Witches Brew, page 17
part #6 of Phantom Queen Diaries Series
For at least a solid minute, I simply stood there, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. What had happened here? Was that Frankenstein with the knife in his stomach? Who or what had taken Ygor’s heart? Had they attacked each other, for some reason? A falling out? Hell, a suicide pact? But, the longer I looked on, the more I realized there were a few other things which didn’t add up. Why were we in a kitchen? And, what’s more, why did that kitchen look so familiar?
But that wasn’t the biggest question.
I stepped over to the carving station and examined the Faeling’s body, staring into that gaping wound as if it were some sort of code to be deciphered. The blackened meat inside was mangled, barely recognizable, but it also looked exactly how I’d have expected it to look—like a slick, three-dimensional anatomical model, heart not included. Except there was something missing. Something that couldn’t be seen. The smell. There was no smell.
Why was there no smell?
In a room full of dead bodies, even the freshly dead, you’d expect there to be a stench of some kind. An odor. The slightest hint of blood’s peculiar, copper penny aroma. But there was nothing. If anything, the whole place had an antiseptic quality to it—the faintest whiff of bleach.
Which could only mean one thing, as far as I was concerned.
This wasn’t real.
I reached out towards Ygor, tentatively at first, then with more assurance, plunging my hand inside that fleshy wound, gritting my teeth and closing my eyes. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to feel, but I certainly hadn’t expected to encounter the smooth, cool surface of the station beneath. I opened my eyes. No, not a station. A lab table.
I turned in circles. The bodies were gone. I no longer stood in a kitchen; I was in a tidy lab, complete with the scientific apparatuses you’d expect to find: several microscopes, mounted beakers, test tubes, and so on. I shook my head, feeling silly for not figuring it out sooner. It had all been merely an illusion—a misdirect. But wait, did that mean Ygor had worked up some grammerie to throw me off his scent? If so, did that mean Max was in danger? The thought made my blood run cold. Shit. I took off towards the exit, determined to backtrack and find the brujo before something truly awful happened.
I thrust open the swinging doors and stepped out into the hallway.
Except the hallway wasn’t there.
Chapter 31
Instead, I found myself in Dez’s living room.
I nearly ran into the sofa, slowing in the nick of time to avoid knocking over the end table and the lamp which sat on top of it. I cursed and wheeled around, taking in this newest illusion with no small amount of shock. Everything looked as it should have. As it would have, had that fire not taken out the kitchen and half the living room. Except this time, even the smell was right; there was a slight wood smoke tinge to the air, intermingled with the mouth-watering fragrance of pumpkin pie and carved turkey. I meandered throughout the room, too taken aback—or perhaps too taken in—by the illusion to consider forcing my way out. Not yet.
I edged around the couch and approached the fireplace, running my fingers over the mantle, marveling at the rough, brittle stone that grazed my fingertips. It felt so real. So wonderfully, awfully real. Hell, even the floorboards creaked as I headed for the stairs, the hardwood slightly bowed in places. But I never made it to the stairs. Instead, a voice called out to me from the kitchen—a kitchen that shouldn’t exist.
“Quinn MacKenna! Get in here and help me with this cookin’ or I swear I’ll tan your hide!”
My hand went to my mouth before I could help it, tears welling, threatening to spill over into my cheeks. I shook my head so forcefully it felt like my brain was rattling away inside my skull, and the tears were suddenly gone. Not real, I reminded myself. Not. Real.
But then her face appeared, poking out of the kitchen doorway, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a severe bun—the way she preferred it when she was cooking, always complaining about how it got in her way because “it was always so thick and got everywhere,” her complaint somehow self-congratulatory. I’d always teased her about that, about how she hid her vanity behind a thin veneer of humility. “Quinn, what is it?” Dez asked. “What’s wrong?”
I took a step back, willing the apparition to disappear. “No, no, no...”
She couldn’t be real. She couldn’t. But...what if she was? What if I’d dreamt all the rest: my adventures in Fae, my trip to Russia, Wortcunning Corner, the Salem witches, and the underground laboratory? Thinking about it, about how utterly preposterous that all sounded—meeting Peter Pan, fighting alongside Captain Hook, defeating Rasputin, learning how to make Gateways with Morgan le Fay, chasing after Dr. Frankenstein and his newly-fashioned monster—how could it have been anything else but a dream?
And yet...something told me this was the dream. No, not a dream; it was too real to be a dream. This was something else, something that surpassed a mere illusion. It was more like a memory. Replayed just for me. But, as I studied Dez’s face, I considered where we were—especially given Dez’s appearance and the smells—and realized it wasn’t my memory.
But I did know whose it was.
“How could ye?” I whispered.
Dez smiled, looking past me as if I were the ghost. “Well, then, tell him to come on in and help,” she said. She tilted her head quizzically and then laughed. “Ryan! Come here.”
I turned and found a man standing behind me, his blonde hair curling artfully away from that too handsome, leading man face. Ryan—whose memory this was—grinned and rubbed at the shaggy mane, doing his best to appear charming. “You know, I’m much better behind the bar than behind the stove,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Dez replied, snapping the hand towel she always carried tucked into the pocket of her apron when she cooked. “Get in here, Ryan O’Rye. If Quinn says you’re to eat Thanksgivin’ dinner with us, then you’re goin’ to earn your keep.”
“Stop,” I murmured. “Please…”
“Alright, if you insist,” Ryan said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Just don’t blame me if it all comes out tasting like a bad dream.”
“A bad dream...” I muttered, anger stirring within me. I shuffled towards that figure, hands balled into fists at my sides. “Ryan! Ryan, come out! Where are ye?!”
The imposter in front of me strolled past, headed for the kitchen with slumped shoulders, pantomiming his reticence. But that left someone, something, in his place—a vaguely man-shaped, grainy figure with indistinguishable features. I stared at the newest apparition, then pressed a hand to my head, as if I could will myself to see clearer. “Is that ye, Ryan?” I ground out. The figure moved, reaching for me, brushing my arm with one smudged hand.
Suddenly, I was left in a burning living room—my memory this time.
Up the stairs, Dez screamed.
I was running before I could help myself, tearing up the stairs. Except, the instant I made it to the top, I fell, tripping over some unseen object. When I scrambled to my feet, I found myself no longer in my old house, but in a bar; it was almost as if someone had changed the channel, plopping me in a different show altogether.
“It is pleasure to see you again,” Christoff said, drawing my attention. The bar owner was artfully cutting up fruit, a small pile of limes in a plastic dish beside him. He glanced up at me, smiling. “Are you here to close tab? You forget last night.”
I walked warily towards the barkeep, casing the room as I went. None of the movie monsters lined the walls. In fact, judging by the decor and Christoff’s comment, this had to be another memory. Today was the day I was introduced to Christoff, back when his bar had been just a bar, when he still spoke broken English, before I found out he was a former spy, before I even knew he was actually a werebear. Hell, Ryan hadn’t yet started as bar manager, even; it had been his idea to start using themes to draw in bigger crowds. “I know you’re not real,” I hissed. “And I know you’re out there, Ryan! Knock this off, or I swear I’ll—”
“Ryan!” Christoff said, waving a hand. “Come, look. The woman you brought in last night has returned! It is a first, no?”
“I told you it wasn’t a date,” Ryan said, smirking, turning to look at me from the end of the bar. He tipped an imaginary hat at me. “This one is bad news.”
Christoff’s booming laughter spilled out of his mouth, which was surrounded on all sides by a thick, greying beard he rarely ever wore. “And I think you say this because she drank you under table. Is expression, yes? Under table.”
“Under the table,” a woman said, coming down the stairs that led to the office. Elena, Christoff’s wife. She cradled their son in one arm, the boy not even a year old, yet. “The expression is ‘under the table’, dear.”
Christoff grinned, shrugged, and flashed me a wink. Ryan turned away as Elena approached, nursing his beer, smile dimming just a hair. But if either Christoff or his wife noticed, they declined to comment. I remembered how Ryan had always kept his distance from the barkeep’s stunning wife, as if there were some history there he didn’t like to talk about.
“She’s dead, too,” I whispered. “Elena is dead.”
This time, when the illusion shattered, I felt more than saw it. It was like stepping onto the roiling deck of a boat at sea, the motion making my stomach roll. I was about to collapse from the sensation when a frigid gust of air hit me, splashing across my skin as if I’d leapt into the Atlantic. My gasp came out in a cool burst, misting as it drifted into the air. I wobbled and closed my eyes, fighting the chills threatening to rack my body.
“You lie!” Ryan hissed. “Tell me you’re lying!”
I opened my eyes and stared, unable to help myself.
“Say it!” he commanded.
But I couldn’t.
Because what I saw had left me speechless.
Chapter 32
The creature before me had Ryan’s voice, even his face, but that was where the similarities ended; it stood a few inches taller than Ryan, with a rangier build, as if Ryan had been stretched and then whittled down. Oh, and his whole body consisted of various shades of blue. His bright, fluorescent blue eyes swam in a teal sea, so eerily familiar it took me only seconds to recognize where I’d seen them before—in a different face.
The face of a Faeling I’d killed.
“Jack?” I asked, squinting as if I could find that Faeling’s features lurking behind Ryan’s. Yet another illusion, maybe? But this was real. Somehow, I knew it was.
“Really, Quinn? You don’t recognize me?” Ryan said, disdainfully.
“Of course I do, Ryan, but...” I showcased his body with one hand. “But since when have ye been, ye know, blue? D’ye have a growth spurt, too?”
“Something like that,” Ryan replied, running both hands through his hair, tousling it a bit.
Oddly enough, the fond memories that gesture brought back reminded me why I’d been so pissed only a moment before. I took a step forward and pointed an accusing finger at the Faeling. “Alright, if ye really are Ryan, why don’t ye explain why ye put me through that just now?” I demanded.
Ryan cocked his head, folding his arms over his chest. “Through what?”
“What d’ye mean, ‘through what’? Ye made me see Dez!”
“I was trying to distract you,” Ryan replied, cocking an eyebrow. “To throw you off the scent for a while.”
Tears pricked my eyes, and I rubbed at them fiercely, unwilling to break down now. Was it possible Ryan hadn’t known? That he’d shown me Dez on a whim? “Me aunt is dead, Ryan.”
Ryan’s lips, the color of black ice, parted in surprise. He gasped like a fish for a moment before stammering, his tone shifting back to that soft, caring version of Ryan I remembered. “I—I’m sorry, Quinn. I didn’t know.” He hung his head, blue locks spilling across that snow-white face like paint on drywall. “How did it happen?”
“It was Dobby.”
Ryan’s head shot up. “What?”
“He was workin’ for Balor and the Fomorians. A spy.” The truth was a bit more complicated, but I didn’t feel like going into it. Of course, it had been Ryan who introduced me to Dobby in the first place, so perhaps he’d known what Dobby was all along. I searched for the truth in his eyes, willing him to be honest with me.
“I don’t…” Ryan drifted off, total shock written all over his face. “Quinn, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Whatever ye say,” I replied, too upset—too angry—to blindly accept Ryan’s apology. “Listen, why are ye tryin’ to stop me? Matter of fact, what the fuck are ye even doin’ here?”
Ryan uncrossed his arms and shoved them into the pockets of his dress slacks, refusing to meet my eyes. “Is it true? What you said about Elena?”
I just stared at him for a moment, then nodded.
Ryan’s face crumbled, and he buried it in his hands. “How?” he asked, voice tight. He wasn’t sobbing or anything, but—before he’d covered up—I’d seen real pain there. Real anguish. Loss.
“She was taken,” I replied. “Christoff, too.”
Ryan jerked his hands away from his face, staring at me wide-eyed.
“We got Christoff back,” I reassured him. “Rescued their wee ones. But Elena...Elena we couldn’t save. She caught somethin’ while she was in prison. I’m not sure what. Christoff doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Who?” Ryan asked, through gritted teeth. As I watched, a large swath of ice began to form beneath his feet, spreading until it reached frost-licked walls. A draft of chilly air blew through the corridor, sending shivers down my spine.
“What?”
“Who did it? Who took her?”
I shook my head. “The man responsible is dead, Ryan. Him, and all his men. Everyone who had anythin’ to do with it, to the best of me knowledge, is gone.”
Ryan’s shoulders slumped, and the draft subsided. “I loved her, you know.”
“I know.”
He glanced up at me in surprise.
“No one gets that worked up, not unless they loved the person,” I said, shrugging. “Did Christoff know?”
Ryan grunted. “Of course. They both knew. It wasn’t exactly a secret, though I kept it to myself. I knew better than to get between them. Besides, Christoff is...was...my friend.”
Wait, was?
“Ryan, what has happened to ye?” I asked, approaching the Faeling. “Why are ye here, now?”
“Stay back, Quinn.”
The anger in that voice stopped me cold. I narrowed my eyes. “Since when have I ever let ye tell me what to do, Ryan O’Rye?”
“Times change.” Ryan slashed at the air with his hand and a shard of ice appeared. A spear, by the looks of it. Ryan caught the shard before it fell to the ground and leaned on it, casually. “Listen, Quinn, I can’t let you past. I can’t have you interfering.”
“Let me what?” I shook my head. “For fuck’s sake, Ryan, what’s goin’ on?”
Ryan sighed. “Do you remember the last time we spoke?”
I thought back, flashing to a memory of Ryan staring at me through the bars of a cage, threatening me, his anger a white-hot thing I couldn’t cool no matter how I tried—his hatred so all-consuming I’d hardly even recognized him. In the end, that obsession—not to mention his reckless pursuit of vengeance—had driven a wedge between us. Ironically, it had all been aimed at one man. A man I didn’t even like. Nate Temple.
“Aye, but what does that have to do with anythin’?”
“And how about the promise you made to the Winter Queen?” Ryan replied, seemingly refusing to answer my question directly. “Can you recall what you swore to do?”
I frowned. Back in Fae, pressed for time and in desperate need of a weapon capable of defeating Balor and his Fomorian army, I’d brokered a deal with one of the Fae queens. The terms? To confront Temple and—if necessary—kill him. Under normal circumstances, I would never have agreed to something so rife with potential mishaps, but at the time I’d run out of options. Of course, back then it had seemed like Temple and I were already on a collision path, the clash inevitable, so I’d agreed without much thought.
A problem for another time, in essence.
Except that months had come and gone since then, and Temple and I still hadn’t hashed things out. Partly because, between mourning Dez and saving Christoff, I’d been busy, but also because Temple had recently gone missing. At this point, our impending confrontation had become more of an indefinite possibility. “I remember,” I said, blushing slightly. “I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
Ryan slammed the dull end of his spear into the ground and a dozen icicles as long and thick as my leg shot out from the ice at his feet, angled towards me; in an instant, I was facing a low wall of deadly spikes, only Ryan’s upper body visible. “Oh? You’ve been too busy, is that it?” Ryan hissed.
“Aye! Not that it’s any of your business,” I added, getting well and truly angry at this point. No one threatened me, even passive-aggressively, without paying the consequences. No one—not even Ryan. I held out my hand and felt the magic within me well up. I dipped into that reservoir of power I’d stolen from Max and stepped forward, willing time to spin backwards as it had in the valley outside Salem. Except it didn’t. Not really. Instead, as I approached, the ice retreated—icicles diminishing until the frozen surface was smooth once more. Ryan, however, seemed completely unaffected.
“What are you doing?” he challenged, eyes panicked.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to answer that; I’d apparently learned how to access my newfound abilities, but not how to properly employ them. Still, I’d achieved my goal: no more pointy wall between Ryan and me. That, and I’d freaked the Faeling out in the process. Bonus. “Ye don’t want to threaten me, Ryan,” I growled. “Ye really, really don’t.”
Ryan’s eyes flashed, but not with fear this time. More like anticipation. Not good. “When you failed to go after Temple,” Ryan said, changing subjects so abruptly it left me floundering, “the Winter Queen took new measures. Do you know where she found me?”
