As she leaned against Conall’s shoulder and closed her eyes, she thought of Maximilian Cronin. He’d sent his people after Max, her mother, and her sister. God only knew what he’d already done to Evelyn and Cassie. She shuddered against Conall and his arm tightened around her.
The voices in her head, the ones she’d come to accept as part of her druid, whispered to her. Why should she wait for him to come to her?
Stepping back from Conall, she opened her eyes. He inhaled sharply, and Vivienne knew why. She was seeing red once more. No doubt, her eye color had shifted to it.
“Where is his covenant?” Even her voice sounded different. She didn’t care at the moment. She had to find her mother and her sister. Outside of her father, and now Conall, they were the only family she had. She would not let Maximilian Cronin hurt them. Not if she could prevent it.
***
Kyros stared at the young warlock as he tried unsuccessfully to heal the human. She was beyond healing. He could even smell the onset of death. It wafted around the sheet-wrapped body like an ominous cologne. The woman had at least ten bone fractures, an assortment of internal tears, and many bruises. It was a miracle she was still alive.
Over an hour ago, he’d projected them to one of his safe houses in the city. It was a tiny apartment, with barely two small bedrooms, an equally tiny living room/kitchen, and a bathroom. For all its lackluster components, it was the safe house with the most spells and charms. Maximilian would not be able to find them here, at least, not for a few days, maybe even weeks, and by that time, he intended to be far from New York. When Maximilian had imprisoned him, what he now knew to be six months ago, he’d only been in New York because he’d heard of a hidden warlock community in the city. They were said to be a group of refugees, in a sense, who’d found a way to each other. It reminded him of an old fashioned warlock covenant, something he’d hadn’t seen in existence since the witches began mass-murdering his people, and he’d been curious.
Unfortunately, the same time he’d been researching the community, Cronin’s trackers had been doing the same, and unlike him, they were prepared to go up against warlocks. Their numbers had been large, their weapons specifically designed to hold warlocks. He and another had been captured, but most of the community had managed to escape. For that, he’d been grateful. At least some warlocks had escaped the clutches of these bloodthirsty witches!
Max suddenly pushed himself away from the bed on which the dying woman lay, and turned haunted eyes to him.
“Help her,” he said in a voice that was so low Kyros barely heard it.
“Max, she’s dying. If she were a warlock, we would be able to help.”
“She will not die,” Max said in a calm and firm voice. “I won’t let her die.” The young warlock turned around and sat on the edge of the bed, beside the woman. Kyros watched as he reached into a bowl filled with a soft towel and water. He wrung out the towel and lightly pulled it across the human’s face. He knew Max couldn’t remember her. Whatever had been done to his memory seemed permanent. Max remembered the most basic of things, especially if he did them again, but his memory was deeply fragmented. Still, the warlock was acting like the woman on the bed before him was his lover.
In all the centuries Kyros had been alive, he’d never seen anyone care for another to such an extent. Especially between the species. Even as a hybrid, Max would not be expected to take up with a human.
“There is something that can be done,” he heard himself say before he could think better of it.
Max turned to him quickly, and nodded.
“It will call for great sacrifice, Max.”
“Will she live?”
Kyros lowered his eyes, contemplating telling Max to forget about it, that it shouldn’t even be considered, but when he lifted his eyes, and saw the hope shining in Max’s, he nodded once.
“Then do it,” Max said, standing quickly. “Whatever it is, do it. Please.”
“I can’t do it,” Kyros began slowly. He told Max what would have to be done. Max’s face blanched but he looked at the woman, who’d all but stopped breathing, and nodded once.
Kyros looked to the clock on his wall. It was just after six in the evening. Moving into the living room, he picked up the phone and dialed a number that had not changed in many years.
“Hello?” The voice was deep, smooth and compelling. It spoke of a cultured upbringing, fine wine, designer apparel, and luxury toys, a world to which Kyros had only briefly been exposed.
“I’m calling in my favor.”