Lyn Benedict - Lies & Omens

She laughed and lowered her gun, and when the wolves charged her, whining and snarling, claws scratching the stone floor, she let them brush into her, through her, and disappear. “My baby sister casts better illusions than that, Kent.” Two pissed-off, slavering werewolves and the room behind them was neat as a pin?

While he gaped, and the witches behind him held a hasty spell consultation, Sylvie ran forward. The floor here was the same malachite-shaded marble. And it let her drop and slide into him as solidly as she had ever managed while playing high-school baseball. She seized the talisman around his throat and yanked. Wouldn’t hurt him, but it jerked him around, let her use him as her own shield. She kicked out at the other two witches, disrupting their spell casting, tangling her legs in theirs.

Dangerous, her voice shouted, ringing in her ears.

Dogpiled with three witches who were wearing invulnerability talismans and wanted to kill her? Yeah, thanks, she knew. If her voice didn’t have useful suggestions, it could shut the hell up.

She tangled them all closer; the spells warred and sparked. The remaining locked door shuddered in its frame, and Sylvie turned her head to bite down hard on Kent’s throat. Couldn’t hurt him, but people had atavistic reactions hardwired. He flinched, ducked his head, trying to get her off his throat, pulled away. Perfect setup. She yanked the talisman’s cord over his head, got her gun up, and shot him in the soft underside of his jaw.

She deafened herself, stunned herself with the concussion of it, but managed to cling tight to both the talisman and her gun. Another distant crack sounded; she rolled to her feet, staggering, preparing for illusion or magic or—

Marah Stone, furious, diving directly for the witch nearest her. She got her Cain-marked hand around the woman’s throat and squeezed. The marks on her hand seemed to pulse with the woman’s labored breaths.

Invulnerability talisman or not, the woman choked.

Marah was another of God’s killers, Sylvie thought, swaying. Blood scent burned thickly in her nose, rested heavy on her hair and skin.

The remaining witch dithered between Sylvie and helping his partner, and Sylvie made the decision for him. She shoved him hard, pushed him off balance, pushed him right into Demalion’s waiting arms.

Demalion skinned his hand down the man’s neck, yanked up, and pulled out another talisman, the twin to the one Sylvie had removed from Kent. “Always had to ape Kent. See what it gets you, O’Neal?” Before the man could mouth a single spell, Demalion broke his neck.

Sylvie had a sudden and unwelcome flashback. The last time Demalion had broken a man’s neck for her, he’d died half a second later.

This time, he merely let the body drop. “Sylvie.”

“Good timing,” she said. She couldn’t stop her gaze from lasering up and down his body, looking for injury.

“Saw you playing Twister with Kent’s crew and thought you’d appreciate a hand.”

“Another point for precognitive skills,” she said. “Remind me to send your mother a thank-you note. Not to sound ungrateful, because I’m thrilled, relieved, blissfully happy, all those things, but why the hell aren’t you dead?”

Demalion flashed a smug grin. “Well. Marah told Yvette she’d join her if the price was right, so they locked her up until they had time to haggle.”

Marah said, “She can’t afford me, but I was curious.”

“As for me…

“Yvette thinks if she kills him, he’ll just change bodies, again,” Marah put in. She was searching the witch’s clothes, stripping her of anything that might be useful. Small charms, a knife, a .22 that Marah sneered at but pocketed anyway.

“I freak Yvette out,” Demalion said. “She’s scared that if I get killed, I’ll take over one of her men, and she won’t know which one.”

“Wonder how she got that impression,” Marah said. Her grin wasn’t nice at all.

“Paranoia working for us,” Sylvie said. “Doesn’t happen nearly enough.”

“Is it paranoia?” Marah asked. “I bet he could do it.”

Demalion said, “I’d rather not test the theory.”

“Yeah, let’s not,” Sylvie said. “I’ve just gotten used to you as a blond.”

A muffled concussion vibrated through the stone. Hard to tell directionality when it was beneath her feet, but Sylvie knew.

“Zoe—Oh hell, I left them fighting witches. They’re outnumbered.”

“In the antechamber?” Marah said. She pulled the witch’s talisman off the body, held it up before her, spinning at the end of its cord. The talisman, an etched, wooden scapular, looked burned. Marah’s handprint discolored the lines of spellcraft on it. Marah closed her fingers, and the wood crumbled. “Give me Kent’s, Sylvie. You don’t need it. Your sister might.”

Sylvie passed it over without hesitation, blood-spotted and sticky as it was.

“For Lupe, then,” Demalion said, handing Marah O’Neal’s talisman. “Did you see Yvette, Syl?”

“Every other witch in the world, seems like. But not her.”

“Two covens’ worth,” Demalion said. “There was one maintained here, when we were brought in. And Yvette brought her own. Well, most of her own. You killed five at Dallas.”

“Killed Merrow, too,” Sylvie said. “Shit. We’re missing at least four. And however many monsters they can control.”

“So what,” Marah said. “You shoot them. They die.” She tucked both talismans into her jacket pocket.

“You make it sound easy,” Sylvie rasped. Her throat was dry. She wanted a glass of water. Fighting was thirsty work. “Some things are immune to bullets. Yvette’s not likely to let me get close enough to yank off her talisman, and you can’t tell me she’s not wearing one.”

Marah lunged forward, shoved Sylvie against the doorjamb, and said, “You still don’t get it, do you? It’s not your bullets that do the job. It’s you , pulling the trigger. You kill things that can’t be killed by regular means. And you do it with a gun. Because you like guns. You kill things. That’s who you are. The gun is irrelevant. You’re the weapon.”

“Weirdest pep talk ever,” Sylvie said. Her heart thudded. The little dark voice crowed, Yes, yes, yes .

The ground vibrated again, arguing that whether Zoe was behind the mini-earthquakes or not, she was still fighting.

Demalion stepped closer to the curtain, and Sylvie winced, hissed his name in warning. He shook his head. “Spell’s one-way.”

“You know this place?”

“Guards talk,” he said. He peered through the curtain, let it drop. “Still empty.”

A third, sharper force vibrated through the room, this time shaking the doors in their frames. She took a step back the way she’d come. Zoe …

“Don’t be stupid,” Marah said. “You don’t have time. You’ve got to stop Yvette.”

“Why can’t you do it? I’ve let you out of your cell,” Sylvie said.

Marah said. “The thing about being a government assassin—you know when to leave the work to the specialists. In this case, that’s you. You take care of Yvette and her little memory-modification business. I’ll take care of your sister, your monster, and watching your back.”

“Awfully generous of you,” Sylvie said. Her neck was going to be sore from the quick glances she was casting around. Checking to see that the witches stayed dead, checking the curtain, checking the doorway that Yvette had to have gone through. Checking to make sure Demalion was at her side, still living.

“Don’t worry. I’m running a tab. When all this is done, I’m going to ask you for a favor. And you’re going to give it to me.” Marah licked her lips. “You have a spare gun? A .22’s not much unless you’re right up close. I’d like to avoid that until the numbers are better.”