Roses & Rye (Toil & Trouble Book 3) (11 page)

She kneels down, picking up a fragment of sunshine-yellow chalk and continuing a particularly demented-looking curlicue. The floor looks like someone tried to draw their own jigsaw puzzle. While on acid. And maybe a couple fifths of tequila.

“Mrs. Rudd, what is all this supposed to do?”

“Conjure a fairy.” She keeps humming and drawing, not missing a beat. “I’ve always wanted to meet one face to face and now’s my chance.”

“You can’t conjure a fairy.”

“Oh ho, says the girl who didn’t believe in ghosts.”

She’s got me there. “Any fairy, or a particular one?”

A childlike smile lights her face. “I’ve got one in mind. Someone you’re already acquainted with.”

Shit. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

“What’s
Sexy Package’s little companion’s name?”

Dammit, I hate being right. I stare at her without speaking for so long, she frowns.

“You
do
know her full name, don’t you? It’s kind of important for the summoning.”

“Sure, but Rochie isn’t a damn demon.” I rethink that. “At least not literally. You can’t summon her with this crap.” I wave my hand at her ‘artwork.’ “What are you going to try next, digging up my bones to salt and burn me?”

“This isn’t
Supernatural
. And anyway, you’re going to need that body later.”

“I am? And you watch
Supernatural
?”

“Of course, dearie. To both questions. That Sam, he’s a real panty melter.”

Ugh.
I don’t need Mrs. Rudd’s panties and Jared Padalecki sharing the same headspace. “Let’s focus on my body for the moment. You expect me to get back in it at some point? It’s been dead for three months.” More like four, but who’s counting?

She’s humming to herself as she works the sidewalk chalk. Something that sounds suspiciously like “Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie. “Mrs. Rudd?”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. You’re in stasis, thanks to Frost and his pretty bit of magic. No decomposition. Though if you don’t get back before your birthday, it’ll all go to shit anyhow. So can we just get this show on the road, missy?” She gets up, brushing chalk dust off her housecoat.

“Why do we need a fairy?”

“For the dust, of course.”

“Of course.” I return her solemn nod, ready to punch her in her curler-laden head. “Why do we need fairy dust again, Mrs. Rudd?”

“To catch your soul.”

I try to work this out. Fairy dust can be used for a lot of things, but the thing it does best is enchanting anyone who inhales it. The whole love potion thing really started with fairies. Witches can fake it with a spell, but it’s a poor imitation of the real thing. Does she want to try and make my soul fall in love with Rochie? As if.

“I think I’d feel better if you explained the details of this plan. From the beginning.”

“No, you wouldn’t. One thing at a time. Spell her name.”

“Um…”

“You said you knew it.”

“Well I do know it, but spelling it is a whole ‘nother story.”

“For Christ’s sake, just say it then.”

“Snegurochka.”

She blinks. “This may take a while.”

It doesn’t. Five minutes, a Google search and one singsong incantation later, Rochie appears, along with the tinkle of bells.

To say she is unhappy is an understatement.

Of the year.

Fairy magic blasts through the room in a cloud of blue mist, nearly toppling Gene’s tongue from its place of honor. It halts at the edge of Mrs. Rudd’s version of a summoning circle, coiling and darting at the border like a flock of pissed-off hummingbirds. At its center, Rochie hovers, violet wings glittering and flashing amidst the smoke.

“Where the hell am I?”

“Ah, she’s darling. Isn’t she darling?”

I think Mrs. Rudd needs her eyes checked. Rochie looks like a miniaturized She-Ra, ready to hold aloft a tiny sword and shout “For the honor of Grayskull!” before she blows us to bits. Her furious gaze finally falls on Mrs. Rudd.

“What kind of a witch are you?”

“Oh, I’m not a witch, dearie, but she is.” Mrs. Rudd waves a hand in my direction.

Rochie looks over one slender shoulder, frowning. “There’s no one there. What’s your game, old woman?”

“Persephone, a little focus would come in handy about now. And
old
is a bit harsh, I think.”

Rochie whirls at the sound of my name, blond braid flying. It takes me a minute, but I can tell by the widening of those cobalt eyes the second I become visible.

“You!”

She darts forward like a dragonfly on a mission and punches me square in the nose. It doesn’t hurt because her little fist sails right on through my face and out the back of my head with the rest of her body. She smacks into the wall of the magicked circle behind me and back again. It’s like fairy handball. Through my body.

“Somebody give me a racquet,” I mutter under my breath. Rochie shoots me a dirty look, straightening her disheveled wings with a light trill.

“Shut up, you…you. Whatever the fuck you are now.”

“Ghost.” Mrs. Rudd clasps her hands together, staring at Rochie like little girls stare at fluffy pink unicorns.
It’s so fluffy I’m gonna die!

Try hugging Rochie, Mrs. Rudd. I dare you.

“You can’t hit her, little one, though I understand the urge. Persephone isn’t able to go corporeal yet. Not unless your Jokul Frosti is around.” She sniggers at my glare.

Meanwhile, Rochie rights herself and flutters back to a point midway between me and Mrs. Rudd.

“What is this about? Let me guess: Persephone is a nasty vengeful spirit and you want me to help salt and burn her bones? I’m so down for that.”

Apparently,
everyone
watches
Supernatural
. Even fairies.

“Umm, no.” Mrs. Rudd frowns. “Persephone needs your help. Just a pinch of fairy dust should do it.”

Rochie raises a tiny golden eyebrow. “No.”

Mrs. Rudd looks puzzled. “Why?”

“Because you said ‘help’ and ‘Persephone’ in the same sentence.”

I wish I were corporeal enough to stomp my foot—or throw something. “You don’t even know what it’s—“

“Don’t care. Never going to happen, even if you hadn’t kidnapped me. Let me out of here, I’ve got shit to do.”

“You stinking little bite-sized bitch—”

Rochie flips me off, her nose in the air. “Yet another reason you can kiss my fairy dust-covered ass.”

“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Persephone,” Mrs. Rudd interrupts in a warning tone. Rochie’s face turns redder.

“Did you just call me a
fly
,
human?”

Mrs. Rudd is horror-struck. “No. That’s not what I meant. You’re adorable. Even cuter than Tinker Bell.”

Now she’s done it. Fairies hate, hate,
hate
the T word. The color boils in Rochie’s tiny cheeks, turning them radish-red. Even her wings flush at the tips and the storm of fairy magic whirls around her like a Kansas tornado, only in shades of violet.

“I wouldn’t help either of you,” she screams over the wind, “even if you kept me here for the next hundred years.”

“Okay then.” Mrs. Rudd shrugs, her expression morose              . “Come on, Persephone. Let’s make some brownies.”

Nice ploy, except I can’t eat. I move to follow her into the kitchen anyway. Rochie screeches behind us, but neither of us turns.

One hour later, the house is redolent with the scents of chocolate and angry fairy. I managed to use the memories enough to capture smell, but it’s only torturing me. Mrs. Rudd just pulled the brownies from the oven, and my stomach actually growled. Or tried to. I haven’t tasted anything, barring Jack, for months. And as much fun as that was, I want chocolate. I frown at the steaming pan and wonder what memory might give me back taste for a few minutes.

Rochie is still hollering from the other room. I decide to wander in for a look.

“Jack will come for me.” Rochie tosses her head with a saccharine laugh as soon as she sees my floating figure, but she’s starting to look worried. The clouds of fairy magic have dissipated into fragments of lavender smoke. I decide to take a chance.

“Then he’ll see me. Like this,” I say quietly. “You want to do that to him?”

For a second, her wings droop. Then she snorts. “You’re the one that did it to him, not me. You’re the only one he’s ever really cared about.”

“Bullshit. There’s you. He loves us both, Rochie, and you know it.”

She blinks, then lifts her chin. “I know I’m not the one who’s going to get him killed.”

I swallow back my own fear and try to put steel into my words. “Jack isn’t going to die.”

“Sure of that, are you?”  She drifts down to the very center of the circle, sounding forlorn as her wings wrap around her shoulders like a gauzy sweater. “I’m not.”

“Why?” I ask sharply. “What’s happened now?”

“What do you think?” She pokes at the floor with a tiny finger. “He broke a vow. Doesn’t matter if Cerunnos knows it’s broken or not. Jack’s a dead man walking. I had a plan to save him. But it’s all gone to shit now.”

“What plan?” Something about what she just said is bugging me. Something important.

“The stupid tattoo, trying to get you two together before Yule. What the hell did you think I was doing?”

I blink at her.

“Oh don’t be dense, Seph. I was trying to tie you two together, to
bind
you even tighter than Jack already had. So if something happened, we’d have a shot of keeping him safe. Then you went and got killed.” She throws her hands in the air. “He was so sure he’d be able to save you, that’s all he was able to think about. Never spared a second thinking of his own damn skin.”

“What kind of a spell were you going for?” I ask curiously. Fairy magic is weird, but incredibly strong.

She flutters her wings, looking away. “Doesn’t matter now. You’re dead and Jack will have to deal with what’s coming.”

What’s coming…Cerunnos.

What the hell am I missing here?
I shake my head, trying to focus. “So help me out and I’ll help him.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re a goddamn ghost. What the hell are
you
going to do?” She sends Mrs. Rudd—who just entered the room with a bottle of dandelion wine in one hand and a shot glass in the other—a scathing look, receiving a brilliant smile in return. Good lord, I think this woman has read
Peter Pan
one too many times. If she really knew what Rochie was capable of, Mrs. Rudd’s hair would go full-on white at last.

“She’s going to stop being a ghost, of course.” Mrs. Rudd uncorks the bottle and fills the shot glass, reaching through the circle to offer it to Rochie. The fairy considers for a moment, then shrugs, swooping up to grasp the glass in both hands. She lifts it up like a soup bowl and chugs it down, then hands it back, wiping the back of her mouth.

“Not bad. For a human.”

Mrs. Rudd beams and refills the glass.

“Come on, Rochie, just listen. Mrs. Rudd has a plan. Actually, I think most of it came from my mother.”

She scowls. “I’m not fond of Oriane’s plans.”

I frown, but Mrs. Rudd only smiles and hands the fairy back the shot glass. “You’ll like this one. It involves a whole lot of pain and suffering for Persephone.”

It does?

Is this a joke? Ten minutes later, after Mrs. Rudd reveals the bones of the plan, I’m definitely not amused. In fact, I’m shaking and pale. Well, I’m already pale, of course. Fucking ghost here. But this is one effed-up plan. Rochie, though, looks like the Cheshire Cat, all smug, curving lips and teeth with a hint of menace.

“Persephone is going to suffer a lot, isn’t she?” The fairy’s fingers are templed into a tiny vee over her third shot of dandelion wine.

“Oh absolutely.”  Mrs. Rudd nods as she cuts into the brownies she just fetched. “It’ll be horrible. Like being skinned alive and rolled in salt.”

The fairy smiles. “Okay, you’ve sold me. When do we start?”

Do
I
get to drink dandelion wine, eat warm brownies and wax on about the merits of Dean’s cocky smile versus Sam’s abs? Nooo. While Mrs. Rudd and Rochie share some bonding time over a
Supernatural
marathon, I’m sent on a fool’s errand.

Chasing down my murderous sister.

That’s right. Mrs. Rudd wants me to tail Jett. Of course, I have to find her first. I decided pretty quickly that Stephen was my best bet. I’ve been hanging around the Den all afternoon.
Nada.
My view consists of the next bruin king, in
his
den—Georg’s old den—getting steadily drunker with every hour that passes. That massive body is slumped over the desk at the moment, blue eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. It’s full-on dusk, but he hasn’t bothered to turn on a light, though he did leave a few minutes ago for another bottle of Patron.

For a man that doesn’t drink much, he can really put it away. Of course, being a shifter helps, but at this rate, he’s going to be in pain tomorrow. Not that he’s doing much better right now. He’s got the look of a man who’s had his heart yanked out and handed to him. It’s enough to make anyone watching feel a bit maudlin, but a ghost who already has guilt issues?

Yeah, he’s killing me here.

I shake my head, patting his shoulder with one hand, not that he feels it. “I understand, dude. Really I do. It fucked me up, too. Well, it actually
killed
me, but yeah, we’re on the same page here.”

I wish I could share his bottle because it really does hurt every time I think about it. I don’t know her reasons, her whys or what-fors, but like Stephen said—does it even fucking matter? She
killed
me.

My big sister, the one I looked up to growing up, even more than Ana. Ana was icy, all cool perfection and impeccable manners. Jett was rock-n-roll and badassery, with a penchant for hard drinking and racking up a body count. I realized pretty quickly, even as a kid, that we were way different, that I’d never have her edge, but it took quite a few years of growing up before I stopped trying to emulate her.

Sometimes I think I still am, unconsciously or not. Hello, I bought a bar. And named it Toil & Trouble.

Both the bruin and I are watching the fire, Stephen’s blue eyes dilated, mine trying to pry some meaning from the glowing embers. There is a faint pop, the scrape of boots on wood, but for a second, neither of us turns.

Then we hear her voice.

“I had to do it, Stephen.”

The bruin straightens slowly as I whirl around.
My, my
. The woman of the hour.

Jett is in the middle of the room, her hair dark and ragged over a face that looks haunted, eyes huge and reflecting the yellow flames behind me. Her lips are pressed together as she regards Stephen. Her normally loose body posture is stiff, her shoulders tense as a drawn bowstring.

“Your own sister?” Stephen’s low voice rolls through the room like a bitter laugh. He shakes his big, dark head, lifting the newly cracked bottle to suck down half the contents, before setting it down with a crash that splashes tequila over his fingers and the table. I’ve never seen Stephen drunk. I doubt any one has until now. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me accept that. And you know it. Get out of here, Jett.”

Jett doesn’t flinch, but I catch her hands curling into fists at her sides, the long, lean muscles in her arms flexing lightly. He’s scaring her. I suck in a breath. I’ve never seen my sister scared of a man in her life. But her next words floor me.

“I could’ve loved you,” Jett whispers so quietly that I barely catch it.

“Could’ve, huh?” Stephen smiles, a sad twisting of his lips that would wrench a harder heart than mine, but Jett stays where she is, seemingly frozen in place. “Good thing Frost’s intervention helped you dodge that bullet, isn’t it?”

My sister vanishes without a word.

I linger just long enough to see Stephen’s head fall to the table, his brilliant blue eyes fixed on the point where Jett disappeared before they close.

“Pity it’s already far too late for me.”

I leave Stephen to pass out, but once again, I’ve lost Jett. And I have no idea where to go next.

After wandering the city for a while, I head for T&T. What the hell, maybe she’ll show up for work, though that seems unlikely now that she knows Jack will be hunting her. But Bad Reputation looks almost as abandoned as the bar I float through on my way to the office. Oh, well, I knew it was a fool’s errand. I’ll just have to head back to Mrs. Rudd’s and—

Jack’s there. His boots on my desk, head tilted back as he contemplates the ceiling, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The lines of that handsome face are taut, full lips pressed together, eyes gone hard as jasper. I’d give a lot more than a penny for his thoughts. Right now I think I’d give my soul.
Please don’t kill my sister.

The thought that runs through my scrambled brain startles me. Am I actually scared for Jett? Why? I pretend to run my fingers over that tangled chestnut hair, trying to soothe myself. For the first time I let myself imagine what it might be like when, and if, he gets to see me again. I’m not naïve, I know watching me die changed Jack. I’ve seen it happening these past few months. This must be what he was like before me. The rumors I heard about him as a child run through my head. Legends, almost.

A man of ice so cold the North wind turned aside when he walked by…

Will that be the Jack I return to? And will he insist on taking his revenge on my sister, even if I do get my life back? He might.

And I don’t think I can live with that.

I swallow and let my fingers trail down one angular cheek, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin, the bite of his stubble.

Then his feet come off my desk with a resounding crash, making me jump. I lift my head. No
way
.

“You got some balls, showing up here.” Which echoes my thoughts almost exactly. Visiting Stephen is one thing, but coming to Jack? She’s lost her mind, and she looks it.

Jett’s face is even more strained than I saw it last, but her eyes snap with reckless defiance.

“You’ve never scared me, Jack Frost.”

Her hands are raised, but other than the dropping of his boots to the floor, Jack hasn’t moved.

“What? Not going to try to kill me?” She raises an eyebrow. To the casual observer, Jett looks unfazed from her encounter with Stephen. But I’m her fucking sister. Her voice is brittle, too high, and her fingers are trembling. It’s slight, but it’s there. Jett is starting to unravel.

“I’m working on it.” Jack’s smile is so cold I’m surprised ice doesn’t form on the tiny window behind my sister. “I’ve got plans for you, just not somewhere that was important to her.”

“Jack Frost, sentimental? Shocking.” Her sneer isn’t convincing but Jack’s too full of rage to notice.

“Tell me
why
.”

Their eyes meet and hold across the room, misty green and lapis blue.

“Someone had to do it, didn’t they?” My stomach knots at the fury in her voice. “You certainly weren’t going to man up.”

Jack’s hand tightens on the desk, the wood groaning under his grip. “Because I loved her. Because I thought she could be saved. Something that you obviously don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?” Jett takes a step back, her eyes narrowed slits. Then she seems to gather herself, her chin coming up. “I’m not here to hash out this maudlin shit. I’m here because it’s time for you to understand what the prophecy was
really
about.”

“I know what the goddamn prophecy was about. I’ve seen it. That’s your excuse for killing her, is it?”

“Of course it is!” she snaps. “But you never understood half of it.”

“What the hell do you mean?” He lifts an arm, the blackened tattoos clear and sharp on his tanned skin. “I know what I felt, you crazy bitch.”

“You don’t know shit, Frost. You never have.” She sneers, hair flying as she shoves the desk at him, the screech of the legs digging into the wood hurting my ears, but not as much as the sound of her voice. Tears glitter in those hard blue eyes. And I don’t think they’re all for Stephen.

Jack pushes up from the chair with a curse, knocking my desk aside with one hand.

“The reason your tats went apeshit at Seph’s christening wasn’t because they recognized her as your nemesis, genius, but as
your future bride
. Seph was never Summer.” She smiles tightly. “I am.”

Jack stumbles. All the color washes from his face, his eyes burning bright in the soft gloom.

“But the prophecy…” he chokes out.

“Has been fulfilled. I destroyed your whole world, Frost. The day I killed Seph. And Cerunnos knows. He’s always known. Enjoy what’s left of your life, King of Winter.”

She’s gone before the shards of ice he sends screaming her way can make contact.

Jack sinks back down into my old chair, his expression blank, utterly motionless. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.

I don’t reach for him again. I can’t. I’m shaking enough for the both of us.