“She’ll come.” The witch studied the oil, as though assuring himself. Then he raised his head. “They’ll both come.”
Wait. Both?
“She already came and left with a blade buried in her chest,” Henri said. “Athena is either dead or wishing she was.”
“No, shifter. She is not dead. Nor is she finished with the gorgon or this city. You have seen but a fraction of what Athena is capable of. You all”—he gave us each a long, measured look—“will soon discover what it means to stare war in the face. You must sacrifice your fear on the altar of protection,” he told Violet, giving her a nod she seemed to understand. “And, you,” he said to me, “you must find the Hands of Zeus or you will lose your family, your friends, your city. Athena will heal and rise again. She will make her twin hurricanes of years past feel like a summer breeze. Find her greatest desire and you, we all, just might survive.”
His words made my pulse pound. I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. “You know what the Hands are?”
“Athena’s child, frozen in stone like the hands that hold it, yes.” The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. “And no, I don’t know who the father is.”
“So I find the Hands. Then what? Turn them over to Athena so she spares us? She knows what I can do. She’ll want me to resurrect her child.” And then she’d kill me afterward. Letting a god-killer run loose was a risk she wouldn’t tolerate. I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the marble countertop. “I need to find someone who can undo the words she cursed me with now.”
The old witch’s stare collided with mine in a contest of wills. His eyes glinted. I could almost see his mind calculating. Finally he shifted. “Of course you do. Of course. You find the Hands, return them here to me, and I will lift your curse myself.”
I blinked, immediately suspicious. It was too easy. “No offense, but how do I know you can?”
He straightened, his chest puffing out as if I’d pricked his ego. “I trained with Hecate herself, a goddess older than the Olympians and far more powerful. Doubt me if you must, young gorgon. You bring the Hands to me or give them to Athena. The choice is yours.”
I didn’t like the River Witch, though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint a specific reason. He’d raised Violet, which was a point in his favor, but he was also cunning and obviously kept his secrets and motives close to his heart.
“I don’t know where to start,” I finally said, but my guess was on Josephine Arnaud, Novem council member and head of the Arnaud family of vampires. She had either hidden them in the vast dimension of the Novem’s library, placed them somewhere else, or destroyed them.
“You must look to the knowledge of the Novem. You must ask yourself why the Bloodborn Queen cares so much. What is she after? What does she hope to gain?”
Bloodborn Queen?
“Josephine is a queen?” Violet asked, intrigued.
The witch chuckled. “Josephine Arnaud.” He stuck his pointer finger into the oil and swirled it around in a circle. “There was a time, long ago, when vampire kings and queens ruled their kind in Europe. Unknown to humans, of course. Long, long ago. The Arnaud family once ruled the vampires in France; they once held human titles and lands, immersing themselves in the affairs of the country. Josephine’s grandfather was instrumental in seeing the rise of the Capetian dynasty over the Carolingians in the tenth century. Had times not changed, had god wars not come and gone, had vampires not retreated further and further away from human affairs and fought among themselves, she would be queen of the French vampires. But such is life. . . . ”
I could see it. Josephine acted like a queen and would gladly rule over all of New 2 if she could.
“Titles mean nothing these days,” the witch said wistfully.
Two weeks ago in the ruins, during our last battle, Athena had demanded the return of Anesidora’s Jar, the name for the mythical Pandora’s Box, along with the original contents that were inside it when the jar was gifted to the Novem. Those contents I now knew to be the Hands of Zeus. During the exchange between Athena and the Novem, it was clear that Josephine knew more about the “original contents” than anyone else. It wasn’t a jump to conclude that Josephine had something to do with their disappearance.
And apparently, the River Witch thought so too.
“So Josephine is our target,” Henri said. I glanced at him and he shrugged. “She’s probably got the Hands or knows where they are. Obviously she has some sort of beef with Athena. Makes sense she’d take what Athena wants.”
The River Witch stayed quiet, returning his attention to the blood symbols. If he was telling the truth, if he could untangle my curse, then getting the Hands was all that mattered.
Hope stirred in my chest, but I tamped it down. No reason to trust in him just yet. He knew too much and was somehow connected to what was going on. Until I knew how, I’d keep him at arm’s length.
I watched as he dragged a finger through the bloody oil, then reached over the counter and drew a symbol on Violet’s cheek with the same finger. “Your day is coming, little one. Just like we talked about; face fear head-on. Putting yourself in harm’s way can be a glorious thing.”
Violet didn’t flinch or blink. She simply stared at the wrinkled old face, either understanding his words and accepting them, or not caring what he said. But I cared, and it frightened me to the core. I moved closer to her, not liking his ominous words one bit. I felt Henri stiffen beside me.
“Leave her alone,” I said. “She’s just a kid.”
The witch’s head canted slowly in my direction, and for a long moment, he said nothing. “Unlike you, Violet is not afraid. She will know her destiny when the time comes. Question is, will you?”
TWO
THIRST STABBED HIM IN THE gut. It was a tight, twisting pain, a cold burn that stole his breath and seared his insides. The soft glow of the streetlamps blended with the neon from storefront windows. Tourists and locals walked the car-less French Quarter street, their voices mingling with music and conversation from bars and restaurants.
Those tourists, those few hundred who’d been granted entrance to the Quarter for Mardi Gras season, had no idea what walked among them. If they knew their blood called to him, sang to him, a lure so strong and tempting . . . they never would have set foot past The Rim.
The dark street scene in front of him blurred. He veered off the sidewalk and met with a heavy iron gate. The brick tunnel beyond the bars loomed black, but in the distance glowed an arched view of a dimly lit courtyard.
Dizziness made his view tilt. Just a small tilt, but enough to make him stumble as the hinges whined and the gate gave way. He fell inside, his knees and palms hitting hard against the brick pavers. The voodoo dolls and offerings tied to the gate’s bars fell all around him.
Tiny bodies. All around.
He laughed.
Bodies were littered in his wake. That’s what he was. Pure destruction.
He’d thought he was a freak before, being the child of a vampire and a warlock, but now the joke was on him. And the universe was a twisted bitch for sure.
Using the brick wall for support, he rose on shaky legs and stumbled into the courtyard. A sick, clammy sweat covered his skin. He knew he couldn’t control himself, knew if anyone crossed his path now, he’d kill them, suck them so dry they’d wither where they stood. He wouldn’t care who it was; it didn’t matter. It’d taste so good.
Tears rimmed his eyes and wet his lashes.
His body gave out and he fell. With effort, he rolled onto his back. The massive gray house loomed over him. It was the only place he could go, the only place where those he cared about would never, ever see him like this.
His muscles finally relaxed and his eyelids slid closed. He’d made it. They wouldn’t see him. And more importantly, the monster inside him wouldn’t see them. . . .
The tap, tap, tap of heels on the stone pavers woke him.
The soft glow from the old lanterns on the courtyard walls burned his eyes, but then a shadow fell over him, and it didn’t hurt anymore.
“Bastian.” The sound of his name on his grandmother’s French-accented lips was so goddamn pleasing it made him want to puke all over her five-hundred-dollar shoes. “I knew you’d come.”
He tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I need—”
“I know what you need, mon cher. I know.”
Hands slipped beneath his armpits as two of his grandmother’s servants hauled him upright and dragged him into Arnaud House, the great French Quarter mansion he hated with a passion. God, he was going to dry-heave. His gut tightened with readiness. He forced down the first retch, biting on his tongue, his teeth sharp and cutting.
Warmth flowed into his mouth.
Oh. God. His heartbeat sped up. So good . . .
But somewhere in his mind, he knew it was wrong. Knew he was going crazy. Cannibalizing himself. Yeah, he’d reached the edge and just fell over into Fucked-Up Land.
They stopped moving. His grandmother appeared in front of him, grabbing his chin tightly. “You fool.” She glanced at the servants. “Hurry. Idiot has bitten his tongue.”
Sebastian was dimly aware of barked orders, echoing footsteps, the smell of lemon furniture polish and the roses Josephine always kept in the house.
And then he was in a room, the mattress rising up to meet him as a plastic bag was pressed against his mouth.
The smell slammed him hard. Blood.
Blood.
Hell yes.
He sat up, grabbed it with both hands, and sank his fangs into the bag as his grandmother snorted in disgust. That first taste and he was lost in violent need. Lost in the taste, in the energy that slid down his throat. Nourishment. Beautiful, perfect . . . food.
He loved it. And despised it.
On and on he drank, one bag after another.
“No more, Bastian.”
The fourth bag was pulled from his hands, empty like the three others before it. He fell back onto the bed, heart pounding, breath labored. His skin no longer felt clammy, but electric and hot, burning away the haze and filling him with clarity.