Doomsday Can Wait Read online

  “Sit,” Ruthie ordered. “We’ve got a situation here.”

  “Me being dead is going to throw a bit of a crimp in our plans. This is gonna start the Doomsday clock ticking all over again.”

  “You aren’t dead,” she said.

  “The woman of smoke—” I paused, then sat. “You know about her?”

  Ruthie gave me one of her patented stares. Ruthie knew about everything, even before she’d become …

  I wasn’t certain what she’d become, but she was definitely more powerful dead than alive. Having her killed had been the Strega’s first mistake.

  “She stabbed me with my own knife.” I made a sound of disgust. How lame was that? “Twice in the chest.”

  I glanced down, thrilled to discover that the weapon wasn’t sticking out of me so that I resembled a shish kebab. My broken wrist appeared to work just fine, as well. I flapped it a few times just to be sure.

  Of course no one came here with the wounds they’d died from; that would be too upsetting to the kids, not to mention gross.

  “You aren’t dead,” Ruthie repeated.

  “But—”

  “Twice in the same way kills a dhampir.”

  “Right. I—” I stopped, not wanting to say out loud what I’d done to get that talent.

  But Ruthie knew. Not talking about my strange gifts didn’t make those strange gifts cease to exist.

  “We do what we have to do to survive, to fight, to win,” she said. “You wouldn’t have the power of empathy if you weren’t meant to use it, child.”

  Same thing Summer had said. Huh.

  “It’s because of that empathy you’re still alive.” At my blank expression, she continued, “You’re more than a dhampir, Lizbeth. You’re a skinwalker, too.”

  I lifted a brow. “How do you kill those?”

  She lifted her own brow in return. “I’ll just keep that to myself.”

  “But—”

  “I know ‘bout your temper when it comes to Sawyer. If you’d known how to kill him, you’d have done it already—ten times.”

  True. No one annoyed me more than Sawyer; no one frightened me more than him, either—unless it was his mother.

  “We need him,” Ruthie said. “You need him.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. Still—

  “How can I avoid getting my skinwalker nature snuffed out if I don’t know how that can happen?”

  “It won’t. Skinwalkers are some of the hardest beings to kill on God’s earth. You think Sawyer would still be breathin’ otherwise?”

  I wasn’t the only one who wanted him dead. Sometimes I wondered if there was anyone who actually wanted him alive. Except for Ruthie.

  “I still don’t like it,” I muttered.

  “I still don’t care.”

  “Is it true what Summer told me?” I asked. “Doomsday’s on hold?”

  “Appears to be. The demons are still killing, but—” She spread her gnarled hands. “Not like they used to.”

  “So we’ve got some time to regroup.”

  “I don’t know,” Ruthie murmured. “I can still feel the evil on the air like an approaching tornado. That buzzing stillness, which always comes right before the skies turn green and the whirlwind starts.”

  Hell. That sounded exactly like what I’d felt in Barnaby’s Gap.

  “It’s strange,” she continued. “Almost like nothing’s changed. Like Doomsday’s still brewin’.” She shook her head as if she were shaking off the thoughts. “I’m just an old woman who’s seen too much. Can’t stop smelling trouble even when it isn’t here.”

  “Oh, trouble’s here. It’s called a Naye’i.”

  “They’ll have to go back to square one.” Ruthie put her hand over mine where it lay on the table. “They have to kill you.”

  “The woman of smoke thinks she did. She’ll believe she’s the new leader. What will happen when she finds out she isn’t?”

  “Hopefully she’ll die from the disappointment,” Ruthie muttered, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “You have no idea how to end that—” I broke off before I said something I shouldn’t. “Thing,” I finished.

  “‘Fraid not. She’s much more than she started as. Evil spirit became witch became Satan only knows what.”

  “Terrific.” I glanced out the window, absently counted children, came up with five this time. They must be playing hide-and-seek.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “Not a word from you since I left Manhattan. I was starting to think I’d lost the magic.”

  “The amulet,” Ruthie said. “It blocked me. From seein’ them, from talkin’ to you. Messed with my radar.” She tapped her head. “I still feel fuzzy. Might have a hard time now and again gettin’ through.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “You’ll be all right. Sawyer’s here. He’ll help.”

  “You’re sure about that? Sawyer’s always seemed to be on the ‘help himself and screw the world’ plan.”

  Ruthie’s lips curved. “Sawyer likes the world as is. He’ll help.” She sobered. “You’re gonna have to destroy that amulet.”

  “How about I toss it off a cliff?”

  Ruthie was shaking her head before I finished the sentence. “She’ll find it. You must go to the benandanti. She lives in Detroit, on Trulia Street. A gray house, red shutters, you—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupted. “A what-who?”

  “Benandanti means good walker in Italian.”

  “All right. So a benandanti is a good walking … what?”

  “Witch.”

  “A good witch,” I repeated. “Like Sabrina? Saman-tha? Tabitha?”

  Ruthie gave me the look. I shut up.

  “The benandanti has the power to heal the bewitched.”

  “And this will help me with the amulet, why?”

  “Jewelry doesn’t possess powers. It’s the bewitchment that gives it the magic.”

  I thought of the turquoise and crucifix, still in the car along with the amulet. The strength of the crucifix lay in the blessing upon it. The magic of the turquoise lay in Sawyer’s talents as a medicine man. So it followed that the power of the amulet had come from a spell—curse, blessing—it didn’t matter.

  “You’re saying that a benandanti can ‘heal’ the amulet?”

  “Not a benandanti, the benandanti. There’s only one at a time. And yes, she’ll take care of that amulet just fine.”

  “A benandanti is a good Italian witch; the strega was a bad witch.” I frowned. “Was there only one of him, too?”

  “Until there’s another.”

  Good news, bad news. The strega was gone, but knowing the Nephilim, another would appear soon enough.

  “Is there a good and a bad of everything?” I asked.

  “Life craves balance,” Ruthie answered. “We wouldn’t have devils if we hadn’t had angels first.”

  “Then it follows that we should have enough seers and DKs to fight the Nephilim. Otherwise things are out of balance.”

  “Lack of balance is what the Nephilim crave. It creates chaos. We need to find more soldiers, and we need to train them. Which isn’t gonna be easy when we’re also fightin’ Nephilim with the few we have left.”

  “So what do we do? What do I do?”

  “Lead them.”

  “That is so not helpful.”

  Ruthie’s lips curved. “You’re on the right track. Get Jimmy back; he’s the best soldier you’ve got. Summer ain’t bad, either. Have Sawyer search out new federation members, those who don’t know yet what to do with their powers, and have him show them.”

  “Sawyer?”

  “He’s always been very good at finding new seers. DK.s, too. Though usually seers draw their own DKs to them.”

  “Unless they inherit them.” As I had.

  “Unless,” Ruthie agreed. “You need to gather the ones in hiding, keep fightin’ at their side. It’s all you can do.”

  “It
would be nice if Sawyer could walk on two legs and use his words anywhere but on Navajo land,” I murmured.

  His going to the new recruits and training them ASAP would be more practical than his having to find them by osmosis, draw them to New Mexico, and then deal with them there.

  “Take Sawyer with you to Detroit,” Ruthie ordered. “It’s dangerous.”

  I wondered if she meant dangerous because it was Detroit or dangerous because of the benandanti and other assorted supernatural beings, then decided it didn’t matter. Dangerous was dangerous, and Sawyer was the best bodyguard, even if I couldn’t get him on a plane without a wire cage and a muzzle.

  Luckily I had the Impala, and Detroit was a short, but extremely annoying, trip around the tip of Lake Michigan from Chicago. We’d be there by morning.

  The laughter of the children drew my attention to the window once more. Seven kids now. Where had they been hiding?

  I got up and moved closer, peering through the glass. Between one blink and the next, there were eight kids.

  “Son of a—” I murmured, as understanding dawned.

  The children hadn’t been playing hide-and-seek; they’d been appearing—bing, bing, bing—as they died one by one in Lake Vista.

  CHAPTER 12

  “People are being killed.” I spun away from the window to face Ruthie. “And we’re chatting in a sunny kitchen?”

  Ruthie’s eyes were moist. “You think I want them to die? You think I like having a full house?”

  I threw up my hands. “I don’t know what you want or what I think. I only know that people, children, are dying by lucere attack. An attack I was sent to stop.”

  “But you went down in the field.”

  “According to you, I’m not dead yet.”

  “You needed time to heal.” Ruthie’s gaze became unfocused as she stared past me. “Sawyer’s done all he can.”

  “Did you put a hex on me, make me forget what was going on back there?” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered until I’d seen that child appear out of nowhere.

  “You were here for a reason—to listen, to learn, to heal. Until those things were done, you couldn’t leave. No use worryin’ about it.”

  “I need to go back.”

  “Go.” Ruthie flipped her hand, dismissing me.

  I fell, fast and hard, slamming into my body, choking, coughing, tasting blood. My face was wet, hell, all of me was wet and my chest hurt. I reached for the pain, expecting to encounter the knife, but it wasn’t there. I came upright with a curse, and my eyes snapped open.

  It was raining, had been raining for quite a while considering the soaked state of my clothes and hair. One side of my body was warm, the other slightly chilled despite the remaining heat of the summer night.

  Sawyer was pressed the length of me. He lifted his head; his snout and paws were covered in blood.

  Nearby lay my knife, as pristine as if it had never been buried to the hilt in my chest. Considering the sharp, shiny agony that pulsed between my ribs, I had to think the rain had washed away the blood.

  Had Sawyer yanked it out with his teeth? Had I done it myself in the throes of death? Or had it magically disappeared from here and appeared over there? Did it matter as long as the weapon was no longer sticking out of me?

  In the distance someone shouted, and I glanced at Lake Vista, then immediately hit the ground again. The suburb was lit up like Christmas, and there were cops all over the place.

  I wanted to ask Sawyer what had happened, besides the obvious—death, death, and more death. However, I didn’t have time to shape-shift and play twenty questions. We needed to get out of here, and I wasn’t going to be able to drive a car with paws.

  “Come on,” I whispered, inching back to where the Impala was parked in the shadow of the trees.

  It wouldn’t be long before the police widened their search. If they found a woman and a wolf near that massacre . .. Well, it would make their job a whole lot easier. They’d blame us and close the case.

  Even if we were able to get out of jail by some combination of shape-shifting and magic, we’d be marked from then on. I wouldn’t be able to travel with the freedom I needed. More people would die. I had enough of them on my conscience already.

  The memory of the children popping up one at a time in Ruthie’s backyard made me want to punch something. I considered putting a dent in the Impala, but knew from past experience that I’d hurt, maybe break, my hand. Sure, I’d heal, but the kids would still be dead. Those kids were forever dead.

  I rubbed my palm over my face, brushing away all the raindrops.

  We reached the car and I opened the driver’s door as quietly as possible. Sawyer hopped in. I put it in neutral and pushed the vehicle through a slight track in the trees until we emerged in another subdivision, just as I’d expected. Superior strength was so damn useful.

  Only when we were far enough away that no one would hear the rumbling of the engine, did I turn the key and leave Lake Vista behind.

  Sawyer sat in the passenger seat and hung his head out the window like a dog, mouth open, tongue lolling. If no one saw his long, spindly legs and huge paws, or peered too deeply into his too intelligent yet just short of feral eyes, he could pass for a dog.

  We both needed a shower in the worst way. If anyone got a look at my gory wet clothes and my blood-covered … I glanced at Sawyer—I’d been about to say pet.

  “Companion,” I murmured, and he huffed. Sometimes I could swear he read my mind. At least he could understand me even if he couldn’t talk.

  “We’ll stop at a hotel, get cleaned up.” And while there, I could shape-shift and find out what in hell had happened in Lake Vista. Then, depending on the tale, we’d either chase luceres or continue on to Detroit.

  I drove southeast for an hour. I needed to put enough distance between us and the massacre so that we wouldn’t attract immediate suspicion.

  On Interstate 94, I found a nondescript motel used by truckers. A place where I could check in—after I’d covered the bloody hacked and slashed tank top with a jacket despite the heat—then drive around the back to my room, park directly in front, slip the wolf in through the door.

  Once inside, Sawyer headed for the bed.

  “Shower first,” I ordered. “We don’t need bloodstains on the sheets. I had to give them my license plate number.”

  Sawyer bared his teeth, but he went into the bathroom, then sat on the tile and stared at the bathtub until I turned on the water.

  The blood had dried on his snout and paws. The hot water loosened it somewhat, but soap would work faster. I sighed and went to my knees. I was going to have to bathe him like a dog, then, I was going to have to dry him like one, too. From the expression in his eyes, Sawyer thought this was hilarious.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I muttered as I tore the paper wrapping off the tiny bar of soap.

  He might not get used to it, but he certainly enjoyed it, moaning a little as I worked the soap through his dark, coarse fur. He ducked his head beneath the stream, then shook droplets all over me.

  “Hey!” I protested, but the tickle of the water made me smile until I realized what I was doing and stopped. Smiling after so many had died was a lightness I couldn’t afford.

  I shut off the water, grabbed several towels, and backed up so Sawyer could leap out of the tub. Then I rubbed him down as quickly and efficiently as I could.

  As I scrubbed the brilliant white cloth over his ebony fur, he hung his big head over my shoulder, and his face brushed mine. He smelled like wolf and man—like a desert breeze across the mountains, like the smoke of a fire in the night.

  I pulled away. No matter what he’d done to help the federation, the fact remained that he was the son of the Naye’i, the woman he’d conjured from smoke, and we needed to have a chat.

  “Go.” I pointed to the bedroom.

  He lifted his upper lip, but he went. I guess I couldn’t blame him for being annoyed when I talked to him like a d
og, but honestly, when the paws fit, what did he expect?

  I shut the door, then locked it, though I have no idea why. Sawyer couldn’t open it as a wolf, and he was stuck in that form as long as he was away from Navajo land.

  However, I’d seen Sawyer do unexplainable things. Who knew, maybe he could walk through walls. I didn’t want to find out while I was naked and vulnerable.

  I dropped my clothes. The wound on my chest wasn’t gaping, but it wasn’t gone, either. An ugly red slash remained that still hurt if I moved too fast or too far. Since I’d never been killed before, I wasn’t sure how long it would last or how well it would heal. As long as I was alive, I guess I didn’t care.

  Before I got into the shower, I removed my gun from my duffel and set it on the toilet tank. Most things that might come through that door wouldn’t be bothered by a gun, but better safe than sorry.

  A half hour later, I dried off, then, after wrapping myself in a towel, picked up the gun, the duffel, and went into the room.

  Sawyer lay on the bed watching TV, the remote next to his paw. On the screen, a hunting show played; his gray eyes followed a huge deer as it gamboled back and forth across an autumn field. When a shot rang out, he started forward, ruff rising, a growl rumbling from his throat, eyes fixed avidly on the buck as it leaped, ran a few yards, then slowly crumpled to the ground.

  I guess a wolf was a wolf, even when it wasn’t.

  I stepped in front of the television. Sawyer leaned to the side, trying to see around me. I dropped the towel. He slowly leaned back, his interest in the deer lost.

  I guess a man was a man, even when it wasn’t.

  Quickly I laid the gun on the nightstand, removed the wolf robe from the duffel, swirled it around my shoulders and shifted.

  It was always the same. That burst of light, the chill followed by the scalding heat. The fall from a great height as my bones crackled and changed, as I became something else.

  My attention was immediately drawn to the flickering television screen. Another deer pranced across, and I found myself fascinated. When the shot rang out, my heart jolted; adrenaline flared. When it jumped, I wanted to chase it. I knew it would go down; it was vulnerable; it was mine.