Fair Game (Alpha & Omega #3)(53)

In the middle of her music, at the height of her dance, the witch stilled and said, "Darkness."

The candles and every one of the boat's lights went out.

Malcolm swore, dove for his console, and frantically played with the switches. He put a foot on the first rung of the ladder, presumably to go up and confront the witch for meddling with his boat.

Malcolm was under Charles's protection, so Charles shoved past Isaac (still watching the witch instead of Malcolm), trusting that the Alpha wolf would have enough presence of mind not to fall overboard. He caught Malcolm by the shoulder when he was two rungs up, pulling him back to the deck. Interrupting a witch was not a good idea for anyone who wanted to survive long. Malcolm wrenched himself free of the unfamiliar hold and snarled. The noise cut off as soon as he saw who it was who'd manhandled him.

A dim light began to glow on the top of the fishing platform, distracting both of them.

"What in..."

In Hell, thought Charles, as the light resolved itself into the three-dimensional shape of an eight-year-old boy.

The smell of the black magic made Charles's earlier seasickness rise with a vengeance, and he moved as far from the center of the boat as he could get. Anna's cold hand closed on his. She was shaking. Not with fear. Not his Anna. No, she was shaking with rage.

"Tell me this was necessary," she said.

"No," Charles answered. He knew Anna didn't mean the witch; she meant the method the witch had chosen. Directional spells were easy. He didn't do them himself, but he had watched them cast. Calling a ghost as a compass was a major spell, a show-off spell, and entirely unnecessary.

"Tell me she doesn't get to keep him."

"She won't get to keep him," Charles told her. He was no witch, but his grandfather had taught him a thing or two. He might not be able to get rid of his own ghosts because he had to somehow fix himself first, but Jacob Mott, held by black magic, would be no trouble.

"All right," Anna said, her voice tight, trusting him to keep his word.

"Jacob, I invoke thee," the witch said, her voice like honey rising over the wind and slap of wave. "Jacob, I conjure thee. Jacob, I name thee. Do thou my will."

The boy's figure, glowing with silvery moonlight, stood with his back to her, his head bowed, reluctance in every line of his body. But Charles could see his face - and there was no expression at all upon it, and his eyes glowed red as fire.

"Where did they kill you, Jacob Mott? Where did they sacrifice your mortal being?"

The boy lifted his head, looked south and east, and pointed.

"I can't run without lights," Malcolm said. "It's illegal, for one thing. And I don't want to get caught with candles made with human blood. I don't mind fines, but jail isn't going to happen."

"My magic needs darkness," said the witch in a midnight voice.

Beauclaire got out of his seat and touched the rail of the boat. The lights came back on and the witch turned to glare at him.

"Your magic is darkness," said the fae repressively. "The rest is cheap theatrics."

The witch ignored him and put her hands on the shoulders of the boy, caressing him in a not-motherly fashion.

"Thanks," said Isaac to the fae.

Malcolm, his face tight - he had to stand directly under the taint of black magic in order to run the boat - turned the Daciana. When the direction the boy was indicating lined up with the point of the bow, Isaac said, "That's good," and the Daciana steadied on course.

Malcolm got busy with his charts and then called out loud enough that people who were not werewolves or fae could hear him over the engine and waves, "Looks like we're headed to Long, Georges, or Gallops Island."

"What do you think?" Isaac asked; then to the rest of them he said, "Malcolm makes his living hauling anyone who will pay him out fishing or exploring. He's been doing it for thirty-five years and he knows the harbor as well as anyone living."

"Could be any of them, I suppose. Georges has a lot of people during the day, which would make me nervous if I was trying to keep live prisoners."

"What about Long Island?" asked Leslie. "It's accessible by car, too, right?"

"Right." Malcolm was quiet. "Long Island has the public health facilities, and people who live and work there every day. But there are lots of places no one goes. Places for someone to hide people in, more than either Georges or Gallops. Those old hospital buildings have tunnels going from one to another. There are a few empty buildings - the old concert hall, the chapel, and a couple associated with the old hospital. Fort Strong is falling down and full of good hidey-holes. The old Alpha had me lead a couple of full-moon hunts out there. We hunted Gallops, too - ought to do some more there because there are rabbits doing a lot of damage. As long as no one notices the boats, it would be cool. We don't have to hunt quiet there 'cause it's been quarantined for the past decade. Gallops has old military buildings full of asbestos and there's no money to clean it."

"Our UNSUB knows a lot about the local area," Anna noted.

"Always seemed that way to me, too," agreed Goldstein, who had gotten up and worked his way around the boat until he could get a better look at the dead boy who guided their trip. "He does that in most of his hunting grounds - uses the territory more like a native than a traveler."