Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

“Ding-dong, your witch is dead,” Sylvie chanted. “Got a bellyful of pain and died of it.”

Patrice raised a brow. “What makes you think she was my only option?” She leaned back, let the goth boy support her. She reached up, petted the young man’s pale cheek. “You don’t think I picked Aron here just for his skill with eyeliner. . . .”

The goth boy smiled, ducked his head again, let the feathery spikes of his hair brush Patrice’s skin. He never took his gaze from Sylvie. “It’s true,” he said. “I’m magic from my head to my tippy-toes.”

Sylvie said, “I bet I can shoot her before you whip out a spell.”

“You’re not that stupid,” Patrice said, a smile curving her mouth. It was a smile Sylvie had seen so many times before; Bella Alvarez, her sister’s best friend. There had never been such a level of malevolence behind it, though. “Shoot me, Aron’s good enough to keep me alive. And all these lovely witnesses will see you in jail. Maybe even alongside Odalys.”

In the perpetual-motion machine that was a nightclub, their careful immobility drew eyes like a mountain set down on a beach. The bouncer, a tattooed Cuban cowboy in a wifebeater, waded in their direction.

Sylvie holstered her gun as smoothly as possible, but the bouncer picked up his pace; he’d recognized that movement. Sylvie slid her own hands onto Patrice’s curving waist as if they were dancing. Patrice went rigid and still, but Sylvie had found out what she wanted to know. The belly chain wasn’t magically active, wasn’t the thing that kept Patrice safe, no matter the decorative charms.

“Hey,” Aron said, pulling Patrice out of Sylvie’s grasp, slipping her behind him. “You want to grapple with someone, try me instead.” He insinuated himself into her space, so close she could smell his greasepaint and cologne. Acrid with a strong swell of musk and incense beneath. He closed his hands on her coat, pulled her against him; if the belly chain Patrice wore wasn’t magic, something Aron wore most definitely was. Magic burned against Sylvie’s skin, a ripple of energy as lively as a snake, even through two layers of leather jackets.

“Get off me,” Sylvie said, her words tangling with Patrice’s, “Let’s get out of here.”

A puff of laughter in Sylvie’s ear, Aron’s breath oddly hot on her nape. “I hear and obey. See you later, Shadows.”

Just as the bouncer reached them, Aron backed away, taking Patrice with him, disappearing first into the crowd, then, on a wash of heated tropical air, onto the street. The bouncer glowered at Sylvie, and she held up her hands. “I just want a drink.”

“No trouble,” he said.

“Of course not,” Sylvie promised. It was easy enough to make; trouble had just left the building.

She crunched her ice with growing anger. Self-directed. She hadn’t thought that confrontation through at all. She’d meant to rattle Patrice’s cage, and all she had to show for it was a woman more determined to kill her than ever.

AN HOUR LATER, SHE WAS STILL IN THE NIGHTCLUB, THOUGH SHE’D moved from the barstool to a booth, propped her legs up on the opposite seat, and dared others to sit down.

The music throbbed in her ears, loud, discordant, reasonably enjoyable for all that. Some rock fusion; metal in an eastern scale, twisty and rhythmic. Sylvie reminded herself to mention the band to Alex. She sipped her soda—if Aron the witchy goth boy was going to come gunning for her, it was no time for alcohol—and chewed the ice, and tried to decide what to do with herself. Wales was expecting her, but was it fair to take her troubles back to him?

He’d already killed for her once today.

She kept remembering him rubbing bruises into life beneath his eyes, that tired and shell-shocked brittleness to his voice. I killed her.

Wales had lost a lot when he started working in the Magicus Mundi ; today, she’d helped him lose another piece of innocence. He needed some downtime to deal with it. She couldn’t give him much time—they had to break the women free—but she could give him a single night.

“Sylvie,” Cachita said. Shouted really, over the screaming, jangling guitar solo.

Sylvie looked up at Cachita. The woman was dressed to be sorcerer bait again, this time in a short white halter dress with a leopard-print belt. Gold jewelry. Red heels. Sylvie heard Zoe drawling, ta-cky , in her head, and bit back a grin.

Cachita pointed at Sylvie’s feet, and Sylvie reluctantly tugged them back, opening up the other side of the booth. Cachita plopped down into it with a sigh more seen than heard. A man followed her to the table, some local businessman drowning his sorrows, his tie loosened, his suit jacket rumpled. He tried to squeeze in beside Cachita, and Sylvie propped her feet back up, blocking him from taking a seat.

“Aw, c’mon, I’ll buy you drinks,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Sylvie said. “No room.” She tipped her glass at him, and he stomped away. He retreated across the room, leaned back against the bar, and watched them. Cachita crossed her arms protectively across her chest.

“Pig,” she said, then shook her head.

The band switched over to a softer tune, and Cachita said, “The problem with attempting to lure out a sorcerer with a taste for young women is that you also catch a bunch of mundane assholes.”

“What would you do with the sorcerer if you ran into him?” Sylvie asked, her mind still dwelling on her failed attempt to scare Patrice.

Cachita smiled, her expression going wicked. “Taser him. I’ve been reading up. Sorcerers can be shot if you’re fast enough. So I figure they can be electrified.”

Sylvie reluctantly gave Cachita some credit. It was an ingenious idea. It might even work. The sorcerer might have a bulletproof shield of some type, but a Taser might be a loophole. Nonlethal. Maybe something that would penetrate the magical defenses.

“Then what?” she asked. “Say it worked?”

“I’d call you and say, ‘Hey, Sylvie, got a sorcerer all trussed up.’”

Sylvie laughed. “Nice way to deal with your problem.”

“I’m a reporter, not a vigilante,” Cachita said.

“You’re stalking the streets, hunting an evil sorcerer with a Taser,” Sylvie said. “What’s your definition of vigilante, again?”

Cachita flashed a smile, then grew serious. She leaned across the table, and said, “Actually, I came out tonight to find you. Your assistant said she thought you might be here.”

“Alex’s getting pretty talky around you,” Sylvie said.

“Maybe I just know how to ask. Oh, don’t get huffy,” Cachita said. “We were getting along so well. Look, I brought you stuff.” She put her purse on the table, a smaller thing than Sylvie had seen her carry before. When she opened it, it held only a few items. The Taser, a wallet, a digital recorder, her smart phone, and a memory stick. She held the memory stick out toward Sylvie, pulled it away when Sylvie reached for it.

“I’m not giving it to you,” Cachita said. “But I want you to see what’s on it.”

“The missing women,” Sylvie said. “You going to give me their names now?” She did want that information. Wanted it badly.

“Come back to my place,” Cachita said. “I’ve got more than their names. I’ve also found a pattern of similarities among the missing women. And some other mysterious murders you might wanna see.”

“One conspiracy at a time,” Sylvie said.

Cachita rolled her eyes; the decibels rose exponentially, and Sylvie caved. There’d be no talking in the club.

Outside, the silence fell over them like a balm. False silence, really. The streets hissed with traffic; the bass followed them onto the street; people hung out beneath streetlamps and talked.