Page 89 of Never Say Die
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Maeve set a porcelain teacup on the table amidst bloody plumage.
“You could’ve called,” she said, draped in her chiffon robe and a floor-length nightgown. “Whiskey or vodka?”
“Whiskey,” Aiden said. Webbed feet and gangly, black legs jostled on his lap. “Sorry, buddy,” he mumbled, and tore a handful of snowy feathers from the dead heron’s hide. Its narrow beak pecked the sofa, bobbing as Aiden plucked. “Do you have a bowl? Or a mason jar, maybe? This might get messy.”
“Blood is more potent straight from the beast. I’d leave it for now.” Maeve tipped an expensive-looking bottle with a label he’d never seen, and yellowish liquid splashed into his tea.
“Think it’ll work?”
“Ritual is a powerful thing, and you’re a powerful vessel. I’d like to say yes, but these situations are complicated. Nobody knows if it’ll work until it does.” She leaned against the armrest beside him. “Or doesn’t.”
“Comforting, thanks.” Aiden shot back his whiskey-infused Earl Grey.
Forty-five minutes ago, Aiden had hailed a Lyft to KingGasoline and used the flashlight on his phone to light his way along the bayou boardwalk. Maeve had swung the front door open, sleepy and irritated, and listened to him ramble about ritual sacrifices and Camila Ramírez. When he handed her Shay’s pocket-sized journal, she’d flipped through pages, nodded silently, and welcomed an absolutely batshit idea.
If I die, Laura dies, he’d said, and the words had thickened in his throat,but if there’s a prophecy, I’m supposedto die, and if someone performs a ritual, I’ll come back like you. Maybe this is an opportunity.
Maeve had hummed, skeptically, and filled the kettle.
Aiden was almost certain she’d agreed to help him because she wanted to study the method, document the outcome, watch a ritual rise to a crescendo and land on the other side of another life. Or fail, miserably. There would be no middle ground. Aiden would die and stay dead, or he would die and return. Either way, Laura stopped existing. Hopefully.
“My late husband would hate to see a dead bird on his Italian leather,” she said. “More tea?”
“Sure, yeah. Another husband, huh? What happened to the second one?”
“Richard? Oh, he caught me throwing away a Versace suit jacket and assumed I was being unfaithful. I wasn’t, but I hadn’t told him about my dietary needs, and, well, it’s not an easy thing to explain. He lost his temper—old money makes men far too brave—and hit me, closed fist, right here.” She tapped her cheek. “I apologized and booked us a romantic Colorado camping trip. Unfortunately, he was mauled by a bear. Eviscerated, honestly. Ruined our good tent.”
Aiden snorted out a laugh. “Tragic.”
“Extremely,” she said, and refilled his cup. “I kept his name, though. Has a good ring to it. King. . .” The word fit like steel in her mouth. “I wear it better, anyway.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“They’ll be here soon.” She pinned him with a questioning look, brows arched, mouth set, and picked Defiéndase Con El Diablo: Magia Negra up off the table, dusting a feather from the cover. “Are you sure this is what you want? Shay doesn’t seem like the risk-taking type. Not with you, specifically.”
“I want this. I’vewantedthis. Shay might not understand, but I have a feeling you do,” he said, shifting his eyes to the woman beside him.
Maeve sipped her tea. “Power is tempting, but it’s not a guarantee.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll take my chances.” He plopped the near-naked heron on the table and gathered feathers into a paper grocery bag. “I’m no witch, but I need to do this shouty-ass summoning spell, thing, whatever, before he gets here or he’ll… I don’t know. Throw me over his shoulder. Knock me out. Do, literally, anything and everything he possibly can to stop me. The book says wrist, right?”
“Over your pulse, into the cup.”
Aiden glanced at the dog-eared page.Mitades, llamarse entre sí. Vivo y abandonado.“Okay,” he said, exhaling sharply. “Okay, so…” He bent his wrist. Set the knife across copper skin and blue veins.
“Not too deep,” Maeve noted. “Sacrifice and suicide are two different things despite the situational similarity.”
He steadied his nerves, and pressed the blade down, dragging in a straight line. “Ven a mi,” he said, and watched blood seep, drip, drop into the teacup. He reached for Laura. Felt for the remnants of his blood inside her and yanked her to him. Truthfully, he had no idea what the fuck he was doing, but he needed this magic—their magic, Ramírez magic—to work. Camila had always saidyou’ll feel it, someday. And suddenly, finally, he did. Familiarity, like déjà vu, tingled in his gums andpulsed in his temples, accompanied by otherworldly silence. “Ven a mi,” he said again, and lifted the cup, sucking blood and whiskey into his mouth.
The air shifted. Energy rippled, extending from Aiden like an invisible beacon.
“Nice work, not-a-witch. I’ll get you a bandage,” she said, and patted his knee.
Aiden blew out a breath. He’d anticipated being afraid—more afraid, at least. Thought he’d run. Leave everything he’d known behind and let Laura chase him from state to state, city to city. But what kind of life would that have been? Who would he choose to be if he walked away from Shay Bennett? What sort of future would he be living if he didn’t spark his own transformation? If he didn’t take power when power wasright there, ready to be taken?
Someone weak, he thought. Someone who hadn’t erupted from a claustrophobic shell with thicker skin, and broader shoulders, and a name he’d seized for himself. Someone unfamiliar with death and rebirth.
