The Witch with No Name

“No.” What is his game? I wondered, arms over my middle again.

“Was it . . . Trenton Aloysius Kalamack?”

“No,” I said again, coming closer until only feet separated us.

“Tell me about it in your own words.”

Tell me about it in your own words? I stood before him, head cocked. “Why?” The scent of burnt amber was almost nonexistent, and I wondered how he could lose it so fast when it always took me a week of showers.

“I want to know.” Nose wrinkling, Al flicked something away from me. “Disgusting creatures,” he muttered, and I backed up, thinking he was talking about the mystics.

“I can’t hear them,” I rushed to say. “And I didn’t call them to me.” I shut my mouth, thinking that to tell him they’d showed up when Cormel had threatened Trent was a bad idea.

Al’s jaw tightened, and I felt a pang at his disgust. “Ah, it was one of the vampire camarillas,” I said to distract him. “Cormel made a deal with the elf dewar that if they got rid of Trent and me, the elves would bring their souls back from the ever-after.”

“So it was Cormel’s men?” he said.

I licked my lips, remembering Al had seen Cormel last night outside Junior’s. “No.”

Al sighed and clasped his hands before him. “No proof. That should be your middle name, Rachel Mariana Morgan.”

Why is he even interested in this? “Look,” I said, thinking this was a lame excuse to check on me, but it was better than choking me to death. “They were vampires,” I added, and he made talking motions with his hands. “Bis snagged one and Trent got a confession.”

“A forced confession means nothing,” he said, and I wondered if the demons were working on some point-of-law thing they wanted to use somehow.

“Why are you badgering me?” I asked, and he casually sat, tugging at his sleeves before remembering the lace was gone.

“You’re very defensive,” he said. “I’m simply ascertaining what happened that morning.”

Yes, but why? He waited silently, and I finally said, “There was a mix of vampires from a lot of camarillas. No one took responsibility, but last night Cormel said the attack was his effort to remind Trent and me of our place in life.”

Goat-slitted eyes unfocused in thought, Al steepled his fingers. “This was last night?”

Someone has been watching old Godfather flicks, I thought as I nodded, and then I said, “Yes,” when it became obvious I needed to actually say it. “I didn’t blow up my church, but I did take advantage of it to pretend to be dead.” I leaned one palm against the table, shivering as the cold from the iron seeped into me. “Why are you here?”

His lip curled, and I forced myself to stay unmoving as he flicked nothing off me, his finger just missing my robe. “I thought you might be interested in seeing what happens to the surface demons when the sun rises.”

I glanced at the house, imagining Ellasbeth’s reaction if I came in with him. It might be worth the fallout. “That’s why I’m up at this godforsaken hour. You want to come in and watch the news with us? Quen makes a good cup of coffee.”

Al blinked, quickly regaining his aplomb. “No, thank you,” he said, the barest shifting of his feet giving away his surprise. “I thought we could do this out here.”

“Sure,” I said softly, then stiffened when Al spoke a word of Latin, gesturing with his usual flair. It lacked a little something without the lace and velvet, but his eyes still glowed with the pleasure of doing something no one else could, and I tightened my hold on the ley lines as a sheet of black-tinted ever-after coalesced into a hunched shape right there on the patio.

Crap on toast, it was a surface demon, and I reached out to circle it.

Al was faster, and a second sheet of power snapped shut around the surface demon with a solid thump I felt in my soul. “Nasty little bugger,” he said, both feet on the floor as he scooted to the edge of the metal chair and peered at it, elbows on his knees and head tilted.

Uneasy, I inched closer. The surface demon hissed wildly, pounding against the wall even as smoke curled up from his fists. Or maybe it was a her. This one had hair snarled down to her waist, and a decidedly delicate cut to her jaw—even if spittle was dangling from her chin.

“Who is that?” I whispered, and I stopped short, not having realized I had moved to stand right next to Al as if wanting his protection.

Al’s expression was closed. “I’ve no idea. Newt gave it to me.” His gaze lifted to the sky lightening in the east. The tops of the trees were already glowing, and it wouldn’t be long before we had our answer.

“Look, the sun,” Al said as if it wasn’t obvious. “Let’s see how well the elves have fucked this up.”

I was holding my breath, and as the sun touched the top of Al’s containment bubble, the surface demon hissed, hunched as if afraid. Eyes wide, it went silent for three heartbeats, and then without fanfare, it vanished.