Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(28)

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 Barn-aby'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 bewitch-ment 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.