Kicking It

Kicking It Page 21

“You remember that.”

I wasted no time before pushing myself off him and grabbing the shotgun, plus the revolver. I even went to pull my knife out of the Meratoliage, thinking that I would ask Amari’s student to quickly come here and fetch the body before the animals got to it so the witch could put a stay-dead-forever spell on it, just in case. I didn’t think I had the time to drag it back before the dawn—and the boots—took over my body.

Philippe knew what came next. He stood, looking over the tips of the trees at the first signs of sunlight. “You’d better get.”

“You’d better get first.”

He nodded, then paused, grinning. When he bowed at the waist, as he’d done when I’d first met him in the shop, my stomach warmed again.

But then he began walking, down the road, out of my life. Or what I had of it until the sun arrived.

I began moving the other way, glancing over my shoulder once, only to find him looking back at me, too, still walking away, keeping his promise.

The foreign warmth in me wavered, making me wish he wouldn’t keep his vow, but I continued forward as the sun grew stronger. Then I ran the rest of the way toward the cabin, heading to a home for the first time in perhaps ever.

Heading toward my own destiny, whatever it might be.

THE DEVIL’S LEFT BOOT

BY FAITH HUNTER

Liz tossed the rag into the dishpan and lifted it to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Seven Sassy Sisters Café and Herb Shop used heavy country china and good-quality stainless flatware instead of the cheaper stuff. The customers liked the quality and the homey atmosphere, but being busboy—or girl—was tough on her back.

“I’ve got it,” Cia said, and scooped the heavy pan out of her arms. “Share and share alike,” she added. Liz’s once reticent and introverted twin had been doing a lot of that since Liz’s injury. And it wasn’t necessary. So, okay, Liz got short of breath. And her ribs hurt sometimes. She was still healing, and no one could expect complete and instantaneous recuperation after having a huge rock land on her chest in the middle of a magical attack. By their own coven leader . . . and elder sister.

Grief welled up again, and Liz blinked furiously against the tears. Evangelina’s death had hit all the sisters hard, but the four witch sisters had felt her death most deeply because they had also lost a coven leader, and by the foulest means—addiction to demons. Although the actual cause of death had been a knife blade to the torso, the Evangelina they had grown up with and practiced their craft with for their whole lives had been dead for months before that.

Liz sighed, feeling the weakness in her ribs, a slow, low-level pain, and pulled out a clean rag to wipe down the next table. She was polishing the final booth, standing by the front door, when the flashy red Thunderbird wheeled up and parked. It wasn’t a practical car for Asheville, but it was memorable, and that was what the driver wanted—to be known as an icon in her hometown. Liz huffed out a breath and called, “Cia! Company. And not the good kind.”

Her twin was by her side in a heartbeat. “Is that Layla? Too bad we don’t have access to Evie’s demon. It could eat her.”

“Not funny,” Liz said. The demon had eaten a few humans before it was sent back into the dark. “Maybe she’s changed since high school.”

“Once a bitch, always a bitch,” Cia said.

“What’s that she’s carrying?”

“A baby goat? What the—”

The door opened, and their archenemy from their high school years stepped in, bringing with her a cold spring wind through the airlock doors. Layla’s face was as beautiful as ever, which made Liz stiffen and Cia narrow her eyes. Layla was black-haired and pale-skinned and skinny and graceful and delicate and feminine and damn near perfect. In high school she’d been the leader of a cadre of girls who had all been gorgeous and popular, most of them cheerleaders. Unlike the Everharts, all of Layla’s pals had been human. And most of them had been mean. Now, just like in high school, the twins stood side by side, facing their enemy.

The inner doors swished closed after Layla and she stopped, standing with the poise of a model, slender and lovely, wearing a Ralph Lauren leather jacket, tailored pants, and a pair of bling-studded Manolo Blahnik ankle boots that were droolworthy. She stared at the twins across the small space and across the years. No one spoke. When the baby pygmy goat under Layla’s arm started to struggle, she soothed it with a gentle hand, and Liz felt Cia stiffen. Layla Shiffen should not be gentle.

“Boadecia Everhart and Elizabeth Everhart,” she said, the words sounding almost formulaic, her expression determined. “I require help.”

Cia crossed her arms and made a huffing sound. Liz dropped her rag and mimicked her sister.

The resolve on Layla’s face flickered. “I can pay. And I brought my own goat.”

Liz laughed, the sound slightly wheezing from her damaged lungs.

Cia said, “Help? For what.” It didn’t sound like a question—more like an accusation. Or a challenge. “And what does our help have to do with a goat?”

Layla shifted, her composure faltering again before her lips firmed in determination. “I need you to find my mother. The goat is for the sacrifice.”

“Sac—,” Liz started, then stopped.

“We don’t do blood magic,” Cia spat. She pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“But . . .” Layla’s eyes filled with tears. “But I need you. I said the words right. I researched how to say it.” She sobbed once. A real sob. Not like the fake sobs she’d used in the school play the year she had the lead in Romeo and Juliet. “I don’t have anyone else. The police can’t help. Or won’t. They say there’s no sign of foul play. They took a missing-person report and that’s all they’ll do,” she said, her words running together. “My mom’s in trouble. I know it. And I don’t know where to turn.” Tears fell across her perfect cheeks and dripped onto the silk scarf around her neck. “P-please.”

Neither twin reacted. They still stood side by side, staring and silent. Liz could feel the power building up under her twin’s skin, prickly and cold, like winter moonlight. It was slow to rise, with the moon beneath the horizon, but it was powerful magic, especially when she was angry. Their human sisters must have felt it, too. They stepped in through the archway opening from the herb shop, one with a shotgun held down by her leg. The other sister would be armed as well, non-magical, but deadly in the face of danger. One robbery was all it had taken for their human sisters to find a way to protect themselves. Liz shook her head at them, a minuscule motion.

“Big whoop,” Cia said. “I don’t like you. I remember too much.”

Layla’s face went all blotchy and red under her porcelain makeup. Her nose started running and she raised a wrist to wipe it, bringing the goat close to her. The goat butted her chin and made a soft bleating noise. She tucked the animal under her chin as if cuddling it and said, “Please. You have to help me.” She looked back and forth between them, her expression growing frantic. She clutched the baby goat to her chest. “You have to. It’s my mother.”

Liz felt Cia shudder faintly at the last word and knew that Layla had won, just like in high school. Nothing had changed since they were teens. “Son of a witch on a switch,” Cia cursed.

Liz sighed and waved their sisters off. Regan and Amelia both frowned, recognizing the woman and knowing her history with the witch twins. But they went back to the herb shop side of Seven Sassy Sisters, moving reluctantly and keeping an eye on the café. Both crises averted—magical and weapons fire—Liz dropped into a booth at the front window and pointed to the bench seat across the newly cleaned table. Liz had good reason to keep Cia busy and off the TV and Internet. Maybe this would do that. “Sit,” she said to Layla. “What’s your mother’s name and why do you think she’s in trouble?”

Layla sat, and settled the baby goat on her lap before reaching into her Bruno Magli Maddalena suede bag for a tissue and patting her face. Liz could almost feel Cia’s covetousness as her twin slid onto the bench seat, reestablishing the arm-to-arm, skin-to-skin contact. Of course, even if an Everhart could afford a bag that went for more than two thousand dollars new, none of the sisters would buy it. Maybe a vintage one in need of TLC and a little magical cleanup. Everharts were notoriously cheap. Covetous, but cheap. Liz nearly smiled.

“My mother is Evelyn McMann. She called me the day before yesterday on her way home from work. We ended the call when she locked the door behind her, just like always. It’s this”—Layla waved one hand in the air, as if searching for a word—“safety thing we do when Mom works late. She works for a developer, and late-night business meetings are common, as you might imagine.”

Liz had no idea what hours developers kept, but she nodded, understanding security measures.

“Her boss called the house the next morning. Mom had missed an important meeting. Which she never did. Never.”

Liz had to wonder if that had been a problem to Layla growing up. Maybe growing up second to the job.

“So I went by there. Mom’s house looked perfect, as always. Except her clothes, the ones she wore when we had lunch the day before, were scattered everywhere, like they’d been thrown. Carelessly. There is nothing careless about my mother. So I went to the police.” She wiped her face again. “And they made me wait until this morning to file a missing-person report. They think she was having a fling and took off with some man,” Layla said, her tone bitter. “My mother doesn’t have time for a man in her life. Trust me. She works fourteen hours a day. Every day. Always has.”

Cia nudged her, and Liz knew her twin was thinking along the same lines. Abandonment issues, much? It might explain a lot about Layla, growing up. Not that having issues made them forgive her. Not gonna happen.

“Her keys? Purse? Cell?” Liz asked.