Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

«All right,» she said. «I’ll—»

Something there. A soft scuffle and a new, faint scent competing with the hallway’s musty air.

She sidestepped to her right, away from the sound—and away from the possibility of someone shoving her down the stairs.

«Something’s here,» she said.

«What is it?»

«Don’t know. Haven’t made the witchfire yet.»

She raised the poker like a shield in front of her, took another step to the side, and banged her hip on a table. She pivoted to bring herself around the table, extending her left arm to set the candle down. In that moment she felt the rush of air as something lunged at her, felt the swipe of knife or claws aiming for her exposed left side.

And she hesitated a moment too long before she created a protective shield tight enough to be a second skin.

A double slice through shirt and skin in that moment before the shield formed around her. A shiver along nerves that were uncertain if they should send a message of pleasure or pain. Then…pain.

She swung the poker, a backhanded blow that connected with someone hard enough to send the person slamming into the opposite wall.

A ball of witchlight floated above the table before she consciously decided to make one. But she saw her adversary—and silently swore when the light glinted off the hourglass that hung from a tarnished silver chain around the witch’s neck.

A Black Widow who was very much one of the demon-dead, judging by how badly misshapen the head and face were from the blows that must have killed her. And not the same Black Widow who had attacked her downstairs.

“You want to tangle with me, you come ahead,” Surreal said. “I’m in the mood to kill something.”

The Black Widow laughed. “You think you can kill me? Look again.”

“All right, maybe I’m too late to kill you, and maybe I won’t even be able to finish the kill. But if you don’t back off, I can arrange for you to become a permanent resident of a part of Hell that will make this place look like a high-class indulgence.”

“Even when you become demon-dead you won’t have that much power.”

“Actually, sugar, since my uncle is the High Lord, I’ll be able to send you anywhere I damn well please. He’ll make sure of it.”

The Black Widow hesitated, then smiled as much as her misshapen face allowed. “You won’t be going anywhere, not even to Hell. I can wait to finish you, bitch.” She passed through the wall and vanished.

“Shit,” Surreal muttered. “Guess there’s no penalty for using Craft once you’re dead.” Or part of the spells woven into the house.

She huffed out a breath and winced. First she needed to take care of the wound, figure out how bad it was—and whether she’d just been poisoned. Then she would deal with whatever came next. Right now she was certain of two things: she was in the upstairs back hallway and Rainier wasn’t.

«Rainier?»

No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.

«Rainier!»

An aural shield must have been triggered, one that not only blocked out ordinary sounds but also prevented communication along psychic threads.

Had the gong sounded? She’d been too preoccupied to notice. Had Rainier heard it, or was that sound also blocked by the aural shield?

Leaving the unlit candle on the table, she took the poker and the ball of witchlight. The first door on her right was a bathroom. A narrow space with no room to maneuver if she had to fight. But it might have clean water, and that was something she needed right now.

“Wounded because I didn’t shield and got separated from my escort,” she said as she warily entered the bathroom. “Lucivar is going to be so pissed.”

Interesting. Why was the witch so concerned about the opinion of a male who wasn’t there? It wasn’t like she was ever going to hear what he thought of her mistakes.

Yes. That was a thought. Those pointed ears would make a fine trophy. Something to remember her by when she was absorbed into the spells of this house.

And then she wouldn’t have to worry about hearing anything.

Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded twice.

«Surreal?»

No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.

«Surreal!»

Rainier held his position. Waiting. Listening. Then he wove between the children and stopped at one of the hallway’s openings and held out the lamp, trying to get a better look at the room.

Not a room. It was the front hallway.

He looked at Kester, then tipped his head to indicate the other children. “Stay here. Keep them together.”

No sass from the boy. No arguments. No comments. Maybe it was finally sinking in that the children needed to do what they were told in order to survive.

He moved toward the front staircase. Could Surreal still be downstairs?

“Surreal?”

He peered over the banister. No sign of light down below.

The gong had sounded twice. One time would have been for the witchfire she needed to create in order to light the candle. The other?

She’d sensed something. Or someone. The second time the gong had sounded. Was that for a weapon or a shield?

Should have shielded when they first realized something was wrong. They had gambled on the degree of danger they were facing—and had underestimated their enemy.

She’d been coming up last, watching their backs. Should have been the safer position, since they’d already checked the kitchen.

Should have been.

What had changed in that moment between the last girl’s starting up the stairs and Surreal’s following her?

The last girl.

Rainier turned toward the opening leading to the back hall. Seven children had come up the stairs with him. But there shouldn’t be seven anymore. The fourth girl. The last one to come up the stairs. She wasn’t one of the children who had come into the house with them.

“Mother Night,” he whispered.

He rushed to the back hallway and stopped at the opening when he saw four children clustered around a closed door that Kester was trying to force open by slamming against it with his shoulder.

No sound. No warning of trouble. The girls had their mouths open and were probably yelling or screaming. The front hallway wasn’t that big. He should have heard Kester trying to break down the door.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he heard the screams.

Hell’s fire.

“Get back!” Rainier shouted. He kept moving, building momentum with every stride. Kester saw him at the last moment and dove out of the way as Rainier turned the last stride into a leap and kick.

The door crashed open, revealing a room emptied of furnishings…but not empty.

For a moment, he froze at the sight of the burns and scars on the stranger’s young body. An illusion spell must have hidden those injuries, just as it had hidden her ripped, dirty clothes. He felt sickened by what he saw—and even more sickened by what the girl had done.

The stranger wore openwork metal gauntlets, a kind of lethal jewelry witches sometimes wore. The fingers ended in razor-sharp talons. The ones on the girl’s hands dripped with blood.

Her mouth was smeared with blood. It ran down her chin like juice at some kind of primal feast.

She was cildru dyathe now. A demon-dead child—and a deadly predator.

Ginger lay on her back on the dirty wood floor, her neck, chest, and arms ripped to shreds by the talons.

No sound from her.

No hope for her.

The cildru dyathe sprang to her feet and ran toward the back of the room.

Rainier sprang after her.

She fumbled at the wall, the talons on the metal gauntlets tearing the old wallpaper as she searched for something.