corners of crates, some gaping open to reveal more shadows. More dark places where men could hide.

He didn't sigh. He wanted to. Adrenaline slid through his veins, wiping away any traces of ache and fear, but all he wanted to do was get in, get out, and go home.

Where Jessie was waiting for him. Hopefully conscious.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one large, callused hand.

“Here.” Naomi pressed the machine-pistol into his hand. Her whisper barely disturbed the dusty, mote-ridden air, but she wrinkled her nose as her nostrils flared. The smell was awful: rotting refuse creeping in from the filthy alley beyond the broken window behind them, layers of dust and decay filling the warehouse.

Nothing moved, and he didn't like it.

He took the weapon, checked it automatically. He didn't need perfect sight to do it; the Mission had guaranteed he could fieldstrip a weapon one-handed and blind, if he had to. The metal clicked into place, sending echoes scattering out like ripples in the dark.

Every hair on Silas's neck lifted. The whole fucking thing smelled like a trap, but he'd seen nothing beyond this initial guard.

Naomi passed him, easing through the dark like the hunter she'd been.

She still didn't carry a gun. He wasn't sure how to bring it up, and wouldn't now, but eventually, they'd have to discuss her viability in the field. Not a fight he was looking forward to having.

Despite paranoia knocking between his shoulder blades, nothing triggered an alert. No sounds, no lights. No footsteps. Just the single light in the center.

Which was enough of a gimme that he figured they were walking into some kind of shit storm.

He followed Naomi into the maze of crates, caught her by the back of her black sweatshirt when she would have cut right through the heart.

She waited. Enough of a blessing that he wouldn't question why. She'd been leashed down so tight the whole ride up through the foundation streets. Violence simmered under her skin, so close he could practically feel it coming off her like radiation.

But she met his eyes. Raised a silver-decorated eyebrow.

He lifted two fingers, slid them in a line towards the center. When her eyes narrowed, he pointed at her and mimicked a semi-circle.

“Hell—”

He cut off her heated whisper with a hard look and slash across his throat.

Full mouth thinning into a white line, she shook her head and signed a curt message he didn't have to see all of to read. He'd fuck himself later—better yet, he'd go home and lose himself in Jessie for a few hours. Drown in her whiskey eyes and sweet voice and warm body.

Right now, he had other pressing matters.

Raising the gun to his shoulder, he reached out and caught a fistful of her sweatshirt, pulling her forward until they were practically nose to nose. He didn't have to say anything. Though one gloved hand wrapped around his wrist, she jerked her chin up. Bared her teeth.

But she was trembling against him.

Damn it. Naomi was losing her shit, and he couldn't afford it. “Cool it,” he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Or get out.”

She shook her head. Took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, silent exhale and tapped his fist, curled into her sweatshirt. He let go, and she stepped back, signaling to the right.

Silas hesitated. What were the options? He needed backup, and when she wasn't trying to prove something, Naomi was a hell of a choice.

He nodded.

Teeth flashed in a hard, white smile, she turned and vanished into the dark.

If they were lucky, if there was a goddamned guardian angel nearby, they'd find Lillian, extract her, get out. But the odds of that weren't good, which is why he'd sent Naomi around to flank the center. He'd put the target on himself, hope she could avoid any other guards, and put his own life in her hands.

Not a choice he'd make under normal circumstance. He respected Naomi, had worked with her on the Leigh witch operation that had culminated in his “death.” Hell, he'd practically grown up in the orphanage with her.

But he didn't know how to fix her. Didn't know how to even try.

Maybe he'd have a man-to-man with Phin when he got back.

And then avoid getting flayed by Naomi for interfering.

His lips quirked at the corners. Squaring his shoulders, he forged into the dark.