Jeanne Stein - Retribution

Still, no fear. Her arrogance provokes a strange reaction in me. Not anger. Not resentment.

Confidence. I let the corners of my mouth tip up.

She frowns at the smile, waves an impatient hand in the direction of her fallen lackey. “It won’t be as easy for you to kill me as it was him.”

“No? Why?”

“You were defending your life with him. You won’t kill me, Anna. I’m an old woman. Bedridden. Helpless. You pride yourself on being human. You think you know what you are meant to do with that humanity. Protect the weak. I have nothing to fear from you.”

Even as I step close to the bed, her expression and tone don’t change. She is unafraid, contemptuous.

“You are a stupid girl. Like my sister. You made a mistake coming after me. A mistake you will regret. I will rest here awhile. Then I will return. You will not see it coming. Either of you.”

I move without thought, without hesitation. The knife slides in easily. Under the left breast. The blade meets no resistance.

I lean close, whisper in Burke’s ear. “You made the mistake, old woman. You mistake being human for being weak. I will always protect those I love. Always.”

I watch the surprise bloom and fade in dead eyes, watch life drain away. I keep pressure on the knife until I feel the last flutter of her heart, watch as her chest slows and caves with the expiration of her last breath.

When I withdraw the knife, the copper smell of her blood mingles with the waste released from a body already beginning to decay.

It is the smell of victory. The knife is suddenly weightless in my hand.

The amulet begins to glow again, but this time, for a different reason. I understand the message. My time is almost up.

Once again, instinct tells me what to do. I cup the charm in my hands. The room fades as my vision blurs. Night descends. Then, smoke.

An odor. Incense. A sound. The song of the witches.

I blink and I’m back.

The witches’ song stops. They gather round me, eager to know what happened, what the journey was like.

Words don’t come. It’s as if the last ten minutes belonged to someone else. When I replay it in my head, there is no feeling except one—

relief. That I’m back. That Burke is dead. That Sophie and I are safe.

Susan frowns. “Are you all right?”

I shake my head, not in response, but in an attempt to clear it. “I think so.”

Min takes the knife gently from my hand. Until that moment, I didn ’t realize I was still holding it. Burke’s blood stains the blade. “She’s dead?”

“Yes.”

By my hand. I glance down. No blood there.

I look up and see how much the three want details. Their faces shine with excitement. It was as much their journey as it was mine. They deserve to be told how their magic worked.

I can’t do it. Not now. My thoughts and feelings center on only one thing—I have to tell Sophie that her sister is dead.

When I leave them, it is with thanks for their help and a promise to be back. The concern for me in their eyes is like a mantle that sits heavy on my shoulders all the way home.

WHEN I WALK IN THE FRONT DOOR, SOPHIE IS waiting for me. She’s downstairs, sitting in the dark. Shivering. She’s twisted a blanket around her body, tightly, protection against a cold she alone feels. Her eyes shine in the light that filters through the windows.

Unshed tears make them shimmer and spark, glittering jewels that reflect like mirrors the moonlight so bright it turns night into day.

Her breath catches when she sees me.

I stop at the doorway.

She knows.

When I move to turn on a light, her voice, a ghostly echo, says, “Don’t.”

I drop my hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Sophie says.

“Not for killing Belinda. It had to be done. I am sorry for you.”

Sophie’s voice catches. “At least you’re honest. But Belinda couldn’t have hurt you. Not for a long time. You must have seen that.”

What I saw was a malicious old woman already plotting to come after me—and Sophie.

What I see before me now is a grieving woman, mourning the loss of a sister. I wonder how she knew. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. I’ve heard of twins having a psychic link. Perhaps sibling witches do, too? Did Burke come to her at the moment of her death? Did she make Sophie feel guilty because it was Sophie’s spell that left her vulnerable?

It’s easier to let Sophie direct her anger to me, to allow her to remember whatever good she can, than to shatter the illusion by telling her the truth. Burke was evil. If she had lived, Sophie and I both would have been targets of her revenge.

Fatigue washes over me.

“I need to sleep. Will you be all right?”

She doesn’t reply.

I’ll take care of her. Deveraux’s voice is hushed, grateful. I know what happened, Anna. I read it in your thoughts just now. You did the right thing. Eventually, she will see it, too.

Maybe. Sophie is staring straight ahead, tears now spilling freely from her eyes. For once, I ’m glad for Deveraux. Theirs is a bizarre relationship, but she’s not alone.

Not like me.

I trudge up the stairs, my heart as heavy as my legs. For the last few nights I ’ve slept in an unmade bed, with just a blanket wrapped around me. Now I pull a set of linens from the closet and tug, pull and smooth the sheets until the bed is made up. Tuck in blankets, fluff pillows.

I hope this simple housekeeping chore will relax me, remind me that my life is filled with more than monsters and killing. That it will prepare me for a good night’s sleep.

But when I finally crawl between those sheets, it’s not what happened today that banishes sleep from my mind.

It’s what’s going to happen tomorrow.

I’d almost forgotten.

Ortiz’ funeral is scheduled for two o’clock.

I’M UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. I SHOWER AND dress, eschewing my usual jeans and T-shirt and choosing instead black slacks and a cotton blouse under a black blazer.

For the funeral.

Sophie is asleep in the guest room. She must have come back upstairs sometime during the night.

I make a quick run down to Mission Café. I order eggs Benedict and a fruit cup and a couple of cinnamon rolls and have it all packaged to go. I never keep food in the house—no need—but I know Sophie had nothing to eat yesterday. If she’s hungry this morning, I want to have something ready for her.

Back at home, I place the eggs in a covered dish in a warm oven along with the cinnamon rolls and start the coffeepot.

Lance calls as I’m pouring my first cup. The sound of his voice warms me. He’ll be on the first flight in the morning and asks if I want to pick him up.

He’s coming home early. It’s an unexpected gift. I’m so grateful I can barely contain my excitement. I jot down the time and flight number.

Sophie appears in the kitchen just as I’m hanging up.

Deveraux makes the first comment. Boyfriend coming home?

His tone is smug. Obviously he listened in to my conversation with Lance on his way downstairs. It ’s aggravating enough to make me want to snap back at him. But Sophie hasn’t said anything, and I’m more concerned about her than irritated at Deveraux and his party tricks.

I point her to a place at the kitchen table. She drops into the chair, still without a word. I don’t want to push. I busy myself setting out the food and utensils.

She watches me with dull eyes. She does pick up the fork, finally, but instead of eating, moves the food around her plate in small, unenthusiastic circles. After a minute, she pushes the plate away. “I guess I’m not very hungry.”