CHAPTER

12

The delicious scent of were was heavy in the damp, predawn air as David crouched beside me behind the abandoned car. His complex, rich aroma of strength and temperance almost overpowered the petroleum stink of the nearby river and the reek of burning rubber rising in a black plume from the railyard half a city away.

Piscary’s lay before us, the two-story tavern turned residence dark in the early-morning haze. Not a hint of light shone in any window, and as I watched, the security light in the parking lot went out. To my right was the river, and beyond that, Cincy herself, her lights gone as the first of the sun found the top of the Carew Tower. Kisten’s boat lay quiet, the water lapping softly. Eyeing it suspiciously, I worked the last of the steak from my teeth.

It had been a hard night in Cincy, though the Hollows had fared better. Smoke rose from more than the railyard, and though I’d been cloistered upstairs spelling, Stef and Jenks had kept a running tally of what had been coming in over the TV that one of the refugees had set up atop Ivy’s baby grand. I was pretty sure the smaller smoke plume was from the multispecies brawl at the Grab-and-Bag on Vine. There’d also been a bonfire burning Constance in effigy at Eden Park, quickly extinguished by the I.S., but not before the news crews had gotten there. The tunnel under Central Parkway had been forcibly opened by displaced people seeking shelter, and the I.S. caused a second riot by trying to clear the protesters/refugees out. I still didn’t know how that had ended.

But the worst of the smoke came from the derailed train left to burn. Fortunately it had been freight and no one had been killed, but it had happened at a critical point on the line and the entire rail system in and out of Cincy had been shut down. Local services were still working, but I-75 both northbound and southbound was slammed as people tried to leave. Worried, I squinted up at the empty skies. It was weird seeing them without any jets. Everything was being diverted to Dayton, and no incoming flights meant no outgoing.

My brow furrowed as David rose, grit grinding under his boot. A thin trail of pixy dust was arrowing from Piscary’s to us. Jenks, obviously, and if the pixy wasn’t trying to hide, it was likely there was no reason for us to do the same.

I slowly got up to stand shoulder to shoulder with David, pulse quickening as I searched my bag for the vial of potion that I’d made while I waited for the earth to turn and the rising sun to force the undead belowground. I’d found the knockout curse in one of the books that Al had left, newly dog-eared and with a penciled-in adaptation to change it from a word-invoked curse taken from the collective to a painstakingly crafted potion with a much larger reach. True, a shouted curse was handy, but it had to be invoked anew each time. And there was the payment to consider, too. A potion, however, could be dropped into the air system, putting out everyone lacking the antidote. And all without ever setting foot or wing inside, I thought, increasingly flustered as I looked for it.

“Problem?” David asked. The vial was intentionally small so Jenks could carry it, but it wasn’t that small.

“I can’t find the vial,” I muttered, setting my splat gun on the roof of the abandoned car with a soft click. A wad of zip-strips followed it, then a handful of saltwater vials to break any earth charms. My phone, now set to airplane mode so my mom wouldn’t call and give us away, was next. Key ring glowing a faint red. Couple of uninvoked pain amulets. I know I brought it.

The sun was coming up, and the need to move made my fingers slip and fumble. I’d had to wait until sunrise despite my worry for Zack and Nash because I couldn’t risk knocking them all unconscious until the dead had been driven underground. Damage wrought while rescuing an elven priest could be smoothed out and overlooked. Killing an old undead could not.

“Cameras are looped.” Jenks came to a dust-laden halt before us, wings rasping. “I think they’re expecting you,” he said, and I looked up, blowing a strand of hair from my eyes. “There’s only one living vamp aboveground, passed out drunk in Piscary’s front room.”

David made a grunt of surprise and stopped checking his big-ass rifle. I’d never seen him shoot at anything other than the ceiling, but it was a major conversation stopper.

“Just one?” I asked for both of us, and Jenks shrugged, his soft-soled shoes slipping on the dew-wet car roof as he landed beside my splat gun. “Even the boat?”

“Boat is empty,” he said, and my gaze went to the amulet glowing fitfully around Jenks’s neck. Nash was here. They must all be downstairs, waiting. If I was holding an elven holy man, that’s where I’d be. But I would have had an army upstairs as a buffer.

“What about downstairs?” I asked, and Jenks flushed.

“I’m not going down until I need to,” he said. “Tink loves a duck, Rache. You overdid the lily. I can’t breathe in there.”

I grimaced, but it didn’t matter. The potion would work on a hundred as easily as one. We were going in no matter what was downstairs.

“Do you want more people?” David’s gaze lifted to the three guys a block down going through a dumpster.

“Not with Rache’s potion.” Jenks’s sharply angled features slipped into a smile.

But only if I found it, and, growing more concerned, I dug deeper. Jeez, Rachel. How unprofessional can you get? But I finally spotted the red-tinted vial under the plastic bag of lilac clippings. The wilting flowers were the only part of the curse that I hadn’t had in the garden. Stef had gone out to get them, making a special trip to one of the local florists specializing in out-of-season blooms. They were decidedly sad looking after being dunked in salt water and then again in the antidote for the knockout potion. Trying it out at the church hadn’t been an option, seeing as it was rapidly filling up with refugees coming in by ones and twos. I trusted my skills, but troll turds, everything was new, and I had no idea how long the potion or antidote would last.

“Here, keep this on you,” I said as I opened the bag and gave the largest sprig to David. “Jenks?” I said, extending a drooping bracket of flowers to the pixy. Jenks darted close, using his garden sword to lop off a flower, which he then tucked into his bandana. “And one for me,” I added, pinning the remainder to myself like a wilted nosegay.

Pulling myself straight, I faced the coming sunrise. The damp rising off the river filled my lungs, and I breathed it out, praying I’d be this side of the grass when the sun went down. “Ad dormit,” I whispered, the simple phrase invoking the already primed demon curse and shifting the potion color from red to black.

Nothing else happened, and Jenks’s wings clattered. “Er, Rache?” he asked as I cracked the lid and a whisper-thin haze spilled out. The scent of lavender and apples rose—bread and autumn leaves. My eyelids fluttered. Knees weak, I fumbled to recap it as I slumped to lean against the car. But then the scent of lilac blossomed and my eyes flashed open. Pulse fast, I stared at David, then Jenks. The pixy was fine. David was yawning but looked okay.