The Thirteenth Sacrifice (20 page)

“It’s the best I can do. But I will be in contact. Besides, as you pointed out, you know where I live.”

“Okay, so how do we get out of here?”

“Through the front door. But quietly.”

She walked him down the hall and they stood as far from each other as they could in the elevator. She could still feel a connection with him, energy arcing back and forth between them, and she clenched her fists, struggling to control the feelings that he was bringing out in her.

Once they’d stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, she took his arm and they walked swiftly to the front door. She didn’t have to worry about the older man at the front desk; he was busy sorting through bills for departing guests and didn’t even see them.

At the door she hesitated, stretching out and feeling the air around her. She couldn’t sense anything. She touched Anthony’s face and the light seemed to bend around it for a moment. It was the closest thing to temporary invisibility she could give him.

“Go quickly and don’t stop for anything until you’re safe at home,” she said.

He nodded, the fear in her voice reflected in his eyes.

Then he slipped outside and, hands in his pockets, made his way quickly up Essex Street.

She watched him until he was out of sight and then closed her eyes and kept track of him for another few moments before his energy was lost to her.

She turned and headed back to her room. She just prayed that no one had connected her with Anthony yet. It had been stupid and sloppy to let him get so close. She was in no mood for breakfast, especially not when she planned on returning to the Witchery in a couple of hours.

She wasn’t sure if Bridget would approach her there or not, but it was where she had told Karen, Autumn, and Jace she would be.

She managed to nap for another hour before getting up and preparing for the rest of her day. She was nervous, frightened for herself, for Anthony, and for the unknown girls who might already be on the coven’s radar. It was for them that she was doing this and she reminded herself of the girls who had already died.

Finally ready to face whatever was coming, she left her hotel and walked slowly to the microbrewery. She stayed on the opposite side of the street from the Museum of the Occult but was intensely grateful to see that it was open for business. Unless Anthony had employees, that meant he had made it home safe.

The same guy was working at the front of the Witchery when she went in, but this time he didn’t even glance at her as she walked past, heading for the back room.

She took the same seat she’d been in the day before and settled down to wait. But within moments waves of energy were rippling through the air, causing her hair to stand on end. The amount of energy they were putting
out guaranteed that it wasn’t coming from any of the three girls she’d met with the day before.

Something was wrong. Before she could make a move, though, four cloaked figures flowed into the room, fanning out around the perimeter. Studying them, Samantha realized that Bridget had sent some of the fiercest, most powerful witches she had ever encountered. The door to the room slammed shut and locked itself. Samantha forced herself to sit still, passive, struggling not to betray any signs of the terror she was feeling.

Black swirls of mist wrapped around the witches, spreading out into the room. The lights dimmed and dark shapes blocked the windows until there was barely enough illumination to see the hooded figures. Shadows slid across the floor toward her and she forced herself not to shudder. Suddenly they were wrapping around her ankles, binding them to the chair.

Terror flared through her and for a moment she was a child again, having to face those who would sit in judgment on her. This time, though, the stakes were much higher. It wasn’t a matter of when she’d be initiated into the coven. It was a matter of whether she would be killed before she could be.

She placed her right hand on the table moments before another shadow bound her left to the arm of her chair. She sent out a light electrical pulse with her right hand, determined to keep it free. The shadow that slid toward it across the table was momentarily rebuffed.

We are here to judge you, Samantha Castor, and see if you are worthy.

The voice filled the space, though she knew from experience that the words had not been spoken out loud. There was extra emphasis placed on the name, and she could feel it pull her. But she was not Samantha Castor,
not truly, and she was able to keep her wits about her despite the spells that were seeking to strip her bare so that her soul would be exposed.

She drummed her fingers lightly on the table, focusing on the sound, the feel, the sight of the rhythmic tapping. It would help to save her.

The air was filled with the sudden screaming of dozens of tormented souls, making her eardrums throb and her heart race. Wind rushed through the room close behind, lifting her hair and plucking at her clothes with icy fingers.

If you are not worthy, you will die.

One by one the others repeated it.

You will die.

You will die.

You will die.

The tallest figure produced a poppet and began wrapping a dark cord around it.
We bind you, Samantha Castor, that you may tell no lies and do no magic while you are tested.

She struggled with her fear, the feelings of helplessness and despair that crept over her. She reminded herself that they had bound Samantha Castor and that wasn’t her, not really. The spell was only partly effective. She sent a small burst of energy out of her free hand just to reassure herself. But she knew she had to be careful. If they suspected it was not her true name, then nothing could save her.

You will tell us who you are.

She could feel the truth and the lies colliding in her brain, the boundaries between them eroding. She opened her mouth and carefully measured the words as she said them. “I am a daughter of the darkness. Born a witch. I was one of the Castors but now I am—” She bit her
tongue hard to keep herself from saying the next word and betraying her adopted last name and everything that went with it.

Now you are what?

Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripping into her eyes. Her pulse skidded out of control, more than enough to reveal her as a liar on a mechanical lie detector. But this wasn’t mechanical; this was magical. And they were counting on the fact that she would be compelled to tell the truth.

“Now I am the only Castor left,” she forced out with a gasp.

The pressure inside her head became unbearable and she choked back a cry of pain.

You will tell us why you have come here.

“I am the summoned. I seek my summoner,” she said. “I have the mark of my coven and now someone else has it too.”

One of the witches waved a hand and Samantha’s tattoo appeared in the air for all to see. The symbol had frightened the three witches the day before, but there was no such flurry of fear now.

We all bear that mark. We honor the coven that came before us in this place and we carry on its traditions.

“Then all of you summoned me.”

She tried to close her burning eyes against the pain. She could feel warm liquid leaking from them down her cheeks and realized from the smell that it was blood.

Pain and blood had constituted the majority of her childhood. and now she could feel the part of her that had never forgotten it wanting to curl into the fetal position and sob.

Why have you come now?

“Because you endanger everyone with your carelessness,
your stupidity. Those girls… they haven’t gone unnoticed and it’s only a matter of time before the whole world knows who we are and where to find us. The first and greatest rule is that we must protect the secret.”

The words came flowing out of her in a torrent and she listened to herself, amazed at how good it sounded, stunned that the truth was still hers alone. She drummed her fingers harder, unable to stop herself from sending up a prayer that the nightmare would be over soon. As soon as she did that, she felt time slow down. Her new religion also believed in power. The power of prayer. They would surely sense that she had done something.

The figure to the far left cocked its head as if listening to some distant song. And then a man’s voice spoke the words out loud. “There’s power coming off her. She’s not fully bound.”

And in that moment Samantha knew that she was going to die. Voices screamed in her head. The witch on the right lunged forward, an athame gripped in a strong hand with wicked daggers for fingernails. The slithering shadows rushed her, flowing over her, through her, driving the life out of her.

She felt her heart slow, felt her body spasming in shock as something dug sharp talons into her chest.

Going to die, going to die, going to die!

It was the same voice that had spoken in the house. Panic consumed her. She was still in the house, trapped with Ed. A scream was ripped from her throat and white-hot pain raced down every nerve ending.

She looked down and saw a hand gripping her arm, pulsing with killing energy. Blood was flowing from her own eyes, ears, and nose, running down her face and spattering on her shirt.

She tried to stand up, but her feet were still lashed to
the chair. She tried to jerk her arm out of the witch’s grip, but it too was bound.

But her right one wasn’t, she remembered. It was still drumming on the table. She slammed her hand down flat and pushed with everything she had in her.

There was a crack and then the table exploded outward in a thousand shards as sharp as daggers. One witch fell silently, a four-inch chunk of wood embedded in her eye. Another was knocked off her feet and hit the ground hard with a dozen projectiles sticking out of her chest.

With a shout, the witch farthest from her hurled an athame at her head. She reached up with her free hand and yanked the woman who was holding her into its path. She fell, the dagger lodged in her throat.

Samantha lifted her hand toward the remaining attacker, but before she could do anything she was thrown backward. Still lashed to the chair, she slammed into the wall behind her so hard she felt bones crunching on impact.

Bridget stood in the doorway, her eyes glowing, her face twisted in malice. An unseen force grabbed Samantha’s free hand and crushed the bones. She tried to scream, but something scaly and slithery moved swiftly across her shoulder and clamped itself over her mouth. She breathed in the stench of death and decay and began to gag.

“Enough!” Bridget thundered.

The witch who’d thrown the athame slunk behind her like a cur while the one with a chestful of shrapnel dragged herself across the floor using only her fingernails until she could touch the toe of Bridget’s shoe.

And Samantha understood just how desperately she had underestimated Bridget’s power.

“Do you yield to me?” Bridget demanded.

All Samantha could do was make a gurgling sound as she struggled to free herself from the things that were binding her.

Bridget snapped her fingers and the unseen serpent slithered away from her mouth.

“Never!” Samantha hissed. She closed her eyes, preparing for death.

And Bridget chuckled.

Samantha opened her eyes and stared at the witch. The light was slowly fading from her eyes and her features were twisted in amusement. “Do you join me?”

Samantha waited a beat and then nodded.

Bridget waved her hand and the shadows retreated from the room. Samantha’s arms and legs were suddenly free and she lurched out of the chair, standing on unsteady feet as her starved lungs gulped in fresh air.

“You have proven a worthy adversary, Samantha. It is my wish that you prove yourself an even worthier ally.”

Samantha nodded again, not yet trusting herself to speak. The truth spell had dissipated along with everything else, but she was too shaken to chance saying the wrong thing.

Bridget leaned down and plucked a piece of wood from the one witch’s chest. She examined it closely. “Inspired. I never would have thought of turning the table into a bomb,” she admitted.

“I’ve never conjured a spirit snake,” Samantha said, thinking of the thing that had silenced her.

Bridget shrugged. “Once you learn how, it’s as natural as breathing. It’s one of the first things my high priestess taught me.”

“Are you sure you’re not the high priestess?” Samantha asked.

Bridget smiled. “I’m sure.”

She turned to the man behind her. “Randy, see to her,” she said, indicating the woman at her feet. “And bury them,” she said, casting a single glance at each of the bodies.

He nodded.

“Samantha and I are going to get to know each other better,” Bridget said.

She extended her hand and Samantha took it, shuddering inwardly at the contact. She felt as if she were holding hands with the devil herself.

Samantha walked beside Bridget as they left the Witchery, struggling to control herself every step of the way. Every instinct she had screamed at her to arrest the woman. But they didn’t have any evidence to convict her in the girls’ deaths. Worse, there wasn’t a jail anywhere that would be able to hold her, even if Samantha could succeed in arresting her.

Better just to kill her. Do it quick before she knows what hit her.

The voice inside her head tempted her and the harder she tried to ignore it, the louder it got. The truth was that even if she did kill Bridget, and then ran back inside and arrested or killed Randy and the other witch in there, the coven would still exist. By her own admission Bridget was not the high priestess. Not only would killing her not stop the coven or its plans, but it would make the rest of them that much harder to find.

So, as much as she hated it, she had to walk hand in hand with the other woman and hold her tongue until she could find out enough to take everyone down.

“I was watching you in there,” Bridget said as they moved away from the restaurant. “I could tell they hadn’t fully bound you. It was sloppy of them not to notice. What I didn’t catch, though, was what tipped them off.”