Page 99 of Deadly Lineage
Anyone sane would have cringed at the noises Holland made. Not McCallister. His laughter contradicted reason and solidified his lost grip on reality. The words continued, but McCallister’s voice became strained. I wasn’t sure if it was the ritual itself or if Holland had found a way to fight him even while trapped. Regardless, I figured it was now or never.
My eyes slid open. Holland was in the circle. He’d fallen to one knee and was bent over, hand gripped tightly over his heart. Sweat matted his dark hair, now clinging to his forehead. Holland’s naturally pale skin appeared ashen.
I pulled my gaze away, refusing to look in Boone’s direction for fear of getting distracted. The circle wasn’t far away. Inchworming forward, I scooted until my forearm was close to the glowing sigils. Holland’s knife was sharp and did its work swiftly. His pain charm also did its job, eliminating the sting. Blood pooled around my wrist and forearm, dripping onto the floor near the sigils. I wasn’t sure how much blood it would take. Holland either didn’t know or hadn’t had time to tell me. I let it pool as long as I dared and then in one swift action, I shoved my hand into the blood and pushed forward, smearing it across the closest sigils.
The effect was immediate and anticlimactic. I’m not sure what I expected. An explosion? A fiery blast? A flare of light? Instead, none of those things happened. The sigil’s glow blinked out and became quiescent. McCallister’s circle of death was no more than useless graffiti.
“W-what?” McCallister sounded breathless, his earlier laughter long gone. “What did you do?” His tone went up several octaves.
I rolled onto my back, my laughter now filling the air. “I’m not sure, but hopefully I’ve royally fucked you up.”
“Indeed.” That singular word was more unsteady than I would have liked to hear, but at least Holland was still able to speak. More than that, he stood, pushing up from his crouched position. His skin was still far too pale and dark circles ringed his eyes. Rolling his shoulders, Holland twisted his head back and forth, popping his neck. His fingers clenched before spreading wide. With a twisted smile, he said, “My turn.”
I didn’t wait to see what he meant by that. I needed to get to Boone. I needed to make sure he was still alive, that we hadn’t been too late.
Crouching low, I ducked when something shimmering and deadly flew past my head. Shouts, grunts, and fracturing wallsand rock filled the room with dust and curses. Dodging them all, I found my way to Boone and collapsed beside him. Blood leaked from a wound on his forehead. The slice across his neck thankfully wasn’t too deep and had already clotted. His pulse was thready and rapid and his breathing shallow, but at least he was still breathing. I held his cold body to mine, using my own flesh as a human shield to block what was happening behind us.
“It’s okay, Boone,” I whispered, brushing the hair from his face. “I’ve got you, and your father’s enjoying tearing McCallister apart. Captain Cicely’s outside. She’s got a whole coven of witches with her. When we get out of here, she’ll fix you right up.”
Witches were far better at healing than warlocks. I ignored the fact that I was in desperate need of some of that healing too.
None of us had been sure how things would go down. Captain Cicely called her coven sisters and they’d set up a perimeter around the bunker Boone was being kept in. They were the second line of defense in case we failed. Reluctantly, she’d stayed outside. We didn’t know McCallister’s full capabilities. We didn’t want to offer up a powerful witch coven for him to drain.
No doubt Captain Cicely could feel the magical release happening. Most likely she could hear it too. She’d be chomping at the bit to get down here.
As I sat there, cradling Boone’s body, the sounds around us dissipated to little more than a whimper. Without turning around, I knew who’d won the fight. Nikodemus Holland would never utter such a pathetic sound.
And then, even that disturbingly satisfying sound ended, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
“Detective, is my son—”
“Alive,” I answered. “We need to get him to Captain Cicely’s coven.”
Holland’s hand landed on my shoulder, his grip firm. When I glanced up, the look of abject relief was heart-wrenching. Holland’s eyes were glassy and soft as he stared at Boone’s limp body. The warlock appeared worn thin and was barely standing.
“Looks like you could use a little witch healing too.”
Holland pulled his hand back and grunted. “As if I would degrade myself in such a way.”
Was it wrong to laugh? I suppose it didn’t matter because that’s exactly what I did. I threw my head back and laughed until tears leaked down my cheeks.
Holland’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened into a thin line. “I believe your head injury is worse than I thought.”
I only laughed harder.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Erasmus
I wasn’t used to waking up in the hospital. I wasn’t sure anyone was, and if they were, then maybe they needed to reevaluate their life choices.
The back of my hand was taped, an IV nestled below the adhesive. The lighting was low and the hum of my IV pump whirled in the background. Little beeps that were thankfully consistent sounded from the monitor attached to my finger and the leads stuck to my chest. A thin line of tubing tickled my nose and delivered oxygen.
Despite the low lights, I still blinked against the assault. Momma’s head blocked out the light as she leaned over my bed, her worried, strained face filling my vision.
“M-Momma,” I managed, my throat arid.
