Black Magic Bayou (34 page)

Rain pounded against my windshield, almost too fast for the wipers to keep up with. Outside, the world had turned into a smudged impressionist interpretation of a mountain landscape.

“All right, buddy. If I don’t make it through this, I hope Sido will feed you.”

Fen did not reply. Perhaps the idea of being taken in by my mentor, Sidonie, was too depressing for him to contemplate.

There was also a sixty-five percent chance he’d fallen asleep.

I touched a photo stuck to my dash of a beautiful, smiling, blonde woman who bore a striking resemblance to me, if I had a California beach-bum glow and my mother’s more Anglo-Saxon features. I didn’t say anything, but felt a surge of comfort.

Casting my eyes up to the sky, I added, “And
you
. Don’t you dare think any of the newbies are talented enough to fill my boots yet, you ungrateful prick. If ever there was a time for you to come through, this is it.”

Thunder rumbled.

Good enough.

I got out of the Mustang in time for the two cars following me to pull up, the lead sedan barely stopping in time to avoid running me over.

That would be an embarrassing way to go.

“Nice of you guys to show up.”

The man who got out first gave me a look so stony Medusa might have flinched. The undead were not exactly famous for their senses of humor.

“Miss Corentine.” This voice was smooth and calm, cutting through the rain as if it wasn’t there, as if the speaker hadn’t a care in the world about some bad weather.

“Prescott.” My hands had involuntarily balled into fists, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the snark to a minimum. He was no underling. He was the right-hand man to death herself, which meant he could act in her stead.

Prescott McMahon could kill me with a brush of his fingertips and a lightly whispered oath.

“I’d like to say it’s nice to see you again, but we both know that’s rarely the case.” He moved forward so I could get a good look at him, no longer lingering behind the cars. There had been two men in each car, so in addition to Prescott there were three undead henchmen I’d have to dispatch if I wanted to get out of this.

Not the worst odds I’d faced.

“Your douche haircut is getting ruined.” I sneered. He’d gone for something hip and modern, his blond hair shaved short on the sides and left longer on top. In the deluge of rain, however, the product he’d used to keep it perfectly coifed—he was never anything but fastidious about his appearance—had melted away, making him look unkempt and disheveled. Likewise his once-crisp suit was wet and likely ruined by the rain.

If I’d really wanted to piss him off, I’d point out that he was getting mud on his shoes.

“Your wit never ceases to charm.”

“I’m the delightfullest.”

Prescott sighed. Hey, I said I’d keep the snark to a minimum. There was no way possible I could cut it out entirely. Not even with my life on the line.

“As much as I’d love to continue this interaction, I’d much prefer that you just return what you’ve stolen.”

“Won.”

He blinked at me, and his expression was so clear his thoughts might as well be written on his face.
You’re going to argue semantics with death?

Yup.

“I beg your pardon?” Prescott asked.

“You said stole. You’re the one who said I could take anything in the room if I could make it rain inside. I did. Stole implies I came in and snatched something that wasn’t mine.”

“It
isn’t
yours.”

“But see, it is. Because I won it. It’s not my fault you’ve always underestimated my powers.”

Prescott and I stared at each other, and I tried not to let the hammering rain ruin my cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor. Nothing makes you look less badass than furiously blinking away the raindrops stuck in your lashes.

“Tallulah…” His impatience was evident in his tone.

Prescott and I had known each other a long time. Too long. We were roughly the same age—he was only a year or two my senior—and we’d grown up aware of each other, as all young disciples were. It helped to know your potential allies from your enemies.

We all learned young that in the game of divinity there was no such thing as friends.

I’d once found him handsome, even charming.

That time had long since passed.

Yet there were occasions where we fell into old, familiar habits, and the way he said my name reminded me that this was someone I
knew
. I’d once seen him cry over the body of a dead dog.

Prescott hadn’t always been so cold.

I hadn’t always been so nasty.

Time ruins everyone in the long run.

I relaxed my fists and focused on the rain as it trailed down my bare arms, tiny rivers dripping off my fingertips. Thunder growled its animal warning, shaking the ground. It vibrated up through my legs and made my soul tremble with anticipation.

Prescott had the good sense to look worried.

“I won the idol fair and square,” I said.

The air smelled of ozone, a sharp, peppery odor that reminded me of fresh cardamom. In spite of the rain, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The creaky
whoosh
noise of the wipers on their two sedans was the only sound. Goose bumps prickled my skin.

“You haven’t played fair your whole life.” His accusation stung. We might not like each other, but his words sounded like they came from a place of personal spite. I’d never hurt him in a way that should have earned me such a hateful tone.

“If Manea didn’t want to risk losing it, she shouldn’t have offered it in the first place.”

He blanched, and I realized he must have bet it without her permission. Before I could point this out, he said, “You cheated. Give it back, or I’ll be forced to—”

I lifted my hand, and he flinched. Maybe he didn’t underestimate me after all. The three undead thugs suddenly had guns in their hands, drawn and trained on me. They weren’t thrilling conversationalists, but they
were
known to have decent aim. If your only directive was to kill, you managed to be quite precise.

“You try to touch me, pretty boy, and I will leave a crater of ashes and burnt metal where you and your friends used to be.”

His lip curled up in distaste. So it was okay for him to threaten to kill me, but not vice versa?

“I have a job to do.”

I raised my other hand and held both out to my sides. Rain pooled in my palms and dribbled between my fingers. Tilting my face to the sky, I reveled in the sensation of each heavy drop wetting my cheeks.

Seth, hear me.

The words didn’t need to be said out loud. The prayer itself wasn’t necessary. The power of the god was in me, whether he was paying attention or not.

“You might want to get out of here,” I told him. “Storm’s coming.”

I grinned, and the sky was suddenly brighter than midday, a flash of lightning forking overhead. Barely a heartbeat later the thunder boomed, so close and loud it rattled my teeth and made my knees feel weak. The sound promised power. It offered menace no mere words could.

Don’t mess with me, it said.

Prescott had to touch me if he was going to kill me.

I could obliterate him from a mile away, and we both knew it.

He moved a step closer, and my grin faded. A smart man would back down, and I used to think he was a smart man.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“She wants it back.”

“I don’t care.” Hell, if it was up to me, she could have the stupid thing. But I hadn’t won it for myself, and if I handed it over now, the wrath of Seth would be far scarier than Prescott’s handshake of death.

“Tallulah,
please
.”

I gathered that he was equally concerned about going home empty-handed, but his well-being wasn’t my problem.

“
Stop
.”

He ignored me and took another step closer, so he was now well in front of the cars. The three undead had their weapons raised still, nary a trembling grip in sight.

I raised my hands higher, and the hair on the back of my arms stood on end. My whole body felt electrified, as if I’d stuck my fingers into a live socket. I didn’t
want
to do this, but he gave me no choice. After knowing me this long, Prescott should have understood I didn’t bluff.

He needed a reminder.

A deep, scary rumble of thunder shook the hill, and he paused, raising an eyebrow at me. But I wasn’t going to stop, not this time. He clearly didn’t believe I was serious.

Angling my palms outward, I gritted my teeth like a soldier bracing himself for amputation. This was going to hurt. It always hurt.

The sky turned bright white, illuminated into temporary daylight as lightning shredded the night like it was tissue. The bolt hit me harder than a ten-ton truck, slamming into me so ferociously I felt as if every atom in my body were being crushed.

Electricity coursed from the top of my head through my limbs, and I held my ground, feet planted firmly in the wet mud. A tear trickled down my cheek as I pulled the energy of the lightning into me and directed it, shoving it back out again, but this time at my command.

Another flash of lightning brightened the hilltop, only now it came from my hands instead of the sky. It sizzled past Prescott, ruffling his suit jacket and sending him sprawling backwards so fast he collapsed into the mud, scrambling to get away. The three undead guards also retreated, finally lowering their weapons. They might not be able to die, but Manea made sure they cared about self-preservation all the same.

The lightning hit the front car in an explosion of sparks and fire. The gas tank went up in flame, sending pieces of the sedan raining down all around us like sharp, metallic snow.

The husk of the car landed next to the still-functional one, and everyone stared at the burning ruin.

Smoke unfurled from my fingertips, and steam rose from my skin. I was breathing hard, and all I wanted right then was to eat five thousand calories and nap forever.

“Tell Manea if she wants the idol, she can get it from Seth.”

Pieces of the wreckage crumbled into the mud with a loud, grinding sound. The rumble of thunder had lessened, but the rain was still pounding down around us. I glared at Prescott, ignoring the three henchmen. I wanted him to acknowledge me, so I could drive off without having to look over my shoulder.

“This isn’t over.” His voice was surprisingly cool, given that he was slick with wet dirt and I’d almost blown him up.

I scoffed. “It never is.”

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Driving Rain (in 2017)

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Other Works

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About Sierra Dean

Sierra Dean is a reformed historian. She was born and raised in the Canadian prairies and is allowed annual exit visas in order to continue her quest of steadily conquering the world one city at a time. Making the best of the cold Canadian winters, Sierra indulges in her less global interests: drinking too much tea and writing urban fantasy.

She’s also a book lover (of course!), obsessive collector of OPI nail polish and the owner of way too many pairs of shoes. You can usually find her spouting off Kroll Show references or imagining what her wedding to Richard Madden will be like (hopefully not red).

Find her online at
http://www.sierradean.com