Anya Bast - Witch Blood

Green light.

They were getting near the warehouse and Isabelle knew she had to do it. It was time, past time. Her heart pounding so fast she thought she’d have a heart attack — preferable to the way she was about to die — Isabelle moved.

Boyle roared in protest as she took her arm from his body, but Isabelle ignored him. She plunged her hand down her shirt, sought the syringe, and yanked it out. Gripping the top between her teeth, she pulled the needle free, stuck it into the demon’s neck, and pushed the plunger down.

The liquid copper shot into Boyle’s throat.

Syringe empty.

Boyle gurgled. The bike wavered. Isabelle looked down at the swiftly passing road beneath them. They righted for a moment and then the demon made a choking, snorting, screaming noise.

And they tipped.

The bike fell to the right and spilled Isabelle to the pavement. They’d been going about fifty miles an hour and in the split-second before Isabelle made contact with the road, her mind went completely blank — totally clear. Then she hit. No pain exploded through her. Nothing but softness met her head and body as she slid and rolled across the road and onto the sidewalk.

Isabelle lay on her side, motionless and aware. Clearly, she’d gone into shock and that’s what had blocked the pain of the crash. If she looked down at her body now, she’d see blood, ragged flesh, and twisted limbs.

She decided not to look.

Instead she watched the bike scrape against the pavement, screeching in a fiery symphony of destruction down the middle of the street. Boyle went with it, his leg trapped under the twisted metal. The cycle came to a halt near the curb, the demon motionless.

Had she killed him? Was this nightmare finally at an end? She was still conscious. Did that mean she’d actually lived through the ordeal as well? Or was the numb coldness stealing through her body merely a precursor to death?

The sound of scraping metal once more filled the air. The motorcycle moved and Boyle shifted beneath it, groaning.

“No,” Isabelle whispered, lifting her head. “Oh, no.”

“Get up!” Thomas’s voice. Strong hands under her arms, lifting her. “Isabelle, get up! He’s not dead.”

“What?” She pushed to her feet and glanced down. No blood. Not even a scratch. Not even her clothing was torn. “What’s—”

“I cushioned your fall. Concrete is part of my dominion as an earth witch.” He hauled her down the street as he spoke. “We have to get you far from here in case Boyle recovers and comes after you.”

“Wait!” She pushed at him. “No, I can’t run.” Isabelle turned and headed back toward Boyle.

Thomas grabbed her and lifted her off her feet, carrying her up the street toward his still running car. “Have you lost your mind?”

She fought in his embrace. “No! You don’t understand. Let me go!”

“You can explain it when we’re five miles away, okay?”

Unable to break Thomas’s iron-strong grip any other way, Isabelle focused on the water in his fingers, hands and arms, forcing it to momentarily heat up. Thomas yelped and dropped her.

Isabelle tumbled to the ground and righted herself, struggling to her feet. “I can’t leave now. Boyle will pick another witch to take my place. Either he dies…or I die. I won’t allow this to happen any other way.”

Thomas stared at her for a moment before replying. “You made some kind of deal with Boyle? You either go willingly with him or he takes another witch in your place?”

She nodded furiously, her gaze straying behind Thomas to where Boyle was rousing from the ground. “ My mother , in point of fact. He meant to take my mother in my place. Yes, I have issues with her, but I can’t let Boyle kill her.”

Boyle looked badly injured and hope flared within her. Judging from the way he moved Isabelle doubted he could get very far from his current location, which was comfortably distant from their own.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

She made a frustrated noise and clenched her fists. “Because I knew you’d do this! You’d rush in all knight in shining armor and let the demon kill you before he hurt me. I tried to keep you out of this so you would be safe. The Coven needs you, Thomas. Witchdom needs you. No one in the world needs me.”

Thomas’s response came swiftly. He reached out, grabbed her and crushed her to him. “ I need you, Isabelle.”

For a split-second she melted into him, closing her eyes at the emotion in his voice. Then she pushed away, putting him at arm’s length. “Thank you for that, but I won’t let Boyle put another witch in my place.”

“No, you…won’t.” The voice came from behind her. Low. Rasping. Forced. In pain.

Boyle .

He put his hands on her shoulders. Apparently, she’d been wrong about Boyle’s ability to move. Unfortunate.

Isabelle held Thomas’s gaze for a moment. She knew she looked resigned.

Boyle poofed her.

SHE COULD STILL HEAR THOMAS’S AGONIZED BELLOWringing in her ears when she suddenly found herself in the warehouse, her stomach roiling and her head pounding. Isabelle took two steps forward, staggered and went down on her hands and knees. Bile coated the back of her mouth and flooded her mouth with bitterness.

Her hands pressing into the cold concrete, she closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on not passing out. Boyle’s way of transporting people really sucked. She’d prefer a car to that any day.

Behind her came heavy, shuffling footsteps and a low groan. Keeping her head bent, she opened her eyes and stuck her hand up her sleeve, her fingers closing around the hilt of her copper knife.

“You won’t live long enough to kill me, Boyle. You’re done.” Her voice echoed steady and harsh in the quiet of the warehouse. “It’s in the sound of your voice and the cadence of your step. Death .”

No sound. Not even a whisper of breath filled her ears. Isabelle hoped for one wild moment…then four shuffling steps toward her. Huge hands thrust under her armpits and lifted.

She’d expected to be yanked, thrown, hit, something violent. The demon’s touch was gentle instead, almost caring.

“I’m going home,” he whispered as he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t you understand? I’m going home .”

“Not if I can help it.” Isabelle stabbed him in the throat.

Boyle dropped her. She fell to the concrete and this time Thomas wasn’t there to cushion her fall. Isabelle hit her elbows, tailbone, and jarred her teeth. Boyle screamed and backed away from her, pulling the blade from his throat and tossing it across the warehouse.

Maybe his immune system had been weakened by the straight shot of copper into his body. Maybe he’d run out of “allergy shots.” In any case, the wound she’d made with the blade smoked and popped, the gash growing larger. Acidic blood dripped and sizzled onto the floor.

Isabelle crab-walked back away from him, toward the door. She knew she couldn’t leave until the demon was dead, but she went for the exit involuntarily anyway. Boyle held his hands to his throat, screaming, and tossing his head. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him, like a child needs to escape the monster in her closet that isn’t imaginary after all.

She backed through the sticky part of the air that Adam had found. Her stomach lurched as the tendrils of half-baked magick pulled at her clothing, skin, and hair. Made up of the power from the murdered witches, the partially open doorway stung her nostrils like undiluted evil, like she’d snorted dark, bitter ale through her nose.

Isabelle gasped and shot backward, out of its range. It was much stronger than the last time she’d gone through it. Boyle’s spell was nearly finished. She was the last key. Apparently, he’d taken another witch before her. They’d made it harder on Boyle with their list, but they hadn’t stopped him.