Keeper(60)

Josephine exhaled sharply in relief. “Thank you.” She squeezed Eliza’s shoulder in gratitude. Tears poured down her cheeks as she hastily bent over to kiss the child’s brow. Pulling the shawl from around her shoulders, she tucked it tightly around the child and nodded at Eliza. “Run east along the river,” she instructed the girl. “Find the others. I’ll try to hold them off as long as I can. And please, remember what I’ve told you. You have to tell her one day. Promise me?”

Eliza nodded, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I promise.” She turned to run.

“Wait!” Josephine reached out and caught her by the arm. “One more thing.” With trembling fingers, she reached up and unclasped the emerald amulet from around her neck and quickly fastened it around the baby’s tiny throat.

“Good-bye, my sweet daughter,” she choked out, as Eliza turned and ran toward the woods, the tiny bundle held tightly against her chest.

Tears poured from my own eyes as Josephine clutched her chest with one hand and let out a wail that ripped through my heart.

Another boom of energy ricocheted through the small village. Josephine sucked down a breath of air, her features twisting from anguish to determination. Yanking up her shirtsleeves, she planted her feet and flexed her fingers. The green lightning crackled between her fingertips like live wires.

Up ahead, a swarm of men dressed in black with dark linen masks covering their faces were wreaking havoc on the tent village. A few feet away, two of them terrorized an old man with a walking stick. The old man hobbled along, desperately shooting balls of fire at the men, but the guards merely laughed. One of the Guard waved his hand, and the old man sprawled to the dirt, his eyes frozen open forever.

I tasted bile.

The soldiers moved quickly through the village. A few Supernaturals attempted to fight them off, but were quickly subdued. Desperate to help, I raised my hands. Magic sparked between my fingers, but the other Josephine placed an icy hand on my shoulder.

“I have to help them!” I cried, but the look in her eyes was clear. There was nothing I could do. My heart sank to my feet.

Beside me, the living Josephine tensed. A tall figure in black strode toward her. A thin piece of black fabric covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes—full of hatred and disgust—were fixed upon Josephine.

“My lady,” the man boomed, “the Master thanks you kindly for your hospitality.” He bowed low at the waist, sweeping his free hand out in mockery. “But he’s done playing your little game. Give me the book, and we will show mercy. Refuse, and my men and I will slaughter every last man, woman, and child in this village.”

Josephine narrowed her eyes and took a calculated breath. “You’re a fool if you think I’ll believe such a lie.” Her voice was strong and clear. “The Master’s thirst for blood will never end, not until every last Supernatural who defies him is dead. He knows nothing of mercy.”

The guard laughed coldly. “How right you are.” He leaned forward, his murderous eyes blazing. “And what he has planned for you, little witch . . . well, that definitely isn’t mercy.”

Josephine snarled and threw her right hand out toward the soldier. A brilliant beam of emerald light shot from her palm and knocked the soldier to his knees.

The guardsman emitted a grunt, but leapt quickly back to his feet. “My, my, my, aren’t you the feisty one.” He sneered. “You don’t know a trap when you see one, do you?”

Six men suddenly appeared out of nowhere, encircling Josephine. Each bore the mark of the Master—the two interlocking triangles, made to form an M. They were chanting softly.

With a wail of pain, she clamped her hands on the sides of her head and fell to the ground, the lightning in her hands extinguished.

“No!” I yelled, rushing toward Josephine. “Stop it!” I cried, feeling utterly helpless as Josephine writhed in pain. The guardsman’s laughter echoed across the trees and mixed with Josephine’s anguished cries.

“Enough,” the man said. The effect of his quiet command was immediate. The other men stopped chanting and Josephine lay unmoving on the ground.

“Now,” the leader said, “tell me where the book is.”

Josephine did not move or speak.

“Come now,” the man said more loudly. “We mustn’t waste any more time.” Crossing the space between them, he grabbed Josephine by the arm and yanked her to her feet. “Where’s the book?” he roared.

With a visible effort, Josephine raised her head and met the man’s glare with a steady gaze. “Go to hell,” she hissed and spat into the man’s face.

He staggered backward, releasing her. She leapt away and pulled a small knife from the inner pocket of her long skirt.

Josephine lunged at the man, but another soldier grabbed her arm, yanking it behind her while the leader ripped the knife from her hand. She screamed, struggling against the man’s firm grip. They grappled back and forth until finally the man threw Josephine to the ground.

“Enough!” the man shouted, reaching up to yank the strip of cloth away from his face.

An identical cry of shock erupted from both my and Josephine’s lips.

Standing in front of us, his face twisted in unadulterated hatred, was Henry.

“Henry?” Josephine whispered, her eyes wide with tears, her face deathly pale. “I saw it with my own eyes. I held you in my arms. You were dead.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, and the mask of strength she had painted across her features crumbled in an instant.