No Rest for the Witches (6 page)

 

Chapter Nine

T
ake the right. Circle in and flank the middle.

Naomi fumed as she made her way between the crates. She knew what Silas had just done; painting a huge fucking target on his back was the worst idea she'd heard all day. Right up there with
bring Phin to the sanctuary
.

Even if that one had been hers.

Fear lodged itself into her stomach, an icy knot that sucked the air out of her lungs and left her staggering. She grabbed the corner of a crate, clung to it as she sucked in a sudden, angry breath.

This wasn't the time. Damn it.

This
was why she couldn't keep this crap up. Phin was a fucking distraction. She may not be a missionary anymore, but that didn't mean Naomi got any sort of vacation. This little job right now proved that.

She needed to stay focused. This wasn't her first hostage extraction. It wouldn't be her last, she was sure of it. Not if the Church had anything to say about it. Not as long as people like this unidentified witch kidnapped others.

But even as she ran it all through in her head, as she seized desperately for the rationalization, she called herself a liar. Phin wasn't the problem. She was.

She
never
used to let her personal shit get in the way of the job.

Lillian's life depended on her now. Assuming she was still alive.

Forcing her knees to straighten, Naomi pushed off the rusted, peeling metal surface of the empty container beside her and strode further into the warehouse. The dark lightened as she approached the single lamp hanging from the ceiling. Blue-tinged shadows filled the shipping crates, cast a miasma of ghostly gloom over the whole place. The crates were too high to see over, but as she got closer, she eased into a semi-crouch and concentrated on her role in this shitty plan.

Circle in, flank the bad guys. Catch them by surprise.

Only Silas got there first. As she slipped into a sheltered vee between crates, she saw his big form enter the circle of light. Saw him scan the borders of the all-too-coincidental clearing between crates.

There was no sign of Lillian. No bad guy with a gun. Just an expanse of bare, dirty cement floor and nothing.

“Now.”

Shitfuck!

All at once, the atmosphere went nuclear. The electrical grid shrieked, a buzz that rattled through every bone in her body, and the gloom shattered to nova-white. She covered her eyes, kneeling behind the crate, as gunfire erupted through the chaos.

Blinded, she couldn't do more than flail as hands grabbed her by the arms, hauling her out of her hiding place. She wrenched one arm free, blinking her streaming eyes, and slammed her fist into the body she felt beside her. Her knuckles cracked on plasteel, sent pain shrieking all the way up her shoulder.

“It's a trap!” Silas's voice.

No shit.

Naomi twisted, lashed out a booted foot, and collided with something softer. A grunt beside her transitioned into static as a fist slammed against the side of her head. “Bitch,” a man hissed.

As she staggered, skull ringing, the man threw her into the open space. Her knees grated against the ground, shoulder wrenching as she sprawled face-first. Dust wafted into her nose, her eyes, and she reared back to dig her palms into her sockets, cursing.

“Stay down,” Silas ordered, his voice strained. The echoes threw it back at her from every direction.

But the intensity in those two words kept her knees on the floor. Her heart slammed in her chest as she blinked furiously through grit and the aching pain behind her eyes. Slowly, blearily, the world came together.

A figure in synth-leather pants perched on the corner of a shipping crate. His shirt wasn't anything more than a few straps, the kind of accessory Naomi saw a lot of in the mid-low clubs she used to frequent. He was lean, nearly as wiry as she was, and a shock of white-blond hair drifted into his near-black eyes. He smiled lazily, an expression that did nothing to warm the glacial chill rippling down Naomi's spine.

Barefoot, gnarled toes planted against the crate beneath him, he looked as out of synch with the setting as the woman held in his loose embrace.

Lillian Clarke had always seemed untouchable to Naomi. Her hair was kept summer-gold and swept into an elegant chignon, and her aristocratic features told a tale as blue-blooded as Naomi's own—the Clarkes had been in the city since before the quake, and were one of the few families who'd managed to regain their former glory. Even the lines, new lines of grief and exhaustion and the parchment creases of age, couldn't detract from the woman's unmistakably chic demeanor.

But her black tailored suit was dusty and rumpled, and tendrils of hair had escaped to untidily frame her face. Her hazel eyes met Naomi's, wide with fear; flaring in recognition, in—Naomi's gut twisted—wild hope.

The kid, maybe no older than twenty, toyed at Lillian's lapel with the point of a knife. His arm crossed her body, draped over her shoulder in a casual display of possession, and every cell in Naomi's body surged to vicious, violent fury.

The last time a Clarke woman had been held hostage, she was murdered. It couldn't happen again.

It
wouldn't.
Not to Phin.

Not . . . not to Naomi.
Not again
.

She surged to her feet, managed only a step before the kid's smile died. “Stay down.”

As if that was all the order they needed, a boot slammed into her back. She toppled, snarling, back to her hands and knees.

The instant the foot lifted, she straightened, jerking her hair out of her face. “Who the fuck are you?”

The kid's eyes brightened, glittering black. Lillian's jaw tightened as his arm pulled her closer against his chest. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

Across the bare circle, a man at each arm, Silas tried to take a step and grunted as one kicked out his knee. He fell into a kneel, cursing savagely.

The kid raised his free hand, palm down. Pain flared low on her abdomen, a lick of fire that stole her breath. It'd been months since the seal of St. Andrew had activated; that long since a witch tried to do anything to her. The pain was something a missionary learned to live with—to appreciate—but after too long dormant, it shrieked through her nerves. Sizzled unbearably.

Naomi gritted her teeth.

Purple light licked out from under his palm. With his eyes bright and wide, he cocked his head, watching her. “Do it,” he told her.

“Stop, please,” Lillian whispered.

Naomi flattened one hand against her jeans, just over the tattoo, and lurched to her feet.

The kid laughed, and as he pushed his splayed palm towards the ground, Naomi's knees buckled. Throwing her head back, Naomi cried out as her shoulders collapsed under a weight she couldn't see. Her muscles strained, every tendon pushed to the breaking point as she fought to stay standing.

The kid dropped his hand lower.

She slammed into the cement. Fists tight against the ground, she struggled to suck in air as the invisible weight compressed her back. Her chest.

Her lungs.

Heart pounding a heavy staccato in her ears, her skull, she struggled to get her hands under herself. Her cheek ground into the floor. The tattoo sparked and sizzled.

Spots detonated at the corners of her vision.

“Goddamn it, stop!”

As if Silas's guttural roar was the signal, the pressure eased. Just enough.

Naomi sucked in a gasping breath.

“Gorgeous!” the kid crowed. “Exactly what I would have expected from the great Naomi West.”

Senses reeling, Naomi couldn't stop to examine the statement. She sucked in gasp after gasp of dust-choked air, muscles shaking uncontrollably, fatigued beyond anything she'd felt in too long.

She was out of shape.

And Lillian was going to pay if she didn't get. Her shit. Together.

Silas was watching her as she finally raised her head. She dragged her dust-coated sleeve over her mouth. Jerked a nod.

She was fine.

Pissed, but fine.

Son of a . . .
witch
.

His jaw tightened, gaze snapping back to the witch hiding behind Lillian. “Who the hell are you?” Silas demanded, his hands loose at his sides.

“And how do you know me?” Naomi added.

The knife glinted as the end worked under Lillian's collar. Pale, sweating, she gazed at the ceiling with the thousand-yard stare Naomi recognized from too many hostages. Disassociated. Scared.

Trying hard not to think about the outcome of this.

There would be blood.

The beast in Naomi raged for it.

She gritted her teeth.

“Everyone knows you,” he was saying, jerking her attention back to those empty eyes. He was smiling again. Casual.

What the hell was his angle?

“I knew you'd show your pretty face again. The bounty on your head is at fifty thousand dollars, did you know that?”

Naomi's smile was made of teeth. “So I heard.”

“Twice that if you're alive,” he added. “I'm going to be a very rich man when this is done.”

A scuffle across the circle forced him to tighten his hold on Lillian. She bit back a small cry, fear and loathing, as her back flattened against his chest.

Silas struggled against the men holding him, muscles straining. “What the hell makes you think a witch'll be able to collect?”

“Oh, I have secrets that would give you nightmares.” He slid the knife out of Lillian's collar, leaving a long, thin red line in its wake. Naomi's teeth ground so hard, her jaw popped. “But there's no bounty for you. Kill him. I have what I need.”

“Who are you?” Silas growled, wrenching at the hands holding him back. “What's your angle?” The black-clad man on his left unlatched the gun from his hip. The sleek, matte-black weapon leveled at Silas's head.

Tears spilled over Lillian's lashes, tracking through the dust coating her cheeks.

The platinum-blond witch's eyes crinkled, cheeks turned up in a smile that somehow managed to make him look . . . boyishly endearing.

Naomi's fists clenched. Heart in her throat, skin crawling, she dug her feet into the ground. Every muscle clenched in anticipation.

“What do you think I am?” he asked dryly. “A storybook villain? Want me to tell you everything before I kill you?” He pulled Lillian to the side, draped that arm on her shoulder as if she were just a buddy to lean against. The knife flashed as he pointed it at Silas. “I don't think so. Just die.”

Violet light flickered along the blade.

Everything coalesced into a razor's edge.

As fury clambered in her ears, a cacophony of howls she didn't know how to give voice to, Lillian moved. Suddenly, erratic, she jerked her arm back. Her thin elbow collided with the witch's solar plexus, doubling him over.

Naomi launched herself forward—screamed bloody, ragged murder as a hand closed on her shirt. Silas was no help; she was dimly aware of his curses as he rammed one of his operative guards into the other, tangling them into a flurry of arms and legs and intentions.

Naomi whirled, raised her leg, and slammed a roundhouse kick to the side of her guard's helmeted head. The man, broader than she was but no Silas in weight, staggered into the side of a crate. It gonged, sending echoes across the warehouse.

The witch shouted something. Lillian shrieked, and obeying the primal instinct rooted deep in her awareness, Naomi folded to the floor. The air split above her head, sliced on a razored knife edge, and the man lunging at her drew up sharply as the point lodged itself in his chest.

Naomi didn't stop. As the operative collapsed, she grabbed his gun from his limp grasp and spun.

The damn thing fit into her palm like it was made for her. Heavier than her usual Beretta, sleeker and sweet, it practically begged her to pull the trigger.

Lillian stared at her, shock-white and trembling. Blood dotted her lip, but her chin firmed.

Naomi's hand wavered.

This was how Gemma had died.

Metal clanked against metal; the dull thud of plasteel meeting cement echoed from her left. The witch watched her from behind Lillian's taller form, his eyes feverishly bright. “What's it going to be?” he demanded.

Shit.

A gun fired, echoed back in mounting report, and Lillian blanched, sobbing at whatever it was she saw beyond Naomi's field of vision.

She could guess. Nobody died pretty by bullets.

Or by witchcraft. Purple power gathered in the witch's palm, outlined his fingers as he held them inches from Lillian's chest. Her heart.

She gasped. Her face reddened. Turned yellow around the edges.

“How long until her heart explodes?” the witch asked, but there was nothing light about his voice now. His mouth thinned. “Wanna find out?”

Fuck.
Naomi lowered the weapon.

“Drop it.”

A jerk of her wrist, and the gun clattered to the side. She crossed the circle, arms held out by her sides as he stiffened. “Fine,” she bit out. The words filled her throat. Tore out of her chest on serrated edges. “I give up.”

His mouth twisted. “Shame, too.” He pushed Lillian to the side. “Go get the rope. Or else I'll kill you both.”

Just a kid after all.

Naomi shook her head. And without warning, without hope, she lunged.

The witch's mouth opened, hands coming up, wreathed in violet, but Naomi didn't give him the chance. His face was a blur, purple light, flickering fluorescent casting the world into a wild dance of motion and sound; nerves and the feral pounding of her blood in her body.

She collided with her target, bit down on a shriek of pain as her the tattoo lit up so brightly, blue fire spilled from the weave of her torn denim. Lillian collapsed, the world spun around and around.

Pain shredded her body. Her chest, her fucking
soul
lit up like a nuclear holocaust. Naomi screamed.