Page 83 of Bitter Spirits

The magic that allowed Locke to be an exceptional hunter picked through scents and sounds even as it ignored the ever-shifting landscape and implied threats. Since trusting what he saw was no longer an option, he closed his eyes. He found Isa’s scent first, a faint cinnamon-laced vanilla. Then Carter’s, a little beyond her, stronger with a disturbing chemical-tinged sweat and fury. But there was another scent whispering along the air, off to his left and creeping closer, a smooth, dry musk tinted with bitter ice. Angel.

The warping sounds grew clearer, and he caught Carter’s angry tones, followed by the crash of something breaking. He held his position even as the ground trembled under his feet and his spine crawled in warning that someone was approaching. Locke flexed his elemental magic, thickening a layer of air and wrapping it around him like a cloak. It wouldn’t stop an attack, but it would blunt it.

“Locke, your left!”

Catching Isa’s warning, he swiped out, eyes flashing open. Minute changes in the air telegraphed body heat, and even though all he saw was dizzying shadows, his blade caught something lighter than muscle, likely cloth and skin. A tight grip took his forearm and pulled him forward, wrenching it backward. His fingers spasmed, his blade falling to the ground. Locke fisted his free hand and threw a sharp, vicious jab. His knuckles cracked against bone. A pained grunt sounded, and the grip on his arm loosened. He pulled back fast just as the world winked back in, the sunshine blindingly bright after the dull grays.

Locke blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision, and caught a sense of nearby movement. As the air shifted past him, he dove out of the way and stumbled into a wall, rough stucco scraping skin. He pushed off and spun around just in time to find Angel stalking toward him, thick tendrils of olive green flecked with black dancing around him in a magical storm. They struck out, hitting the dense wall of air Locke held in place, and whipped back to strike again.

Locke rushed Angel, bending low to evade the strike, and caught the man in the gut with his shoulder. As he wrapped his arms around Angel’s thighs and hefted upward, a sharp pain sliced across his back. With a roar, he stumbled forward and slammed Angel into the table. The wooden top split with a loud crack.

Undaunted, Angel swung out, his fist slamming into the side of Locke’s head. Even as Locke rocked and his vision blurred, he sank a vicious punch into Angel’s ribs, feeling the bone give. An answering pain spiraled up from his kidneys where Angel landed a hit. Without releasing his hold, Locke punched out again, his angle awkward as Angel tried to buck free. Angel gave a grunt of pain. His fist crashed into Locke’s skull, leaving his ears ringing and his vision going white.

Locke held on grimly, coiling his air magic around Angel’s struggling form, and slowly cut off Angel’s air supply. His vision came back in patches, providing snapshots of Angel’s red face. He could feel Angel’s desperation as he bucked, his magic striking out in a flurry of blows to batter at Locke’s shield of air. Locke’s magic held the strikes at bay, but Angel still swiped out, fingers curled into claws. Locke jerked his head back, saving his eyes but leaving his neck exposed as Angel dug bloodied furrows into his skin.

A pained feminine cry, quickly cut off, yanked Locke’s attention to the yard, where Isa was struggling with the much larger Carter.

“Isa!”

His flash of panic was a momentary distraction, but that was all it took. He lost his hold on Angel, who jackknifed his legs and shot them into Locke’s gut, shoving him back. Black-flecked green whipped out, found purchase in the cracks of his concern for Isa, and burrowed fast and deep. Worry spiked and deepened into crippling fear, splitting Locke’s attention between threats. Bound by the unnatural terror ripping through his psyche, Locke couldn’t move, his gaze fixed on where Isa continued to fight Carter as a voice whispered through his mind that she would die.

Bullshit. Isa isn’t weak—never has been. She’ll never go down easy. Even now, she’s holding her own.

Yet he still couldn’t look away. Fury burned under the unnatural icy hold, but it was too late. His hindbrain screamed in warning as pain tore through his back, sending him to his knees.

Chapter 25

Isa

In the muffled quiet, Isa peered around the garden wall and caught a blur of movement near the oversized window. It was Locke. He was reaching for the edge of the window when something came flying through it. Shattering glass and pained grunts broke through the strange thick silence, and suddenly, the air was filled with noise and magic. A body rolled over the pavers, chased by a wave of magic as it crashed into the fireplace, tossing aside wicker chairs like bowling pins. It took her precious seconds to recognize who the body belonged to.

Carter. His face was twisted with rage. He rose to his feet. With his entire focus on the house, he moved a few steps forward, wiping his arm over his mouth.

Isa froze in a runner’s stance, one hand on the ground, one foot behind her, ready to sprint. To where, she had no clue, but if Carter looked to his right, he would see her.

“Let’s try something different, asshole,” he growled as magic twisted the world into a warped version of itself.

His power swept through the air and washed over Isa, and a flash of painful cold beat at the base of her throat. Lost in the gray, with the warm stone under her hand the only solid reality, she clutched at the scythe charm against her chest and closed her eyes. Somewhere out there, Locke would be stuck in Carter’s illusion, leaving him vulnerable to Angel. If she moved and tried to interfere, the chance of her getting swept up in the illusion would be high. Too high. She couldn’t leave Locke alone. She needed a distraction.

Starlit darkness spun behind her closed lids as the Reaper’s cloak settled on her shoulders. Whispers and needs wrapped around her, plucking at her attention, demanding to be acknowledged, but there was only one she was interested in.

“You promised me,” the hungry echo of Cora’s voice whispered.

Image after image swam past Isa’s consciousness, each one a tale of violent retribution, with Angel in a starring role. Cora’s vengeance spiraled higher. Buffered by the Reaper’s analytical take, Isa spared a moment to appreciate a couple of the more inventive ideas Cora spun.

“He’s here,” Isa said, her voice coolly detached.

“I know.” Piece by piece, the remnants of Cora’s spirit reformed into a wraith and drifted close. She reached out, her fingers coming within millimeters of Isa’s face. “Let me in.”

“No.” Isa didn’t flinch at that ghostly touch—she couldn’t afford to—as she wrapped the Reaper’s mantle tight, holding off the unwanted connection. “Not yet.”

“You promised,” Cora hissed, her face twisted into a ghoulish mask.

There was a faint twinge near Isa’s heart, but she held that unnatural stare. “I did, but you can’t take him on your own.”

An angry wail ripped through the air. Cora’s image wavered as if caught in a wind funnel, one minute bone and shadows, the next an angry woman. Her attention rose beyond Isa, her face mostly monstrous as she hissed, “He’s so close.” When she looked back at Isa, she was once again wearing Cora’s face, complete with an expression of rabid determination. “I can.”

Even as pity stirred, Isa held strong. “You can’t, but if you let me lead, I can give you a shot at getting your own back.”