Spring Rain (The Witchling #4)(8)

Kill Morgan. She’s too dangerous for what you plan. You must stop this delusion, Bartholomew said, not for the first time. You cannot be with Beck. Ever. Only his counterbalance –

“Stop!” she shrieked, hating the reminder of what Morgan was. Dawn yanked the alarm clock off the bed stand and flung it across the room. “I don’t care what you say. I will have my revenge and if I can’t find her, I’ll cut her brother into too many pieces for anyone to identify! Beck is weak, Bartholomew! When faced with Morgan’s death or being with me, he will choose to be with me!” Air magick whipped around the room, flinging anything not nailed down into the air and toppling the furniture.

Bartholomew was laughing. We will see. You lack the follow-through to make this happen, but I don’t. The best and most effective plans are simple. Kill her and take the stone. Don’t give her the chance to act against us.

“There’s nothing she can do to us! Or are you not telling me something again?”

There is a chance she can. Kill her.

Dawn fumed, aware of Bartholomew’s constant attempts to manipulate her. Unable to control her actions, he relied on lies, trickery and sometimes even the truth to convince her to do what he wanted. The first time she killed, she was shocked by the savagery of what she had done – and also a little excited by it as well. Several deaths later, she viewed the murder of Morgan with exhilaration – but she wanted revenge against Beck more. She wanted him to choose her or suffer beyond anything anyone had ever known.

I can give you Beck.

She froze. In all her time with Bartholomew, he had tried to talk her out of wanting to be with Beck. “Say that again.”

I will give you what you want. Bartholomew didn’t sound completely happy about it. You would risk everything for him to return to you?

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, listening intently. It was the first time Bartholomew hadn’t scoffed at her about this.

Even your child?

Dawn touched her stomach. Her mouth went dry. Bartholomew was trying to manipulate her again. He wanted her to surrender her body to him, full time, and his justifications – combined with her fatigue – were making it harder and harder for her to find a reason why she shouldn’t.

When you realize your brother will betray you again, when you see Morgan will elude you, when you admit to yourself you cannot get Beck on your own, you will have to make a choice. It’s been three months, and you still don’t have Morgan.

She listened, not liking what she heard at all. “You – and she – both say I lack conviction. I’m about to prove you wrong.” Dawn went to the door and whipped it open. “Troy!”

“Yeah?” The Dark witchling stood from his seat on the couch watching television.

“I want Morgan handled now. If you have to torch everything within a mile radius around where she works to flush her out, do it! Find Morgan and call me when you have her. And … bring Noah to me. I don’t care what it takes. Go now and don’t come back until you’re done.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, but knew better than to protest. He had burnt the body of the last witchling who objected to his tasking along with those of several others over the past several weeks. Troy was strong, Dark, and a good soldier. Even Bartholomew had approved of her choice of keeping him around to help, which was rare. Bartholomew trusted no one.

“I’ll call when I have them,” he said and strode towards the door, motioning for two more witchlings to follow.

You need to kill her, Dawn. She’s a threat to us.

“If Decker can’t find us, nothing can touch us.” Dawn waited until the living area of the presidential suite was empty. “I’ll show you conviction, Bartholomew,” she said, satisfied with her decisions.

We will see.





Chapter Four





Beck’s days all ran together. It was Saturday, a week and a half before the equinox. He woke up the same time he did every day and went through his morning routine before stepping onto the source of Light and beginning his work. Earth magick soon saturated his senses, and he closed his eyes, relaxing into the flow.

It was midmorning when he heard the step of someone approach. Unlike Decker, who moved silently, this person crunched snow and snapped branches and was preceded by a light breeze that tickled the back of his neck in greeting.

Not up to dealing with anyone, Beck likewise wasn’t about to turn anyone away who went through the effort to find him. The Master of Light never left someone wounded, alone or vulnerable, even if he was all those things.

“Hey, Biji,” he greeted the approaching witchling without turning.

“Hi, Beck.”

“You okay?”

“Not really.”

Beck twisted to see her. Biji was carrying a sleeping bag and wore her backpack. The small Indian girl eyed him critically.

“Not a fan of the beard,” she told him with her characteristic bluntness.

A smile slipped free. Beck had always had a soft spot for the loyal, spirited friend of Summer. Biji was like the little sister he never had. He rubbed his jaw, where a thick growth of black hair covered his neck and cheeks.

“You look like a lumberjack,” she continued.

“Thanks,” he replied dryly. “What’re you doing out here?”