Chloe Neill - Blood Games

“Whatever the reason,” Ethan said, “he’s violent now.”

“Indeed.” Jacobs nodded. “And we want to keep Merit and Ms. Carmichael as safe as we can.” He looked at Catcher. “We’ve got quiet eyes on the building. He’s there with her, and making arrangements. If anything happens before we can move in, they’ll move in first.”

At Catcher’s nod, Jacobs pointed to the map, to a spot in the front of the building where the turret rose. “They’re here, just in front of the turret. Merit, you’ll approach him directly, across the lawn.” He traced a finger from the street to the spot where Curt had Mallory. “We want him to be able to see you, to watch you move forward. No swords, no weapons. You’ll walk nice and slow, and you’ll keep your hands in the air. You just want to talk to him.”

“Am I negotiating?”

“Excellent question,” Rainey said. “And kind of. You’ll ask him about himself. Find out his needs. You’re there to help him. These elaborate presentations show a kind of pridefulness, a flair for the dramatic. Appeal to that, to his ego. We want a safe resolution of this problem for everyone, and you’re there to facilitate it.”

I nodded. “And if he doesn’t go for it?”

“I suspect he’ll want to talk to you,” Rainey said. “To talk through Mitzy’s betrayal, to talk about his creations.”

“In the meantime,” Jacobs said, “we’ll surround the building. We’ll come in from the back, while you approach from the front.”

I generally saw Jacobs as a kind of grandfatherly figure: smart, dedicated, and gentlemanly, much like my own. But there was nothing gentlemanly about the look in his eyes. It was cold, and it was all cop.

“You keep him occupied until we can bust the little shit.”

I had no objection to that.

We proceeded on foot in teams. The SWAT members and Jacobs to the back of the building, the Ombuddies, me, and Ethan to the front. My grandfather was the connection between them, a headset in place so he could communicate with the other half of the team.

The photograph had been true to the building. It was square and squat and looked like a castle. I could easily imagine a bride and groom posing for photographs, the castle behind them, surrounded by their wedding party.

But tonight, the scene was much more grim.

A floodlight in the landscaping shone on the turret, highlighting notches in the masonry and tile roof . . . and the woman who lay on the sloping ground in front of it. Her arms and legs were spread and tied, and she was naked, her hair awkwardly braided to fall across one breast. Her eyes were closed—and I didn’t mind if she was unconscious for this part—but her chest rose and fell slowly. She was alive. Not that that helped Catcher’s rage.

Magic burst from him as he took in the sight of her. “I’ll kill him. I will rip each of his arms from his body and shove them up his”—but Ethan pulled him back.

“Stick to the plan. You rush in there, he’ll act rashly. You know that.”

When he was certain Catcher wouldn’t move, he turned to me, put his hands on my shoulders, rubbed. “Fix this for me, Merit. Fix this, and be careful. We’ll be here, waiting.”

I blew out a breath, nerves beginning to fire, fear beginning to settle in. I was about to walk across the lawn to the spot where a serial killer prepared to summarily execute my best friend.

I glanced at Ethan. “What if I can’t stop him?”

His responding gaze was unequivocal, his tone matter-of-fact. “Nonsense. You are Sentinel of my House. You have a job, and you’ll do it with gusto, as you always have.” He moved in and, despite the crowd around us, pressed his lips to mine.

Now stand Sentinel for Mallory, he silently said.

He was excellent at motivation. I looked at my grandfather and, at his nod, walked across the lawn.

Curt knelt beside Mallory, a set of small pennants in his hands, which were marked with blue crosses. He stuck them in the ground around her body, presumably to mirror the castle pennants on the card. Her arms and legs, I could see now, were tied to small wooden stakes in the ground. I didn’t see any weapon, but I could feel the tingle of them.

He raised his head like a startled deer, jumped to his feet, and pulled a handgun from the waistband of his pants. He pointed it at Mallory with an unwavering arm. “If you take one step closer, I will kill her.”

I stopped, held up my hands. “Okay. You’re in charge. I’ll do whatever you want.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “You can’t stop me. Not now.” He gestured toward the scene he’d prepared. “I’m nearly done.”

“So I see. And with the Four of Wands of the Fletcher deck.”

His eyes shined with pride. “Fucking A.”

“That was tricky—using the tarot. It took us some time to figure it out.”

“That’s because I’m smarter than most of the assholes that come into the store. They waste money on herbs, on spells, on nonsense.”

“You don’t believe in magic?”

“Of course not. It’s a waste of time and money. But it’s a job, you know? Pays my fucking bills.” His smile was cold. “I get to make money off their ignorance, and that’s fine with me.”

If Curt could see Mallory in her prime, fiery eyes and flames shooting from her fingertips, he’d have a very different view of what was and was not bullshit.

But the comeuppance would have to wait. My job was to keep him talking.

“Was Mitzy one of the ignorant ones?”

Like a switch had been flipped, his entire expression changed, softened. “Mitzy was part of me. We were connected. I got her a job at the Magic Shoppe—did you know that? Got her a job, helped her get her apartment. Tried to teach her how to respect me—how to respect the man she was dating.” His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away with his hand, which smeared blue paint across his face.

“You loved Mitzy,” I said.

“I love her,” he corrected. “We have a real connection. An honest connection.”

“But she was unfaithful to you?”

She hadn’t been, actually. Skylar-Katherine said they’d already broken up when Mitzy went on the date with Brett. But if Curt had built a shrine to Mitzy in his house, I doubt he appreciated the distinction.

His jaw trembled as he tried to stem his rising anger. “She was confused. I got her the job,” he said again. “And she didn’t give me a single word of thanks. And then she left me—” His voice wavered, but he shook his head, tried to control himself. “She just needed to learn. She needed to learn what was real, and what wasn’t.”

“And you tried to teach her?”

“She needed to be taught,” he said, voice low and sinister. Angry Curt was back again. “She went out with that asshole, like she had the right. He’s a big fucking deal because his dad’s a cop.”

He grinned, but there was no happiness in his eyes. “Cop or not, I took care of him. He came into the store once looking for her while I was there. Said he got a kick out of the ‘magic stuff.’ But I was the one who worked at the store, wasn’t I? Me, not him. Asshole. He likes magic so much, he can die with it.”

“And Mitzy? Did you take care of her?”

Curt jerked his hand around his head, as if waving off a nest of hornets. “I took care of her, too. And made it magical.” He rubbed the backs of his hands over his face, smearing more blue across it, his white teeth a maniacal contrast.

“Fucking tarot. It’s a pack of cards with pretty pictures. She wants to believe in that nonsense? Fine. I’ll help her believe in it.”

As if remembering what he was doing here, he kicked the stake that held Mallory’s left arm, jarring it. Her eyes were still closed, but she made a low groan.