Lure of the Wicked Part 34

Agatha blanched as Naomi slid the cartridge back into place. Four bullets left. "Blah, blah, blah. You know what? I just don't care anymore." With her stomach twisting into brutal knots, Naomi sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Once, twice. Again.

Screams, shouts, swearing entwined with the thunderous rapport of the gun. Jessie spat something hard and angry behind her, but Naomi threw the gun to the ground and turned her back as the three witches slumped, boneless and b.l.o.o.d.y to the floor. Silent, jaw thrust hard, she stalked across the spattered crimson tile.

"Wait-"

"Let her go." Jessie's voice cut through the chaos. Flat, exhausted. "She's going to go kill a missionary."

Naomi's smile twisted. Four witches. One missionary.

Seemed fair.

Chapter Twenty.

"Well, well, Mr. Clarke." The intercom fuzzed as fire ate away at the systems around him. It was hot, too d.a.m.n hot, but Phin knew he'd seen everything he needed to.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d hadn't bothered to warn anyone. He hadn't cared.

He'd just locked the doors and set it on fire. A few matches, the right incentive. Phin could still smell the gas. Smell the rank, acrid stench of charred flesh.

The knowledge ate at Phin's soul.

He turned, flinging an arm over his face as sparks shattered over a panel that had once been covered in silk.

"Come out, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he roared, but the fire drowned it out. It leached at his breath, seared. Unable to do anything, anything at all, he retreated toward the tunnel door.

"I'll see you in that lovely garden," the easy voice said on the intercom. Fire licked at the edges of the metal plate, cracked the audio into broken syllables. "If-fast . . . save- Maybe . . . lucky."

Phin didn't shut the door behind him. Hatred spurred his feet, slammed his brain into automatic as he navigated the twisted, turning pa.s.sages that would take him down the inclines of the secret maze. Hatred, rage.

Terror.

Kill him. Clear the way for everyone else.

Kill him, save his mother.

Just kill him.

Phin kicked the panel wide open. Carefully hidden hinges crunched, split away from the wall. Wood and plaster snapped.

Roaring his fury, Phin barreled into the smoke-filled garden. "Where are you?"

Gray, acrid fog curled around the tree limbs above him, ghostly tendrils of clinging smoke that burned his eyes. It tore strips out of his nose and throat. He spun, tried to peer into the shadows between his mother's beloved oak trees, into the smoky recess beneath the willow tree.

Wrath pounded a blood-toned staccato through his skull. "Show yourself, you coward!"

Missionaries, he should have remembered, weren't trained to play nice. Carson came at him from above, a flurry of limbs and lethal, shadowed grace.

The hair on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kled as he spun, only to grunt with the impact as he took Carson's full weight to the shoulders. Phin hit the dirt, rolled frantically.

Carson stayed on him, fists like hammers thudding solidly into Phin's face, his sides. Pain jarred a screeching note through his bones as he collided with a wrought-iron statue, as Carson seized his head and bounced it like a rubber ball against the raised metal.

Reeling, Phin flung a fist out. It collided with something malleable, something edged. Carson cursed, swore a vicious streak as he hit the ground beside Phin.

Blood gleamed on Carson's lip as both men clambered back to their feet.

Phin gasped for air, for breath in the smoke and fear. "You," he panted, "sorry . . . son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Carson straightened slowly, his shoulders lifting in a shrug as he touched dirty fingers to his mouth. They gleamed in the muted fog, crimson and wet. "Well, well," he said softly. "So the wh.o.r.esp.a.w.n has kitten claws."

"You aren't getting anything," Phin spat. Pain radiated from his ribs, a dull ache at his left side. Breathing jerked spots in front of his eyes, but he'd be d.a.m.ned before he let the man see him waver.

He'd shot his mother.

Tried to kill his guests.

Ruined everything Phin had worked so hard for. Ruined everything his mothers had spent their lives building. Ruined him.

"Then you aren't worth half as much as them ladies think, are you?" Carson shook his head, even as he hoisted the gun that had fallen out of Phin's waistband. "Oh, and your momma's going to die anyway. It's too late to help her. But maybe you can convince me to use that fountain to keep the rest from dying of smoke inhalation, what do you say?"

"Phin!" Naomi's voice pierced the fog of the garden, but the Phin made of hatred and vengeance ignored her.

Ignored the smoke, the fire, the screams that echoed in his mind, over and over and over. Help us. Save us.

Don't let us die.

Baby, don't let him have it.

"My mother isn't dead," he growled, so low it was practically a vibration swallowed by the smoke.

"Uh." The man smiled evenly. "Yeah. I mean, maybe not now, but nothing's going to save her. Not unless you give me that fountain." He s.h.i.+fted, holding out one hand. "I'll save her, kid. I'll save everyone you want me to."

Except Carson couldn't even do that. Tears filled his eyes as Phin laughed. Laughed until the smile faded from the man's face; laughed until he was vibrating with pent-up fury, shaking with it. "You stupid f.u.c.k," he said, hoa.r.s.e. Wrecked. "You just killed the only woman who knows what the fountain is."

Carson's hand dropped. Slid to his waist and propped there as the man stared down at the floor, gaze speculative. Rueful.

Irritated. "Well, son of a b.i.t.c.h," he murmured. "Guess she's going to die for nothing after all."

Rage colored his vision, filled it, burned it redder than the fire licking at the surrounding wings. Wordless, screaming in pain and fury and soul-wrenching thunder, Phin lowered his head and bull-rushed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Too late, Phin saw the wicked gleam of firelight on silver. Saw the casual flick of his fingers that spun the knife blade into a deadly angle.

Metal hammered. Machines pounded against the emergency reinforcements, rang like a bell through the lobby. The garden. Sharp, tinny echoes sheared off Phin's hoa.r.s.e cry.

Naomi didn't waste her breath screaming as Phin's body jerked. He stared into Carson's face, his own tight with pain, with surprise, one hand fisted in the man's wrinkled, worn jacket.

She just bent low and surged through the garden, every muscle leashed into the killing machine she knew she was.

Carson pushed Phin to the floor, blood gleaming vividly on the knife he reversed in his fingers. A casual flick, a roll of his wrist, and every instinct screamed a warning. Naomi dropped to the floor, rolled to the side. The air split above her head, inches from her scalp.

Metal bent, shrieked as it tore beneath the machines the city had mustered to tear into the spa's protective layer. The echoes slammed through the garden, bounced from wall to wall until it squealed a h.e.l.lish accompaniment to the steady beat of her heart.

Killer. Joe Carson was a killer, but she was better. The better trained, better equipped.

The better killer.

She rolled, leaped to her feet on a surge of adrenaline, determination. As smoke roiled around them, she launched herself at the man who'd ruined it all.

Her life.

Her sanity.

Her G.o.dd.a.m.n tolerance for everything else.

He backpedaled away from Phin, splayed deathly still at his feet. Away from the path that filled with choking gray. He braced himself, eyes flickering with excitement. Smile obscene, he caught her first punch in one hand, backhanded her with the other. She didn't spit out the blood bursting into her mouth.

Turning, she stepped into his s.p.a.ce, spun her captured arm over her head as if he only guided her across a dance floor, and jammed her elbow into his cheekbone. Her forearm into his throat.

Her knee into his gut.

One, two, three.

Metal tore free of moorings. Daylight spilled through the shattered double doors. Smoke swirled as the promise of fresh oxygen sucked it through the furrows.

Carson reeled back, let her go with the sudden certainty that she was every bit as trained as he was. She could read it in his eyes, abruptly wary. No longer amused.

"Yeah. I'm here to kill you," she spat through the smoke. It parted beneath flecks of b.l.o.o.d.y red. Swirled, clung.

Choked.

He laughed. "Oh, if you only knew."

"I don't want to." Naomi pulled the Colt from its holster, aimed it with no more effort than it took to breathe. Than it took to stand, to walk, to talk. "I don't want to play with you, you turncoat son of a b.i.t.c.h. You're no witch." Her mouth twisted. "You're a h.e.l.l of a lot worse."

Carson stilled. Humor drained from his face. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight," he said with a small shake of his head. "I knew that."

"Too late," she said, finger tightening on the trigger.

"Wait!" He flung out a hand as if a palm could ward off the bullet Naomi intended to put in his skull. She'd dreamed of this. Envisioned turning his brain into so much pulp and red-tinged gray matter.

Nausea blossomed in her belly. Swirled through her chest.

She hesitated.

"I didn't do this on my own," Carson said quickly. Pleadingly. "I didn't make this up. There's a thing of power here, and I'm not the only one who wants it. It's the fountain, it gives back life, it heals anything. It's the d.a.m.n fountain of youth! And the Church wants it bad."

Naomi's heart stilled. Her blood slowed in her veins.

"Let me go, and I'll tell you all about it," he said. His voice was quiet. Hands outstretched, empty of everything but the blood that stained them. Phin's blood.

Gemma's blood.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

His eyes flickered. "I know, honey, but it'd be a shame to let this go to waste. I'm telling you, I can give you a name. I can give you the mission details."

The gun went taut in her hand.

"s.h.i.+t." One hand slid behind his back, and her index finger clenched on the trigger. Smoke swirled, ghostly tendrils shuddering around a deafening burst of sound, a crack of thunder.

A small stain blossomed at his forehead, a precise round hole that widened. Tore. Split in a viscous spray of red and colored the roiling smoke around them shades of pink.

Joe Carson stared at her. Choked a single note of shattered fury, dropping the gun he'd pulled from the holster at the small of his back.

No words rose to her lips. Nothing pithy, nothing sharp or acerbic or even smart. Nothing filled the hole, the void filling her soul. Saying nothing, each breath a sob of effort, she fired twice more.

He crumpled. Slowly. Knees to waist, a.s.s to water. Toppling, boneless and empty, he crashed into the pond beneath the willow tree. Blood blossomed like a crimson cloud.

The wall shattered behind her.

Frigid air slammed into her back, wrapped around her like a glacial blanket. Voices shouted commands, booted feet tromped on the marbled floor, the earth-packed path. The city cavalry had arrived.

Too late.

She stared down at the b.l.o.o.d.y water licking at the twisted willow roots. At the body that floated, as harmless as a sh.e.l.l, empty as a broken doll.

Eye for an eye.

Slowly Naomi turned. She trudged back to the path, to the emergency technicians who strapped Phin into a gurney. They padded the knife wound at his shoulder, called out things that s.h.i.+mmered somewhere in her mind as a distant memory.

Patch him up.

Cut him down.

Phin moved, shook his head tightly as they asked him questions, even as grief carved sharp hollows into his face. As his mouth pinched white and angry, so thin it was as if he held back the anguish she knew he must be feeling by strength of will alone.

His mother was dead. He'd professed love-oh, G.o.d, how stupid could he have been?-to a killer, and everything he'd ever known was burning to ash around him.

Blood just wasn't his color.

It never would be, the brave, f.u.c.king idiot.

And now it was over. Just like that, it was all over. Bullets and blood, exactly as she knew it would end.