Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (36 page)

“Maybe no' with you.”

“What does that mean?”

When the pilot lined up on the runway and revved the twin propeller engines, the plane began to rattle.

“There's something I need to tell you. . . .” Bowe trailed
off with a frown at her death grip on the armrest. “Mari, I can hear your heart's going wild—you've got to relax. The noise is normal.” This was a typical Carib aircraft—a puddle jumper, and likely, in some runway instances, a goat dodger. “There's nothing to be scared of.”

As they gained speed down the runway, the rattling and the whine of the engines increased. “They put wings on a lawn mower,” she muttered.

“The trip will only be two or so hours, a mere jaunt.” He made his tone confident, but the fact that a demon was in the cockpit vexed him. Perhaps he
was
prejudiced.

During takeoff she squeezed her eyes tight. He took her hand, and she let him.

Once they'd reached altitude and leveled off, Bowe reluctantly peeled her hand from his and rose. “I'll be right back.”

He could tell she wanted him to stay, which heartened him. Maybe he hadn't blown his chances with her. He crossed to the cockpit, opening the cabin door. “Everything all right up here?” he asked the pilot.

“Yessir.” His manner was casual, even bored.

“What breed of demon are you? Aye, doona look surprised. I can tell.”

“I'm a Ferine.”

They weren't the
least
peaceable demons.

Bowe returned to Mariketa. “Do you have that sat-phone we got on the mainland?”

She took it from the purse at her feet and handed it to him with a questioning glance.

He dialed his cousin. When Lachlain answered, Bowe spoke in Gaelic, expressing his unease about their current situation. “Can you have some men meet us at the executive
airport?” he asked. “We could be flying into trouble. Better yet, can you get Emma to help you track this phone? The pilot might not be planning to land in New Orleans at all.”

“Why no' take the controls?” Lachlain asked.

“I canna fly a plane—but believe me I'll be able to within a week.”

“We'll be there, ready for anything.”

Bowe said, “It might be nothing.” But if something was happening, he could think of no one he'd rather have in his corner than Lachlain.

“If so, then the worst that happens is that I'll get to meet your witch. I canna wait to regale her with embarrassing stories about you.”

Bowe frowned. Lachlain had never offered the same with Mariah.

When he hung up, he saw Mariketa had closed her eyes. She seemed to be doing her damnedest to block out the situation, so he put the phone back and let her be. . . .

Other than a minor squall cropping up, the next hour was uneventful and passed with the same heading. They were closing in on the mainland, yet
still
he couldn't stem this sense of apprehension.

“Mariketa, I need you to help me with something.” When she opened her eyes, he continued, “I dinna want to scare you for no cause, but I canna get past the feeling that the pilot means one or both of us harm.”

“Are you
trying
to push me over the edge?” At that moment, lightning struck just off the port wing, and she jerked with fright.

“No, no, it's probably nothing.”

“Then wh-what do you want me to do?”

“I canna believe I'm saying this, but ask that witch of
yours, the one in your mirror, if the pilot intends us harm.”

“Oh, now you
want
me to use magick?” she asked, nervously glancing out the cabin window as the storm intensified.

“Just do it.”

With shaking hands, she drew a compact from her purse. Once she began whispering to the glass—“
Must not pass
 . . .
red mouth to whisper low
 . . .”—the reflection turned dark. Bowe just stifled a shudder.

“Does the pilot mean us harm?” she finally asked it.

A moment later, the blood drained from her face; the compact cracked in her grip.

“Mariketa, tell me! What's the answer?”

Eyes blank, she whispered, “The pilot's . . .
gone
.”

*  *  *

Bowe stormed to the cabin, tearing down the now locked door. Empty inside. The bastard had traced, leaving the yoke mangled and the instrument panel shredded—everything except the fuel gauge.

He'd dumped the gas.
Fucking demons!

“Wh-why would he leave us?” Mariketa cried from her seat. “Can you drive a plane?”

Bowe ran his fingers through his hair.
Think!
He searched through every compartment but found no parachutes, which meant there were no alternatives. They were going down unless she could do something.

Bowe could do nothing.

Making his demeanor calm, he returned to her, and in as even a tone as he could manage, he said, “He's bailed on us, lass. And, no, I canna pilot this plane.”

Her eyes were glinting, her body trembling. “We're gonna crash?”

“No, no, it does no' have to be,” he said, even as rain pounded the windshield when they began to lose altitude in the storm. “You said the reflection teaches you things? Spells and conjuring?” When she nodded, he said, “Somehow we've got to get you off this plane. Do you think you could ask that mirror how to teleport yourself out of here?”

“What about you?” she cried, having to raise her voice over the growing whine of the engines.

As an immortal, he might live. She didn't have a chance. “Worry only for yourself—”

She cried out when the plane dipped sharply, flinging him across the aisle. Her seat belt was the only thing keeping her in place. He scrambled back to her. “Focus, Mari, and ask it how you get off this plane.”

“I'm trying!” Tears began streaming down her face, each one a knife to the heart.

He rubbed her arm. “Come on, lass, focus for me.”

“I can't hear her whisper over the engines! I don't know what she's saying!” When Mariketa gazed up at him, her pupils were dilated beyond anything he'd seen. “
Bowen, I-I can't hear her
.”

Her heart pounded so wildly, and her breaths were so quick and shallow, he wondered how she remained conscious. She was growing nearly catatonic with fear.

Should he push her? Or accept their lot and pray for mercy? He pushed. “Witch, listen to me!” He shook her shoulders—hard—until her head lolled. No response. Another dip sent him reeling, and he lunged back to her. “Mari!”
Nothing
.

The sat-phone had fallen from her overturned purse and skittered by him in the aisle. He snared it, hit the redial button, and flipped on the GPS beacon.

Through the windshield, he could see the water rushing toward them. Not enough time. He couldn't break through her fear to reach her.

So he sliced open her seat belt and scooped her up. Sitting on the floor between the back aisles, he held her in his lap, arms wrapped around her. “Think of something else,” he murmured, rocking her as gently as he could with the death grip he had on her body. “Think of your home. Or of the snow I'm goin' tae show you. Think of blankets of white.”

Ah, gods, please let her survive this. Please
 . . .

She shook uncontrollably. “Come here, baby,” he said against her hair. “I'm no' goin' tae let you be hurt.”

If I lose you, I'll follow this time without a second thought
.

Salt rushed his senses.
Close
. “There's my good lass. Now, close your eyes. . . .”

R
oaring in her ears . . . churning under the water . . . the force of bones shattering. A terrible pressure built on her thigh till she felt the flesh and bone giving way.

Can't swim
—
can't move. Sinking deeper. Drowning
.

A grip under her arm?

Bowen
. He was dragging her to the surface.

As soon as she felt the rock of waves, she heard him, indistinctly at first, then louder. “Mari! Ah, gods, wake up!” He was running his hands over her body, shuddering at each injury. When he touched her leg, an agonized yell broke from him.

The stench of an oil fire on the water was overpowering. She heard flames hissing in the rain.

“You doona dare leave me, witch!” His voice was heartrending. With his whole hand at the back of her head, he pulled her against him, tucking her into his chest. “
You stay with me
.”

She wanted to nod, to reassure him—she'd never heard anyone in such pain before—but she couldn't speak, couldn't open her eyes. . . .

In and out of consciousness
. How long they stayed like this, she didn't know. She woke to a hazy drone, growing
louder—the rhythmic whoosh of a helicopter's blades. She thought he murmured, “Lachlain . . .”

When she felt wind on her face, he rasped, “You're goin' tae be safe.” She thought he kissed her temple. “You will no' get away from me this easily.”

*  *  *

After Bowe had lost Mariah, he'd been destroyed. Lachlain had witnessed it, had known his cousin understood that all dreams of a future or of a family had died with her, gone forever. And the guilt over her gruesome demise had tormented him.

That time was nothing compared to these last four days, when the little witch's life had hung in the balance. She lay broken, seeming so small in Bowe's bed. Her skull had been fractured and her leg torn free from her body. Casts and bandages covered her.

Now Bowe's voice broke low as he smoothed her hair from her bandaged forehead. “She called me selfish on more than one occasion—and she was right. If I'd made the smallest effort to understand her and her skills, she could have practiced her magick, honed it. She might have been able to save herself from this. But I was too stubborn, too prejudiced.”

Bowe had been injured gravely as well, but he'd healed even though he didn't eat, didn't sleep. Hour after hour, he sat beside her, with her hand swallowed by his shaking ones, his eyes going wet whenever she whimpered in pain. “She accepted my nature, my needs. And because I dinna do the same for her, she lies . . . dying.”

From what Lachlain understood, the only thing keeping her alive was the magick of united covens and sorcerers, feeding her energy.

Her kind had wanted to take Mariketa back with them, but no one in the House would dare challenge the crazed male werewolf guarding her so fiercely. So since then, Bowe's home had been overrun with witches, coming and going at will, bringing food, some of Mariketa's clothes, and special potions. Bowe didn't seem to give a damn about any of them, when two months ago, this would have proved a special kind of hell for him.

But the donated magick couldn't preserve Mariketa forever. She was too powerful. Her entire being was used to power and demanding of it. She was draining the others, and it was only a matter of time before they either let her go or followed her down.

And for these last four days, uncanny things had occurred at the compound. Lachlain shuddered to recall them. The first night, hundreds of black cats had prowled around the house, mouths open but silent, watching intently. Another night, frogs had seemed to rain from the sky, hitting the tin roof, without injury. . . .

At sunset, when Emma traced to Lachlain, he left Bowe and joined her in the hall outside the bedroom. “Have the covens found the demon who did this?” He had his own men looking, too.

“Literally thousands of witches are scrying for him,” Emma said. “He doesn't stand a chance of escaping a net like that. He was probably working for someone, but the witches can't figure out who would want to hurt them.”

“Mariketa had booked the plane and the pilot before Bowe rejoined her. There are dozens who would want to take her out before she reached immortality.”

Emma glanced at Bowe's door. “What will happen to him, if she doesn't . . . come through?”

“Once he's meted out retribution to whoever is behind this, then Bowe won't live the week out. Unfortunately, he now knows exactly where to go to die—”

Without warning, Bowe burst out of the bedroom with the witch in his arms. Lachlain winced again to see her leg missing. “Bowe, you canna move her.” As Bowe strode out the back door into the night, Lachlain called, “They said it could kill her! Where in the hell are you taking her?” At the doorway, Lachlain turned back. “For once, Emma, you stay inside!”

When Lachlain reached Bowe, he became convinced his cousin had lost his mind.

Bowe was painstakingly setting Mariketa into the green ivy at the foot of an oak. He seemed to await something, and when it plainly didn't happen as he'd expected, he tore at the ivy, trying to bury her in foliage. “Too late,” he rasped, sinking down to his knees. “Brought her too late.”