“Thank you…Santa.” Despite Maddox’s lack of experience on earth, he knew of Santa Claus. The real St. Nicholas would never step foot in New Orleans, but this Santa was obviously inebriated, and while his slap had stung, it had done no permanent harm.
Perhaps he should have chosen to hide his wings. He could fold them tightly against his back, use his gifts to hide them from view, even withdraw them into his body completely, though that was uncomfortable for long periods of time. Except he was headed into a gathering of the earthen realm’s most powerful witches, and he would need all of his strength should anything go wrong.
With every step he took closer to Magnolia House, he could sense more of the magic the New Orleans coven used to protect themselves. It was an overly sweet taste in his mouth. The spells weren’t purely evil, but they weren’t completely good either. Something felt…wrong about the undercurrents some of the spells carried.
How in all of the many realms had the coven obtained celestial sand? The Sea of Redemption was always calm, always the perfect temperature, and the sand could heal any injury. Any pain. That was one of the reasons the sand was valued. It was powerful enough to bring humans back to life.
No angel would ever have simply offered a vial to a human. Any human. One of the witches must have visited the celestial realm somehow.
After turning down another block, Maddox stopped and gawked up at Magnolia House.
A short, iron fence wrapped around the large property, and every inch of the building glowed with thousands of lights hung from the eaves, attached to every tree, and lining the massive veranda in front of the structure.
A few witches already milled about, but Maddox had timed his arrival so he would be inside before the official start of the ball. Azrael had told him stories of what happened here. Drinking, dancing, debauchery…all were allowed on Samhain. Encouraged, even.
Maddox wished he could stay for the festivities. Experience something real. Something fun. Then again, he was breaking into a locked crypt, in the basement of a place where any of the witches he encountered could and would cause him great pain.
Or worse. They could prevent him from ever returning to the celestial realm. The Traveler had warned him. Torture. Imprisonment. Endless agony.
“Do not linger, Maddox. Get the vial and get out.”
Slipping around the back of the mansion, he found an unattended door. From the aromas that escaped, it led directly to the kitchen.
Staff rushed around, filling platters with appetizers, chilling Champagne, and icing cakes. Mad sent a small burst of his angelic power through the room, ensuring none of the humans would notice him as he crept through and into a richly appointed hallway.
Creamy paint, dark wood, and fine art lined the walls. His shoes made light tapping sounds on the shiny wooden floors. With his palm trailing along the smooth rail, he hurried down the stairs to the basement, through another door, along a more utilitarian hallway this time, and around a corner.
The crypt.
Runes, both carved and burned, covered the thick wooden doors, and Maddox held out his hand, sensing the magic. It pushed against him, resisting, until he withdrew the celestial token Azrael had given him. Sending his energy into the golden coin, he watched as the runes shifted and transformed. The heavy door opened with an eerie creaking sound, and the scent of old bones invaded his nose.
Candles flickered all around the room, and in alcoves built into every wall rested ornate glass and gold chests, vials, and relics, both religious and secular, Wiccan and Pagan. Maddox crossed the threshold, and a spell wrapped around him, threatening his steps, but he shook it off and started searching for the celestial sand.
Every minute that passed ratcheted his nerves.
Go faster.
But he couldn’t. The relics called to him, demanded his respect and awe. So much so that they must have been spelled. He lost track of time until he caught a sparkle out of the corner of his eye. In three steps, he stood in front of a small alcove no more than seven inches tall with the vial of sand resting on a red satin pillow.
The moment his fingers curled around the small glass vessel, he felt its power, and he tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, turned, and fled from the room.
C H A P T E R T H R E E
KILLIAN
T he New Orleans Coven knew how to throw a party. He’d give them that. Magnolia House, with its old world opulence of marble and carved wood railings, richly colored wallpaper, and polished floors that must have been spelled, for even with hundreds of witches in attendance, there wasn’t a speck of dust or dirt on them, welcomed all.
Fires burned in every hearth, and the antique light fixtures sparkled. Conversations bubbled up around him, and Killian caught snippets from time to time, including several young female witches who wanted a snog—or a roll in the sheets—with him.
“Champagne, sir?” A server in a black suit held a tray of glasses, and Killian snagged a flute before wandering towards the ballroom. An empty alcove provided a convenient place for him to stay out of the way and scan the crowds. Something about this night sat ill with him—beyond the oddness of his invitation—and he fingered the cuff around his wrist, ensuring it was firmly in place. The last thing he needed was his magic going sideways on him before he could figure out why Delphine had demanded his presence.
From this vantage point, he could see all the way out to the garden, which was filled with cocktail tables draped with dark blue cloths, a spelled ball of golden light hovering above each one. Impervious to the wind whispering through the trees, the light danced, illuminating the witches, mortals, and otherworldly creatures in attendance.
Lingering close to the edge of the garden, Natalie spotted him, and Killian groaned to himself. The witch had made a play for him the only other time they’d been in the same room, and he’d been so flustered, he’d failed to mention that he played for the other team. If he brought it up now, she’d think him a proper dolt.
As if gliding on a cloud of air, Delphine, the New Orleans Coven High Priestess passed by his hiding place, and Killian raised his glass, hoping a healthy sip of the bubbly would give him the courage to confront her.
Until the wind turned cold, bitter, and harsh, and Killian stopped with the flute of champagne halfway to his lips. Under the din of conversation, he heard a harsh, cruel voice chanting.
