Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4) Page 12

  My hands are shaking, though. The farther I go, the harder it is to breathe.

  I can’t go into those dungeons. If I am right and this tunnel leads me there, I have to circle around somehow first. Getting trapped there again would break me. I know it would.

  And more importantly, I wouldn’t be any help to the girls. He has to be keeping them there. I’ll have to draw Anton out. Kill him first and then get Julie and Fiona.

  I never let myself think that they might already be dead. Because then I’d have to think about telling Fiona’s father and Taika. And that shit is not going to happen.

  I look at the star on my forearm as I press closer to the entrance. I wonder if Merry’s blessing also means I can apparate out of here now.

  “How many miles to Babylon . . .” I mutter, trying a gentle cast. Instantly, sparks fill the winding tunnel ahead. Everything seems to be in working order. Now, do I take the chance that I’m wrong and the witches are being held someplace totally different from where I imagine?

  But I think of Ana’s unsuccessful cast and the nagging fear that has plagued me since I first took this job, those hairs that looked very much like polar bear fur that I took from the gnome tunnel outside Fiona’s home.

  I’m not fucking wrong.

  With a deep breath, I close my eyes and picture the place I swore I would never see again. There is a strange roaring noise as I leave the tunnels, and the smell of dust, but before I can tell what’s going on, the darkness vanishes.

  The castle looms above, exactly as I remember it. Dawn is on its way, pink and gold feathering the blackened sky. Even that gorgeous light can’t soften the specter before me. Lev’s ancestral home is crouched on the cliffs like a carrion bird, ready to swoop into the churning grey waters below. The smell of the sea is strong in the damp and icy air, but that’s not the reason I start shivering.

  With a sigh, I picture the entrance hall. But this time, I draw my sword first.

  I land right below the first step of the grand staircase. Inside, the castle looks worse than it did from the cliff. And it smells rank. I cover my nose with my free arm, wincing. What the hell? It’s like something died in here, several somethings.

  Ice slicks my insides. Not my witches. Goddamn it. Not Julie and Fiona.

  No, I refuse to believe that. They’re still here, somewhere.

  Tattered tapestries hang on the dank stone walls, furry with mold and dark. Nothing stirs, not a breath of sound other than the low, constant roar of the sea from outside. I remember when Lev first escorted me inside. It wasn’t my first castle, but I was impressed. Back then, the tapestries were bright and new, the silk gleaming in the candlelight from the chandeliers. I glance up, but the magnificent crystals I remember are black with soot and greasy with hardened wax. It looks like they haven’t been used in a century or more.

  The hairs rise on the back of my neck as a soft moan pierces the gloom. I turn my head toward a shadow coming down the stairs. I lift my sword to meet the threat, my eyes struggling to make out a face. It almost looks like Caterina. My foot lifts, the toe of my boot finding the first step as I prepare to leap at whoever is approaching.

  As I shift my weight, the figure disappears, torn apart by the sound of a wicked laugh.

  Something sprays all over my face, numbing and cold. Instinctively, I close my eyes and whirl away, but it’s too late. A fine, sticky mist is all over my lower jaw and lips, the taste bitter and numbing. I wipe at it with my hands, but my lips are already swelling and my tongue won’t work right. I can’t cry out and I can’t cast. I stumble and fall back, flailing.

  Fuck.

  The floor drops out from under my feet with a bang. The sudden, horrible sensation of falling would make me scream if I could. Instead, I shove my hand in my pocket, squeezing the bit of spellwork hidden there. A cobalt rope snakes from my pocket to wrap around the rapidly disappearing stairwell above. I jerk to a stop, held in limbo as I study the situation.

  I’m in a crude shaft, original function unknown but probably horrible. It’s grey and even dimmer than the entrance hall, the only light coming from the basketball-sized hole far above my head, where I was standing less than thirty seconds ago.

  Below me the greyness swirls and twists, exactly like one of those curvy slides at a kid’s park. Except I have a feeling this leads straight to hell.

  The son of a bitch knew I was coming. How long has he been planning this? Oh duh, probably since I killed his nutso brother. And now I’ve walked right into his trap.

  Thank the gods I still have a grip on my sword. I manage to sheathe it awkwardly, swinging back and forth as I try to figure a way out of this. Then I get an idea.

  Using the conjured rope, I swing harder, increasing my momentum until I can get the tips of my boots against the sides of the stone. I try to climb back up, but the stone is slick and smelly, covered in slime and mold. After several long minutes, I fall back to hang in the chilly, damp air, slowly coming to a stop. My breath is coming hard and fast, sounding eerie in this glorified drainpipe. My lips are still too swollen to speak and my used-up bit of spellwork is skittering down the slide and out of sight.

  It’s dark down there. Blackness gathers like a pool, lapping over the end of the tunnel to hell. I stare at it, goose bumps breaking out over the backs of my arms.

  Without warning, my spellwork rope lets go, like it was sliced from above.

  I fall against the curved stone hard, smashing my face and then my shoulder. My jaw snaps shut and I taste blood. My spine feels like I just got body-slammed by Thor. That’s nothing compared to the ride that follows. There isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t skinned or bruised by the time I bump and skitter to a stop.

  Before I can do more than get to my hands and knees, a grate slams behind me, sealing the chute I just emerged from. Then pipes hiss, like gas escaping a stove.

  Never a good sign.

  Some kind of gas fills the room. So fast, a billowing grey and purple cloud that smells like Pepto-Bismol. I jump to my feet, instinctively reaching for my magic. The swelling is gone and my voice is back . . . but the magic isn’t there. I look around at familiar dark grey walls and shake my head, skittering backward. I’ve fallen far below the main castle. Even muffled by rock, the sea is louder here, the rhythm stronger in my lungs than my own heartbeat, the brutish beat familiar. My knees give way, hitting the cold stone floor as I pitch forward.

  No. This is not happening.

  I reach back for my sword, but my movements are clumsy and slow. My fingertips brush the pommel, but I can’t seem to lift it free.

  A familiar figure emerges from the dark as my eyes start to close.

  It’s not who I was expecting.

  19

  The Russians have barely left when we hear the sound of a vehicle coming down our dirt road.

  Coming fast.

  Jill and Tucker and their men look at me in alarm, all of us thinking the same thing and tensing for an attack. But when I throw open the door, it’s to see Ana, Tyr and Carly emerging from Ana’s Volvo.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Because something is most definitely wrong. Carly looks drawn, her normally bouncy and bright appearance deflated and wan. Ana is even paler than usual, leaning on the assassin as if without his support she won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other.

  Tyr looks at me, those black eyes glittery and cold. “Are your visitors gone?”

  Is there nothing this asshole doesn’t know?

  “Most of them.” I look behind me to see the other bruins taking the hint, turning back inside as I close the door.

  Tyr slides into a seat on one of the porch chairs, pulling Ana with him. They look striking next to each other, her so white, with those silvery curls and him gypsy dark and ragged. I can’t decide if the effect is pleasing or jarring. But the sight of his arm around her shoulders makes me frown. Assassins of the realm are not in the habit of showing affection to anything or anyone. Except maybe thei
r weapon and their gold.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen Jett?” Tyr’s sharp words cut through my daze. I’m still having a hard time processing what Agatha told me, but it only takes the sound of Jett’s name to make me focused and sharp.

  “Yesterday morning. Why?”

  “Did she tell you what she was working on?” Ana speaks up at last. Even her voice is pale.

  “No. Not really. Just something about a woman that was missing—”

  “Not just a woman, a witch. More than one, apparently.”

  “Witches are still disappearing?” Goddamn it. Her little display at the Council clicks into place. “But I thought—”

  “Herne? Yeah, that’s what we all thought.” Tyr’s gaze is hard as he looks at Ana’s wan face, then back at me. “But apparently there’s been someone else behind that all along. Jett’s been working the disappearances by herself without telling anyone, trying to figure out what’s been going on.”

  “Then how did you find out?”

  “Because Jett is gone, Stephen.” Carly reaches for me, her voice as whisper soft as her touch.

  I jerk away. Like a stone thrown into a river, my heart is going cold and icy, in spinning free fall through the rushing torrent.

  “What the hell do you mean, gone?”

  “Merry showed up at our doorstep less than an hour ago.” Carly lets her hand fall. “Whoever is taking the witches has been using the gnome tunnels. He was helping her. They found something in one of the tunnels and she sent him back to get help. He only got a mile or so when he heard the section of the tunnel where they had separated collapsing. He rushed back, but she was gone.”

  Gone.

  “Gone how, Ana?” I’m getting sick of that word. A cave-in couldn’t kill a witch like Jett. Maybe knock her out or something but nothing she wouldn’t be able to handle.

  “Just gone. Vanished. He thinks she apparated out and that’s what triggered the cave-in. Someone set a trap for magic.”

  “Where’s Merry?”

  “Trying to clear the tunnel completely. It may take hours, though. He—”

  “What did they find, Ana? Before he left her. What did they find that made them separate?”

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again, looking stricken. It’s Tyr that finally speaks, his face grim. “A fucking firebird feather.” For the first time I notice his fist is curled tight around something that is smoking lightly.

  I flinch. “You brought that shit on my land!”

  “It’s not active,” Ana whispers. “It can’t hurt anyone.”

  “This isn’t about Jett, is it? It’s about you.”

  “What the hell are you on about?” Tyr snaps, his eyes narrowing.

  Son of a bitch. Before I can stop myself, my hands are on Ana’s shoulders, my voice a hard croak as I pull her to her feet. “Why does Viktor Vasilisa want you so badly, Ana? Did he go after Jett to punish you?”

  There is the hiss of steel, then the slick cold press of it against my throat. “Back away, bruin. Bit hard to wear a crown if you lack a head.”

  I shove the blade away, ignoring the hot slice of pain that brands my palm. As soon as I release her, Ana sways forward. Tyr’s arm is faster than mine, winding around her waist before she can sink to the grass.

  She leans into the assassin, her lips bloodless as she stares at me. “What are you talking about, Stephen?”

  “My visitors,” I spit out, “were here because of you. It had nothing to do with Seph, or even Georg. That was just a way to get a foot in the door. Vasilisa wants you back in the Old World, Ana.” Carly’s hand flies to her mouth, but I ignore her, all my attention focused on the tiny, silver-haired witch in front of me. “And apparently he’s prepared to use any underhanded method to do it. They were hoping to summon all of you for questioning in Georg’s death, an inquisition to be held guess where?”

  “The Inferno Palace,” she whispers. Tyr reaches for her, a strange look in his eyes, but she puts out a hand. Straightening her spine, she looks at me.

  “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to Viktor in over a hundred years!”

  “Would he hurt her?”

  “Would he?” She lifts her hands helplessly, obviously shell-shocked. “I have no idea, but Jett didn’t think the feather meant Viktor, Stephen! She told Merry she thought it was someone else. Someone from her past. Not mine.”

  “She’s wrong.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Who then? Who’s stealing witches and leaving firebird feathers behind, Ana?”

  “A cousin of Viktor’s. A bruin.” She won’t meet my eyes.

  “The bruin that hurt her?” I stare at her, my heart pounding.

  Ana sinks back into the chair with Tyr, nodding once. Briefly and quietly, she outlines what happened to Jett. Treachery. Kidnapping. Torture. Experimentation. All that she knows. But I have a sick feeling Jett held back the details.

  She always holds back, and why the fuck wouldn’t she?

  First her father is a psycho loser who, at his core, is terrified of the magic that makes her and her sisters who they are. Her mother rips her family apart with that same power—to save them, sure, but still a horrendous upheaval for a little kid. Then the first guy she trusts turns out to be a demented shifter who wants to take away her magic and use it for his own twisted schemes.

  No wonder she hates making herself vulnerable. She was putting her family first because she had to, but Jett hadn’t been lying when she said she trusted me. She had been trusting I would believe in her enough to accept what she had to do.

  Instead I had believed the worst.

  Everyone had believed the worst. After that, why should she share what she was up to? Despite her sisters, Jett had trained herself to go it alone, to hold herself apart and to compartmentalize her life.

  To keep everything that mattered locked up tight.

  But she had been opening up to me. Bit by bit. If I hadn’t tossed her aside, maybe I would’ve known this was going on. Maybe she would’ve let me come with her yesterday instead of leaving me behind.

  While she faces gods know what. Alone.

  “This is him?” Rage simmers inside me. Rage at myself. Rage at him. “You think this is that bastard trying to get to her again?”

  “No. She killed Lev.” She clears her throat, looking down at her hands. “But from what Jett told Merry before she made him leave, she was thinking this could be his brother.”

  “I need to talk to that fucking gnome!”

  “They’re having a hard time finding a way around. He could be hours yet, and those tunnels are still our quickest way to Jett.”

  “Then think of something else, for the gods’ sakes! Are you witches or what?”

  “None of us can apparate, Stephen. I’ve already tried scrying for her and I can’t see anything.” She wrings her hands, unable to say more, but I get it. It means Jett is probably in that dungeon again. The one where magic doesn’t work. The one where she was tortured. “I can’t scry the castle either, it was too long ago and I don’t remember it well enough. I only saw it for a few seconds and it was almost dark.”

  “Fine. I’ll go by myself.” I pull the photo strip Seph gave me from my pocket. “This is why you came, right? Seph told you I have it?”

  “Yes. I don’t think there’s anything else of Jett’s she cares enough about to work. Her sword is with her and she’s not one for mementos.” Ana stares at the paper in my hand. “It might not work. If I can’t scry her there, fairy magic might not—”

  “It’ll work.” It has to.

  She doesn’t argue, but her hand goes to my arm. “Stephen . . . I’m scared. If she is back in that pit . . .” She bites her lip, her eyes filling. “My sister was never quite right when she came out of that place. Going back there could break her.”

  “Bullshit. Your sister is unbreakable.”

  Ana keeps talking, but I don’t hear the rest of her words. They�
�re drowned out by an awful keening in my head.

  Jett. I stumble, falling sideways, almost crushing both Ana and Tyr. The assassin shoves me up again. “What the fuck, bruin?”

  Ana puts a hand on his arm. “Wait. What’s wrong, Stephen?”

  It’s hard to breathe, my aching lungs icy and hot all at the same time. “I heard her. Jett. She was crying.”

  Carly is so pale her freckles stand out like flecks of blood on alabaster. “Jett doesn’t cry,” she whispers.

  For a long moment, no one says anything. Even Tyr looks sickened.

  “We don’t have time to wait on the gnomes. She needs me now.”

  “Stephen, I don’t know how long you’ll be alone. Jack can’t ride the wind over an entire ocean. Mom’s unavailable and Styx is gone.” I don’t know why Carly’s voice breaks on the word gone and I don’t have time to care. I get the gist. It’s up to me.

  Maybe that’s the way it should be. Maybe this is my penance for fucking things up so royally. Or my salvation.

  “I’ve got this.”

  Ana reaches out, curling my fingers around the bit of fairy-enchanted celluloid and squeezing hard. Her eyes are full of worry. “We’ll follow as soon as the gnomes clear the tunnels. Try and text me the instant you get there. If magic doesn’t work, your cell might.”

  “I doubt that.” Carly is wringing her hands.

  “We don’t need a fucking phone. Go inside with Dom and Ajax. Our bond is strong. No matter what is going on at Jett’s end, I’m sure they’ll be able to feel me, to see what I see.”

  I hold the bewitched strip of paper in my hand, not allowing myself to consider the possibility that Rochka’s magic won’t work. Because it fucking has to.

  Tyr tries to hand me one of his handguns, but Carly bats his hand away. “He can’t carry iron and use a fairy spell.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” I nod at the assassin, “but I’ve got plenty of weapons of my own.”

  Tyr shrugs, looking unconvinced. “You could be walking into something that teeth and claws alone can’t handle.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t have a choice.”