The End of Magic, page 4
“LB!”
Lizbeth’s head whipped around at the sound of the young girl’s voice, her russet hair flying in her face. She dropped Tem’s hand, pushing the hair out of her eyes.
“Ginny . . . ?” She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice as she caught sight of her friend Dev’s younger daughter, arms and legs all akimbo, as she ran toward them—and her heart lurched as she wondered if the girl was dead.
“No need to worry,” Tem said, once again reading her mind. “A living human can be brought here by creatures like you and myself. Our magic is strong enough.”
“Thank God,” she said as Ginny flung herself at Lizbeth.
She caught the small body up in her arms and hugged her tight. Ginny squirmed in the embrace.
“Too tight,” the little girl whispered—and Lizbeth released her, a sheepish smile on her face.
“What are you doing here, Ginny?” she asked, trying to seem calm and more adultlike than she felt.
“Not just me, LB. Marji, too.” Ginny’s long dark hair was loose around her shoulders, the wind catching bits of it as she spoke. The little girl unconsciously reached up and grabbed for a hank, sticking it in her mouth to suck on.
This was something Lizbeth hadn’t seen Ginny do in a long time. At seven, she was far too old for such childish things. Lizbeth realized Ginny was nervous, maybe even scared. Not something she was used to seeing in Ginny. Marji, Dev’s older child, was the more delicate one, always letting her little sister take on the role of fearless leader.
“Where?” Lizbeth asked, taking Ginny’s hand. She threw Tem a worried look.
Had he known Devandra’s daughters were here in the dreamlands?
“I knew Thomas was here,” he said. “But not the girls.”
He seemed apologetic and Lizbeth wondered why.
“C’mon, LB. It’s creepy in the house! And it’s really big inside, too,” Ginny said, getting back some of her usual vim and vigor as she dragged Lizbeth behind her. Maybe now that Lizbeth was here, she felt safer.
But before they could reach the threshold of the entrance, Marji was rushing out the door of the cabin, tears streaking her face.
“They’re all dead,” she sobbed, and threw herself at Lizbeth.
Lizbeth caught the older girl and held her tight, feeling Marji’s skinny shoulders shake with grief.
“Marji, what are you talking about? Who’s dead?” But Lizbeth couldn’t get a word out of the girl.
Instead, Ginny answered the question, looking up at Lizbeth with her solemn brown eyes.
“Oh, Marji means Mama and Gramma and the aunties.”
And then Lizbeth understood.
Arrabelle
Arrabelle was impressed by the Shrieking Eagles—the banner under which Jessika and her blood sisters operated. Made up of women with military, law enforcement, and governmental agency backgrounds, the Eagles encompassed members of seven disparate covens that had banded together to offer their services to other blood sisters.
“We’re mercenaries whose agenda is all blood sister, all the bloody time,” Jessika had said as they’d stepped into the elevator that led down into the guts of the former research facility.
Arrabelle appreciated the specificity of their agenda. They were smart and fierce and worked with a military precision that was unreal. Until the moment they’d arrived, Arrabelle had been unaware of their existence, but it made sense. The blood sisters were a secret organization with many enemies. Of course the Greater Council would find itself employing a mercenary group like the Shrieking Eagles to protect its interests every now and then.
Upon first seeing the laboratory—the polished chrome-and-steel surfaces, the strange concrete block rooms with shatterproof observation windows cut into their exteriors at human eye level, the tech equipment, operating tables, surgical implements that resembled torture devices—Jessika had whistled through her teeth.
“Damn, this place looks like it came right out of one of those torture porn movies.”
She pointed at the cages lining the walls of the lab, empty now, save for the few that held corpses—blood sisters who were already beyond help when Arrabelle and the others had found them. These cages Arrabelle and Evan had left alone, but they’d managed to free everyone else from captivity and lead them to an empty airplane hangar. Which was crazy, to have an airplane hangar underground? But Evan had found it after roaming the empty corridors, looking for a safe place to put the women until help arrived.
The fluorescent lighting above them was oppressive.
Like a headache in the making, she thought—and part of her wanted to demur, to go back topside and get as far away from this horrible place as she could. But Arrabelle was never one to run from her fears. In fact, she was quite the opposite, always running at full speed toward the things that scared her the most.
Like this place . . . and the creature The Flood had created with their horrific experiments. The one who haunted the facility in poltergeist form.
She was pretty sure it was the reason the paramilitary members of The Flood had evacuated their underground lair. It was obvious from their behavior that they were scared of the creature—and even though it had come to the blood sisters’ aid when they needed it, it had unsettled Arrabelle as much as it had The Flood’s soldiers.
“They’re so small,” one of the Eagles said, an edge to her voice. Her name was Belinda and she was one of the two women who’d arrived in the helicopter with Jessika. “These tiny cages were for people?”
She sounded incredulous, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone doing something so inhumane. Arrabelle was pretty certain that if she’d been a mercenary, one who’d supposedly seen it all, she would be way more jaded. She barely had any faith in humanity left as it was. Right then it was really hard to have anything but rage for The Flood and its members. Not after what she’d seen . . . cages housing young girls who were barely near puberty and who wore the haunted expression of the brutalized.
“They did this to children,” Arrabelle said, as the group of women gingerly made their way through the abandoned lab toward an industrial-sized metal roll-up door that opened onto one of the many twisting underground corridors.
“There’s no rhyme or reason for why these bastards do what they do,” Jessika said to Belinda.
“Oh, they have a very good reason . . . they’re true believers,” Lyse said, as she stabbed a large red button on the wall with her palm and the door began to roll upward. “The Flood thinks if they erase us from the Earth, then they wipe out magic forever. And then the world is cleansed of our evil influence and everything is set for their new world order to begin.”
“It’s kind of biblical,” Evan said as he led them down the darkened corridor.
Lyse agreed.
“It’s no different than the crazies who believe that starting World War Three will bring about the end of days.”
“You mean, they think God will take all the good guys up to heaven and damn the rest of us sinners to an eternity spent on some apocalyptic version of Earth?” Evan asked.
“As far as The Flood is concerned,” Lyse replied, “I’d say you’re dead on. It’s a very similar idea.”
Arrabelle stepped up in line with Evan and took his hand. She found it hard not to be touching him—especially since she’d been thoroughly convinced he was going to die only hours earlier. But via their sheer force of will, the caged blood sisters had healed him so he could fight off the remaining members of The Flood for them. He was better now, almost an entirely different person from the ill man she’d spent the last few days with—and he was using this newfound energy and good health to do what was necessary to help those who’d saved him.
The click of heels on the polished cement floor was so loud that Arrabelle hoped they didn’t run into anyone else down here. The element of surprise would be woefully lost in the clatter of the Eagles’ heavy tread. Belinda and Evan had taken out their cell phones and were using the bright lights from their screens to illuminate the way in the murky darkness. Arrabelle felt Evan squeeze her hand and her heart fluttered.
Though he’d been on the periphery of her life for the last decade or so—his choice, not hers—there’d never been another person for Arrabelle. Evan was her big love, had been since she was eighteen, and, now that he was back in her life and safe, she wasn’t going to ever let him get away again.
“How do you know all of this stuff?” Jessika asked Lyse.
“Lyse got an earful from Desmond Delay—” Evan said, and Jessika stopped in her tracks, turning to stare at him. This made everyone else stop, too.
“He’s involved in this?” Jessika asked, and for the first time she didn’t look like the calm, assertive woman they’d met topside.
“He is,” Lyse said. “He’s up to his neck in it. And just so all the cards are on the table—he’s my grandfather. So if that’s a problem . . .”
She put her hands on her hips, holding her ground. Firm and tough.
So unlike the will-o’-the-wisp she’d been when she’d first come back to Echo Park, Arrabelle thought. She hadn’t expected much from Lyse back then, but now, after a trial by fire, Arrabelle was proud to call Lyse her coven master.
Jessika put up her hands in mock surrender.
“Not a problem. At least, not for me or my gals,” Jessika said. “He’s tried to get us to do some sketchy stuff over the years, and I’ve always said no. He made it sound like it was at the Greater Council’s behest, but he never fooled me. Him and that son of his . . . a real nasty piece of work.”
Arrabelle watched Lyse’s face pinch with anger.
“You’ve met my uncle?” Lyse asked, and Arrabelle remembered the unsettling conversation she and the other members of the Echo Park coven had had with the man . . . before Lyse dosed him with a heavy helping of medicinal marijuana, the drug seriously messing him up. Once he wasn’t a threat anymore, Arrabelle and her other coven mates had sent him packing. Needless to say, he was a nasty piece of work.
“Yup,” Jessika said, nodding. “He was a creep.”
“I knew it from the beginning,” Lyse said. “I wanted to be wrong, wanted him to be a decent human being, but unfortunately I was right.” She sighed. “I wanted to have a family again, but living in denial isn’t the way to get it.”
“You have a family . . . of sisters,” Niamh said. “Blood sisters stand by each other no matter what.”
Arrabelle appreciated Niamh’s quiet strength. Though she wasn’t very verbal, when she did have something to say it was usually pretty important. The girl trafficked in cold hard truths. As if she knew she was being assessed, she shot Arrabelle a small smile, then nervously tucked her long brown hair behind her ears.
“Thanks, Niamh,” Lyse said. “I know you’re right.”
“Well, if the Delay thing is all settled . . .” Jessika said, indicating that they should continue moving. “Let’s walk and talk. I get the impression we need to lock and load before we wear out our welcome here.”
“Agreed,” Evan said. “It’s this way.”
He turned the corner and they entered another dark warren of tunnels.
“The women are mostly in shock, but they’ll do what you ask. Arrabelle and I started passing out some lemon balm tincture I brought with us. It seemed to have a calming effect.”
Arrabelle felt a hand on her wrist, and she turned to see Niamh walking beside her. The other woman’s gait was slow, her stride not nearly as long as Arrabelle’s own. Arrabelle released Evan’s hand and slowed to match the younger woman’s step. The rest of the group pulled ahead of them.
“Can we talk for a minute? Alone?”
Arrabelle knew where Evan was headed, so she nodded. Niamh’s request was more than reasonable.
“Of course.”
Niamh slowed even more before finally coming to a complete stop—and in the half light, her face looked white and drawn. She leaned back against the wall, her bony shoulders pressing into the cold concrete.
“I wanted to let you know that I’m not alone.”
Arrabelle raised an eyebrow and Niamh smiled.
“That’s one of your go-to expressions,” Niamh continued. “The raised eyebrow. You look like you don’t believe a word anyone says, period.”
Arrabelle didn’t like learning that she was so predictable. She lowered the eyebrow and tried to compose her face.
“It’s not a bad thing. I like that I sometimes know what you’re gonna do before you do it,” Niamh continued. “It makes me feel safer. Well, a bit safer. I don’t feel good about much these days.”
Arrabelle understood. She’d been a closet cynic for most of her life, but the experiences she’d had the last few weeks had hardened her in a way that even the trauma of losing her beloved father hadn’t been able to.
“What’s that mean?” Arrabelle asked. “That you’re not alone.”
Niamh shrugged. Arrabelle watched as the young woman scratched her chin with nails that had been bitten to the quick.
“It sounds odd, but when Laragh died . . .”
She stopped there, silent for a moment. Arrabelle knew it was hard for Niamh to talk about her dead sister. Their unspoken twin connection, a psychic link that transcended space and time, had led them here to this underground facility. The sisters’ bond was so strong that Arrabelle wondered if even death could truly separate them.
“She’s in my head. Has been for a little while, only at first, I didn’t realize. That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Can you be more specific . . . ?” Arrabelle asked—she thought she knew what Niamh was saying, but it was so outlandish that she wanted it confirmed first.
“The thing that was born down here from all the tests and death—Laragh says you call it a poltergeist—it’s in here with us, too. Laragh can handle it. It listens to her. So you don’t have to be afraid. It won’t hurt anyone. Laragh has it under control. See?”
She reached out and touched Arrabelle’s arm—and Arrabelle felt a jolt of electricity cut through her.
WE ARE ONE AND WE ARE ALL HERE. OUR BODIES ARE ONLY VESSELS.
The voice—if that was even what it was . . . in some ways the words were more like an image flashing across her brain—continued inside her head:
SAVE OUR BODIES, BUT WE WILL NOT LIVE AGAIN UNTIL THE FLOOD IS DESTROYED.
“You . . . she . . . can read my mind?” Arrabelle asked, stepping away from Niamh’s touch as her body thrummed with an electric charge.
Niamh frowned, began to nod, then stopped herself, thinking out loud.
“No, not really. I mean, it’s not mind reading. It’s more like she . . . we . . . get flashes of stuff. Maybe they’re thoughts sometimes, but it’s more like impressions, mostly. Like starbursts in the sky, bright but fleeting.”
“Okay,” Arrabelle said, digesting the information as she noticed that the light from the cell phones was gradually disappearing down the corridor. Soon she and Niamh—and whoever the hell was sharing Niamh’s body—would be alone in darkness.
“You’re not scared?”
Arrabelle shook her head.
“What’s there to be frightened of? It’s just another bizarre thing that I can’t really explain.”
“I don’t know,” Niamh said, nervously running a finger through her long brown hair. “I get really freaked out about the stuff I don’t understand. I wish I could be as strong as you . . .”
Arrabelle rested her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.
“You’re plenty strong. And don’t be freaked out, okay? ’Cause no one is gonna let anything bad happen to you. Not on my watch.”
Niamh gave Arrabelle a half smile, but it disappeared quickly. It was strange to hear her speak about her sister as though she were standing right there in the hall with them.
“Oh, it’s not for me I worry,” Niamh said. “It’s for everyone else and what’s going to happen to them. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s terrifying. I can feel it in my gut—and Laragh agrees. Something bad is going to happen . . . and it won’t spare you, Arrabelle. You or Lyse.”
Niamh’s words bore the hallmarks of a surreal prophecy, and they sent a shiver down Arrabelle’s spine.
“The Flood is coming, Arrabelle,” Niamh continued. “But where it will take any of us, I just don’t know.”
Arrabelle swallowed hard, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end.
“We should get back to the others.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Niamh agreed, and then her whole body trembled. “Is it cold for you, too?”
Arrabelle shook her head. She was sweating like a pig and had been ever since she and Niamh had stopped to talk in the corridor.
“No, you’re burning up, aren’t you,” Niamh said, her tone matter-of-fact. Then she took a deep breath and pushed off the wall.
She was correct—Arrabelle was burning up, and Niamh knew it even though she hadn’t laid a hand on Arrabelle’s skin.
“It’s just a reminder that you’re still among the living,” Niamh continued, replying to Arrabelle’s unspoken question. “That’s all.”
• • •
They brought out the survivors in small groups, filling the elevator time and again, until there was not a single living soul left down below. By then, the rest of the Eagles had arrived and they worked tirelessly to get the victims settled into five Humvees they’d brought with them from Las Vegas. It was such a stark contrast, two disparate groups—the able-bodied Eagles and the emaciated blood sisters from the lab—stepping out of the darkness of the mine shaft into the purple-hued Nevada desert night.
Arrabelle wanted to reach out to the young girls, the ones who’d lived such short lives and experienced more evil than good in that brief time, but she couldn’t find a way to connect. It was impossible to break through the walls their damaged minds had built to protect them. Even the adults were inaccessible, locked away behind blank eyes.
