The Soother (9 page)

As weariness slowed her pulse, he flung his head back and laughed, the sound so deep and dark she feared it came from the deepest bowels of the darkest realm. Rather than kill, he toyed. She launched her waning magick at him, collecting her energy in her core before shoving it out with all her might. Her efforts were for naught. Arms spread wide, he laughed louder as her sparks hit him and ricocheted off his chest. They fizzled out before ever reaching the ground.

Calliope knew she was tired, but not so much that her magick wouldn’t have had any sort of effect. Sparks in every color of the rainbow and then some flashed and flickered out around her. The invaders had dampened the witches’ magick. That couldn’t be. Wards forged long ago had kept the coven safe for centuries.

Until now.

The dark man seized her ankle. Calliope pulled back and scrambled out of reach, digging deep to stay conscious.

Somehow, these beings had broken through what no other had and put up wards of their own — in the form of magickal restraints, if Calliope had to guess. She tried to flash, but even that power was gone.

She grabbed anything she could get her hands on and used her makeshift weapons to assault her attacker. Teams of witches battled beside her, fighting off slithering shadows and their beings, doing what they could to protect their homes and each other from the evil horde. Calliope’s strength renewed, if only slightly, by the pride she felt watching her coven fight with everything they had.

Isabelle raced by, eyes wild, shirt torn. The dark monster reached out and grabbed her, yanking her off the ground. Blind rage fueled Calliope. She lunged, scratching, clawing, kicking. After hurling Isabelle with a dismissive flick of his wrist, he batted Calliope away like an annoying mosquito, and then descended once more. Again, he lifted. Again, he tossed. Again, he stalked.

Calliope didn’t care. If she’d done nothing else, she’d saved Isabelle from his dangerous clutches. Thankfully, Isabelle was smart and ran away while she had the chance.
Be safe. Find the wizard Krystoff
. If only Isabelle could hear her mental pleas, but she was not yet old enough to have mastered that craft. Isabelle glanced back at Calliope, her brow furrowed in confusion and fear. Calliope nodded her encouragement, bidding her to run to safety. Krystoff had to be out there somewhere. She’d helped him when he was on the brink of death. Now would be a good time for him to return the favor.

Hair blowing furiously, her enemy leaned in close, forced Calliope to meet his gaze with rough fingers on her chin. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Mistropa
. Now Calliope knew why she recognized him. This evil being had been torturing Krystoff just before Bevva had thrown fireballs. Calliope’s coven was under attack because of what she’d done.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, knowing she wouldn’t have told anyway. She’d never seen Krystoff hurt anyone. Not like these creatures were doing. “But you’ve found me,” she said, rising to her feet. “Take me and leave the others alone.”
Please
, she silently begged.

He cocked his head. “And miss out on all this fun? I think not.” Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her tight against his chest.

Calliope nearly vomited when he slowly kissed each of the stars around her eye.

“I suggest you wish on those stars, witch. Though I don’t think anything can help you now.”

She braced for the hit. It never came. Instead he turned and walked away. But she knew he’d be back. Something told her he enjoyed mind torture every bit as much as inflicting physical pain. She only hoped she’d be more prepared when that time came.

Grasping for bearings within a sea of pandemonium, Calliope spun a slow circle, taking in the ongoing carnage. Broken and bloodied witches far surpassed the number of Mistropan casualties. The celebration of the first harvest had turned into a massacre of her coven.

Screams from the east. Bellows from the west. The north and south were no different. Mayhem had come to her village in the form of an army of Death. Each one tasked to annihilate. Arrows arced across the sky, the moon highlighting the lethal path. Blood coated the streets, creating rivers of sorrow and streams of fear. Something had to be done, but where to begin when fires were being set and oceans of tears were being wept.

Calliope gathered those she could get to, pleading with them to contain their fragile and flickering magick. She must lead them to safety. But how? Where? Her coven had fought valiantly to protect their loved ones. They were outnumbered by hundreds. Possibly thousands. The time to flee had come. Flee and regroup. Flee and recoup. If that were even possible.

The amount of devastation, the intensity of the agonizing wails, left Calliope nearly incapacitated. Staying on her feet took every ounce of strength and determination she could muster. She poured her soothing magick into each witch she came into contact with, and prayed the goddess would take care of those who would never rise again.

Krystoff had just finished rummaging through Calliope’s cabinets when he heard the first scream. Staff in hand, he wrapped his shadows tightly around him and melded with the night, one thought in mind …
Get to Calliope.

Sounds akin to a team of elephants crashing through the bush made Krystoff pull up, wait. A young witch with long, blonde curls stumbled out of the woods, falling to the ground in a tearful heap. Releasing his shadows, he went to the girl, who lifted her head as he approached and studied his staff before her blue eyes ever met his.

“What has — ”

“Are you Krystoff?” she asked, interrupting, her breath whooshing out in ragged pants. “The … wizard?”

Cocking his head, he did his own analyzing before coming to the conclusion he would answer her truthfully. “I am. And you are?”

“Isabelle,” she said, rising to her feet and swiping at her tears with the back of her hand. Muddy streaks remained, marring her pristine and youthful skin.

Either she’d been playing in the mud or she’d just seen a glimpse of hell. Krystoff feared the latter was the case. He admired her attempt at strength, but the screams were now relentless and he needed answers more than a show of bravery. “What has happened?” Riona’s image flashed in his mind.

“Please, come with me.” She grabbed his hand and tugged. “Calliope needs you.”

Krystoff’s perpetually chilled blood iced over, frozen crystals stabbing and pricking at his veins. Feet already in motion, he asked the only question that need be answered. “Is Calliope in danger?”

Her wide eyes blinked rapidly as more tears flowed. “Yes,” she sniffed. “We all are.”

An intense ache — one generated by fury — spread, blossoming into something dark and intangible. “Stay here,” he said, gently pushing her away.

She shook her head, causing blonde curls to fall away from her shoulders. “No.”

Head angled, Krystoff narrowed his eyes, impatience controlling his tongue. “There’s no time for this.” Her hiccup had him taking a deep breath and tempering his tone. “It would be better if you stayed here, but I cannot stop you.”

Isabelle chewed on her lip, sniffed.

Taking advantage of her indecision, he reclaimed his shadows and flashed away. Moments later he stood on the outskirts of the battle, quickly searching the bodies, both standing and fallen, for Calliope.

Riona
.

Though he did not see her, he sensed his mother’s presence, recognized the bloodied hands of her people. His people.

No
.

He was nothing like them. The agitated shadows beneath his skin thought otherwise.

A quiet whir had Krystoff sliding his gaze to the left. The diaphanous wings of a fae shimmered like onyx, the moon casting just enough light to oust the being from his hiding place not two feet away. Krystoff swung his staff, hitting the fae between the wings and knocking him to the ground. A witch whirled, screamed and ran, unaware that a shadowed and nearly invisible Krystoff had just saved her life.

“Why are you here, Samone?” he asked quietly, eyeing the fae he would never again call friend, though they had played together centuries ago. Samone had been amongst those who had bound Krystoff to the death pole in Mistropa, leaving him defenseless and exposed. Krystoff had made it a point that day to remember each of them, cataloging their names for future reference. Revenge wouldn’t happen overnight. Retribution was best served when anticipation had faded and the guilty had begun to forget.

Samone stood, shook his delicate wings to dislodge the dirt, his chin angled up as if his pride had not been just been on the ground along with the rest of him. “Your mother requests your presence,” he announced, his deep voice inconsistent with his slight frame.

“Riona can quite literally suck ass. I am in no need of an audience with her.” Krystoff crouched, swung his staff in a wide arc.

Black eyes narrowed to slits, Samone flew up and back, dodging another hit.

Rising, Krystoff said, “Tell her the message was delivered and declined.”

“She will kill me for failing to deliver you.”

“As if I care.” Krystoff turned to leave, and then flashed behind Samone. He knocked the fae into a tree with his forearm, spun him around, and pinned his luminous wings to the bark with a dose of black magick. After conjuring a note that relayed his earlier message, he licked the paper and stuck it to Samone’s bare chest. “Have a nice death, Sammy. Maybe if you beg, Riona will go easy on you.”

He doubted that. Riona had never had a light hand when it came to punishment. Krystoff bore the scars to prove it.

Infusing his staff with shadows, Krystoff merged with the inky night, taking out any Mistropan who crossed his path on his search for Calliope. Fierce determination, from a place he thought long dead, unfurled, snapping and cracking, propelling him forward with a fire even the ice in his veins couldn’t douse. His angel had not only rescued him from assured death, she’d quickly become his one true salvation.

• • •

Calliope and a growing group of injured hid in the alcove behind the library hall. Though seldom used, every witch in the coven knew this was one of the
go-to
places. The concealed doorway allowed the small area to be an outside panic room of sorts. While they weren’t completely off radar, Calliope hoped the hideaway would buy them a little time.

An assortment of strong emotions running the gamut from anger and sorrow to fear and doubt had sweat trickling down her spine, the beads of moisture racing one another to the finish line. As the only soother in the crowd, it was left to her to get a handle on things. But with her heart pounding in her ears, Calliope had a hard time hearing if any Mistropans drew near, let alone concentrating long enough to figure out an escape plan.

Sensing a subtle shift in the air, Calliope held one finger to her lips in warning and stepped just outside the doorway.

Cool breath on her ear, a hard body pressed against her, and then, “Need some help?”

Staring straight ahead, Calliope nodded, unable to find her voice.
He’d come.
Somehow she’d known he would even after she’d exhausted the possibility. She slowly turned, swallowed, and finally breathed. From the look of him, Krystoff had played a part in the battle. Torn jeans, blood-splattered shirt. Common sense told her to be wary of his shadows and the possibility he could be fighting for the other side. Calliope threw caution aside, choosing instead to trust in her heart, a heart that had already labeled Krystoff as the hero. Her gaze lit on the large staff he carried in his right hand. “Yours?” she asked, not knowing what else to say and fearing she would throw herself into his arms without so much as an invitation.

“Yes,” he said, stormy eyes almost swirling with emotion. “It’s already come in very handy.”

“I can imagine.” Calliope rubbed her arms to erase the intense chill that always accompanied exhaustion. “You offered help.”

Krystoff bowed. “I will provide any assistance I can.”

Smiling at his formal manners, she asked, “You sure about that?” She crooked her finger, signaling him to follow. Once inside, Calliope shushed the gasps and accusations with a fierce shake of her head. In the eyes of the other witches, she’d just brought the enemy into the fold. “As you can see,” she gestured toward the group, “we can use all the help we can get.”

Standing beside her, Krystoff brushed her arm, frowned. “Why haven’t any of you flashed?”

“We can’t. Our magick is bound. Trust me,” Calliope said. “I’ve tried. We’ve all tried.”

A few witches nodded their agreement. Several turned their backs. Whispers of censure flitted from one ear to the next. Calliope shifted her weight, nailing them all with a hard gaze. No doubt, had they had access to their magick, both she and Krystoff would be fried ducks. They had wanted her help and now that they might actually have a way out, they criticized? So much for trust. She refused to take it personally. They’d all lost a part of themselves tonight. She wasn’t even sure if she should trust Krystoff, but right now, she had no other choice.

Krystoff ignored them all, his focus solely on her. The racing beads of sweat chilled, spreading goose bumps across her flesh. A tempest raged in his grey eyes, and Calliope couldn’t get a gauge on his feelings. She wrapped her arms around her middle and willed her body not to show any further response.

“You know the area better than I. Have you thought of where you’ll go?”

“Yes. Though I don’t know how safe we’ll be there. But it has to be better than here.” The mountains had always called to her, and Calliope knew the ins and outs of the thriving land better than any witch in the coven. She dreamt of one day building her home near the peak. With the village all but destroyed, her dream might have just become reality.

“Tell me how to get there and I’ll flash you out.”

“All of us?” she asked, skepticism tainting her words.

“Yes, angel. All that I can. If I thought you would leave without them, we’d already be gone. But you’re not built like that.”

Her spine stiffened. “No, I’m not.”