Witch's Four Read online

  Mac clenched her jaw. "I cannot call your phone from the fae—"

  "I'm aware," Delilah interrupted. "The point, Mac, is that I'm tired of your power games. You don't need to assert your dominance by demanding my presence on a whim or when the mood strikes you. We're on the same side, trying to accomplish the same thing. Quit being so gods-damn adversarial."

  Mac's jaw muscles flexed, chin moving slightly as she ground her teeth.

  "Relax," Del said. "You're going to give yourself TMJ if you don't—"

  Mac shot up, snatched Delilah's hand, and moments later they stood in the fae domain. Delilah hunched over and hurled up her breakfast. The translocation was vicious, unsettling Del down to her cells. "What the fuck, Mac?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. Did you not like the trip this time?" The shade's hard stare at odds with the rest of her serene expression. "Figure out your own translocation, witch. And if your tiny monkey brain can't wrap itself around that, then come when I call or be assured you'll experience much worse than a tummy ache."

  Delilah retched again, hoping it was the last time as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She straightened and stared back at Mac. "This. This is exactly what I'm talking about, Mac. I'm only asking for a little common courtesy."

  Mac glared at Del, fury enlarging her stature. "How exceedingly self-involved. Do you think I enjoy our little arrangement? Do you think it pleases me to know I can't help the suffering shade fae without tapping a clueless witch who doesn't know her place, or even how to control her magic? Precisely what about the scene before you leads you to think I'm playing power games?" Mac gestured around her and for the first time, Delilah took in her surroundings.

  They stood in the center of an open-air market turned into a makeshift hospital. White canvas stretched over the large courtyard, under which rows of narrow beds lined the walkways. Weary, harried fae tended the sick and maimed.

  Another wave of nausea hit and Del fought to stay upright as the gravity of the situation was laid so clearly before her.

  A bright-eyed little fae girl ran past, golden pigtails trailing behind as she made brief eye contact with Del before running off to a similarly bright-eyed fae in a bed farther down the line.

  The girl's mother.

  What struck Del most wasn't the mother's broken, uneven teeth, or how her hair was also broken and uneven, as if an inexperienced stylist had gone overboard with chemical processing. It wasn't even how small the fae woman looked in the bed, the thin sheet clinging to her sickly, emaciated frame. No, what bothered Delilah the most was that the fae child wasn't sad or worried or anxious, or any of the things Del might expect given her mother's condition.

  She was used to it.

  This was simply her reality.

  Del walked toward the mother and child, unsure of what she might say, but knowing she had to say something. Maybe she could offer the ailing shade fae some of her magic. She paused, glancing at the dozens of other shade fae in beds. Surely, Delilah had enough for all of them.

  "You don't," Mackinshale said softly. "Believe me, I've tried. You cannot improve their situation with more magic."

  "But I can't just—"

  Mac put a gentle hand on Delilah's shoulder. "Trust me when I say it only makes things worse."

  "What? How could that possibly be true?"

  Mac lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing a long, pale leg. "You'll only take the burden on yourself," she said as she dropped her glamor.

  Delilah froze.

  The once silver-hued leg turned sallow and papery, a great, festering wound on the side of her thigh.

  Delilah silently thanked the gods she'd already lost her breakfast.

  "The debt cannot be undone with magic or medicine or anything except balance. It's the weakest among us, the ones with the smallest capacity for magic who bear the brunt of the damage. We must balance the amount the humans take by growing more powerful, and taking the same. Then there will be no deficit, no price for either side to pay."

  Delilah had gotten exactly what she wanted. Proof. She hadn't bothered asking outright, fearing Mac would continue her power plays and mind games. Instead, she'd manipulated the shade into showing her and received a jarring firsthand education.

  She glanced once more at the pigtailed girl and her mother before drawing her gaze back to Mac. "Tell me what to do."

  3

  Loïc

  Lo pulled at his collar, shifted his weight from one butt cheek to the other, and cursed himself for ever thinking he could pull off one of Halsten's Oxfords.

  The fine leather chair hugging his ass, devoid of any cracked or worn spots, and first-edition books lining the shelves in the premier's antechamber played on deep-seated insecurities that Loïc had not only foreseen, but tried to counteract with a costume change.

  The fact remained, he belonged talking to these men just as little as he belonged in that hateful, closed-minded herd.

  It was more than just the nice stuff—hell, Lo had been living in a damn castle for the better part of four months. He was used to nice things.

  He wasn't used to having the ear of powerful people. And he certainly wasn't used to people taking him seriously on any matter other than tactics.

  He'd seen the surprise on Lilah's face when he'd quoted scripture during their first ride up Hayne Mountain, and though he'd grown accustomed to that reaction, it didn't lessen the sting. He didn't hold it against her; how could he when everyone made the same snap judgment?

  The big, muscled shifter must be dumb.

  They joked with Halsten about having rocks for brains, but Halsten wasn't bothered by it. He'd likely been educated at the finest post-graduate school while Lo hardly had the finances to attend GGB Academy, and that was after his government-funded Shifter Student Grant.

  Which he only qualified for because he hadn't qualified for any academic grants.

  That was the truly fucked-up part. Loïc Broussard had a near-genius-level IQ, an eidetic memory which allowed him to access any bit of information he'd read within the past five or so years, and off-the-charts reasoning, logic, and deductive skills, and yet he'd been plagued with failing test scores throughout high school.

  Why?

  If asked, he'd say he was simply a bad test-taker and leave it at that.

  But the damage his old herd did to his self-esteem reached further than even he could recognize. At least for now.

  "Mr. Broussard? They're ready for you." The premier's assistant ushered him through a set of wide double doors to a stately room filled with fifteen world leaders and their boss, Premier Morfinez. The Global Governing Body seal had been inlaid into the large conference table in the center of the room, but no one sat around it. The leaders milled about in the back of the room, each holding a rocks glass of dark liquor and chuckling over someone's lousy golf par.

  Sweat collected at Loïc's collar as he tried to find an in with these men.

  "Gentlemen, Loïc Broussard, your two o'clock."

  Lo shot the assistant a grateful look and the representatives directed their attention away from the bar cart and to him. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said as everyone found a seat at the table. Lo took the opportunity to scan the sixteen faces. Everyone he'd expected was there. The round table made it hard to discern where the front of the room or the head of the table was, and maybe that was an intentional design choice. Maybe it was to signify that no representative, no nation was better than any other. Loïc could almost believe the sentiment.

  Except every last face in the room was male.

  And none of them were shifters.

  "I appreciate you meeting with me on such notice," Lo started, making eye contact with Premier Morfinez, and the men on either side of him, Ito Takeshi from Japan, and Anton Chometzsky from Russia. Morfinez gave him a small smile and nod of encouragement.

  When Lo had called the red phone three days ago and explained the situation to the premier, the man promised to have his back when he met with the Congre
ssional Senate—the representatives of each nation that had a hand in shaping the world after the Greening.

  "Well, I was hoping you could just meet with them and explain—"

  "I wasn't there, Loïc. I'll back you up, but you'll need to present the information. Be ready for questions. Be ready for pushback. They aren't going to take well to changing magical law. Regardless of the reason."

  Loïc circled the table, stopping in front of different reps. "Mr. Strauss, what does a beauty charm cost?" he asked the rep from the EU.

  The man executed a perfect political maneuver, bobbing and weaving all around the question. "Well, that question has multiple factors to consider. The breadth and duration of the spell in question. The power of the person casting the charm. It's not quite a black-and-white answer, Mr. Broussard."

  "What, are you looking to change up your look?" asked the rep from Australia and Oceania. The comment garnered a handful of snickers from around the table.

  "As long as it doesn't disfigure someone else, Mr. Wairoa."

  The Maori man's expression fell and the snickering stopped, but the rep from Kenya recovered first. "Magic costs nothing but supplies. A beauty charm doesn't disfigure."

  Loïc leveled a weighted stare at the man. "True, Mr. Ndoko, it doesn't. Not on this world anyway."

  Murmuring broke out around the table and Lo gave the representatives all a moment to let the implication of his claim settle.

  "So, let me get this straight," Henry Thomason from the US said, drawing everyone's attention. "You're saying that the opposite of whatever magic we do is happening on some other world?"

  Loïc hadn't thought of it in those terms before. "Opposite isn't quite right. It's the universe's attempt at balance."

  Heinrich Strauss from the EU spoke again. "Let's assume what you're saying is true. Shouldn't it work the other way? And wouldn't we see their spells’ effects on our people?"

  "We would if our population didn't greatly outnumber theirs."

  Thomason spread his hands wide. "I'm sure you can understand that without proof, this is a big pill to swallow."

  Murmurs crested, each representative huddled with their neighbor.

  Lo found the premier's eyes. His words from three days ago replayed in Lo’s mind.

  "I'll back you up any way I can, Loïc, but the Congressional Senate must not know I was ever compromised. I cannot tell them about my experience with the shade or they will vote me out of office."

  Lo guessed they’d do a fair bit more than simply vote Morfinez out if it came to light that his mind had been infiltrated. Forcible debriefing and a lifetime sentence in the same center Lilah still had nightmares about.

  Loïc wouldn't give up the premier's secret, but it sure would be a hell of a lot easier to convince the rest of the world if Morfinez could tell his story.

  "Even if it were true, I don’t concede it is, we can't just take magic away from the world. People have become entirely too dependent on it," Henry Thomason said.

  The table agreed with nods and murmurs.

  "Gentlemen, no one is suggesting that magic be taken away entirely. What I am asking you to consider are the moral ramifications of our magic harming another race."

  Strauss crossed his arms. "I don't see how that is possible. Without proof, you cannot expect us to entertain such a preposterous hypothetical."

  Loïc knew the man was right. How could he have come to this meeting unprepared to back up his claims? What had he been thinking?

  Self-sabotage is a bitch.

  He wanted to be worth of Lilah's faith and not tap anyone for help. But he wanted more to relieve some of the weight of being the fae world's savior and for that, Lo had to bring in some backup.

  Jox, you busy?

  I'm with the Imperial Regent at the moment.

  Can you sneak away? I could really use some backup.

  I suppose.

  Great. I'll meet you back at the real Castle Hayne in five.

  "Gentlemen, if you'll allow me a short recess, I'll have all the proof you need."

  The men glanced at one another, questions clear in their gaze.

  "Go ahead, Mr. Broussard," the premier said. "But make it fast."

  And with that, Lo translocated from the conference room. He was back fast enough to still catch their gaping jaws.

  "What kind of magic was that?" demanded Mr. Thomason. "We have nothing like that on record at the Repository."

  "Yes, I'm quite intrigued as well, Mr. Broussard. What exactly was that?" asked Premier Morfinez.

  Everyone was so focused on the translocation magic, the whole room had failed to notice the very alien-looking male standing next to him.

  "That, gentlemen, was a translocation spell. Something my good friend Joxen taught me."

  Every eye in the room finally fell on the fae's form. Loïc had difficulty containing his smile as everyone's reaction was identical. Their gaze went from his sharper features to his pointed ears, and lastly to his towering height.

  "Is this some sort of elaborate glamor?"

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Ndoko."

  "This is my true face and I've agreed to show it to you today in hopes that you'll see the truth in Loïc's words," Joxen said.

  "Truth in his words? So far all you've managed to do is take up our time and show us a tall, strangely attractive man," Strauss said.

  "I must agree. You've yet to make your case, Mr. Broussard," Mr. Takeshi stated.

  Mr. Wairoa met Lo's gaze. "We are interested in hearing what you have to say on the matter, but without evidence, we can't go to our constituents. It would be a waste of our resources to even consider making a plan. We need proof, Mr. Broussard. Then you'll have our attention."

  4

  Delilah

  The dresses went on and on, like a neverending row of silken cages.

  A rainbow of jewel tones lined the left of the atrium and neutrals like blush, champagne, silver, and gold hung on the right.

  The dresses reminded Delilah of the gods-awful soaps the aunts watched every afternoon. Why did those women wear evening gowns in the middle of the day? Every day?

  Fake Castle Hayne, the glamored estate Mac intended Del and her men to live in while in the fae world, had never looked worse.

  "I've worked all night and into the morning procuring these dresses for you. It wasn't an easy task, mind you."

  Del kept to herself a quip about an imperial regent having better things to do than stockpiling prom dresses. "Thanks?"

  Mac brushed off Del's insincerity. "You don't understand Clan Ember. But you will at their Fire Festival tonight. Go on, hurry and choose one."

  It seemed counterintuitive to wear yards and yards of flammable material to something called a Fire Festival, but Del kept her mouth shut.

  "You were an easy sell to Danu, Clan Ember's leader. Our ideals on most topics align. You'll be presented tonight at their festival and from them you'll choose your new mate."

  Del ran her hands over a few of the dresses, letting the fabric whoosh behind her. "Oh, I get to choose one myself this time?" she said, unable to hold in her sarcasm any longer.

  Mac ignored it. "Danu thought it best for the bonding process if you were permitted to choose your own."

  Del bit her lip. She was doing this for the right reasons, she reminded herself. She wanted to help the fae who needed it most. She could choose to walk away at any point.

  She wouldn't.

  But she could.

  That bit of knowledge was the only thing keeping Del from running in the other direction.

  An endless supply of lovers, orgasms on tap, and a ready-made family unit to replace the ones she'd lost, all had the distinct too-good-too-be-true quality of the dreamscape games the white-coats tried to break her with at the center.

  They'd hacked her sleep with a combination of drugs and spells, pulling images and memories from deep in her subconscious to manipulate her.

  They manufactured a dream that her soot-covered moth
er and father knelt in the rubble of their old house and begged her to save them with her power. And there was the one where her parents were alive and well and wanted her to practice blowing up rocks and cans and other odds and ends so they could show off to the Eastern Coven.

  Once, they even created a handsome school-aged boy for her to interact with.

  Del played along with that one the longest, right up until he asked to see what she could do with her magic.

  Because though the dreamworlds the center built were rich in detail and texture, and the interactions were easy and natural, they still had the slightest tinge of falseness. Del had known instantly that the scenarios playing out were only in her mind. She'd played along for as long as it was fun, then woke herself up despite the cocktail of sleep-inducing herbs and pharmaceuticals coursing through her.

  Eventually, the white-coats stopped trying to break her through her dreams. And even though Delilah Cross knew that Halsten, Drish, Loïc, and Joxen weren't figments conjured by the GGB to control her, she couldn't shake the feeling that Mac might be playing at some other game while hiding her true motivation.

  Especially now that she knew the shade's secret.

  Del was certain Mac wanted to help her people. That went unquestioned. But that didn't negate the possibility that she was also working toward a different, more nefarious goal.

  Add that to the fact that Del simply did not like being told what to do or having her choices taken away—understandable given her captivity—and she was ready to bolt. Or give Mac a piece of her mind.

  As much as Del wanted to help the fae right what was wrong, she wouldn't be dressed up and herded from clan to clan like a commodity.

  "Look, Mac," Del's fingers slid from the red satin fabric as she turned to face the shade. "I appreciate all of the dresses and your efforts to get me in with Clan Ember."

  Mac's features shifted so slightly, Del might've convinced herself the relief on the shade's countenance was merely a trick of the light.