“Begin,” Lachish said.
Molly said, “We are protected here. We ward our space with the power of the air, the moon, the earth, the stone, and the power of fire. All power gifted by the Creator, spirit gifted by the Great Spirit, who moved over the dark waters . . .”
I jerked in surprise as fire flickered up, golden among the moonlight gray and the green of the leaves. There was something pagan and elemental about Molly’s wording, unlike the workings that she usually performed, and I had to wonder how acceptable it was for me, a Christian and a Cherokee and a skinwalker, to be sitting in the center of the witches’ working. It occurred to me that since I was part of the working, my spirituality might cause glitches in the functionality of their joined magic. Maybe I should have thought about that beforehand. And I had stopped listening as my thoughts took me into potential, unexplored problems.
Lachish said, “I call Joseph Santana. By the fluids of his undeath, by the bodily soil of his captivity, I call him. I summon Joseph Santana. Come, Joseph. Come.” Nothing happened.
Sabina took up the working and said, “Joseph Santana, you seek the power of the Lost Diamond.”
The gem in the gobag grew hot against my skin. I whipped my head to Sabina, eyes wide. And then to Molly, who stared at me in horror.
Sabina said, “She who holds the Lost Diamond is here, among us.”
I had agreed to being used as bait, but Sabina somehow knew that I had the blood diamond. She was using it to power the spell, bringing Santana there. To us. And from her expression, Molly hadn’t known any of this was going to happen.
Sabina said, “You are called, Joseph San—”
In a single instant everything went wrong. The air split open with a burst of wind and a flash of light. Thunder cracked. Power sizzled through the ground, stinging me where I sat. The grass along the outer chalk circle flared with flame. The fire whooshed, creating a wind, and roared up along the dome of the witch circle, stealing my breath and making my ears pop. I roped the gobags close to me, the one with the blood diamond painfully hot, but at least not yet on fire. The fissure in the air was like a gaping wound spilling ropes of light, tongues of fire, and gusting wind instead of blood and viscera. I could hear Sabina still calling, though her words were lost beneath the clamor.
I placed my hands to either side of the gauze, flat on the ground. Lifted my weight up and forward, toes beneath me, ready to somersault away.
The air thundered again. Something dark and opaque appeared in the cleft of light. It grew in size as if it approached at great speed. Thunder crescendoed. I narrowed my eyes against the brightness. Joseph Santana emerged through the rift of light, on the far side of the outer circle. Hanging in the air. Dangling. He screamed and dropped something. I felt the thump through the ground.
The outer circle split as though cut by an athame. The night wind and the stench of burning grass blew in. So did Joseph Santana. I had an instant of warning and Beast slammed through me, pushing me up and over the chalk line, like a gymnast over the vault horse, hands on the ground, body rolling high. Beneath me, the grass caught fire, scorching my hands. I tucked and rolled, over and through the grass fire. Heat blasted my thighs and hands. I tumbled, hit the earth jaw first with an oofing grunt, and rolled, grabbing at the ground to stop my momentum before I damaged the outer circle.
Predator! Beast screamed, her power shooting through me.
The space where I had sat was now much more than a small chalk circle drawn on the ground. Walls were rising from the soil, energy growing up like vines, becoming solid, energy that glowed and tremored with power.
This looked dangerous for the nonmagical nonwitch. Sweat adhered my clothes to my body like some kind of slimy glue. Heat radiated from the gobag like I’d stuck a burning piece of charcoal in it. My heart raced like a broken drum. My breath felt scorched on the heated air. Yeah. This officially sucked.
CHAPTER 16
Silver Motes of Power Slo-Mo-ing
The inner circle blazed fire like a flamethrower. An inverted hedge of thorns, built to work like a trap of power, turning a witch circle into a prison and a cage. Snare of thorns was an apt name. Heat broiled out, reaching for the vampire hanging in the air. The clap of thunder was so strong it shook the earth, and I squatted, my weight distributed on toes and fingertips. The gobag smelled like burning cotton and plastic, but the heat against my side began to dissipate. The inner circle glowed the color of crystalized blood, from the burning grass up to the top of the dome of the outer circle, like a noose tightening on the inverted ward. Inside was Joseph Santana.
He was crouched as well, our eyes on a level, one knee up near his chin, one hand on the burning ground. The hand wearing the bracelet was held in the air, fingers fisted. Flames licked at his skin and clothes. The bracelet was fully exposed on his wrist. The crystal in the setting spit a mixture of shadowy and clear motes of power, darting in a complicated spiral. Beside the clear crystal, the empty horns and claws looked dark, a hole waiting for the twin of the stone. In the same instant, I felt an answering heat in the gobag. The stench of burning fabric again increased. Santana’s eyes fell on the bag at my side. Oh crap . . .
Joseph shouted, “Glaciem!” Power like lightning shivered through the air. Abruptly the flames on the grass inside the snare went out. There was no smoke, only charred grass, the stink of old fire, blackened pants legs, and singed shirt cuffs to indicate the flames had been there at all. And now a ruff of frost lined the ground and coated the singed grass inside, the ice crystals taking on the color of the trap and cage. The ground looked like frozen blood, sparkling.
Santana was partially vamped-out, his eyes blacker than the darkest hells, the sclera looking like gelled and clotted blood. But his face was purely human, his fangs not visible. His long black hair fell in waves to the ice and covered his hand, his spread fingers already healed of any burns. He was dressed in a tuxedo, one so impeccably fitted that, even as he crouched, it conformed to his body perfectly. Yeah. He had helpers out there, and not just Juwan.
Joseph Santana himself, however, gave no appearance of having ever been human; rather, he looked like something carved by a master sculptor. His skin was the white of a marble gravestone, as slick and smooth and glowing as polished moonstone, and he gave off an aura of power that seemed to crackle through the air we breathed. Through the veil of the snare of thorns, his eyes settled on Lachish. He looked way too calm for a guy trapped in a cage. And my weapons were outside the circle.