The Longest Night: A Drake Chronicles Novella (9 page)

“Everyone get out of here,” he ordered. Kieran was already shoving Paige and Catelyn
away from the area. Noah threw a hunter into a cedar hedge.

Flames raced up a pine tree, popping the glass lights. The edge of Lucy’s coat began
to smolder. Black smoke wreathed her. Nicholas dove for her, covering her with his
body. He shoved handfuls of snow over her until she slapped at his hands. “I’m fine,”
she repeated until he finally heard her. “Nicholas, I’m fine.”

In the chaos, Fletcher bolted.

Cal went after him, blurring between the trees. Before her brain could interrupt with
habit and training, Aggie followed at a dead run. She was dimly aware of the sounds
of the fighting behind her.
She didn’t know what kind of weapons Fletcher had rigged through the trees, but Cal
was already pinned to a tree by a bolt through his left shoulder. Blood soaked into
his shirt. His fangs were out and there was a circle of red around his sky-blue pupils.

Fletcher lifted his crossbow, smiling. Cal didn’t say a word. Even in excruciating
pain, he was silent and patient. She knew he could see her.

She could be Yen’s little sister.

Or she could be Aggie.

She stepped forward even as Yen’s training began its regular loop in her head. She
used her body as a shield, turning to face Fletcher.

“Aggie, get out of here,” Cal snapped, struggling against the bolt. It was soaked
in holy water, the flesh around it raw and bubbling.

Fletcher tossed her a disgusted look. “I really thought you might be one of us some
day. Now look at you. Begging for a vampire’s life.”

“I’m not begging,” she said, catching a glint of the tinsel in Paige’s hair. “I’m
telling you to back the hell off.”

“Or what?” Fletcher sneered.

“Or this.”

The arrow caught him in thigh, just above the knee. He howled, dropping his crossbow
to clutch at his bleeding leg. “You shot me!” he moaned.

“Yeah,” Paige said, emerging from the shadows. “And I’ll do it again.”

“But I’m
human
.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a monster,” she snorted.

Aggie turned to face Cal.

Stake him while you can. Vampires always go for the kill. Don’t hesitate. Heart, throat,
holy water.

“Shh,” Aggie murmured to her sister’s ghostly voice, yanking the stake out. Cal hissed
in pain, jaw clenched tight. She stepped back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood in the snow, staring at each other.

“If you don’t kiss him right now, I’ll never forgive you,” Paige muttered, turning
away. Fletcher was still moaning. “And you shut up, you’re ruining the moment.” She
punched him in the face and he keeled over. “What?” she said to Aggie and Cal. “I
don’t have any rope to tie him up with.”

Cal still hadn’t moved. Aggie knew he was waiting for her to make a decision. Or she
could walk away now. She could do something she thought was right, even though Yen
would have thought it was wrong.

Was she brave enough for that?

She leaned toward Cal, a scant inch of movement and then his hands were in her hair
and his mouth was on hers and the kiss held them together on the longest night of
the year. Warmth tingled up her spine. He kissed her slowly, softly, until she made
a sound of impatience in the back of her throat and yanked him closer. She said everything
she didn’t know how to feel, never mind speak, in the press of her lips. And she knew
that Cal, being Cal, understood.

And when a plume of fire shot into the sky, gilding the pine trees and the clouds
heavy with snow, she almost didn’t notice. The smell of charred wood and gasoline
drifted on the hot wind. A cedar hedge crackled as it burned.

“Hey, you two, you set the forest on fire,” Paige grinned. “Hot.”

The snow around the stone fire pit had melted away to mud and grass. Lucy, Nicholas,
Solange, and Kieran stood on the edge with Catelyn, who looked more comfortable with
the fiery explosion than
sharing the company of so many vampires. When she saw Aggie’s hand in Cal’s she sighed,
disgusted. Paige reached for his other hand out of spite, and grinned.

Lucy’s hair was wet against her neck and there was blood on her sweater. The flames
turned everything gold. Several hunters lay trussed up like Christmas turkeys at her
feet. Kieran used his cell phone to call a unit in to collect them.

Lucy linked arms with Solange, and they both smiled strangely nostalgic smiles.

“Yup.” Lucy grinned. “Just like old times.”

Craving more
ALYXANDRA HARVEY?

Don’t miss the start of a romantic new trilogy, The Lovegrove Legacy, about three
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1814

Breaking into a dead woman’s house
was easy work since she rarely complained.

Breaking into a dead witch’s house was a different matter altogether.

You were as likely to come across some bit of wandering magic as a weeping relative
pacing the floor. When a witch died, many of her spells unraveled and the results
were unpredictable at best. Moira might get lucky and the house wards would break
first. On the other hand, Mrs. Lawton’s ghost might push her down the stairs.

She’d have to risk it. One-Eyed Joe wanted what was inside, even if he didn’t know
it yet. And the old lady’s body would be hauled off to the cemetery tomorrow. Moira
had no intention of becoming a grave robber.

Moira stayed crouched on the roof next door for over an
hour, watching carefully as a household lamp was carried from room to room. The gargoyle
on the corner of the Lawton house was draped in black bombazine, like the mirrors
inside would be. Mourning extended to all parts of the house, and the ghost was expected
to protect its family while the gargoyle slept.

Finally, the lamplight floated upstairs. She waited an hour after it was extinguished,
just to be safe. She wished she had Strawberry with her, but her friend was off on
another job. And if she took one of the boys they’d want the bigger cut just for being
there. Even though Moira had been stealing things to sell at the market since she
was nine years old, and some of those boys barely had a year under their belts.

She hopped over the gap between the roofs and slid down a drainpipe to the parlor
window on the north side of the building. It was customary to leave it open for the
spirit to pass through. Moira didn’t mind sharing with a ghost; she was used to sharing
the rooftops with vampire pigeons, rats the size of hedgehogs, and Nigel the snorer.
She left a muffin on the sill as an offering. Mrs. Lawton might have preferred wine
or sweets as many spirits did, but Moira only had one lemon-drop candy left and she
wasn’t about to give it up for a dead woman with no taste buds.

She wiggled inside, grateful poor girls didn’t have to wear corsets, and Madcaps didn’t
even have to wear dresses. Her trousers were frayed in one knee and two sizes too
big, but they were comfortable and allowed her to move in ways that would have snapped
the spines of soft aristocratic girls.

The house smelled like whiskey, cheap lamp oil, and a dead body. There was no odor
of lemon balm, which was a relief.
Warlocks smelled like lemon balm, so she knew for sure that she was stealing from
a regular witch. Warlocks just weren’t worth the risk. They were ruthless in life
and worse in death.

Moira paused, waiting for her vision to adjust to the gloom and assessing her surroundings.
The protective eyes painted on the thresholds and over the lintels were draped in
black material, just like the gargoyle had been. There was the usual assortment of
chairs and trinkets. She didn’t know how people lived in such close quarters with
so much clutter. She hated the feeling of being inside a building, without a view
of the sky or seven different escape routes at all times. Moira’s feet burned, the
way they always did when she was courting trouble. She tried to ignore it, reminding
herself the walls were soft enough to kick through, if worse came to worst.

She knew the upstairs had two rooms and the attic was full of mice. She’d sent her
familiar inside earlier in the day, just to be sure. Having a cat as a fetch was infinitely
more practical than the wolves and eagles the fancy witches coveted. They might be
more romantic than an alley cat, but you couldn’t exactly send your wolf-familiar
into the body of a real wolf in London to any reasonable purpose, could you? Cats,
on the other hand, were everywhere and rarely noticed.

A scrawny russet tabby with a bent ear leaped out of Moira’s rib cage. The fiery pinpricks
in her heels subsided to a low warning itch. The first time she’d felt Marmalade leave
her body, Moira had thrown up. And then spent the night crying because she thought
she was going crazy. One-Eyed Joe found her and fed her mint tea and told her stories
about witches and magic.
He’d taught her to avoid the Order and never sell to a warlock without a disguise
and that her familiar was her closest ally, literally created out of her own magic.

Marmalade swiped at her leg with a ghostly claw. Blood welled on the scratch.

“You know, Strawberry’s familiar is a little white mouse. She brings her flowers.”
Marmalade knew full well that Strawberry’s familiar was a mouse; keeping the two apart
was a constant struggle.

Magic clung to the cupboard on the wall and billowed like pink steam out of a teapot.
Old lady Lawton was a tea-leaf reader and she’d protected the tools of her trade and
the magical artifacts in her home from tampering and theft. Luckily, Moira wasn’t
interested in those.

She crept forward to the dining table. It was covered in a white sheet on which Mrs.
Lawton lay in her best dress. Her gray hair was curled and a silver brooch was pinned
to her collar. Moira left the pin even though it would have fetched a decent price.
It wasn’t what she was after and it felt rather rude, considering.

She gently pried Mrs. Lawton’s eyelids open. They felt like stiff paper. Her right
eye was cloudy and vacant, her left perfectly clear and blue as cornflower petals.

The glass eye of a blind witch three days dead.

She popped it loose, trying very hard not to hear the vile popping sound it made when
it came free. She tucked it into the pocket of her striped green waistcoat, refusing
to gag.

She placed a coin over the eye socket, as payment. It wasn’t
stealing if you paid for it. And, if you believed in the old stories, you had to have
a coin to pay your way to the other side. She hoped it would appease the ghost long
enough for Moira to slip out the window.

It wasn’t enough.

Mrs. Lawton’s spirit sat straight up out of her body and screeched.

“Thief! Thief in the house!”

“Bollocks!” Moira jumped a good foot into the air and then stumbled back against the
wall, gasping. Bloody ghosts. Marmalade hissed, fur rising like a boot brush. When
no one came running to investigate, Moira released her breath.