Anya Bast - Witch Blood

Even free from its grasp, she couldn’t shake the cling of the partially finished doorway from her skin and hair. Her breath came in short, brutal bursts as she waited — prayed — for Boyle to fall. For it be over.

Lady, please . She didn’t want to be the last piece of that gateway of utter yuck.

Boyle turned and stared at her, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes glowed red and his lips parted, revealing razor sharp teeth. Slowly, he removed his hands and straightened, showing her clearly that his knife wound had healed.

Then he smiled.

Isabelle pushed to her feet. Base fear rocketed through her, burning down her veins and shooting up her spine. She wished she could be stronger, braver, but watching that demon smile at her made her whole body quake.

“Why won’t you just die!” she screamed at him. Because, Lady , she didn’t want to.

He took a step toward her and stumbled, his smile fading a little. “You don’t understand my motivation. I’m leaving this place.” He said this place like someone might say maggot . “I’m going home to my people, to the places I remember and love.” He stumbled again, but then straightened and walked steadily for her, as if gaining strength from the very idea of returning home. “I refuse to die.”

Isabelle backed up farther and farther. She simply couldn’t stop herself. It took every ounce of her willpower not to run, just as it seemed to take every ounce of Boyle’s not to die and keep slowly advancing on her. The bad thing was that she suspected Boyle’s will was stronger than hers.

However, the copper she’d injected into him was taking its toll. If Micah’s theory was correct, the copper was eating him up from the inside out. His body struggled to heal itself and regenerate tissue, just as he did with the external injuries inflicted with copper weapons. But copper taken internally would be far more harmful. Now it was simply a question of which was stronger, the killing effect of the liquid copper or his body’s healing ability.

She kept her gaze on Boyle’s shuffling feet as he neared her, completely unable to look up into those red, burning eyes — the ones that told her the end was near. “What tells you the sacrifice of five witches is all right? Because you have killed five, haven’t you, Boyle? You took another one before me.”

Shuffle. Pause. Shuffle. “Six witches. You haven’t yet discovered the third I killed. The one after your sister.

Her stomach lurched.

“You are aeamon , only half-breeds. It’s like slaughtering cattle, like hunting. It is nothing to kill you. Some aeamon I might take a liking to, like a human might care for a pet. I have taken such a liking to you.” Shuffle. Pause. “But make no mistake; I will still kill my dog if it means I can go home.”

Boyle stopped about five feet from her. Isabelle had backed herself up against the wall that had been farthest from him. The metal felt smooth and cool through her T-shirt.

“And the doorway? How does it work?” Her voice sounded hoarse and ravaged, as if she’d smoked a pack a day for the last twenty years. Really, she was just trying to stall, hoping the copper would do its work.

“I suppose you are owed an explanation. It appropriates the magick of the witches I sacrifice. Certain types of magick in certain amounts at certain times. Some witches I was able to take remotely, some I had to kill here. You, the last, must be killed in close proximity to the doorway.”

Boyle covered the last few feet that separated them with more strength than he’d displayed since she’d injected him. The rest of Isabelle’s hope died with a sick whine. The injected copper hadn’t worked.

“Will you fight me?” he asked.

She stiffened and gritted her teeth. “How can I? How can I when I know you’ll take my mother or some other witch in my place?” Even though every fiber in her body wanted to lash out at him, kick, punch, and scratch…then run for her life.

“That’s why it will not give me much pleasure to kill you.”

Much.

Boyle pulled her into his arms like he might a lover. Her mouth pressed against the smooth black leather of his jacket. She tasted something warm and salty and realized she was crying. He cradled her in his arms for a moment, long claw-tipped fingers brushing through her hair.

Then he lowered his mouth to her throat and bit.

Demons were like spiders, their venom squirting from their mouths into their prey, rendering them paralyzed.

Boyle’s sharp teeth pierced her skin like twenty needles. Pain shot through her body, making her twitch in something close to a convulsion. When she jerked against his teeth, it hurt even more so Isabelle went still and keened softly as blood ran down her neck. The demon groaned, as if in ecstasy, as if he loved the taste of her, and tightened his embrace.

The venom shot like acid straight into her bloodstream and Isabelle arched her back in agony, unable to do anything more. Her vision faded from color to black-and-white. The images she viewed were blurry around the edges.

Was this how Angela had felt?

No, she didn’t want to think about Angela. Anything but Angela.

A coat brushed her cheek for the millionth time. Darkness had swallowed her whole. She didn’t even know where the door was in the middle of the night when no light spilled beneath the crack. Hunger gnawed at her stomach lining. She’d gone through all the jacket pockets already and found nothing, not even any of those little plastic wrapped crackers from the restaurant. Her only comfort was Angela, slumped in sleep beyond the closet door, her breathing steady in the night.

The only steady thing in Isabelle’s life….

She came to lying in the center of the floor, not far from the doorway. Moving her limbs was fruitless, just as the involuntary scream that tore from her throat remained soundless, ineffective. Silent. Mute. Motionless.

Prey .

Just waiting .

Boyle lowered himself over her, her vision still in black and white. His mouth opened, but she heard nothing. The demon grasped her arms, cold fingers digging in. He lowered his mouth to hers and began to suck out the magick from the center of her.

Inwardly, she screamed. She writhed. She died.

Outwardly, she could do nothing but endure it.

Her heartbeat was the only thing she could hear. It beat loudly in her mind, growing slower. Her vision changed from black to white to blacker and then blacker still. Maybe she would be lucky and she would die before Boyle began to feast.

Had Angela died before that point?

Then Boyle was gone. The pressure on her chest eased and her magick snapped off where Boyle had bitten into it, sending a flash of searing pain through her and then nothing.

Unable to move, unable to see clearly, Isabelle only caught bits and pieces of the movement around her. Long black hair. Flashing copper sword.

Thomas .

Damn it. She’d known he’d show eventually. Fear for herself disappeared. Dread for Thomas replaced it. Movement flashed out of the corners of her eyes. Sword. Blood. Claws. Teeth.

Then, again, nothing.

Nothing but a pulsing, purring noise to go along with the beating of her heart. Soft at first, it grew louder and louder. Magick prickled against her skin, letting Isabelle know that the demon’s venom was wearing off.

Where was Thomas? And what was that alien magick scraping along her body?

The texture of the power rippled and grew stronger. The same stink of evil teased her nostrils and then Isabelle knew what it was. She felt a tug on her body like tiny hands that grew stronger.

Somehow, the doorway had opened.

Thomas appeared over her, blood running down his temple and coating his long black hair. He scooped her up into his arms. “We’ve got to get away from here,” he said, his voice sounding far away. “The doorway is appropriating Boyle’s magick as he dies and it’s opening, but it’s unstable. Pulling…pulling us in.”