Page 127 of Samhain Savior
Sending Archer a pulse of apology, I straightened my shoulders and turned to Mex.
“Let’s go get that piece.”
Chapter fifty-nine
Delilah
Creeping through the maze, I stayed close to Mex, my heart in my throat as we got closer and closer to the center. There were more raised voices now, more angry snarls and muttered curses, all underscored by Genevieve’s desperate sobs.
“Je ne sais pas. S’il te plaît, je ne sais pas!”
“If we split up, can you hold your own?” Mex asked, her voice barely a whisper.
I nodded, even though I really didn’t know. For the most part, my magic seemed to be instinctual, not so much responding to my commands as my needs. I could only hope that, when the moment counted, it wouldn’t fail me.
Mex looked doubtful, but didn’t comment, for which I was grateful.
“Alright. When we round this corner, I’ll go left, you break right. Do not hesitate. You hear me? You kill anything that fucking moves in your direction.”
“I—yeah.” The words sounded small, even to me. “Okay.”
Not okay, but also not something I had the luxury of wavering on. I’d never killed anyone—not directly, anyway—and I wasn’t ready to examine my part in some of the events of the last few days. There may have been blood on my hands, but this was not the time for a moral reckoning. Genevieve was in trouble, the second piece of the Fallen Key was within my grasp, and Archer—my angry, broody demon—was still fighting his way out of that house of horrors. The thrum of our bond told me he was pissed, but confident, which settled my worry for him enough that I could focus on my own task.
With one quick nod over her shoulder, Mex slipped around the corner, immediately darting to the left, knives at the ready. Not allowing myself a moment to over think, I followed her into the center of the maze, moving to the right and keeping my back against the hedge, hoping that the wall of greenery would provide some protection from attack in that direction.
The scene before me was a mess, violent and depraved.
Genevieve knelt at the center, her delicate face streaked with tears as she continued to sob. Her arms were spread wide, each of her hands run through with a long wooden stake, pinning her in place like a butterfly under glass. One man stood behind her, his hand fisted in her hair and keeping her upright, while another stood beside her, frantically muttering an incantation as he read from a tattered grimoire. I could feel the spell he wove, an oily, sinister thing that laced around Genevieve, ensnaring her in its net, preventing her from moving, from reaching for any of the vile witches who held her in place.
It was heartbreaking; she’d been awful to us, but that didn’t mean she deservedthis.
Knowing she didn’t have long, I scanned the rest of the clearing, taking stock of what, exactly, Mex and I were up against.
Before Genevieve, another man stood, his vicious expression proving just how much he was enjoying her pain. He was huge, thick and broad with dark hair and hard eyes. His arms, heavily tattooed with strength and protection runes, were crossed over his barrel chest as he stared down at the Nest Queen where she trembled before him. Next to him was a severe-looking woman, her thick frame encased in tactical gear, hair cropped short. Her posture spoke of coiled aggression and a readiness to fight.
And beside her was a hell hound, a hulking beast of an animal with red-tinged fur and eyes like hot coals. It looked like a Doberman on steroids, a nightmare on four legs.
It was horrific and frightening and the first to notice our presence. The hound’s ears perked, head tilting in our direction as a low rumble built in its throat, and it didn’t take long for the other four to turn our direction.
“Who the fuck are you?” called the man holding Genevieve, a rough English accent dragging the words out messily.
The big one with the tattoos said nothing.
“Let the Vamp go,” Mex called, stepping forward like she owned the night. “The Order is not welcome in New Orleans. You are in violation of the treaties of theUmbra Fratrum. Leave now, or face retribution.”
The hell hound pulled back its lips, acidic saliva dripping from its massive jaw to land in a sizzling puddle on the grass.
“Violate this,” called the Englishman, rudely grabbing at his crotch. Mex only stared.
“Baby, down here in da bayou, you’ll need more than that little Andouille sausage to please a woman.”
His face lost its gleeful expression, falling to confusion and then anger, and I couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped me.
Unfortunately, it also drew the attention of the tattooed man, whose gaze settled on me like a cold October wind. I shivered, a wave of fear rolling through me as I tried not to shrink beneath his stare.
“Imagine,” he grunted, his words full of gravel and salt. “After weeks of searching, the biggest prize in my lifetime just strolls right into my hands. Beliel and the Storm-bringer will reward me for your capture.” His smile was grim, showing off a missing tooth on one side. “Orla?” he called, and the woman straightened. “Bring the bindings.”
He took a step toward me, but froze when Mex was suddenly there, her body between him and me.
