Chapter 41: Chapter 41

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Logan

I am a werewolf. You may not need a silver bullet to take me down, but the threat of a mere hunting rifle is not enough for me to step into a firepit to be burned at the stake. I cannot be taken that easily. I’m a trained fighter with superhuman strength.

That is the thought screaming through my mind as I go down under the barrage of blows and kicks.

This is not going to happen.

The moment Kate and I saw what lay ahead, we swung on our captors— and a half-dozen campers jumped from their ambush spot by the door. The others around the fire join them, and we are swarmed by twenty supernaturals. We fight as if we’re the ones demon-possessed, but ultimately, we fall under those blows, under the very crush of our attackers’ bodies.

Even when they have us down, we still fight, but it does no good. We’re bound and dragged to the firepit, and all of our struggles only earn us more blows, only sap our strength, until we’re hauled onto a pyre. They don’t bother with the third stake. They put us both on one, back to back, and the last view I have of my sister’s face is blood and dirt and impossibly wide eyes. Eyes wide not with terror but with shock. Those eyes scream three words: I don’t understand.

I know my sister, and I know what she’s been telling herself. That no one

here killed the witch counselor. She was not silenced. She was murdered by a ghost or demon or other supernatural force. That makes sense to Kate. This does not.

“Why?” she croaks as they tighten the nylon ropes around our wrists and ankles. “Why?”

She isn’t asking why this is happening to us. She’s asking why it’s happening at all.

How it can be happening. How twenty fellow supernaturals could want to kill us in the most terrible and symbolic way possible.

Burned at the stake.

It’s the fate of so many of our kind—all of our kinds. Sorcerer, witch, necromancer, werewolf, vampire, half-demon. We have all been burned at the stake for the “heresy” of our powers. Such a death rings with symbolism to every person here. It is what humans have done to us. It is not ever what we do to one another.

Kate asks why, and they don’t answer. They sneer, and they mock her, but they don’t answer.

If forced to respond, they might say they fear us. They might say we are a danger or an abomination.

None of that is the reason, though. It’s just the excuse. It’s what they tell themselves, while the truth blazes from their eyes, rings from their laughter. They’re doing this because they want to. Whatever fills them, that adrenaline and rage, this is how they’ll exercise it.

Exercise it, not exorcise it, because they don’t want to be rid of it. This rage is exciting. It makes their hearts beat faster, their adrenaline pump. It makes them feel powerful.

And all that, while a lovely little revelation, does not resolve the fact that we’re bound to stakes in a laid firepit. Reflecting on it, however, is only a way to keep me calm while I do something about it.

When we were first bound, we tried the ropes, of course, but they aren’t

anything we can snap. They’ve been careful about that. Now Kate’s working at the knots while exhorting the non-demons in the crowd to do something.

“You’re surrounded by half-demons,” she’s saying to someone. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

A chorus of catcalls drowns out any response.

“Whatever this is,” she says, voice rising, “it’s affecting demon blood.

They have an excuse. You don’t. You’re about to commit murder.”

“No,” a girl yells. “We’re about to exterminate parasites. Kill you before you kill us.”

Kate keeps arguing. Trying to reason with those in the crowd who should be open to reason. Those uninfected by whatever has ignited the blood of the half-demons. Normally, that would be what I’d do. Right now, though, I’m working on a backup plan.

My mom has a trick she taught herself, one my dad can do but less expertly, lacking the patience to learn it. Mom can localize her Change, specifically her hand, allowing it to shift to a stage between human and wolf. It seems like a parlor trick, yet it comes with one very useful advantage: her fingers become claws. With it, she can pin a werewolf to a wall with nails sharp enough to rip out their throat. The fact she’s still human means she can threaten or negotiate.

I’ve been practicing this mostly to improve overall control of my shifts. Now, as Kate engages the crowd, I focus on shifting my hand, feeling hair sprout on the back of it. I keep my fingers cupped away from the crowd so they won’t see what I’m doing.

Sweat beads, and I blow upward, trying to unstick hair tickling my forehead.

You think it’s warm now, just wait until they light that fire.

Slowly, my fingers begin to Change, thicker, stubbier, the nails thickening, too. I pluck at the nylon. My nails aren’t sharp enough to cut through the rope, but I can slice threads. It’s slow going.

Kate’s still shouting at the non-demons in the group, trying to make them see reason, but they’re caught up in the fervor, mocking her “nonsense.” To them, there’s nothing wrong with the half-demons. They’ve just had enough of parasites like us.

They’re feeding on the frenzy of the others. It validates their own rage.

See? I’m not wrong to feel this way. Others do, too.

What will they do when they realize they’re wrong? That the half-demons have an excuse . . . and they do not?

That’s the true horror here. Not the infected half-demons but the handful of others who have joined in, ready to light us on fire because it’s the rare opportunity to indulge their worst instincts.

I’ve been worrying about what I’m becoming. How much I am like my father. How my own instincts are rising up and shutting down common sense.

What am I capable of?

Not this. Never this. Whatever lurks inside me, it’s dark and it’s frightening, but it’s not this.

My darkness is cold steel. Dangerous and deadly, and I need to learn to control it. But it’s a weapon. Not a fire that consumes, a fire willing to set anything ablaze on the flimsiest of pretenses.

My darkness is my father’s. And my mother’s, too. It’s the werewolf instinct to protect and defend at any cost. Yet they could never get caught up in what’s happening here. They don’t have a fire that needs feeding, a rage that demands an outlet. They’d be the ones trying to stop it.

Well, they’d stop it to save Kate and me. Mom would fight for Mason if it wasn’t obvious suicide, and Dad would help because she’d want it, not because he gives a damn about a stranger.

Just as I think that, Holly peeks around the far end of the building. She pulls back quickly and then Allan looks. I shake my head, trying to motion them back with my chin. They withdraw.

Like I said, Mom would fight for strangers if it wasn’t suicidal.

This is suicidal.

Better Holly and Allan stay back and stay safe.

They peek out every few seconds. I keep shaking my head, warning them not to do anything stupid. And I keep snapping these threads. When I’ve weakened my bindings, I do the same for Kate. She tenses as the rough pad of my finger brushes her. Then she feels the hard nail working at her rope.

“Mom’s trick?” she says. “Yep.”

“Damn, when’d you learn that?”

The words sound like Kate, taking this whole “burning at the stake” problem in stride, but her voice wavers, telling me she’s struggling to stay calm.

When I’ve weakened her rope, I tap her arm with three fingers. Then I tap two, starting the countdown. Her fingers close around mine.

“No,” she says. “Not yet.”

“Why? You got more to say?” one of the half-demons yells. “We’re getting a little tired of your voice, blondie. Time to break out the marshmallows.”

Hoots and hollers sound, and Holly peeks again. She motions something I don’t catch, and then she withdraws.

Kate’s “not yet” wasn’t for the crowd—it was for me. After a burst of pique—what the hell are we waiting for?—I answer my own question. If we break free now, we’re right back where we were when we got jumped coming out of that door: facing this entire mob.

I should have thought of that. Kate should have been the one leaping in without thinking it through.

And does that matter? I keep putting things in terms of which of us “should” do them. This is a Kate move; that’s a Logan one, as if our roles are clearly delineated, as if I lose something by failing to do the “Logan” thing, and she steals from me by doing it herself.

We are not children. We’re leaving those old roles behind. I have no idea what we’ll become, but it does no good to keep fighting the changes.

My sister is correct. We need a distraction, and I’d love to be able to ask Holly and Allan to provide it, but there’s no way of doing that. We can only rely on each other.

“Start with the vamp!” someone shouts.

I can’t see Mason’s pyre. It’s behind me, and he’s facing the opposite way. The wood creaks as he struggles, and I’m sure every one of his grunts is a muffled expletive. He’s terrified, too. The stink of sweat and fear wafts from him, overpowering Kate’s lighter musk of anxious sweat.

If Mason dies, he’ll come back to life. That doesn’t matter. I saw his terror when he thought he’d risen as a vampire. That is a fate to postpone for as long as he can.

Then I remember the cut on his side, the one that healed instantly. And I remember a story in one of the council books I’d been too young to read: the eyewitness account of the burning of a vampire.

You cannot kill a vampire by burning. Nor by a stake to the heart—that makes no more sense than needing silver bullets for a werewolf. The only way to kill a vamp is to inflict the one injury that cannot heal: decapitation.

In that account, the mob did not decapitate their victim before lighting the pyre, and I had nightmares for weeks afterward, of imagining her torment, able to burn but unable to die, her flesh constantly healing.

When I confessed to Mom what I’d read, I’d half expected to be banned from that library for life. Instead, I no longer had free access to it, needing to run my selections past Mom or Dad.

I think of that story, and I smell Mason’s terror, and I know he’s realized the same thing. He will heal. Burn and heal.

I swallow hard, and I open my mouth to say something to the mob, to convince them to start with us. But if they start with him, is that not the distraction we need? He’ll heal.

How cold does that feel? To let him suffer so we can get free? Yet it’s the logical choice. He will suffer, but he will heal, and we will have the chance to free all three of us.

“Burn the vamp!” someone yells, and others take up the chant, and I clamp my mouth shut.

“Sure!” Kate yells. “Burn the vamp. So he can come back and slaughter every last one of you. You do understand that’s how it works, right? He’s still human. He hasn’t died yet. But if you kill him, he comes back, and then you have a real vampire to deal with.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. She’s drawing them to us. Protecting Mason because even if he’s been nothing but an asshole to her, that’s who she is. He’s defenseless. We are not.

“Why the hell isn’t she gagged?” someone yells.

“Because some of you know I’m right,” she says. “Some of you want to hear what I have to say. You want to listen to reason.”

“Shut that fucking bitch up!”

Someone lights a match. Another lifts a lighter. Kate hooks her pinky with mine, and we wait. We grit our teeth, and we wait. One of the counselors lowers a lighter to the kindling at our feet.

A cry goes up. Kate’s pinky tightens on mine, but she stays perfectly still.

Waiting.

A piece of crumpled paper catches fire. I watch it, my heart hammering, smoke wafting to my nose, every primitive survival instinct screaming for me to break this rope.

Fire. They’re setting us on fire.

I will myself to be calm. We are waiting on purpose. Waiting for the fire to catch and the mob to relax, and then we will break free.

They dare set us on fire? We’ll use it against them. We’ll fight them off with the very weapon they sought to use against us.

They light another piece of crumpled paper. As soon as they do, though,

the first goes out, having never come close enough for me to feel heat. The second piece ignites, and they light a third, right beside my sneakers, but both only burn to ash, the wood below untouched.

Someone shouts in the distance. A cheer and a cry goes up as others turn. Kate gasps, and I twist to see Tricia running toward us. In her hand, she carries a familiar red canister.

A gas can.

“This will get the job done,” Tricia says, hoisting the can. “Oh shit, oh shit,” Kate whispers. “Now, do it now.”

I flex, preparing to snap the rope, knowing it’s too soon. They’re not distracted, and there’s no fire to use against them.

Someone has grabbed the can from Tricia, and he’s twisting it open as he runs, lifting it to slosh onto the wood, the others ready with matches and lighters, their faces glinting, teeth bared, as predatory as a starving wolf that scents prey.

“Three,” Kate whispers. “Two—”

“Hey!” a voice shouts. “Did I hear something about a werewolf-killing party? I think you guys forgot my invitation.”

I look up as Elijah walks around the building.

“You’re just in time,” someone says. “Come join the party.” “Don’t mind if I do. I presume that other pyre is mine?” The rumble of the mob subsides as all eyes turn his way.

“That other funeral pyre,” he says. “The empty stake. That’s mine, right?”

He pulls a length of steel construction rebar from behind his back and lifts it over his head.

“’Cause if you’re burning werewolves?” He bends the rebar. “You forgot one.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Kate

I hear the voice behind me. I can’t see who it is, even when I twist, but I know that voice and my heart leaps. Then Elijah says something about not getting an invitation, and I realize he’s not here to help—he’s joining in, hiding what he is in case they wonder why he didn’t participate.

Survival of the fittest, baby. Can’t blame a guy for trying.

Yes, actually, I can, and when I start to stifle my rising outrage, I stop. No, use that. Get angry.

I channel my fury at Elijah’s betrayal and flex, snapping my bonds just as the crowd goes quiet, and I think, “Oh, shit.” They’ve noticed. They see that I’m free, and there’s a moment of surprise before they’ll attack.

Then Elijah’s voice penetrates the blood pounding in my ears. “’Cause if you’re burning werewolves? You forgot one.”

I twist to see him bending something metal over his head, a feat of strength that proves his claim. That’s when I realize Logan’s still bound.

“Lo!” I say as the mob rushes for Elijah.

Logan snaps the rope as I drop to claw at the one binding our feet. Someone notices. A shout goes up. Logan’s already bending, his hand still misshapen with those very useful nails.

Once he’s working at the rope, I leave him to it. I have my fists free, and I use them, slamming the first half-demon within range. Without thinking, I

strike full-strength, and the sickening crack of his jaw rings out, echoed by his scream of pain.

I swing at the next one, hitting lighter, but not holding back the way I should. I cannot afford to truly hold back. They need to see what they’re up against, as I couldn’t demonstrate earlier in the melee that knocked me down before I managed more than a few clumsy blows.

Now they get the real Kate Danvers.

With every blow, every scream of pain, a couple of those rushing at us falter, something deep in their infected brains still aware enough to fear. Others, though, rush in howling, the cries of pain and the crack of breaking bones only setting their fevers aflame.

A smell hits my nostrils. Acrid and sharp. Something splashes onto my jeans.

Gasoline.

The rope binding my legs finally falls free. I twist and kick the guy with the gas can as more sloshes onto me. He falls back. Someone throws a match. I dive out of the way just in time.

I grab the gas can and swing it, contents spraying across the mob. A few cry out in agony as the gas splashes into their eyes. I empty the canister as Logan stumbles free of his foot bindings.

A half-demon rushes in. Logan swings, but the guy teleports just out of reach. Another charges my brother with a penknife raised. I wheel, grab his arm and wrench the knife from his hand.

My brother keeps fighting. I don’t worry about him. He has this. As I run for Mason, fog billows up around me. I slow, thinking a sorcerer is casting against me. Then I see Allan on the forest’s edge, his fingers raised as he casts fog to hide me.

I wave my thanks and bend behind Mason, using the penknife to cut him free.

When he’s loose, he rips off the duct tape gag with, “What the hell are

you doing?”

“Setting you free, asshole. You’re welcome.”

He turns, sees me and blinks. “You? I thought . . .”

He thought it was Logan, and I don’t mistake the disappointment that flashes through his eyes. He might have been giving Logan shit for coming to his rescue, but he’d been pleased, too. Seeing his mistake, he switches gears with, “I thought you didn’t like me much.”

“You’re an asshole. Not a hanging offense. Or a burning one.” I take his hand and slap the penknife into it. “We’d appreciate some help.”

“There are two dozen supernaturals. You can’t fight—”

“Eighteen, but who’s counting. We’re not trying to take them down. We’re trying to get out of here and maybe give them a reason not to follow. Now—”

A half-demon charges. I hit him with a right hook that sends him yowling into the fog.

I turn back to Mason and point at the knife. “Use that. Put a few holes in them. Remember you can heal. Try not to die.”

I take off before he can respond.

I’m racing through my fog cover when a girl stumbles in. It’s Mackenzie, still wearing her Team Witch shirt.

I lift my hands. “Just stay out of my way. I know you can hear me and understand me. This has gotten way out of hand, and I hope you see that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, I want to hurt you, parasite.”

Her lips move in a spell. I rush her, but she launches a fireball. It’s a small one, barely worthy of the name, and I mentally laugh.

Then the fireball hits my shirt. It ignites, and my brain freezes, still thinking, But it was just a tiny fireball.

That’s when I remember the gasoline splashing.

Fire scorches me. Mackenzie laughs. She throws back her head and

laughs, and all I can think is, She’s not infected. This is her. All her.

I yank up my shirt, biting back howls of pain. I manage to get it off, and I’m still holding it by one corner when I see her grinning at me, and I whip the shirt at her. She yelps and flies back. That’s all I meant to do—scare her

—but she must have been in the path of that gasoline, and her own shirt catches fire. She screams.

I run at her. Run, and shove her to the ground and hope she has the sense to roll out the fire, because I cannot stop to help. Cannot pause to care.

I race through the fog, hitting anyone who appears in my way. The fact I’m wearing only a bra seems to help—it gives my attackers pause. Still, I pull on my scorched shirt.

When a figure stumbles into me, I grab him by the shoulders, ready to throw him aside. Then I see his short locs.

“It’s me!” Elijah says as he twists and sees who has him.

I let him go, and he steadies himself, turning with a wry smile as blood drips from his mouth. “You might want to hit me, but I’m on your side.”

“Move,” I say.

“What?”

I gesture that he’s between me and the fighting ahead.

“Oh, right,” he says. He does not, however, move. He wipes blood from his mouth. “Look, about earlier—”

“Do you know why I wanted to talk to you then? To warn you about this.”

His gaze drops. “Yeah, I’m sor—”

“And I don’t actually care. My brother is in there.” I point toward the sounds of fighting. “That’s what I care about. Mason’s free. We’re fine. We’d appreciate your help, but that’s your choice.”

I start to go around him.

He catches my shoulder. “Kate.” He pauses, seeing my expression, and murmurs, “Okay. Not the time. Go on. I’m right behind you.”

I run, protected by Allan’s fog. Once I reach the locus of the fighting, though, the fog hinders more than it helps, and he dissipates it. The mist clears, and I see . . .

I stop short, my breath catching.

My brother is fighting, but he’s not overwhelmed, as I feared. He’s facing off against three guys. Holly is just around the corner of the building, casting spells to help him, mostly sorcere“Time flies, huh? Well, after you slunk off on Logan—” “I didn’t slink—”

“After you slunk off, the rest of our Scooby gang went exploring. We found this place, which is warded. Now we know what it’s warded against.” She waves outside. “Voila. Thou shalt not cross, hell hounds.”

“Yeah? Well, you know what? We can’t cross either, not with a couple of hell hounds out there. You think demonic beasts get tired? Take naps?”

“You are such a ray of sunshine. You’re lucky my brother feels responsible for you or I’d toss you out for the hounds to chew on.”