Hexed

the door open and couldn’t see through the windows, so I rode up and got the sheriff.”

We must have been busy with Ansel in the kitchen when Pamela arrived, because none of us had seen or heard her.

“What was the sheriff doing at his office?” Maya studied her polished nails. “Did he forget something, like, I don’t know, our date?”

Nash’s voice went cold. “I didn’t forget. I assumed you found something better to do, so I went back to work.”

“You thought I stood you up?” Maya’s screech rang to the rafters. “I spent two hours getting ready for you. Why would I stand you up?”

The mirror’s voice cut through her shout with something about life being a cabaret.

“And you look great,” Coyote said from his supine position.

“You, shut up,” Maya snapped. “If I hadn’t agreed to give you a ride up here, I would have been in Flat Mesa in plenty of time. But no, I had to be nice. Look what it got me. Stranded here all night with the freak show.”

“Coyote’s right, though,” Fremont said. “You do look great, Maya. That part was worth it.”

“Thank you, Fremont.” Maya gave him a big smile. “Forget you, Nash. I’m going out with Fremont.”

“Hold on . . .” Fremont started.

“Fremont already has a girlfriend,” I said. “In Holbrook.”

“Not anymore.” Fremont sounded sad. “She went back East. She asked me to go with her, but what the hell would I do back East? So, she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.” I really was sorry. Fremont was a nice guy, and he deserved someone who appreciated that.

“Her loss,” Maya said. “Take me to the movies.”

“Maya . . .”

We were spared further argument about Maya’s love life by a huge bang in the kitchen. This time, not only did Ansel strike the door of the walk-in fridge, he tore it from its hinges. We were on our feet, sprinting for the kitchen, when the door landed on the floor with a second bang and a clatter.

Ansel was alive, awake, and free.

EIGHT

I’VE DONE SOME FRIGHTENING THINGS IN MY life, but I think stumbling into a pitch-black kitchen, knowing that somewhere in there lurked a blood-starved, very angry Nightwalker, rates as one of the scariest.

Nightwalkers don’t breathe, so we couldn’t listen for his breath, and Ansel had chosen to go into silent mode. The fire in Mick’s hands was our only light, but even by that Ansel was nowhere to be seen.

“He couldn’t have gotten out, could he?” Fremont’s nervous voice was right behind me.

He and Maya were staying as close to me as they could. I’m not sure why they thought I’d keep them safe, because my fingers kept drawing the pounding rain, and my Beneath magic was going to flare out of control any second. I had contained the magic relatively well in the living room, but fear of the Nightwalker was bringing it out of me.

A check of the back door proved it was still solidly shut, as though it had been fused. Ansel couldn’t have escaped that way. He was as trapped as the rest of us.

We found him when he whispered, right behind Maya, “Hola, señorita.”

Maya’s scream took me a few inches off the ground. Mick’s fire roared high at the same time Nash yanked Maya from Ansel and shoved his gun into Ansel’s face.

Ansel laughed and ignored the pistol. “I’m hungry, Janet. What do I have to do to get some service in this hotel?”

I knew then that the double hex had doubled Ansel’s strength and need for blood. Unless his appetite were slaked, and slaked soon, he’d simply rip into us. A Nightwalker in a blood frenzy was not a pretty sight—I’d seen the aftermath of one on a rampage before. I never wanted to see that again.

We could knock him out—if we could—or find another place to lock him up, but Ansel would break out of whatever prison we devised sooner or later, hungrier than ever. We still had six or seven hours to go before daylight would force him to find a dark place to sleep.

“We need to let him feed,” I said.

Pamela had Cassandra safely behind her, her werewolf lips curled. “And who would be the fool to volunteer for that?”

Ansel wrinkled his nose. “Not you, wolf-girl. Changer blood is disgusting. I want the Spanish lass.” He licked his teeth. “Mmm, the dark-eyed beauty of Maya Medina.”

Nash’s pistol was back, the barrel digging into Ansel’s cheek. “Touch her, and I blow your face off.”

“Or maybe Sheriff Jones,” Ansel purred. “What does the blood of a man who lives to harass my friends taste like?”

“No,” I said.

Nash exchanged a glance with me. “Janet.”

We’d both, once upon a time, seen the effect of Nash’s blood on a Nightwalker. “What’s happening is not Ansel’s fault,” I said firmly. “He stays alive.”

“What about the rest of us?” Pamela asked in her thick Changer voice.

Ansel looked us over. “I don’t trust the witch. The coyote? Hmm, the blood of a god?”

“Would be bad for you,” Coyote rumbled. “And Janet wants you to live. She’s such a sweetie.”

“I see.” Ansel turned away. “I don’t want the plumber. He probably tastes like a sewer. But Janet.” Ansel touched my neck, his fingers ice cold. “Pretty Navajo girl. Fine blood of a Stormwalker.”

Mick was beside me in a heartbeat, lifting Ansel by the throat. Mick’s eyes were black with rage, and his hand burst into flame as he pinned Ansel against the wall.

“Mick, no!” I shouted. As frightening as Ansel was, I knew that, at heart, he was a shy man who’d be horrified when he remembered that he’d tried to hurt anyone. I also knew that if we couldn’t subdue him, Ansel would have to die before he killed us all.

Mick let his fire fade. “You don’t touch Janet. If you need to feed, you feed on me.”

Ansel didn’t trust Mick, for good reason. “No, give me the señorita. I’ll make it good for her.”

Mick’s barely contained dragon frenzy made him as strong as Ansel. He grabbed the back of Ansel’s neck and yanked the man’s mouth down to his jugular. “Drink me, damn you.”

Ansel’s eyes went bright red as the bloodlust took him. His mouth opened—the narrow, catlike mouth of a Nightwalker—and he plunged his fangs into Mick’s neck.

Fremont gasped in horror, and I wanted to scream. Ansel might drain Mick dry before we could pull him off. Nightwalkers hung on like leeches even after their victims were dead.

I lunged for them, but Mick put out one arm to stop me, fire flaring from his palm. His muscles bulged as he held Ansel in place, the other man’s mouth working, sucking, pulling at Mick’s neck. Mick grunted, his face creased in pain, but still he held me off.

The rain continued to pour outside, building to a deluge. Water slid between my fingers, starting to patter on the floor. As much as I felt sorry for the real Ansel, I wanted to kill the Nightwalker for hurting Mick. When Mick gasped for breath, blood running in rivulets down his neck, Ansel still drinking, I almost did it.

“No.” Mick lifted his hand again, the fire keeping me back. “Let him. I’ll heal.”

“Mick, damn it.”

I was aware of the others, in a semicircle, tense, watching, waiting to see what would happen next. Mick started to sag, but so did Ansel, Ansel’s frantic, moist sucking noises slowing.

When Ansel fell from Mick like a full tick, a smile on his face, Mick folded to the floor next to him. I got to Mick’s side, but Mick raised his head and gave me a weak nod. “I’m all right.”

“That was stupid.”