Crafted: A SpellCraft Anthology

CRAFTED FOR VALERIE

With my sincere thanks for your donation and lots of love on top!

Because you understand that even NPCs need a favourite fear.

The events of Once Bitten take place between those depicted in Wicked Heart and Burning Heat

ONE: SPIT & CURSE

“Pay up.”

Rebel scowled at the gleeful command. More accurately, he scowled at the cheerful, erratic blond who had delivered the command while leaning across the bar and brandishing a glass jar full of dollar bills at him.

The sound of the money sloshing in the jar resonated almost oddly in the large, emptiness of The White Witch. Any other day of the week, the club would have been full to bursting with humans and vampires looking for a drink, a bite, and a good time. But the boss and his wife had adopted the English custom of Monday close- times, so while the club was technically closed for business, Rebel and Andromeda were there as the security detail for the club’s other business.

“You fuckin’ pay up, you provoking, cutthroat slag.”

“Ouch.” The offending woman placed a hand over her heart dramatically. “Words can hurt like a fist, Rebel. And that’s two more that you owe the jar now.”

Coins and bills clattered and rustled in the mostly full jar as she shook it again. Decorated with a paper label reading with the words, “Rebel’s Swear Jar,” the thing was as offensive as it was full of money.

And the two litre jar was very full of money.

Given the size, the contents, and the angle of the woman’s arm as she shook the thing at him, it was a wonder she could hold the jar in one hand. Of course, being a vampire came with an assortment of little perks like being able to hold things in awkward positions with relative ease.

It did not, apparently, come with the benefit of being able to use whatever kind of language he wanted to use.

He dug through his wallet. “All I have is a tenner,” he complained, pulling the fake-as-fuck looking ten-dollar bill and holding it up between them.

Andromeda’s nimble fingers plucked the bill from his hand. “Cheers.”

In went Rebel’s ten-dollar bill. Out came Andromeda’s fangs as she grinned at him.

“Do I at least get change?” The words were sour as Rebel watched the other vampire push down the large collection of green paper and shake the jar to help it settle.

“Sure, sure. Let’s see, so that was fuck, fuckin’, and slag, which means your total is three dollars and your change is—”

“Sorry to interrupt what I’m sure is a fascinating exchange of Rebel’s dignity for pocket money, but I come bearing news from the boss.” The voice that spoke was a crisper variation of Andromeda’s London accent, though the man who stepped into the room did not quite match the voice, with his collarbone length white blond hair.

“Oh hey, Alex. You’re not interrupting.” Andromeda was too cheerful as she dug to the bottom of the jar and painstakingly gathered small change. “You want to join us?” She let go of the fistful of change, retracted her hand and gestured at the barstool next to Rebel.

Distracted by Andromeda’s idiocy, Rebel reached across the bar for the jar. “Just give me the fucking fiver floating on the top and two singles.”

“One single,” Andromeda corrected, still scraping for quarters.

Alex settled at Rebel’s elbow. “Forget the money, Rebel, Nic wants you in the office.”

“Me? What’s he want me for?” Rebel tried not to be distracted by Andromeda’s cack handed coin gathering as he glanced at Alex. With his white blond hair and his electric blue eyes, Alex was startlingly pale. Vampires were, of course. They lacked melanin compared to humans, so while humans had the luxury of a variety of colours and complexions, vampires tended to be several shades paler than the races they lived among.

And then there was Alex, who looked like alabaster and white gold. Coupled with the well-to-do Queen’s English that he spoke, their boss’ consigliere looked like all the money that Rebel’s family never had.

His smug expression matched how expensive he looked. “I expect he wants to discuss a job with you. In the natural order of superior to subordinate.”

“Why do you have to fucking say it like that? I mean why can’t you just do the normal thing and tell me that you don’t bloody know what he wants and you didn’t ask. Huh? Is that so hard? Poncy, shit- eating cunt.”

“Now that doesn’t sound like me.” Alex dismissed the exchange to grin plaintively at Andromeda. “All right, love?”

“Getting there,” the woman replied at the same time that Rebel muttered, “Useless knob.”

He rounded on Andromeda. “I don’t want the fuckin’ quarters, Andy! Just give me a few quid from the top. Jesus fuckin’—”

“All right, all right—”

“Rebel!” Another crisp voice, also male, but piquant. Almost biting.

The group at the table swung around to the hall where Alex had appeared only a few moments before.

Dressed in a sharp, classically cut linen suit of grey Glen Urquhart check, Nicodemus Hargreaves was the pinnacle of English vampires in New Orleans. Blue eyed, sharp featured, the man took up the space of the hallway like he was born to do so.

And, being the boss, he was.

Nicodemus looked pointedly at his watch and then jerked his head back down the hall in the direction he had come. “We don’t have all night.”

“Right! Sorry boss.”

He slid from the chair as Andromeda proffered four quarters lying flat on her palm.

Rebel eyed the coins narrowly, tallied, and muttered. “Oh, fuck off.”

He ignored Andromeda’s snickering as he followed Nicodemus down the hall to the club’s main office.

Brightly lit, the space that Nicodemus called his own was usually clean and well organized. The man liked his environment the way that he liked his suits: crisp, orderly, and fit for purpose.

His wife, on the other hand…

Daniella Lanoue-Hargreaves didn’t need to bolster herself up with her husband’s position of power among vampires. A hedgewitch, a necromancer, and a force of nature, the woman was her own personal hurricane, and it was easy to tell when she had been in Nicodemus’ office.

The usually clean desk was full of craftwork and clutter. Salt trailed in a ring around the large piece of furniture, and the witch was bent over her husband’s desk, with her long dark hair hiding her face from Rebel’s view as she braced her weight against the edge of the desk with one hand. The smell of her blood was like sour pennies and arctic winds in the windowless office. A hand hovered over some unseen object as she was muttering to herself.

At the sound of the door, the woman’s attention stayed fixed on the object hidden on the desk, but she said, “The circle is broken. You can come closer.”

“Any luck, Nell?” Nicodemus pulled a seat out for Rebel to occupy before carefully skirting around his wife and finding the place where she had cut through the ring of salt so he could sit at the chair behind the desk.

Daniella offered the smallest shake of her head. “No. None. If Jedidiah hadn’t contacted us, I’d assume this was some ill-concocted trap on Deseronto’s part.” She stood upright and eyed her bleeding palm skeptically.

Rebel leaned forward in his chair. Where Daniella’s bloodied hand had been now lay a smeared, silver pocket watch.

“What have I missed now? What’s with the watch?”

Even as he asked, Rebel decided he didn’t want to know the answer. Because as he looked at the watch, he realized part of the cluttered, fuzzy feeling that clouded the room wasn’t Daniella and her magic. It was whatever spellcraft had been embedded in the watch that Daniella had picked up to wipe off.

It looked innocuous in her hands, but as she released her hold to let it swing from its leather cord, Rebel found he had to look away from it.

Something about the watch was wrong. The surrounding air shimmered like a near-imperceptible heat haze. If heat hazes were spiky, with small velcro hooks that grabbed at the air and tried to pull the oxygen out of it with needle precision.

That’s not spellcraft.

Whatever it was, it made Rebel feel queasy.

Nicodemus said, “Two months ago, Papa Jed sent out one of his enforcers to follow up on a rumour about an unaccounted piece of the Alchemical Androgyne. The enforcer, Valeria, stopped checking in with Jed and his lieutenant a little over two weeks ago. Jed asked us to keep an eye out for her, but this morning, this was delivered to The White Witch. No sender, no return address, just the word ‘key’ written on a slip of paper that had been shoved inside the watch.”

Rebel looked at the slowly spinning watch with renewed interest.

The Alchemical Androgyne was supposed to be a collection of literature that documented the DNA of magic. Whether you were a vampire, a werewolf, a spellcrafter, or a demon, the Androgyne not only mapped out what made the craft and magic within you work, but also gave instruction on how to shape, change, and combine what already was into anything imaginable.

The syndicate, the network of vampire families that existed as pinpoints of power around the globe, dedicated literal ages to protecting the pieces of the Androgyne to keep them from being misused. And like all finite creatures, the vampires of the syndicate did not think to suspect that one of their own would vie to misuse them himself.

Caleb Deseronto, a young American vampire, appeared out of the shadows of only the void knew where only two hundred years ago and took over the Midwest of America with the ease of a stretch and a sigh. Five years ago, Nicodemus and Daniella had discovered that Deseronto had been collecting the tomes guarded by other families.

So sparked the alliance between Louisiana’s Jedidiah DuPoint, and England’s Mother Foster. And out of the ashes of a near tragedy came the life and family routine that Rebel was slowly starting to accept as the new norm.

Rebel had only ever seen the key to the Foster tome, before one of Caleb’s lackeys managed to abscond with it and the tome it opened.

If that watch was a key though?

Rebel shuttered again. “You’re not about to tell me that I have to guard that creepy piece of tat with my life, are you?”

Daniella snorted. In her low, lilting voice she said, “This creepy piece of tat has more magic in it than I do in my whole body.” Even as she said the words, she pocketed the watch like it was a piece of Christmas candy.

Rebel did not miss the shift of Nicodemus’ gaze to his wife, nor the glint of worry that coloured the other male’s expression briefly. But when Nicodemus spoke, he pinned his full attention on Rebel.

“Valeria is still missing. Jedidiah has opened a door and asked us to help him find her.”

“He’s asked us for a favour? Is he feeling all right?”

The comment was meant blithely, but his boss scowled at him. “The entire reason the New Orleans branch exists is so that families don’t get insular about their business again,” he scolded. “Jed’s asking the embassy for help because that’s what we’re for. Understand?”

“Of course. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry, be better.”

God, he sounds like his fuckin’ nan. Mother Foster would be proud.

Rebel didn’t say the words. He liked his head attached to his shoulders. Besides, the tone hit just the right note, and Rebel found himself vaguely disappointed in his own lack of professionalism.

“Why doesn’t he just wait for this Valeria to surface?”

Nicodemus worked his jaw in thought. “Say he’s got a personal investment in her wellbeing.”

Outstanding. So this chick has the Old Swamp Lizard’s dick in her pocket and I’ve got to find her before he loses it.

Rebel scrubbed his temple with a knuckle and sighed. “All right. Perfect. So where am I going, when the fuck am I leavin’ and how am I getting there?”

“Last time she checked in, she was in the Campbell’s turf in California,” Nic offered. “Trying to find the key that we now have and the tome that is still missing. Specifically, she was supposed to be scouting out their auction house, where they clean up human heirlooms and family assets. Jedidiah thinks that Campbell’s youngest daughter, Gretta, who runs the house, might know where Valeria is.”

“So go to the auction house and see if I can trace this Valeria back to wherever she’s holed up.” He nodded. “Sounds simple enough.”

Daniella smiled. “Of course it is, Rebel. You’re a big strong, tough vampire.”

The words were nice. The tone made him feel sick.

She added, “That’s why we’re not going to waste time with a flight to get you there.”

There was a running joke among Daniella and her sisters that Daniella had invented teleportation. Rebel did not find the implication of that particular joke in this instance particularly funny.

Except Daniella was looking at him with honest and open expectation.

So was Nicodemus. “Wait... No, I don’t—”

“Don’t you worry,” the witch leaned forward and smiled. “This will be the easy part of the job.”