Soul Seekers03 - Mystic (29 page)

“Outside,” she says, warily eyeing her faux designer handbag now in my possession.

“Where outside?” I dangle the bag before her.

“Outside by the chain-link fence. Supposed to be some kind of sacred, romantic space or something. Look—whatever. Just—can I have my freaking purse back?”

I’m about to hand it over, when I notice the shiny blue tourmaline pendant she wears at her neck. “Where’d you get that?” I ask, having to force my gaze away in order to return my focus to them.

Cricket shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Sheesh, were you always this annoying?” She looks to Jacy for the answer.

“Where’d you get it?” I lift her purse higher, swing it from its short vinyl strap.

“The swag bag. Everyone got one at the door. Okay? Happy now?” Crickett heaves a dramatic sigh, and swipes a hand forward, snatching her purse from my grip.

“No,” I say, that doesn’t make me happy at all. “But it helps.” I race out the door, eager to tell Dace what I learned—only to find Dace isn’t there.

I push through the mob of inebriated New Year’s revelers, searching for Dace among them, but he’s nowhere in sight. And now that I know what I know, there’s no time to search for him. All I can do is hope he’s okay as I make for Phyre and Cade.

I plow through the exit, racing for the chain-link fence with the small gold lock clinging to it. Phyre must’ve been watching us the night I put it there. There’s no other way she could’ve known it held any significant meaning.

And sure enough, the moment it springs into view, I find her right where I expected.

Her back pressed against the fence, her cat mask discarded at her feet, as Cade looms before her.

She hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him in close, angling his face toward hers, about to make contact, when I rush up behind them, yank hard on Cade’s coat, and jerk him right off her.

“What’re you—crazy?” she shouts, her expression ranging from startled to fury, the moment she sees that it’s me. Appealing to Cade when she says, “Do something! Stop her—make her go away!”

But Cade just stands there and grins. “Never figured you for the jealous type, Santos.” He dips his head, swipes a hand through his hair. “But I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news. Thing is, I’m just not that into you.” He blows his cheeks out, pausing long enough for the words to sink in—the better to devastate me. “Yes, I know it’s you, Seeker. Nice try with the switching of the masks. While you might be able to fool dumb and dumber in there.” He hooks a thumb toward the club—a thinly veiled reference to Jacy and Crickett that doesn’t make sense.

How could he possibly know they directed me here?

Though I barely have time to ponder, before he goes on to say, “Your little ruse is far too sophomoric to fool someone like me. You see, I can smell your Raven scent a mile away. And I have to tell you, Seeker, this game you insist on playing is getting more than a little tiresome. That’s the second time you’ve interrupted Phyre and me, and it’s really beginning to grate. If you want to sit back and watch, I got no problem with that. Hell, you might even learn a few things. But if you interfere one more time—you die. And this time for good. Understood?”

With an annoyed shake of his head, he turns back to Phyre who’s waiting for him with glassy eyes and glistening lips.

He centers himself before her, and she hooks a leg around his, pulling him in, as he angles in for the kiss. And despite his warning, I yank on his coat once again, shouting, “You kiss her—
you
die!”

Phyre secures a tight grip on his collar, her fingers digging into the cloth, urging him closer. But Cade places a hand on her chest, holding her at bay as he glances over his shoulder.

“Her kiss is lethal. She’s a poison woman. Trust me, you do
not
want to do this. I’m sure there are plenty of other girls you could make out with.” The words come out in a rush.

“Hundreds,” he says, eyes flashing, tongue working the side of his cheek. “Thousands.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Just know, it you insist on kissing this one, it’ll prove to be your last.”

His face creases with rage, as he hisses a stream of curses under his breath. Turning to Phyre, he shoves a hand hard against her chest and pushes her into the chain-link fence.

I heave a little sigh of relief. Ready to turn my focus to locating Dace, when Cade looks over his shoulder again and shoots me a wide feral grin.

“Just how long did it take you to figure it out?” His fingers inch toward Phyre’s throat, squeezing so hard most of her air is cut off. “’Cause I’ve known since the first day she got back in town. I could smell her oleander breath a mile away.” He switches his focus between the two of us, and I struggle to stifle my growing alarm.

He knew all along!

This whole thing’s a setup!

I think about the athame in my pocket, longing to use it—but what good would it do? Hurting Cade means hurting Dace—it’s a truth I can’t afford to lose sight of.

“It’s like I’ve told you before, Seeker—Coyote has formidable senses. It’s to your great disadvantage that you always seem to forget that. And as you’re about to see, underestimating me will prove to be deadly. I’ve been planning this ever since that unfortunate incident when you set me on fire.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, emitting an ominous, ticking-clock sound. But whether it’s meant to scold me or scare me, I can’t say for sure. “This will prove to be a big night for me, and—spoiler alert!—it will go just like this: I kill you—Suriel kills Dace—and no one kills me.” He punctuates the news with a wink and a grin. “In case you’ve forgotten, all I have to do is shift so that my brother’s demise doesn’t affect me.”

Despite all that followed, I’m still stuck on the part about Suriel killing Dace.

I glance behind me, glance all around, but we’re the only ones here.

Surely Dace will steer clear of Suriel—like I warned him to do?

Cade’s calculating, beautiful, monstrous face looms before me—an exact replica of Dace’s, and yet so entirely different. “Nothing happens in Enchantment without my knowing. I’m always dismayed at what a slow learner you are. You should know that by now. I control this town and the people within it. And as it turns out, Seeker, that includes you.” He clenches and unclenches his fist, grinning with great amusement as Phyre gasps and sputters for each shallow breath. Finally tiring of the game, he releases his hold and, bored, watches without interest as she sinks to the ground in a spasm of coughing, before turning his attention to me. “I’m tired of you messing in my business. I’m tired of you skulking around my club and my town.” He takes a step toward me, then another, until we’re nearly touching. “I’m tired of
you
, Seeker. And you know what happens when I tire of something?”

“You donate it to charity?” I quip, seeing him standing before me with his arms raised to his sides, his eyes red and blazing, all too aware of what happens next. Massive growth, followed by clawed feet, scaly skin, and two-headed snakes shooting from the place where his tongue ought to be.

I take it as my cue to leave.

I’ve no interest in fighting him. While I don’t doubt for a second his intention to kill me, I also know he’ll do whatever he can to delay the deed. Keep the fight going, drag it out much longer than necessary, if only to allow Suriel enough time to kill Dace without my interfering.

Not on my watch.

With only a breath spanning between us, I slip off my mask and toss it at him. An act that’s undeniably lame, but it does buy a few seconds’ delay which allows me to spin on my heel and run like the wind.

Racing across the snow-covered field, following the frenzied tracks Phyre left in her wake.

forty-two

Daire

When I reach the mouth of the alleyway, Phyre’s tracks vanish into a wasteland of crumbly asphalt and well-trampled snow. Leaving me with no way to discern which way she went.

I curl my fingers around the soft buckskin pouch that hangs from my neck. Summoning the wisdom and strength of the elements, my ancestors, and the animal spirits that guide us, when I’m alerted to the crash of breaking glass—the screech of raised voices. One in particular rising above all the rest.

“The blasphemous will not be tolerated! Repent now, before it’s too late!”

Suriel.

I bolt down the alleyway to where a disorderly crowd is beginning to form. Edging up alongside a trio of drunks, I stoop my shoulders and duck my head low. Careful to stay sheltered among them, until I can get a sense of what’s going on.

“Those who follow false prophets, do so at your own peril!”

I slink a bit closer, lifting my chin just enough to make out Suriel dressed in his usual stark black suit, scuffed shoes, and white shirt, preaching from his place behind the pulpit. A makeshift plywood stage and podium to match, bearing all manner of strange, Apocalyptic images crudely painted on its front and sides. Snakes with sharp fangs and hungry eyes, horned beasts with spiked tails, angels with drooping halos and broken wings, crying copious rivers of blood while a sea of flames licks at their feet.

My gaze roams the stage, expecting to find Phyre right alongside him, and having to stifle a gasp of surprise when I find Dace in her place. Bound to a chair placed at center stage, he’s surrounded by a number of tall cathedral candles with smoky, hissing wicks.

“It’s not too late—there is still time to be saved!” Suriel steeples his hands to his chest as one of his rattlers slithers around his shoulders and neck.

But despite the deliberately dramatic tableau and the ominous tone of his well-rehearsed speech, the crowd’s more interested in drinking and heckling than taking his message to heart.

Someone laughs.

Another yells something foul.

While someone else flings an empty beer bottle at the side of Suriel’s head.

But Suriel doesn’t so much as flinch.

He’s a man of conviction. Truly believing his own undeniable righteousness will save him from any abuse a sinful mob can hurl.

In that particular case, it does. Well, either that or a little thing called gravity combined with a really poor aim. The bottle veers wildly, landing several yards away from Suriel’s stage.

I return my focus to Dace, trying to get a read on why he’d choose to be up there.

Surely he chose to be up there?

He’s so much bigger and stronger than Suriel. There’s no possible way Suriel forced him.

Even so, what the heck is Dace thinking?

With unwavering concentration, Dace focuses hard on the writhing, hissing snake, oblivious to Suriel standing beside him.

“Don’t be fooled by outside appearances!” Suriel’s voice booms and pitches, his limbs shake with fury. Pointing an accusing finger at Dace, he urges the mob to move forward, get a better look.

The crowd quickly obeys, surging toward the stage while I remain firmly in place. Reluctant to make myself known until I have a better idea of what Dace has planned.

“Demons rarely appear in true form. They come in all manner of disguises, and one must remain vigilant at all times. Come now, boy.” Suriel retrieves a dagger from the top of his podium that reminds me of the one his daughter used when she tried to annihilate Dace’s soul. Thumping it hard against Dace’s shoulder, he prods at him roughly and shouts, “Show yourself to the crowd. Let these sinners see the true face of a demon!”

To my dismay, Dace is quick to submit. Rendering the drunks temporarily sobered as they watch Dace smile and wave.

“That’s not a demon, that’s Dace Whitefeather!” someone shouts, causing the crowd to roar, as another beer bottle is flung toward Suriel’s head, this one narrowly missing.

“This is a demon disguised as a human!” Suriel shouts. “And I’m here to prove it!”

The crowd, hungry for a spectacle worth watching, begins chanting, “
Prove it—prove it—prove it!
” As I stand shadowed among them, my fingers instinctively squeezing the pouch at my neck, desperate for answers.

What the heck is Dace doing? What is he thinking? And why is he staring at the snake when he should be watching Suriel?

“A righteous man, a truly righteous man of the Word, is always protected. I myself am living proof. Thirty years of handling the most venomous snakes in the world, and I’ve never been bit. But you, boy … I’m afraid you won’t be so lucky.” Suriel turns to Dace, places a hand on each of his shoulders, and gazes intently into his eyes. “Well, look at that!” Suriel lifts his chin, stares down the bridge of his nose. “Seems you got your soul back.” He flicks his tongue twice around his lips. Wipes his palms down the front of his cheap, poly-blend suit. “Don’t know how you managed it, but as far as I’m concerned, the pot just got sweeter!”

“Demons don’t have souls!” someone yells. “You’re a false prophet! You’re a—”

Before he can finish, Suriel shouts, “Demons are tricksters—abominations! And demons with souls are the most dangerous of all because they’re free to walk among us in human form!” Satisfied by their stunned silence, he returns to Dace and says, “Boy, I’ve just accused you of being a demon. Would you agree that my assessment is true?”

Dace shrugs. His vision not once veering from the snake, he says, “Guess we’ll find out.”

It’s a crowd-pleaser. Prompting the mob to break into loud, roaring laughter, whooping and cheering and egging him on. A few even run inside the club to tell their friends to come outside and watch.

“Don’t be swayed by what you see and hear before you!” Suriel cries, desperate to regain control of the mob. “A demon, a true beast, would never admit to his true identity. There’s only one way to separate the righteous from the sinful…” He carefully uncoils the snake from his neck and offers it to Dace. And that’s all I need to see to begin shoving my way to the front of the stage.