Storm Cursed Read online

  She paused, while I absorbed the fact that Marsilia could apparently teleport herself a lot farther than Stefan could. I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about seethes that were nearby—and there had not been enough time for her, who could only travel at night, to go to very many places. She’d been teleporting a lot. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I wasn’t the only one unsettled by matters, though.

  “We owe you our gratitude, Mercy,” Marsilia said reluctantly. “These people were definitely sent in as spies and worse for the Hardesty witches. If you had not asked Stefan to look into it, I would not have taken up the trail. We destroyed the ones we found, and now all of the vampires in those seethes know what scent to follow. They are, in turn, consulting with their allies. We will find all of them.

  “We are also presently trying to locate the vampire who made them all. He or she seemed to be active between thirty and forty years ago—approximately when all of the vampires I found were made. Since we did not find any newer ones, like as not that vampire was disposed of. But I do not want those witches to own a Master Vampire they can make do their bidding.”

  Only Master Vampires could make other vampires.

  “You are giving me a lot of information,” I said. “Let me give you some in return.”

  “That is not the bargain I had with Stefan,” she warned me.

  “We are allies,” I said. “But be warned that some of this is speculation.”

  “So noted,” she said.

  “I think that Frost wanted to destroy the vampires,” I told her. “And the werewolves as well. He engineered the whole rogue Cantrip debacle—with the end goal of having Adam assassinate Senator Campbell. We assume that it would have been revealed to be a werewolf kill.”

  “Whereas Frost would have brought the vampires out to the public,” she said. “Yes, we figured that one out as soon as we realized he was Hardesty-bred. I had not made the werewolf connection, though I don’t know if that will be useful to me.” She made an exasperated noise that might have been more effective if I didn’t know that she feared those witches enough to force Stefan—and presumably all of her vampires—into the seethe for protection. “Filthy witches.”

  “You are sure that you are safe in your seethe?” I asked.

  “We have Wulfe, Mercy, but thank you for your concern,” she said dryly.

  “Do you know how many of the Hardesty witches there are here in the Tri-Cities?”

  “You should ask your goblins that,” she said. “But they will tell you that there are only two. They checked into a hotel for a few days before moving in with Elizaveta’s brood.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Adam’s people have them in an RV in an RV park—though they’ve moved on.”

  “I will give that information to my people,” she said. “We might be able to help. Do you have a description of the RV?”

  “Adam will,” I told her. “Shall I have him call?”

  “It might be useful.” She paused. “There is a saying about the Hardesty witches—they travel in pairs. I don’t know much about them, Mercy, though I am fixing that. They have stayed under my radar. I have inquiries out with seethes that are closer to their home base. The vampires who live near them are unwilling or unable to talk about them. But a vampire from Kentucky told me this creepy little bit of doggerel verse.”

  Wulfe’s voice broke in. “One by one, two by two, the Hardesty witches are traveling through. With a storm of curses, they call from their tomes; they will drink your blood and dine on your bones.”

  “Hmm,” Marsilia said into the silence that followed. “It sounds remarkably more horrid when you say it, Wulfe.”

  “It’s because I’m scarier to start with,” he said.

  “Do you need anything more that I can offer?” she asked me.

  “Is Stefan okay?”

  Stefan grunted an affirmative that managed to sound irritated but not enraged. Pretty impressive communication skills considering I was getting that with the filter of (presumably) a gag and a phone.

  “Can I call you if I have more questions?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I appreciate it,” I told her, and hung up.

  “What does this Frost character have to do with what’s going on now?” asked Sherwood, who hadn’t been here for that episode.

  “I think it’s the other way around,” I said. “These witches were behind Frost. And now they’re screwing with us again.”

  “The vampire is afraid of them,” said Sherwood softly.

  “So am I,” I said. “I wish I knew where Adam was.”

  10

  Kyle and Zack showed up about twenty minutes later, suitcases in hand.

  Zack said, “I told Kyle that this didn’t sound like a call for a meeting. This sounded more like a huddle. And huddles sometimes go overnight.”

  “Warren and Zack have been watching football together again,” said Kyle, kissing my cheek lightly. “It’s left Zack using sports analogies.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m not sure how a huddle is different from a meeting.”

  “A meeting is boring,” said a little girl in passing.

  She was about six and carrying a bottle that was probably for the baby I could hear fussing in the living room. The baby belonged to Luke and Libby, Luke’s wife. But the six-year-old, I thought, might be one of Kelly’s. Unusually, for a werewolf, Kelly had four children under the age of twelve.

  “And in a huddle all the guys pat each other’s butts,” she finished smugly.

  “Makaya,” Hannah, Kelly’s wife, called out in mock anger. “No ‘butts’ in public.”

  The little girl giggled and hurried away.

  Kyle and Zack watched her with mixed reactions of longing and amusement. Both of them. But Zack’s eyes were sadder.

  “I’m not going to pat anyone’s butt,” I announced.

  Makaya’s voice said, “Mercy said ‘butt,’ Mommy. Why can’t I say ‘butt’?”

  “Thanks, Mercy,” Hannah said. “I always appreciate it when you help me like that.” Presumably to Makaya she said, “Mercy is old. Old and grown-up. Her mommy didn’t teach her not to say ‘butt’ in public—and now she’s too old to change. Poor Mercy.”

  I get no respect.

  “A meeting is boring,” said Zack. “And nine times out of ten, when Adam calls a meeting, the meeting itself is a punishment for someone being stupid. Peer pressure usually makes sure that person doesn’t do the stupid thing again. It’s amazingly effective, and I’ve never seen another Alpha werewolf do it.”

  “Army training,” I said.

  “A huddle,” he continued, “is what you do when you are in trouble, but you have a plan that might get you out of trouble. But you have to all come together in a safe place, so that the enemy doesn’t know what you intend to do.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, feeling the weight of the world, which had lifted after seeing Kyle on the doorstep, drop back on my shoulders with a thump, “I’m not even sure we have a problem—”

  “Witches,” called Sherwood from the basement. He’d taken all the boys under fifteen (two of them) downstairs to play video games.

  “—an immediate problem,” I said. Then I got a momentary mental flash of something.

  “Mercy?” asked Zack.

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Just a flashback to a dream I had last night. Which is pretty stupid considering that I don’t remember what I was dreaming about.” I might not remember it consciously, but something about it was trying to wiggle out.

  “Was it a Coyote dream?” asked Zack.

  I gave a surprised look. “Yes,” I said—though I had intended to say no. And it had been. “Oh damn,” I said. And I still didn’t know what I’d dreamed about.

  My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket
so fast that if it had been a match, my pants would have been on fire. But it wasn’t Adam.

  I hit the green button. “Uncle Mike?” I said.

  “Ruth Gillman has come to us at the pub,” Uncle Mike told me gravely. “Best you come, Mercy, and hear what she has to say.”

  “Put her on the phone,” I said.

  There was a pause, and I could hear Ruth’s agitated voice in the background saying, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

  Uncle Mike’s voice was dry. “Do you hear that? All she has told us is ‘They are all dead. I have to tell Mercy.’ In my considerably educated opinion, she has been cursed. If you come, we’ll make sure you are safe in our place—but I would bring Adam or someone who can have your back. A lot of somethings about this smells like a trap.”

  I had a momentary panic attack when he said “they are all dead,” but the pack bonds were still in place and healthy. I couldn’t tell anything else from them, because the bonds are pretty hit-and-miss for me, even my mate bond.

  “Okay,” I said, happy to discover that none of the flash of panic came through in my voice. “I’ll be right down.”

  I hung up the phone.

  “No,” said Sherwood.

  “No,” said Zack.

  I raised an eyebrow at them both. “You aren’t the boss of me,” I told them. “I am the boss of you.”

  I turned to Kyle. “We have a clue,” I told him. He didn’t have a werewolf’s senses, so he couldn’t be an übereavesdropper.

  “I heard,” he said, and at my look of surprise, he continued, “Uncle Mike’s voice carries.”

  “You’re not the boss of me, either,” I said.

  He raised his hands. “I’m with you. You need to go talk to her.”

  I pointed at Sherwood. “I elect you to come with me.”

  Joel barked insistently.

  “I would love to have you with me,” I said. “But I can’t afford to leave this place undefended. I need you and Zack to keep everyone safe. Kyle.” I turned to him. “You are in charge.”

  Joel’s jaw dropped in an approving grin.

  “I’m not a werewolf,” Kyle said.

  “Maybe not, but you are dominant enough to keep everyone in line.”

  “Mercy?” Libby stood in the kitchen doorway, cradling her baby as he drank from his bottle. “Our men,” she said. “They’re in trouble?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I don’t like it that they all turned off their phones. That’s not like Adam.”

  “What can I— What can the rest of us do?”

  “Stay here,” I said. “Stay safe. And if you get a call from your wolves, let me know.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sherwood insisted on driving. I’d have backed him down, but we were taking his car—a four-year-old Toyota that was more likely to make the trip there and back than my Jetta.

  I might still have insisted, because I had a policy of never letting any of the wolves get away with macho baloney around me, but he was in a state. I could smell his tension and his fear—he was in a cold sweat, never a good sign around werewolves. Scared werewolves are much more prone to violence. If driving gave him the illusion of control, I could let him have that.

  And my Jetta still had only one functional seat.

  It wasn’t late, so I was surprised at how few cars were at Uncle Mike’s—and that the Closed sign was lit. With Sherwood standing with his back to me, I knocked on the door.

  “Who is’t?” hissed Kinsey.

  “Mercy and Sherwood,” I told him.

  The door opened and the hobgoblin, free of the clothing he had to wear when the pub was running, gestured us in. “Come in’t, come,” he said. “Hurry, do. Don’t want to leave the door open on a night like this.”

  Sherwood brushed past me so that he entered first. I gave Kinsey an apologetic smile as I scooted past.

  The pub was empty of customers and mostly empty of workers. There were a handful of fae working at cleaning the rooms and getting them ready for the next day’s business.

  “Closed early,” Kinsey said, leading us with purposeful strides. “If the witches are hunting that one, the master didn’t want no one here what couldn’t protect themselves.”

  “Good call,” I told him.

  “Weren’t mine,” he said. “But I agree. Here you are, right through that door. Master has her in his office. On through, first door on the left. I’m to stay out here, first line of defense. Keep ’thers safe.”

  I noted that the hobgoblin, whom I’d always liked but had categorized with the lesser fae, was the one Uncle Mike trusted to keep the bad things out.

  Sherwood, again, went through the door first, but this time he held it open for me. It was a graceful procedure, and it looked like he’d done it a time or two. A lot of werewolves work as guards of one sort or another, but not all of them know how to be a bodyguard.

  We didn’t need Kinsey’s directions to find Uncle Mike and Ruth—all we’d have had to do was follow the sound of her weeping.

  “There, there now,” said Uncle Mike, looking up as we entered his office. He had Ruth seated in a big leather chair, and he knelt beside it with his arm around her shoulders in a hold that was half-protective and half-restrictive.

  The office was large enough to contain a big desk and a wall of filing cabinets and still have ample room for six large mismatched but comfortable-looking chairs. Nearly twice the size of the office where we’d met Senator Campbell, but far more scabby.

  “They’re all dead,” Ruth wept, her hands in front of her face as if she could not bear what she’d seen. It reminded me oddly of the weeping angels from Doctor Who. “I have to tell Mercy.”

  “She was sent with a message,” murmured Uncle Mike. “She can’t deviate from it without a great deal of effort. I’m a little concerned about what else they’ve done to her.”

  He took a better grip on her, then nodded at me.

  “I’m here,” I told her.

  The weeping stopped as she sat up suddenly. She lunged toward me, but Uncle Mike kept her still.

  “She’s alive,” I said, relieved. Her lunge had put her close enough to be certain.

  He nodded. “That was our first thought as well, given all the zombies we’ve had running around the town. Some of them can look very much alive for a while. That reminds me I should have told you that my people took care of a pack of dogs yesterday.”

  “They are all dead,” she told me intently, as if she could not hear Uncle Mike at all.

  “They have her under a compulsion,” he told me. “I think she’s been fighting for all she’s worth.”

  “Who are all dead?” I asked.

  Not the pack, I was certain of that much. Ruth’s face grew eerily still, and her voice became a monotone that sent off warning signals in my hindbrain. “I was in the study with the senator. Two women, spectacularly beautiful goddesses, walked into the room, with our security team escorting them as if they were knights to their queens.”

  She gave me a panicked look. The effect of the sudden flash of emotion was a little schizophrenic—as if she were fighting off the hold the witches clearly had over her, only to lose control again.

  “The senator asked them who they were, and she, the Ishtar—”

  I’d heard that word before. “What is an Ishtar?” I really wanted to know, but I also wanted to see if she was allowed to answer questions. Especially a question that Ruth Gillman would not be able to answer.

  Had they preloaded the lines they wanted her to say? Or were they in active control?

  She paused midword and breathed in and out a few times. “The dark goddess,” she said, “the goddess of death.”

  “Hubris,” Uncle Mike grumbled. “Why is it that all the witches carry with them so much hubris?”
/>   “Like a marionette,” said Sherwood quietly.

  I glanced at him. He thought they were actively controlling her, too. I suppose they could have fed her that information, but it seemed more likely that they were here. Sherwood’s face was tight with something: fear or anger. Maybe both.

  I wondered if Ruth knew that, too. If that had been why she’d been keeping her eyes covered.

  “Ishtar was like Aphrodite,” I said. “The goddess of love and sex and spring, right?”

  Ruth started to smile; I could see it try to break out, but it was gone. I couldn’t tell whose smile it was because I didn’t know Ruth well enough.

  “Ishtar is the right hand of the coven,” she said.

  “There are no more covens,” Sherwood growled. “Just make-believe attempts. You don’t have witches from thirteen families.”

  “Ten,” she said hotly, as if his words had stung her pride. “We meant to take one of Elizaveta’s. That would have given us eleven. But none of them was strong enough.”

  Were they after Elizaveta herself?

  Before finding out that she’d been working black magic, I’d have said that she’d never join with them, especially after they’d killed her family. But I obviously had not known Elizaveta as well as I’d thought.

  They set things up so that there are many ways for them to win, Elizaveta had told us. Was one of those possible wins getting Elizaveta to join them?

  After a moment, I spoke, repeating the words Ruth had been reciting when I interrupted her, exactly how she’d been saying them. “The senator asked them who they were, and she, the Ishtar—”

  “—and she, the Ishtar, brought the Death and all fell to her power,” Ruth said, speaking the first four words at the same time as I had. Those words, I thought, were rote. Something they’d pressed upon her earlier, not something they were actively feeding her. Real people don’t use the same exact words each time they say something.

  “They died for her glory,” Ruth said. “All but the senator and I. They took the senator and left me to make a record. My phone.”