Bittersweet Magic

“There’s something else,” Ryan said. “She’s not the first girl to go missing. There was another last week.”

Roz glanced at his face. His expression was grim, and she knew this wasn’t going to have a happy ending.

“She was found dead less than forty-eight hours after she went missing.”

“How did she die?”

“Well, that’s the odd thing. Exsanguination. She’d been drained of blood. Real weird shit. Some of the guys think we’re dealing with a cult. Ritual sacrifice—witches or something.”

He gave her an odd glance, and a flash of anger tore through her. Ryan knew her better than anyone did. He was the first person she had opened up to in fifteen years of being Rosamund Fairfax. Then something like this happened, and he was looking at her as if she were some sort of monster.

It was fire-wielding fucking peasants all over again. No clue what they faced, so they just presumed it was evil. She gritted her teeth. “I’ve never actually sacrificed anyone,” she ground out.

“Hey, I never said you had.”

“You were thinking it.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

A black cat weaved its way in from the kitchen, distracting her attention from Ryan. “Shit,” she muttered. Just what she needed. Her night off was turning out real great.

“Hey, nice cat,” Ryan said. “I didn’t know you had any pets.”

“It’s not a nice cat, and I don’t. It’s a nasty, mangy stray, and it can get the hell out of my house.” And perhaps it wasn’t the right time to mention that the cat wasn’t always a cat. She got up, stalked across the room, and opened the door to the hallway. “Out.”

It stared up at her with cunning green eyes then tiptoed out of the door. She slammed it behind the animal and took a deep breath. And another. Finally, she sat back down, picked up her drink, and sipped.

“Sorry,” Ryan said.

She glared. “What for?”

He grinned, showing slightly crooked white teeth. “Actually, I really have no clue.”

Roz sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Okay, maybe she’d overreacted. She refilled his glass as a peace sign and turned her attention to the photograph.

Resting her fingertips against the smooth paper, she willed herself to “see.” Nothing came to her. After a minute, she shook her head.

She was exhausted, and that never helped. There were also certain things she could do that would assist —but she’d only resort to those if all else failed. And certainly not in front of Ryan or he’d be back to thinking she was some sort of monster.

“You’ll keep trying?” Ryan asked.

“Of course.”

“I have a feeling we’re running out of time on this one.”

So did she. Exsanguination. She’d heard rumors over the centuries but never felt the urge to chase up answers. She wanted no part of that world. Or at least as little to do with it as possible.

“I’ll leave you then,” Ryan said. “I have to get back to work.”

“Okay. I’ll call if I find anything.”

Ryan stood up and placed his glass down on the table. He nodded to the sofa. “I think your other visitor has gone to sleep on you.”

Roz glanced at where Sister Maria was slumped in the corner against the cushions, her eyes closed, dark lashes shadowing her pale cheeks.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” Roz said.

“I bet, and sometime you’re going to tell me about it, right?”

“Wrong.”

Briefly, she wished she could open up to Ryan. But how could she mix anyone up in her fucked-up existence?

After showing Ryan out, she went back to the sofa, touching Maria lightly on the shoulder. The sister let out a squeak then blinked. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy.”

“No problem. Why don’t you take a shower and get some rest?”

She nodded but stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

“I told you—Roz. That’s all you need to know.”

“You’re a good person, Roz.”

“Yeah, of course I am. I’m a positive angel. Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.”

Once she’d gotten Maria settled, Roz puttered about the apartment, putting off the moment she went to bed. She was quite aware of why she was reluctant; the dream hovered on the edge of her consciousness. It didn’t come to her often now, only when she was tired or stressed. She blamed the damn cat—she’d known as soon as she’d seen Asmodai’s sidekick, Shera, in her kitty-cat form tonight that the demon wouldn’t be far behind. Ample cause to give anyone nightmares. Sure enough, as soon as her head hit the pillow she was dragged back to that long ago night…

Her mind refused to function. This wasn’t real. Her mother couldn’t be dead. But outside, the screams of agony had died to nothing. Through the high window, Rosamund could see the flicker of the flames against the darkness, hear their crackle over the mob’s cries. The sickly-sweet stench of roasting flesh drifted through the air. She gagged then rolled onto her hands and knees on the bare earth floor and retched. Her stomach was empty and the foul taste of bile burned the back of her throat.

Her strength was almost gone, eroded over the days of torture and the never-ending questions. But she dragged herself to her feet, leaning against the rough wall. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes and prayed for courage. Though why would God answer her prayers now? Had he listened as her mother screamed for mercy?

Gathering the last of her willpower, Rosamund pulled herself up on the bars so she could see out of the small window. It framed the village green lit by flames. She averted her gaze from where her mother’s body appeared to dance in the flickering firelight. Instead, it was drawn to the second stake. The villagers were piling brushwood around the base, pouring oil over the dry wood.

People she’d known her whole life had just murdered her mother. Now they were preparing to do the same to Rosamund. Soon they would come and lead her out, tie her to that stake, and watch her burn.

Since the arrest, she’d clung to the hope that this wouldn’t happen, that someone would save them, that the people would see they were mistaken and her sweet mother was innocent. That hope perished amid her mother’s screams as the flesh roasted from her body. Now hatred replaced hope, and she allowed it to saturate her mind.

Releasing her grip on the bars, she dropped to the floor, her legs giving way so she collapsed to her knees. Her breaths were coming short and fast, panic threatening to overtake her. She slowed her breathing, clearing her mind of the fear and grief.

She’d done nothing wrong. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t. Her mother was innocent of everything they had accused her of. Her only crime: loving the wrong man, and she’d paid for that with her life.

But while her mother had been innocent of the accusations against her, Rosamund wasn’t. She didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t even sure what the word “witch” meant. Not what the ignorant villagers believed, that was for sure. Now, as she knelt in the filthy cell and waited for them to come for her—to punish her for a crime they understood no more than she did—the hunger for revenge rose inside her. Someone must pay for her mother’s death.

Something slumbered in the dark recesses of her soul, something she had always shied away from. Now she closed her eyes and focused her mind. She visualized a door, locked and bolted.

Under her breath, she began to recite the prayer that came to her mind.

“Lucifer, aid me in my hour of need...”

She woke with a start.