“Will you get in trouble for helping me?”
“I’m not on the clock right now, though I have permission to be here.”
In Peru, Kel had told me he could access his archangel in his head, along with a sort of divine Internet that let him find information that other members of the host knew. If I was interpreting his words correctly, he currently wasn’t plugged in. Which meant we had a little time.
“Okay, here’s the situation.” In as few words as possible, I explained Booke’s problem, and then concluded with, “That’s why I called you. I wondered if you could disrupt the spell.”
He had told me he couldn’t interfere with most human interaction, unless specifically directed to do so, though I was starting to wonder how much of that was bullshit hand-fed to him by the archangel that Ninlil claimed had started life as a demon. I mean, if Kel found out he could do what he wanted without reprisal, it might get ugly for those who had bossed him around for eons. But then, I had no guarantee that anything Ninlil fed me in Sheol was the truth either. An old saying went: there’s his side, her side, and then there’s the truth. That adage fit this situation.
“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” he answered.
“But these aren’t usual?” I hoped not, anyway.
“You said the original caster is deceased?”
I nodded.
“At that juncture, his will ceased to be a factor.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore whether he wanted the spell to last forever,” I guessed. “Since he didn’t have the life expectancy to make his will reality, you can affect the outcome?”
“I can,” he acknowledged.
“Will you? As a favor to me?”
“You realize it’s not a solution. Dispelling the magick won’t restore Booke’s lost years or stop the march of time.”
“I know,” I said softly. “And so does he.”
“There is a way. It requires the blood of a Luren.”
That made sense, given that the Luren were a race of preternaturally beautiful, seductive demons who drank blood. So it stood to reason that their blood would possess certain rejuvenating qualities.
I cocked a brow. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”
“Whether you want to find the preservation spell, before I unlock this place.”
“Oh. In that case, it’s not up to me. It should be Booke’s call.”
I wasn’t at all surprised when, ten minutes later, after having heard what was on the table, he shook his head. “No, I’ve had enough dark magick. There’s always a cost to incantations that require a demonic touch, and I’ve paid as much as I care to.”
Though part of me wanted to protest—we’d never gotten to travel as I had promised—I didn’t say a word. Shan’s brow was creased with sadness; it was different knowing your friend was living on borrowed time. Yet shouldn’t Booke get to dictate when he died, as he’d had no say whatsoever in how he’d lived? Butch approved of this decision with an affirmative yap, then he trotted over to Booke to rub against his shins.
The Englishman picked the little dog up and cradled him in the crook of his arm. “Think that was a wise choice, do you? I tend to agree. Age apparently does bring wisdom.”
“If you’re all prepared, I’ll do as Corine has asked now.” Kel strode toward the front door.
I wasn’t ready but five more minutes wouldn’t help. So I said nothing. Instead, I followed Kel, curious as to how he would unravel the spell. His tatts glowed with arcane light, and silvery rays shone from his fingertips, gradually expanding toward the barrier that was strongest at the front door. The light brightened until it was unbearable, rippling outward over the cottage walls, then dropping away in falling sparks, as the enchantment blew apart. I narrowed my eyes, trying to track the expenditure of energy, but a low boom shook the house from the roof down.
Then I felt the heat zing through me, blinding me a second time, and when my vision cleared, everything had changed. It was twilight with a ruddy light shining through the window. All the work Booke had done on his pocket space had carried over into the real world, superimposed over the abandoned cottage. Now things were no longer dusty and abandoned. I wondered briefly what had happened to the rats and spiders displaced in the phase shift, but I was too thrilled by the view through the window to linger on the thought long; it showed wind blowing through the tall grass and whipping through the tree branches.
You did it. Thanks, Kel.
My eyes smarted a bit, tears slipping from the corners. I dashed the moisture away impatiently as I hurried toward Kel. He swayed, one hand braced on the doorjamb. His face was pale, his tattoos still glowing with a residual light, giving him an ethereal air. I touched him without thinking; my hands went to his shoulders to offer support. To my surprise, he spun away from the wall to accept my help.
He leaned into me, head bowed toward mine. “An incredible amount of rage and malice went into that working.”
“How did you break the curse?”
“I drew it in and then expelled it along with enough force to shatter the curse.”
No wonder he looked ill. That sounded an awful lot like how I felt after handling a particularly evil object. Because I always craved a gentle touch after a bad reading, I put my arms around him. Kel tensed, probably because people didn’t comfort God’s Hand.
“Easy,” I whispered. “I’m not making a move, just grounding you.”
I wasn’t sure he knew what I meant, but after a shudder wracked him, he put his arms around me and held on tight. He probably felt sick as hell; there were limits to what a Nephilim could tolerate. I rubbed his back, trying not to remember how we had been together. Savoring that memory felt like a betrayal of Chance.
“I wish—” He broke off, leaving me to wonder.
“Better?” I asked, focusing on his welfare rather than words left unspoken.
“I need to sleep to regain my full strength. But I’m well enough, all things considered.” His tone sounded strange as he stepped away from me.
“What things—” I started to ask, but Shannon and Booke joined us by the front door before I could complete the question.
“We’ll talk later,” Kel said, flinging the front door wide. He looked ready to collapse, but he had done what I asked.
As always.
A cool, inviting wind blew through the house, so long untouched by natural forces. Tears glinted in Booke’s eyes as he turned his face toward the breeze, then he set Butch gently onto the floor. He moved with the care of a much older man; his steps were tentative, shaky, even. I took his elbow, knowing the weight of those years was already coming to bear on him. It might not show instantly like a fast-forwarded video of a decaying rose, but the pain must be phenomenal.
Worth it, I thought, for a taste of freedom.
“I had forgotten what the world smells like,” he breathed.
Booke crooked his elbow, as if he were my escort, and not the other way around. In stately procession, we made our way to the front step of the cottage. Kel and Shannon followed. The yard was completely overgrown, the sky awash in purple, and I could tell by his expression that he had never seen anything so lovely. For me, it was a melancholy beauty; certainly there was pastoral charm, but it came knowing Booke’s time to appreciate it was limited.
“I have an idea,” I said then. “We’ll take a trip. Our passports should be good enough to manage rail travel. Would you like to see Paris? We’ll go. Italy? There too, if we can.” The unspoken subtext was that I didn’t know how long Booke had, but I would be damned if I didn’t keep my pledge to him.