This Wicked Magic

Chapter 26



Grim was out stalking the streets of Paris with War leading the way. Not good. CJ knew he couldn’t stop the warlock, especially under the influence of War and Pain, but after some thought, he decided he may be able to steer War over to his side with an offer the demon couldn’t refuse.

Unless, of course, War enjoyed occupying Ian Grim. Then CJ’s plan would be shot to hell.

It didn’t take long to find the warlock. The Council had been tracking him since the first mortal deaths had been reported. Yet the warlock ducked in and out of buildings, attempting stealth.

No demons made CJ a strong, alert witch. He was in complete control of his faculties—and his litany of spellcraft and magics. Using his black-bladed athame to prick the air before him, and whispering a sensory command, CJ drew up the sulfurous scent of War. His body recognized the demon and his muscles cringed, yet he stood strong, unwilling to flinch at a reunion with the powerful demon.

Turning a corner, CJ took a quick step when he spied Grim licking the blood from a knife blade and gurgling with delight. Both War and Grim would react the same, so CJ must be cautious until he knew who was in control of the body.

Shirt unbuttoned, he touched the entrance spell above his left nipple, closing it with a tap of his forefinger, and then enacted his wards without cloaking.

Grim whipped his head toward CJ and snickered in a deep, growling rumble CJ recognized all too well. The warlock was in control or, at the least, leading his wicked inhabitants.

“Grim,” he said, approaching cautiously and keeping his blade in view at his side. “I see you’re enjoying your new companions?”

“War is my bitch,” the warlock said on a spatter of blood. “He likes to kill things. I will reap his tally and gain entrance to Daemonia.”

“The Nacht März has been destroyed. What more could you want now?”

“Daemonia is rife with decadent tools of destruction. You know I like to possess impossible things.” The warlock’s body suddenly arched awkwardly, and he dragged his shoulder, revealed through his ripped shirt, down the brick wall, leaving a bloody stain. “Pain’s an a*shole, though,” he said through gritted teeth, obviously fighting against the demon’s control. “He’s trying my healing spells.”

“I want to speak to War,” CJ demanded. “Now.”

Grim growled, his voice echoing with sepulchral tones that could birth only from the place of all demons. With an unnatural twist of his head upon his neck, the warlock’s face hardened and his cheekbones sharpened. Indeed, the demons had gained power inside the warlock’s body.

“You miss me, dark witch?” War hissed.

“Not particularly. But I do need a favor of you.”

The demon laughed so icily the sound would have cracked tombstones.

“I would have given you your freedom, your passage to Daemonia,” CJ said, “but instead, you prefer to be this warlock’s bitch?”

War lunged, snapping Grim’s bloody maw at CJ. “Get me out of this warlock!”

“I can do that,” CJ offered. “You should be easy enough to exorcise now you’ve entered a host while in the mortal realm. But I want something in exchange. Information.”

“You are aware I know much. I like that about you, dark witch. This idiot tries to control...” The demon winced and smashed Grim’s head aside the brick wall. “He is strong, but Pain keeps him in check. Heh, heh. What do you want to know?”

“What is of more value to a soul bringer than the souls he collects day and night?”

“Heh. Nothing. The angelic freaks are automatons. They want for nothing. They require nothing. Although...”

“I thought so.” CJ spun the dagger smartly between his fingers. “One exorcism, ready to rock. You taking?”

War bristled, lifting Grim’s chest and huffing out a hot breath that challenged CJ’s determination to stand in the face of such rancid odor.

“The soul bringer would desire his own soul,” War offered.

Interesting. CJ had no idea the angelic breed actually had souls. And yet, he was aware the Fallen lost their souls when plummeting to earth, so it made sense the others would have them, as well. “Where is it? Can it be found? Given to the soul bringer?”

“It lies where most forgotten things go,” War said, following with a wicked laugh that pricked down CJ’s spine like a spiked wheel.

“Daemonia,” CJ guessed. F*ck. Why was everything in that accursed place? “I need that soul.”

“I’ve given you information. Send me back.”

“I want the soul bringer’s soul.”

“I can’t give you what I have not access to. Give me what you promised, dark witch.”

“Very well. You have served me admirably, War. But if I may humble myself and dare to request a favor, you would have my eternal gratitude.”

“Gratitude is intangible. It is not as satisfying as broken bones.”

“As are you intangible. In Daemonia you rule in corporeal form. I need that soul.” He waited for the demon to get over his bad self and realize Daemonia truly was the place for him. Didn’t take long.

Grim’s bloodied face cracked a broken-toothed grin. “Bring the Nacht März to Daemonia, and I’ll give you one soul ringer’s soul in exchange.”

CJ had promised Vika he would never return to Daemonia. And the damned whistle was broken. Did the demon want it in pieces? So much to consider, and not the time or place to do so when War stared him down.

“It must be a specific soul,” CJ said. “One belonging to Reichardt Fallowgleam.”

“His complete name?”

“Kryatron, Angel of the Seventh Soul.” Cinder had been a member of the angelic ranks at one time; he had come through for CJ.

“Gratitude in the form of my release to Daemonia.” He considered it. “Then we’ve a bargain. And I will have that promised kiss from the red witch.”

CJ nodded. “Someday.”

War spread out Grim’s arms, lifting his head and closing his eyes. “Commence!”

Using the blade, CJ drew a pentacle in the air before the demon-possessed warlock and recited the Latin exorcism rites. The body took the force of his rede, plunging against the wall. Grim cried out as War was forced out and back to Daemonia. The warlock collapsed forward, catching his palms in a bloody smear across the cobbles before CJ’s feet.

“No!” Grim cried as CJ strode away. “Get the other out! I can’t control it. It’ll kill me to serve its desire for pain!”

“I doubt that,” CJ called back. “It’ll spare your life in order to use it over and over, even if it has to grind you to the core. You’d best get yourself to a Catholic church before Pain tears off all your skin. See you around, Grim. Next time, let’s do this the gentleman’s way and make it official dueling rules, yes?”

Veering toward the Metro station, CJ now had a new mission.

* * *

“You know, we’re cleaning up your boyfriend’s mess.” Libby tossed a severed werewolf head into the black bag.

“It’s not CJ’s mess—nor is it his fault.” How werewolves had gotten into the mix, Vika did not want to know.

“He let the warlock take the last demons from him. They, in turn, created this mess. Seems like it’s the dark witch’s fault to me.”

Vika looked up from sweeping up a pile of vampire ash sodden with blood. She blew a strand of hair from her face that had escaped the Tyvek cap. “This, coming from the chick whose boyfriend stole my soul?”

Libby gaped. “He was only doing what he promised! What he was owed!”

“Seriously, Libby?”

Her sister’s defensive posture deflated, and Libby knelt next to the werewolf’s headless body. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just feel so—”

“Cranky?”

“Yes. And bitchy. That’s so not like me. It’s what not having a soul is like, isn’t it?”

“I hope not. But I feel the same. Not right. And so cold.”

“Me, too. I need a sweater and it’s seventy degrees out. Hand me that foot. I’ll stuff it in this bag.”

Vika did so and shivered at contact with her sister’s skin. If she had wondered what having no soul would mean to them, she had to look no further than Libby. Her sister was growing hard inside, adamantine. She was sinking, and Vika didn’t know what to do to pull her to the surface. Because she was sinking right beside her, both failing to clutch on to the life raft neither could see.

She wondered, with futile hope, if CJ were having any luck contacting Reichardt. And then she cursed herself for wishing such a thing. She had meant it when she’d told CJ she would not tolerate him trading his soul for theirs. At least one of them in this relationship must retain a soul.

If it could be considered a relationship now. I don’t want a lover without a soul, either.

He may be finished with her. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d not had her say, a chance to fight for what she wanted. And what she wanted was Certainly Jones.

“Let’s hurry,” she said. “I suddenly need to know what CJ is up to.”

“Hopefully, he’s trying to get us out of this mess.”

“Yes, but at a risk to his own soul? I couldn’t abide such a thing.”

Libby sighed. “True. He’s suffered enough. And we did get ourselves in this mess by consorting with the soul bringer.”

Vika lifted an eyebrow. The true meaning of her sister’s statement soared completely over her head.

Libby gestured to the back of the hearse. “I can roll the vacuum over the vamp ash if you want to go.”

“No, I’ll help you finish. It’ll be faster that way.”

* * *

CJ located the place where he’d found Vika in the train station after he’d thrown her across the tracks. She’d tossed the Nacht März before the train, and it had been crushed.

But why had either of them believed it would stay crushed? Something forged from Lucifer’s wing had to be indestructible.

He waited for the current train to pass by then leaped down onto the rail and scanned a flashlight over the darkened recesses within the iron rails and tie bars. The thing was small and white, and so were the pebbles between each tie. He should be able to sense it, having held it enough.

Spreading out his left hand, he invoked the entrance spell and opened his senses wide. A wicked zap of electricity tickled his palm, and he reached, blindly, and grasped the whistle. Darkness shimmered through him as if goose bumps pricked up his skin. “Gotcha.”

Now to call his brother, TJ, and his best friend, Lucian Bellisario. He’d need Lucian to give blood to help him rescue the woman he loved.