All Things Wicked (8 page)

Let her.

Caleb shook his head as the pressure in his temples mounted. Pulsing in his ears, the droning hum thickened; he fought back the pain.

The knocking onslaught of Juliet’s magic.

Focus. He had to focus.

The tattooed man sighted down the length of his extended arm. The gun winked, catching the light and reflecting it back to his wild grin. “You think I can’t make this shot?”

“I think you’re not stupid enough to try,” Caleb replied.
Please, God, don’t be stupid enough to try.

Juliet shuddered, her skin suddenly clammy under his grip. “Oh, no,” she whispered. The pain in her voice was worse than any bullet could ever be.

Caleb locked his jaw.

“Alive doesn’t mean unhurt,” the witch said simply.

“I hate you,” she said brokenly, voice scratchy and raw. “I’m so stupid. I let you do it again, I can’t . . . I can’t—”

Sweat pooled at the base of his spine as Caleb met the leader’s eyes over the glinting weapon. “You hurt her—” he began, so softly, so dangerously that even he didn’t recognize his own voice, but the man winked.

Bang
, he mouthed silently.

Shit.

Caleb was already moving as the witch pulled the trigger. Juliet shrieked as he whipped her around, locking his ankle between hers, and sent her sprawling to the broken ground. Pain detonated through his left side; too-tight skin and ligaments shrieked as they stretched and popped and tore.

A new pain sliced through his right, meeting somewhere in the middle and culminating in a rough, ragged breath as Caleb completed his spin. He lowered his head to charge, but the buzzing noise in his head turned to something white-hot and frenetic.

His feet scraped over rubble. His legs gave out, sent him sprawling.

Juliet sobbed something behind him, and he struggled to push himself to his feet. His elbows folded, dumping him face-first to the ground and earning him a mouthful of grit. Swearing, gasping, he struggled to push through the feverish pressure.

His limbs weren’t working.

Somewhere to his right, a column of fire erupted into a geyser of flame. A thousand shards glittered back as it licked the ceiling pipes, rusted stars in his pulsating vision. A man shrieked; was it him?

No, Caleb couldn’t breathe deeply enough to scream. Agony shredded his head, lanced through his nerves and filled every reduced breath with something thick and wet and torturous. The ruins turned orange, flickered violently to an eerie, demonic blue as Juliet screamed behind him.

Another voice rose. Long and loud and excruciating. Caleb scrabbled at the rock, his fingers too thick, his body slipping and sliding as he half crawled, half dragged himself toward her.

Pale skin, wild hair, lunatic eyes; her features branded themselves into his mind as the fire guttered out. Juliet screamed. Screamed and screamed until her voice became claws piercing into his brain, digging and scrabbling and wrenching until something tore.

Corpses. Twisted limbs and no faces; numbers. Only numbers, burning to ash.

Caleb collapsed. As the world went black around him, as something warm and wet pooled beneath him, the droning died to blissful nothing.

Chapter Seven

J
uliet was dreaming. She had to be. Nothing else could explain the blissful comfort soaking through her weary muscles, or the softness she buried her head into.

Warmth. It settled over her skin like a blanket, sweet and all but alien, while her body drifted aimlessly through nothing.

She didn’t hurt.

Of course it was a dream.

She opened her eyes.

The sweet intensity of summer sunshine speared through her head like a diamond spike. Juliet sat up, yelped as her forehead scraped against blue canvas, and rolled over so quickly her head spun.

She stared at the downy pillow trapped under her braced hands while the world settled back into place. Beneath her face, the patchwork pillowcase was soft, worn from repeated washing.

Wholly unfamiliar.

She turned her head. A few feet from her covered bed, giant swaths of green fronds fanned out in a lacy frame. She inhaled, smelled a fragrance that was all at once thick, oddly suffocating, and spicy at the same time, and shook her head hard.

This wasn’t a dream, but where the hell was she?

Where was Caleb?

And why, she thought as she pulled herself gingerly to her knees, didn’t she hurt?

She stared down at the worn brown skirt wrapped around her hips, plucked at the snug, short-sleeved yellow T-shirt now doing its best to contain her braless chest.

Who had undressed her?

“Where the hell is my underwear?” she asked aloud, cupping her breasts in each miraculously clean hand. It felt odd to be without a bra. She’d always worn at least a sports bra, even when she slept. The street didn’t usually give her enough peace to strip down for anything longer than a quick shower in a stolen room, so she’d gotten used to the support.

Of course, now someone had seen her naked. Someone unknown.

And taken all her clothes!

Heat singed her cheeks as she gathered the skirt in one hand and eased out from under the canvas. The sunlight struck her full in the face, blinding her. She let go of the skirt to shade her eyes with both hands, then stared down at it as the material floated to her calves. How long had it been since she’d worn a skirt?

She had been twelve, she remembered suddenly. A baby to Delia’s eighteen. Her hair had still been light brown and soft, pinned up by garish ribbons and bows while she’d strutted around in drooping layers of fake silk and worn lace. Delia and the other women at the club had thought it adorable.

Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.

She shook her head. The streets of New Seattle didn’t leave room for adorable. So, what? Pushing aside the wistful thought, she studied the patch of open dirt surrounded by towering plants that looked like pronged, flat fans.

There was the tent—little more than blue canvas strung taut between thick stakes and a waterproof tarp beneath it—and a path behind it. The plants, the smell, the humid air all made her feel as if she’d stepped into a tropical paradise.

And somewhere in the distance, she heard voices. They were indistinguishable, but it meant she wasn’t alone.

And if she wasn’t dead. . .

Juliet crossed her fingers and followed the path.

Carved stepping stones had been placed at regular intervals, worn smooth and gleaming against the dark earth. They were warm against her bare feet—where the hell were her shoes?—and oddly glassy. Each had been carved, and she bent to run her fingers over one with speculative interest.

The ritual symbol for home decorated it. The one after revealed a character for protection. So . . . she was among witches?

It might work out in her favor. Then again, if they were aware of her power, it might not. It was a rare witch who refused the opportunity to become so much more powerful than their inherent magic allowed.

Like Caleb.

He’d never wanted her power.

Just her body.

She squashed that inner voice before it hit her heart, focusing instead on the stepping stone in front of her. Juliet hated her ability. Useless on its own, but she could be used. A perfect word.
Used.
Like a dishrag, or a puppet.

Right, then. As usual, she’d have to stay on her toes and keep her mouth shut. And find Caleb.

She didn’t have to travel far before the giant fronds opened into a clearing that took her breath away. Cliff walls rose high into the brilliant blue sky, surrounding a cove carved into the shape of an uneven crescent. To her left, a dock jutted out from the rocky ledge of the shore.

Sunshine sparkled on water the color of cut green glass, so vivid and still that she was seized with an urge to see if she could walk on it. Not a ripple marred its surface, though a faint gray haze lingered over it.

The smell of sulfur was stronger here, curling into her nose with its acrid afterburn.

Juliet sidled out of the concealing foliage, tracing the same glassy path stones leading to a small house set at the point of one end of the semicircular bay. It was painted a darker green than the water, with a handful of mismatched windows set into its walls.

They caught the sunshine, threw it back in a diamond sparkle and sent fingers of light dancing through a twisted mass of violet flowers hanging high over the house’s roof.

Juliet scraped her hair back from her face with both hands and stared at the fairy-tale house with its fairy-tale purple bower. Had she gone crazy? Was she still somewhere in the depths of Old Seattle, aimlessly wandering around while her mind languished in this made-up haven?

Had Caleb bled to death in her wake?

The voices, muffled and indistinct, came from the house. People were arguing. She couldn’t make out the words, but she knew the cadence. Someone was angry.

She hurried away from the concealing foliage, toward the house with its reinforced front stoop. One bare foot settled on the first step as one of the voices rose. Feminine. Furious.

“That’s
twice
. We’re going on two times that you pulled this same bullshit on me—”

“It wasn’t by choice.” The sound of Caleb’s voice rumbled through the barrier of plaster and wood and whatever else lay concealed by the paint. Juliet found herself splaying her fingers against the sun-warmed surface, as if she could feel him there.

He wasn’t angry like the woman was. Her voice shook with it; his was quieter, calmer. As it usually was, she thought, grimacing.

The woman laughed. It lashed. “You’re so full of it. How many times are you going to go sailing off into the dark?”

“I told you—”

“
You’ve told me nothing.
” Juliet flinched at the raw emotion in the single sentence, hesitated as it continued bitterly, “You go out of your way to tell me nothing. How many charms did you have to wear this time, huh? Did you find some flint? Is that why I couldn’t find you?”

White flint, to sever bonds. Juliet flashed to the memory of the sharpened white stone as it fell to the carpet at Caleb’s feet. Who was this woman that she knew so much?

What was she to Caleb?

“It was better for you to think I was dead,” Caleb said.

She snorted. “I knew you weren’t dead. You idiot, I
always
know. Were you ever planning to come back? Don’t lie to me,” she said, so quickly that Juliet knew she’d cut him off. “I taught you how to do that, remember? I’m not stupid, Caleb.”

She rested her cheek against the wall. Their voices became rhythm and sound, muffled through paint and plaster.

“Look, it was necessary,” Caleb said curtly. “Trust me, I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of choices.”

“If you say that one more time,” seethed the woman, “I swear to God, I’m going to hogtie you to a goddamned heater. It didn’t work for me, but maybe, just
maybe
it’ll work for you. And who the crap is the girl?”

Juliet held her breath.

“No, don’t,” she added bitterly. “I can already see the lie forming.”

He said something too low for her to hear, but the woman made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. Footsteps thudded somewhere inside.

“Visions,” the woman spat. “It’s always the same with you. You forced me out of the game
again
, and all you can do is sit there and tell me you had to.
Had
to. You stupid, moronic, holier-than-thou,
macho
— Don’t!” she snapped, so suddenly that Juliet jerked away from the wall.

“What’s wrong?” Caleb asked, and his voice seemed nearer. Louder. “You’re hiding something from me.”

“Oh, can I join the fucking club, then?”

“What’s going on?”

“What,” the woman said, amusement sharp in her tone, “you can’t
see
it?”

Juliet looked up at the violet flowers and held her breath.

“That’s not my gift, and you know it.” Caleb’s reply was much calmer than Juliet felt, with her heart pounding in her chest. Should she be here? Should she be listening to this?

What if they were lovers?

The thought caused a knot in her throat that ached to swallow. It coiled an answering throb through her temples. Slowly, cautiously, she eased her foot off the stoop.

Somewhere inside, ceramic clattered.

“Damn. She’s awake,” the woman said. “Go get her before she runs.”

Juliet jerked back, turned. She made it two steps toward the side of the house before the door slammed open behind her, and she froze with her hand braced against the wall.

“Juliet.”

Her name. One word. It fisted in her gut like a curse.

A bloody benediction.

She turned slowly, but no amount of fortification could shield her from the shock of seeing him. Caleb’s eyes pinned hers, trapped her in a field of blue, but it wasn’t his gaze that made her gasp. “Your face!”

He took the two steps to the ground with ease. There wasn’t a hint of pain, not a wince or whisper of discomfort. His features were stern, but unmarred save for the scars. No bruises. No cuts. Just the healed fissures climbing his jaw.

His faintly twisted lip quirked. Self-deprecation. “We were lucky enough to find a healer. Can you travel?”

Behind him, a blond woman braced her arms on either side of the doorframe and glared. Her brown eyes glittered in her fine, pixie face, though her skin seemed too pale. Faintly clammy. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said firmly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I can,” Juliet said, her gaze darting between them both. “Where—”

“Get your things. Let’s go.” Caleb ignored the woman. “We aren’t safe here.” The woman stepped onto the porch. “We’re leaving,” he added over his shoulder.

“Over my dead body.”

Juliet shook her head, amused and bewildered and feeling too much like she’d just stepped into a minefield. “I don’t know where my things are.”

“Jess,” Caleb warned.

“Cale,” the woman mimicked in the same tone, her grip white-knuckled on the frame. “You want to throw down? I’ll kick your ass. I’ve been getting lessons.”

Juliet’s gaze snapped to the woman, took in the tumbled waves of her golden hair. The high cheekbones and her fine, straight nose, almost identical to Caleb’s. Her features were daintier, with a delicate definition that Caleb lacked, and the eye color was different, but there could be no mistake.

She’d never met Jessica Leigh. But coming face-to-face with the witch Curio had wanted to sacrifice was a kick to her already bruised conscience.

She covered her mouth with both hands. “You’re the seer,” she groaned through her fingers. “Oh, my God.”

The woman flipped her a crooked smile, ignoring her brother. “Don’t call me that,” she said. “My name’s Jessie. And don’t worry about it. Caleb tells me you weren’t among the party trying to kill us.”

She wasn’t, no. The day the Coven of the Unbinding had gone up in flames, the day they’d captured the seer, Juliet had been gone. Afterward she’d thought Jessica Leigh—the witch who could see the present—was dead.

Then again, she’d thought the same of Caleb, the witch who could see the future.

Had the seer worked with her brother to destroy her coven?

Who else had lived that she now thought dead? Curio?

Delia?

Juliet straightened, her shoulders going rigid as Caleb reached for her arm. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, and he froze. His palm hovered for a half second before he shook his head, fingers locking around her forearm.

Juliet wrenched at it, but his grip was implacable. “Who else is alive, Caleb?” she demanded, rounding on him.

He took a step back, surprise flickering through his eyes. “What?”

“Who else is alive that I thought dead? Curio?” Her fist jerked, trapped in his hold. “My sister?”

His gaze flicked over her shoulder, then back. “I killed Curio myself,” he said flatly. “He’s dead.”

She couldn’t deal with this. “Where am I?” she demanded. Her head pounded.

On the porch, Jessie leaned against the back of a worn wooden rocking chair. “You’re safe,” she said. Despite her pallor, she smiled reassuringly as she added, “Naomi healed you both, for what good that’ll do.” The look she shot Caleb crackled.

He ignored her, staring at Juliet with fixed intensity. “Trust me,” he said, so seriously that she had to laugh.

Laughter would only have choked her. “What happened?” she demanded instead. “Why am I here?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“Bull,” she shot back.

Jessie snorted. “He was out cold when we found you guys,” she offered, resting her chin on her folded arms. “You both were. There was a charred body about ten feet away and a whole lot of blood. Some of it my little brother’s.”

Despite herself, Juliet’s eyes trailed over Caleb’s shoulders. His chest, covered in a threadbare T-shirt.

“He’s fine,” Jessie added, more astutely that Juliet was comfortable with. “He’d been shot in the back, though.” She arched a fine eyebrow. “Your doing?”

“No,” Caleb answered flatly, his grip tight on Juliet’s arm. She tugged at it, but her attention wasn’t on him, or the byplay between the siblings. She wracked her memory, frowning.

All she could recollect was pain. Pressure.

The certainty that Caleb would die.