21. Ashe

Despite having four witches chanting their binding spell around her, the enraged cougar was almost too much for even their magic to restrain. But the feline's pridemates were not helping matters, either. There were six of them in all, yowling in protest as they argued with the well-dressed witches that surrounded them. To their credit, though, the gattans did not try to intervene. They knew full well what the punishment would be if they did.

Killing the shifter would prove difficult even with the binding spell in place. The gata were swift, cunning, drawing their strength from the very cats they worshipped. Although, this one should have changed back by now; the ferae rarely lose control like this.

Even from a distance, I could make out the blood and spittle that matted her coarse blonde fur, her rounded ears laid back as she snapped and growled at her captors. She was larger than a normal-sized cougar, muscle rippling like waves beneath her skin as she struggled against the magic that held her at bay. One wrong move and she would easily tear those witches to shreds.

As I neared, I mentally weigh my options and decide that a direct assault would be most efficient. Hopefully Kerrigan's field agents can keep her locked in place long enough for me to—

One of the witches flinch, interrupting the binding spell for only a moment, but it was just enough time for the cougar to lunge. Before she can snuff the life from the suit in one fell swoop I close the distance between us with lightning speed, the chain link tattoo crawling along my skin as it responds to my silent command. Her primal rage assaults my senses, stirring my own anger, and I was glad that I had already fed on the lesser of two sins. With how this day has gone, I doubt I would be able to contain myself otherwise.

The witches stumble out of the way as I slam my shoulder into the gattan. Her claws rake down my back as I knock her to the ground and thrust the dagger into the soft spot between her ribs. Smoke billows from the fatal wound and the cougar yowls in anguish, gnashing her teeth and flaying my arms as she squirms under me in an attempt to break away. I bite back the pain as chains rip out from my skin and wrap around her.

Her anger melts away into unbridled fear as she desperately tries to free her limbs but the Reaper's mark keeps her pinned, burning her body and fettering her like a silver straight jacket. The smoke and stench of scorched flesh sting at my eyes and I grit my teeth, the metal chains constricting around us. With one final yell, I twist the blade in deeper until it pierces her heart and she finally stops moving.

I hate to admit it, but if it were not for the witches and their blood magic keeping the shifter restrained then that scuffle could have been a lot messier. Compared to the other tribes, what the gata lacked in raw strength they more than made up for in savagery.

“That was my baby!” one of the onlookers, an elderly woman with silver hair and glowing yellow eyes, cries out as I pull the blade from the cougar's ribcage. “You killed my grandbaby!”

I push myself to my feet with a groan. “She shifted in front of humans,” I mutter as I glance over my shoulder. My shirt was shredded and blood oozed from the deep gashes left behind by the gattan's claws. The wounds stung as the air hit them, but they would heal in a few hours. Whiskey would help with the pain.

“She was only sixteen, she didn't know what she was doing!” A short, stocky man with sandy blonde hair takes a menacing step forward. The witches act quickly, twirling their fingers as they wove their magic, and he snarls. “We could have talked her down!”

I frown as my stomach knots. Jesus, she was just a kid.

Sixteen was a trying age for the ferae; caught somewhere between puberty and maturity, their youth and inexperience made controlling the change much more difficult when intense emotion clouded their judgment—it was the reason why most of them were homeschooled. A werewolf's resolve may be subject to the phases of the moon that cursed them, but a lack of impulse control was a dangerous ordeal for an adolescent shifter.

“She broke the rules,” Kerrigan says with a smirk. “Unless you wish to make the same mistake, I suggest you all go home.”

The older woman hisses, her bright eyes flashing as she glared at us. From the way she carried herself and commanded the others, I would guess that she was the mother of their small pride. Her mate would not lead a war party to chase off a couple of encroaching vampires, but he also would not be lurking too far behind. Even though they cooperated with us for this long, it would be best if we did not overstay our welcome. These cats were angry enough as it is.

A few of them move to retrieve the singed, welted body of their fallen sister but Kerrigan clucks his tongue against his teeth. “You won't be burying this one,” he says as he waves to the white van down the street. “We burn criminals.”

The gattans yowl and hiss as they press against the invisible barrier that the witches had erected, their eyes glowing and their fingernails extending into jagged claws as they begin to lose their composure.

“Criminals?”

“This is bullshit!”

“She was only a child!”

The Reaper's mark ripples across my skin in anticipation of a fight and I clench my jaw. This was getting out of hand and Kerrigan's goading was only making things worse. I needed to de-escalate the situation.

Sparing one last glance at the young cougar's body, trapped in her feline form and denied a proper burial by the death I inflicted upon her, I swallow down my guilt. “Take your kin and go.” My fire was already dwindling and the pain was starting to set in. I doubt I could take on the rest of them should they decide to retaliate, or control the threads of my anger in the midst of a brawl. And there were not nearly enough witches to contain these gattans if it came to that. “You've broken no laws yet. Don't let your cub's fate become your own.”

The cats show no sign of yielding and I brace myself for the worst. But before they can advance their matriarch holds out her arm, quelling her pride's thirst for bloodshed without so much as a word.

“We won't be baited into playing your games,” she growls. “You've taken enough from us for one night.”

“No one's baiting anyone.”

She whips her head in my direction, rage burning in her eyes. “You're a fool if you believe that.” She spits at our feet as one by one her children back down. “You'll get what's coming to you, Reaper. Soon enough you all will.”

The cleaners, garbed from head to toe in puffy white hazmat suits, advance the moment the gattans are gone. They wrap the cougar's body in a silver-lined tarp and toss it unceremoniously into the back of their van along with the other casualties of this shitshow. As an extension of Public Affairs' disposal unit, the cleaners would take their payload back to Silent Hills Crematorium for processing and incineration. Death may be my job, but it was very good business for them.

The family of the two vampires would be notified of their loss—a formality that served more as a warning than a courtesy—and both parties would be allowed to collect any personal belongings prior to the cremation of their fallen members, but there would be no ceremony for these so-called criminals. To celebrate their lives would be seen as an affront to the Tribunal and all they stood for.

“Well that could've gone better.”

“We work to uphold the balance,” Kerrigan says as his witches load up into their shiny SUVs. “That job will naturally garner us more than a few enemies, but the Wards are safer for it. The secret of our existence is safer for it.”

“The offenders are dead and the witnesses have been silenced. She was just a fucking kid, Kerrigan. Did you have to provoke her family like that?”

“If we start making exceptions then where do we draw the line?”

My lips twist into a scowl at his words. The lines were getting more and more blurred these days, it seems. But when you do this job for so long it was inevitable that the lines between good and evil start to muddle until you can no longer tell one from the other. Eventually, you end up just drawing the line at who will and will not kill you.

And I always seem to be walking that fine line.

The scratches lining my arms and back prickle with new growth and I wince. The agony would only get worse as my wounds start to heal. That was going to drain me of energy and I was going to need a lot of whiskey to deal with the pain.

“She bit you.”

I look down to where the lieutenant indicates and notice the bloodied bite mark on my shoulder. “Huh, so she did.”

“Should probably treat that before it gets infected. Who knows what sort of diseases these shifters carry.”

I glower at his attempt at a bad joke. Even if a bite from the ferae was infectious like that of a werewolf's, the fire in my veins would incinerate any trace of the virus before it could change me. Or kill me.

“Anyway, I think we're done here.” Kerrigan climbs into the vehicle, his smirk widening. “Go home, or whatever it is you Reapers do at four in the morning. We'll handle the paperwork.”

I stay until the cleaners finish up and drive off before making my way back across the street. I've been out here long enough.

“The situation's been contained,” I say into the phone as I near my motorcycle.

“Good. Any loose ends?”

I frown. “Well that's a little insulting.” Despite my feelings on the matter, I never left a job unfinished. “Some appreciation would be nice.”

“Apologies. We'll go over the incident report back at the office later.” On the other end, Chandler stifles a yawn. “Nice work, Ashe. Now get some sleep.”

If only I could. Between the guilt and these injuries, though, rest would not come easy.

I shove the phone back into my pants pocket and withdraw a pack of cigarettes from my jacket, eager to take the edge off before driving home. If anything, I could use the distraction.

A breeze knocks the cigarette out of my hand before I get the chance to light it.

“Well that's just great,” I grumble as I shake out another one. The wind takes that, too, and my irritation spikes. For fuck's sake, all I wanted was one smoke!

Headlights click on in the distance, illuminating the dark lot in a pale yellow glow. I go to raise my hand to shield my eyes from the spotlight but it feels heavy, as if a lead weight was tied around my wrist, and my arm hangs uselessly by my side.

“What the hell?” I try to pivot my body but my legs are rooted in place and my adrenaline spikes. I can't freaking move!

“I thought I'd find you here.”

The southern accent was distinctly feminine and as my eyes slowly adjust I can make out the slender silhouette of a woman standing just beyond the blinding lights in front of me. “Who the hell are you?”

The shadow waves her hand and the pack of cigarettes flies out of my grip as if it were yanked from my fingers. At least now I know where the sudden breeze came from. Fucking witches.

“You shouldn't smoke,” the woman chides, and I can practically hear the smile in her tone. “It just might kill you.”

“Neat trick, using telekinesis like a binding spell,” I growl. My skin tingles as the tattoo slithers just beneath the surface, itching to be released. “But it won't hold me for long.”

The woman huffs in annoyance. “I'm not using mind magic, you idiot.”

I quirk a brow. Only mind magic would allow for a witch to move an inanimate object, like knocking the cigarettes from my grasp. Short of applying that same telekinetic prowess as an invisible force to encase their victims and lock them in place, only a practitioner of blood magic would have enough influence over a living body to immobilize it. It was why Public Affairs often recruited them as their field agents; coupled with runes and a bit of blood, it was also why the Tribunal employed them as handlers for their Reapers.

But this did not feel like the effects of a binding spell, and if this woman was not using mind magic then that could only mean one thing.

I flick my gaze to the ground and curse. There, in the glow of the headlights, I can make out dark tendrils snaking across the pavement like vines, connecting my shadow to hers. There was only one kind of magic that acted like that.

“So, you're the puppetmaster who has everyone on edge.”

A perversion of blood magic, puppetry was a dangerous dark art. Unlike binding, which rooted the target in place, puppetry used the witch's own shadow as their strings, linking the threads to the shadow of their target and controlling them like marionettes. But such a skill was rarely ever used on the living.

“Is that what they're calling me? Kind of lame, but I guess it does have a nice ring to it.” The witch chuckles as she rotates her wrist and my body turns involuntarily to face her. Yes, this was definitely puppetry. “That was quite a show you put on back there, Reaper. Now I know why they call you 'the devil with red hair'.”

I narrow my eyes. “No one calls me that.”

“To your face, maybe. Probably afraid that you'd skewer them or something. You half-breeds are infamous for your short fuses.”

So, she knows that I'm half demon. Somehow I'm not surprised. “Why don't you step into the light so I can put a face to that pretty voice of yours?”

The woman laughs, a shrill sound that grates my ears. “So you can, what, reap my soul? No, some things I think will stay a mystery to you for now. Why spoil the fun so soon?”

“I don't enjoy this job, you know.”

“Oh, spare me, Reaper. We both know that's a lie.”

I did not even try to suppress the smirk that spreads over my lips. “Lucky for you I'm a better Reaper than I am a liar. I suppose I should be thanking you, though. If it weren't for zealots like you then I'd be out of work. Not a lot of trades out there that'll hire someone like me.”

“You mean a murderer?”

“Is that what they call it these days?”

The woman's voice drops dangerously low as she says, “You killed my parents.”

Oh great, a zealous witch with a personal vendetta. Apparently I walk a very fine line.

The tattoo bubbles from my pores as the silver-infused ink slowly cuts through the Veil energy fueling her magic. She may control my body, but I wonder how she will fare when enchanted chains are slicing through her like an axe through firewood. Without my blood and a specific rune engraved in her skin, the Reaper's mark was beyond her control. I just needed to keep her talking for a little longer while I focused.

“I've killed a lot of people. You'll have to be more specific than that.”

She obliges without hesitation. “Twenty years ago. Fourth Ward, First Precinct. You slaughtered an entire coven.”

My breath hitches in my throat. That, I remember as clearly as if it happened only yesterday. It was one of the few assignments that stuck with me all these years. But I could not have saved all of those witches even if I wanted to.

“They were accused of raising the dead and enslaving souls. Shadow magic is forbidden and anyone who practices it is sentenced to death, everyone knows that—”

“That was a lie!” The puppetmaster raises her fist and I fall to my knees as if my legs were kicked out from under me. “They were framed!”

“Everyone says that.” I grimace as she spreads her fingers and my arms bend awkwardly, linking themselves behind my back. “And I wasn't the one who made that call. I was following orders!”

She was only three at the time, there was no way she would remember that night. This woman could not be that little girl!

“It doesn't matter now. You killed them, and when my friends are done with you I'm going to return the favor.”

Her friends? “So you're working with the Enlightened, after all.” I snort despite the pain. “What is this, some kind of cult initiation? What the hell do you want with me?”

“Oh, they've got plans for you. But now's not the time. I wouldn't want to spoil the reunion.”

“What reunion?”

“See, the thing with shifters is that they're too . . . beastly. Controlling them is difficult even when they're dead, and they make even worse skins. Apparently the corpse of a shifter can still carry large amounts of epinephrine in its brain if it dies while in animal form, did you know that? Try to bind a demon to that mess and it'll just gobble up all that rage until you've got a wraith on your hands. They're useless as puppets at that point.”

“Is there a point to all of this? Or do you plan on boring me to death with a lesson in chemistry?”

“I'm getting to it, bitch,” she snaps, but I can hear the smirk in her tone. “Mortals, on the other hand, are simpler and make far better puppets. I thought I was lucky enough to nab one of your friends—after all, a dead Reaper doesn't come up on the menu very often. But imagine my surprise when I called her soul back only to learn that this particular mortal was already tainted by demon blood. Not exactly the cambion I was looking for, but a prize all the same.”

The sound of metal scraping against concrete draws my attention and with great effort I manage to turn my head.

“I brought an old acquaintance with me.” The woman laughs and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach as the last person I ever thought I would see again comes into view. “Hope you don't mind. She's been dying to see you.”

“Nessa?”

A wicked smile twitches on my former partner's pallid lips, but there is little resemblance to the Reaper I once knew. Her short-clipped dark hair, which she had often accessorized with a different headband each day to match her outfits, is now matted to her skull and her movement is stiff, bones cracking unnaturally as she limps into the light. Her clothing is tattered and dirty, like she was dug up from her grave, and her once flawless skin is fractured and peeling like a broken porcelain doll. The silver blades that protrude from her back and down her forearms glint with the promise of death as they drag behind her, leaving a trail of sparks in her wake.

“Long time, Ashe,” Nessa rasps, the hollow words whispering through the air a stark contrast to the bubbly tone I was so accustomed to. “I've missed you.”

“Oh, sweetie, don't talk,” the puppetmaster scolds. “You'll strain your vocal chords and those are always a pain to repair. Besides, I didn't bring you here to socialize.”

My stomach knots as a storm of emotions surges within me and my control slips.

Chandler told me that they burned her body after they found her, that there was nothing left of Nessa to mourn. Christ, if that were true then she would not be standing in front of me looking the very picture of death reincarnate. If that were true, her soul would be resting in the everlasting peace that she deserved!

They fucking lied!

“You know, I didn't believe that you were the Reaper I sought when I first saw you. Jesus, they told me where to find you tonight and I still didn't want to believe it. For her sake, a part of me was hoping that it wasn't true.” The woman clucks her tongue thoughtfully as her puppet advances. “Such a pity.”

I snap my gaze back to the witch as fury boils in my veins, searing through the pain that still radiated from my wounds. “What did you do to her?”

“Less than what I'm going to do to you. But all in due time.”

“It's ironic that you practice the very magic that killed your coven. For someone who proclaims innocence, maybe there was some truth to those accusations after all.”

The puppetmaster hums. “Yes, well, it has a certain 'poetic justice' feel to it. Don't you think?”

Chains crawl along my arms as the ink finally manages to seep from my skin and I smirk. I'd like to see her shadow tricks try and stop me now. “All you've managed to do is guarantee yourself the same fate.”

“Oh, save it for someone who cares.” She turns to Nessa. “Wrap this up, but be careful. We need her alive.”

The shell of my former partner advances wordlessly, blades gleaming with wicked intent as she lifts her arm to strike.

Fueled by the rage swirling in my chest and burning in my veins, I push against the invisible weight that holds me down until I rise shakily to my feet. I can hear the puppetmaster curse in the shadows and my smirk widens. Clearly she has never faced a demon in battle before, let alone a demon with magic of her own.

The Reaper's mark uncoils itself and the chains fall to the pavement, snaking toward the light as they wait for my command. Nessa's gait quickens as she closes the distance between us and a pang of guilt breaks through my anger and tugs at my heart.

If I wanted to get to the puppetmaster, first I would have to put Nessa down. Again.

I'm sorry, Nessa. I'm so sorry.

She lunges at me just as my chains shoot up from the ground, but before they can wrap around her living corpse a silver fog emerges from beneath my feet, breaking the witch's hold as it slithers up my legs and draws me in. My insides twist as flesh is ripped from bone and I fall back, dissolving into the blinding white nothingness.

Right before I'm pulled through the backdoor, the point of Nessa's outstretched Reaper blade skewers my side.

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A/N: Well this is a devastating turn of events! How is our favorite half-demon going to handle all of this while keeping her secret with Dani safe?

Please don't forget to vote, and feel free to leave a comment if you have any questions/concerns/feedback! I'm always happy to answer any questions :)