Caitlin Kittredge - Soul Trade

Pete felt as if somebody had kicked her legs out. “Excuse me?” she’d said, hating the wobble in her voice. Jack had disappeared on one of his errands to one of his many shady mates, saying there were things he needed before they went to Manchester, so she was on her own, the only one who could answer. She’d never wanted to smack Jack in the head more than at that moment.

“Clear you two are mixed up in some badness.” Lawrence shrugged. “Don’t think it’s a crazy question.”

“I…” Pete swallowed the hard stone that had grown in her throat. “My mum, I suppose,” she said at last. “She’s, um … she’s prickly, but she’ll look after Lily just fine.”

That was more than she could say for her older sister MG, or any of Jack’s crop of degenerate friends who weren’t Lawrence. Her mother, the one person in her family who hated magic and those who had anything to do with it, was the only one she could trust. Pete swiped a hand over her face and tried to look at Lawrence like everything was all right.

“Right then,” Lawrence said, and she saw from his expression she’d failed miserably. “See you in a week or so. And Pete?” He stopped her with his free hand on her arm. Pete chewed on her lip, which was as raw as her nerves at that moment.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Take care of Jack for me,” Lawrence said. “He ain’t been himself since, well. Since he got himself that new ink, and that new bargain with the dark lady.”

“I always bloody take care of him, don’t I?” Pete snapped. Lawrence didn’t deserve being yelled at, but she didn’t have the reserves to be civil any longer.

Take care of Jack. As if anyone else would want that thankless job. She’d been taking care of Jack since the moment they’d crossed back into each other’s lives. She’d gotten him clean of drugs. She’d chased him into every godforsaken corner of the Black as the Morrigan’s hold on him got tighter and tighter. And likely she’d chase him into the fire of Hell itself when he finally went down for good.

She could lie to herself and pretend that wouldn’t happen, but she’d made her decision. Left her life, left everything normal, and thrown in her lot with Jack. Had a child with him, for fuck’s sake.

That was as entwined as it got. And if she were honest, it wasn’t as if he’d trapped her like a princess in a maze of thorns. She cared about Jack, and had for most of her life. She loved Jack, despite all his bad mistakes and bad choices. He was the only one who’d been there for her since her father died. Jack would walk through fire for her, and even when things were as bad as they were right now, she recognized the rarity of that.

When she’d met Jack at Victoria, they hadn’t spoken much until they were on the train, and even less after they were in motion, rolling slowly through North London and picking up speed in the Midlands.

Lawrence’s comment wouldn’t leave her alone. She cared about Jack, knew he wasn’t perfect and would never be. She wasn’t perfect either. She had ghosts and scars. But the fact was, her ghosts didn’t have teeth, and her scars weren’t inflicted by a thing like the Morrigan. Those were facts, and much as she wanted to ignore them they remained, permanent as Jack’s tattoos. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be drawing breath, shouldn’t be walking around. He had died. Pete had watched it happen. The demon that Jack had bargained his soul to had collected and taken him to Hell. He should never have escaped, but he had, and when he’d died again, that should have been that. People died. Eight months visiting her da’s cancer ward had drilled that home to Pete hard and fast.

But that hadn’t been the end, either, and when he’d escaped the clutches of the Morrigan and sent Nergal back where the demon belonged, he’d come back different.

He wasn’t her Jack. She could pretend everything had gone on as usual, but her Jack, the one she’d known since she was sixteen, the one with the devilish grin and the absolute disregard for anything after the next moment—that Jack had died when the demon collected his soul. When he’d returned to her after Nergal had been vanquished, he’d been different. Not someone else entirely, but as if he’d turned up with pieces missing. Part of Jack was still with the Morrigan, and part of the Hag rode his body in place of everything that had made him truly human.

Pete had tried to ask him about it, once, but she’d gotten such a look from him, of murderous rage and loss and grief and fear all at once, that she’d never brought it up again. Jack didn’t remember what had happened with the Morrigan, or so he claimed, and Pete figured it was best for all if it stayed that way.

She felt the train grind to a halt, and her eyes popped open. Jack was snoring beside her, but when she turned back to the window nothing but green greeted her. The trees stretched away on either side, moss covered and ancient. She’d never seen trees like this, so gnarled and close in.

Pete waited for a moment for an announcement from the conductor, but none came. The tube lights in the ceiling of the car hummed, and she fidgeted until a flash of movement caught her eye.

The raven landed on the closest branch, impossibly large and stony-eyed. It tilted its head this way and that, and then it leaned toward her.

“ You should go home, Weir, ” it croaked.

Pete started, but she didn’t react otherwise. “Oh, really,” she said. “And why is that?”

The raven hopped a bit closer, the moss-covered branch bending dangerously under its weight. “ You know this isn’t going to end well. You are not a meddler, Weir. Leave the mages to their schemes and the gods to their plans.”

“I’m not,” Pete agreed. “And for that reason, I don’t appreciate the Hag sticking her nose in my business.”

“ The crow woman shares your sentiment,” said the raven. “ This is no place for you, Weir. Your presence will only make matters worse. Destruction walks in your wake, and you should stay away … for Jack’s sake as well as yours.”

“That’s all very menacing and portentous,” Pete said, faking. “But I’ve got a better idea—how about you fuck off, and I’ll get on with my day?” Bravado was the only thing that worked on things like the Morrigan’s messengers. It was that or scream, and she would never give the Hag the satisfaction.

The raven shifted, head tilting to the side. “ You are not afraid of us.”

Pete snorted. “You think you’re the first old god to visit me in my dreams? I am the Weir. It’s practically commonplace.”

She’d never get used to the dreams. Weirs had the power to dream the truth, which also made them a handy conduit for any entity that wanted to speak its piece to the daylight world.

“ The warning remains, ” the raven said. “ The Morrigan will not be denied. She is death, she is—”

“She is eternal,” Pete said. “Second verse, same as the first. Here’s a tip—if you want me to pay attention to anything that raggedy old crow has to say, tell her to change her fucking record.”

The raven twitched, and then abruptly it took flight, a black shadow flicking across the sun, gone in the blink of an eye. Pete exhaled. Fucking gods and monsters were all the same, thinking they could just tune in on you any time they liked.

The train window, rimed with a thin layer of raindrops, cracked in a spider web pattern directly in front of Pete’s face, with a force that pasted her back in her seat. This time, when Pete looked, it wasn’t a raven staring back at her, but the glowing gold eyes of the Morrigan herself. Her face was pale, chased with black veins, and her hair was feathery and black, flying around her head as wind and rain lashed the train car.