Hexed

be done, and it’s got to be done now. Mick, grab the knife and the incense. Let’s get chanting.”

I COULDN’T STOP them. Cassandra made us sit in a circle—Ansel included—with Coyote at the center. Because Cassandra didn’t trust herself on her emotional jag to work the necessary magic for the summoning, Mick conducted the ceremony.

He stripped off his shirt and knelt, his sculpted muscles gleaming with sweat. His dragon tattoos glowed with fiery light, and the bite marks where Ansel had fed were black against Mick’s neck.

Coyote was the calmest, lying flat on his back, arms at his sides, eyeing the knife blade without fear. I had no idea whether Coyote was working some ploy—he couldn’t really die, could he? He must be planning some trickster god thing behind his unruffled expression. He’d let Mick stab him and then spring to his feet as soon as the sorcerer showed up, rip the guy’s head off, and laugh at us for being afraid.

Wouldn’t he?

Sage burned in a bowl, its sweet smoke dulling my senses. I was drained from the magic I’d tried to work in the kitchen, and with Mick’s warm voice intoning the spell, plus the smoke, I wanted to drift to sleep in spite of my fears.

Mick spoke phrases in Latin, a language I’d never bothered to learn. He raised the knife, clasped in both hands, and called the ununculous by name, which, Cassandra had finally revealed, was Emmett Smith.

I’d started laughing when she said it. I’d expected something grandiose like Lucifer or Ezekiel or Damien, and she gave us Emmett Smith.

Maya sat next to me, folded in on herself, her face on her knees. She rocked back and forth a little, miserable, and I didn’t have the strength to comfort her. Nash at least had seated himself protectively beside her, his gun in his lap. Fremont sat on my other side, wedging himself against me to seek my protection, because Ansel was beyond him. Then Cassandra, then Pamela, and around again to Nash.

Mick’s face ran with sweat. His voice wound louder and louder, until finally he shouted the mage’s name and slammed the knife into Coyote’s chest.

The blade entered with a wet, meaty sound, and blood washed out to coat Mick’s hands.

“Holy shit,” Fremont whispered. Maya whimpered and turned her face to my shoulder.

Coyote’s body arched as it fought to live, but Mick held the knife hard in the wound against Coyote’s struggles. Ansel’s nostrils flared at the sharp stench of Coyote’s blood, and he lunged forward, unable to stop himself. Pamela and Nash silently grabbed him and hauled him back.

I saw Coyote’s blue aura start to fade, a darkness rising from the chalk marks in the circle to suck the aura into it. The darkness swallowed Coyote’s aura and became palpable, clinging to Mick’s hands like ink. Mick kept chanting, tears mingling with his sweat and the blood that splashed his body. Under him, Coyote’s struggles weakened. Then his eyes went blank, his breath released in one gurgling gasp, and Coyote went still.

I held my breath, certain that any minute Coyote would sit up again, laugh, and ask whether the spell had worked.

Any minute. Any minute now.

I didn’t realize I’d whispered the words out loud until Maya lifted her head and glared at me. “What is the matter with you? Mick killed him. I’m going to be sick.”

I thought I would be, too. Coyote didn’t move. He was a human body, dead on my Saltillo tile, eyes staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. My boyfriend had just killed him.

“So where is this big, bad sorcerer?” Fremont demanded in a shaky voice. “Shouldn’t there be a flash and a bang or something? And smoke? Where is he?”

Nowhere. The room was empty. Mick peeled his hands from the knife as though he had to force himself to, the look on his face one of anguish and self-loathing. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but I couldn’t move.

“Nice,” a voice said above us.

Cassandra scrambled to her feet. I shot up as well, adrenaline propelling me out of my stupor.

A man stood above us on the second-floor gallery. He wore a business suit, his tie dangling as he leaned on the rail to look at us. His balding head gleamed in the faint light from the windows, as did his wire-rimmed glasses.

“What was he?” he went on in a dry, emotionless voice. “A god minus his powers? Powerless gods are always so pathetic.”

Cassandra stood as one stricken, and Emmett Smith looked her over with interest. Ansel had quieted, although Nash still stood between him and Coyote’s bloody body. Even the magic mirror had gone silent.

“You touch Cassandra, and you die,” Pamela said thickly.

“She’s calling herself Cassandra now, is she?” the sorcerer asked. “Fitting choice.” He started down the stairs, his glasses glinting as he studied us. “With a Changer woman stuck in the between stage. Interesting. What else do we have? A dragon barely containing his power, a minor mage with an inferiority complex, and a Nightwalker in a blood frenzy.” He drew to a halt in front of Maya. “But this one is human. Poor thing. This must be hard on you. I’m surprised they didn’t use you as the sacrifice.”

“Screw that,” Maya said, her head up. “This is a new dress.”

Emmett chuckled. “Now I understand.” He stopped laughing and peered at Nash, who had moved himself protectively in front of Maya.

“But I don’t know what you are,” Emmett said. “I’d have guessed just human, but . . .” He shook his head and turned away, as though determined to solve the mystery when he had more time. “And you.” Emmett pointed at me almost joyfully. “You, young woman, are something extraordinary.”

“Stormwalker,” I said. “This is my hotel. But you knew that.”

“No, I had no idea. And Stormwalker is not all you are. Your aura is amazing.” He sniffed. “You’ve got goddess in you. Goddess and something else . . . I can’t quite . . . Oh, damn, hang on.”

Emmett pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his nose. He looked at the handkerchief in surprise. “Nosebleed. I never get those unless . . .”

He looked at us—no, at me—and his aura suddenly flared blacker than that of the most evil Nightwalker I’d ever encountered. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

Mick answered him. “This is us, breaking a curse.”

“Curse? Cassandra, explain. Did one of your hexes go wrong?”

“One of my hexes?” Cassandra said. “We’re breaking your hex. These people haven’t done anything to you. If Christianson wants me, fine. Janet and her friends have done nothing but take me in when I needed somewhere to go.” Her voice broke.

Emmett pressed his handkerchief to his nose. “Christianson? What makes you think I’d waste a good hex for someone like Christianson? The man is a selfish, grasping, weak little bastard.”

“How about for the millions he pays you?” I suggested.

“Yes, I take his money. That doesn’t mean I live at his beck and call. I was surprised when you started working for him, Cassandra. You’re too good a witch for that walking cesspit.”

“I didn’t know what he was like,” Cassandra said. “When I found out, I left.”

“Good for you.” Emmett glanced around the lobby. “I can’t say much for where you ended up, but I admire your moxie.” His gaze came back to me. “But then there’s her. You might be smarter than I think.”

I raised my hands for attention. “I hate to break up this little reunion, but what are you saying? That Christianson didn’t hire you to kill Cassandra?”

“I wouldn’t have taken the job if he had. Cassandra’s a damn good witch, and I don’t waste power like that. I might need her someday.”

“I don’t understand.” Cassandra looked at Coyote, lying dead at our feet. He wasn’t coming back to life, not a move, not a peep. “This was for nothing?”

“Nice gesture, the sacrifice, but unnecessary. Next time you want to summon me, just text me.”

I looked up into Emmett’s face. He wasn’t even as tall as Fremont, who was a few inches shy of six feet, but Emmett’s lean body made him look taller than he really was. The sorcerer’s suit was finely tailored, and he wore a silk shirt and tie. His glasses weren’t off-the-rack from a discount optical shop; they were designer, with tiny diamonds winking in the corners. I didn’t waste time wondering why such a powerful mage would need glasses.