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“The Mother gives me autonomy to act. Can you say the same of whomever you’re obeying?”
The mark hit, and the woman’s eyes flashed with anger. “Get in the car.”
“Where am I going?”
“There’s a witch who wants to see you.”
“Really?” Daphne’s expression brightened. “Why didn’t you say so?” She hopped in and sat before saying impatiently, “Close the door that we might get on our way. I am eager to complete my mission.”
The door slammed shut and the car lurched into motion, the driver remaining silent, which suited her fine. They drove long enough that the morning sun had fully crested before they pulled to a stop in a gas station long vacant. The pumps that provided fuel were missing their hoses and weeds grew through the tarmac and the windows of the building were covered with boards.
Despite its abandonment, another vehicle was parked, and from it emerged two people, disheveled and hollow-eyed. A man and a young woman.
Her driver opened the door for Daphne and ordered her, “Get out.”
It appeared to be an exchange. Daphne for the pair.
She strutted without qualm to the other vehicle, the driver a brutish fellow with a patch over an eye and a scent that displeased. Acrid and unpleasant.
He said nothing as she slid into the rear seat. She tried to ask questions as he drove—“Where are we going?” “Who do you work for?” “Is it far?”—but he remained silent.
Given his lack of communication, she napped. Might as well be well rested for her arrival. She woke when the vehicle jostled, having left smooth pavement for a rutted path, pitted and muddy in spots. The foliage grew increasingly dense, but not in a healthy way. She spotted the signs of rot and decay as leaves that should have been green instead showed hints of black mold and even white fungal spores. The air, heavy with moisture, reeked of death.
She’d found the area that concerned the Mother.
The car stopped by a cottage. A quaint thing that wouldn’t have been out of place in her time with its river stone walls and thatched roof.
Not so quaint? The pile of skulls surrounding a steaming cauldron, the fumes of it a sickly green.
She’d been delivered to the home of the witch. Excellent, although she did wonder why the witch had requested her.
“Get out,” the one-eyed man ordered.
Though still cuffed, she was able to open her own door. She slid out of the vehicle which sped off, leaving her stranded. She’d worry about leaving this place once she dealt with the witch.
Speaking of whom, the cottage door opened.
A woman appeared, her light blonde hair pulled into a bun atop her head, her trim figure wearing modern clothing, but her face…
Daphne’s jaw dropped as the face that had haunted her in the seed smirked at her surprise.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Mother’s champion back from her long sojourn.”
A taunt that barely registered as Daphne grappled with one fact: Circe was still alive!
Chapter 11
When are we going to find her? Garou kept asking.
Baptiste had no answer. But he was getting pissed.
The CA agents had brought him and Marissa to their precinct, a modern building made of cement poured over iron rods. Great for disrupting most magic. They directed him to a cell, still manacled in silver, although they did remove the net from him.
Fucking shit burns. Garou did not like their treatment thus far and Baptiste couldn’t blame him. First off, they’d done nothing wrong. Killing a giant roach? Should have gotten them a medal not a ride in the paddy wagon.
Secondly? While he might not have agreed with his uncle’s meddling, the fact remained the murder charges had been dropped. They had no cause to bring him in for that.
Third, the silver net they’d used showed forethought and collusion with a pack. Because usually when a werewolf misbehaved—a.k.a. got violent and started attacking humans—it wasn’t the CA that handled it, but the Pack for that area. It should be noted, the Pack was much stricter and more unforgiving.
