Serpent's Storm Read online

  He caught me looking over at him and gave me a wink, shaking off the traumatized look he’d worn ever since we’d wormholed out of the subway. He sighed and sat up, shakily brushing the dirt and debris from the subway car off his suit jacket.

  “I have been racking my brain, trying to understand what happened,” Jarvis said. He stood up and walked over to the bank of sinks, turning one on and vigorously washing his hands with the tropical-scented hand soap from the dispenser.

  My dad’s Executive Assistant was a bit of a clean freak, but then I was, too, so at least we had that in common.

  “Any ideas yet?” I asked. “Because, honestly, I feel like there’s some jerkoid out there trying to set me up. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  Jarvis nodded, drying his hands with a paper towel.

  “And what was that Vargr thing?” I added. “And how does it figure into all of this?”

  “A Vargr,” Jarvis answered, “is similar to a werewolf, but with one very marked difference.”

  “Yeah?” I said uncertainly, really hoping this wouldn’t send Jarvis off on a lecture tangent. The poor guy loved to impart esoteric knowledge the way other people loved to . . . well, I couldn’t actually think of anything other people loved to do as much as Jarvis loved to lecture.

  “A Vargr is never made. It is only born,” Jarvis said succinctly, raising a well-shaped brow in my direction and almost daring me to comment on his lack of lecture.

  I opened my mouth to comment, but immediately thought better of it. I wasn’t gonna be the one to look a gift horse in the mouth—I sorely wanted to encourage more succinctness in the future—so I wisely let it ride.

  “And what was it doing on the subway with us?” I said instead. “It obviously wanted to eat me, but someone or something intervened.”

  Jarvis nodded his agreement.

  “You’re right when you say you don’t have enough control over your powers to do the kind of damage we saw on the subway train,” he added. “Although please do not take that as a slight, Miss Calliope. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you could learn to do much worse.”

  Someone telling me I could learn to perpetrate magical mass killings if I wanted to shouldn’t have made me feel better, but it did. I’d known in my heart Jarvis would see the truth, that I really was a helpless magic practitioner. As a kid, my dad had forbidden my sisters and me from practicing magic at Sea Verge—not that the ban had stopped either of my siblings from doing what they wanted. They both had way more cunning than I’d ever possess, and they ascertained as long as they kept their magical endeavors “outside” the confines of my dad’s house, then they weren’t really subverting his wishes. I’d always been more of a stickler to the rules, and it wouldn’t have occurred to me to do something that went against my dad’s wishes back then. Unlike either of my sisters, I didn’t even begin to think about rebelling until I went away to college.

  I was the average kid in the family—the middle child, sandwiched in between an abrasive, supermanipulative, Type A older sister (Thalia), who embraced her supernatural birthright with way too much gusto, and a younger, computer genius sister (Clio), who also happened to look like a miniature Kate Moss in combat boots.

  I guess I should’ve been bitter and resentful about the short shrift I’d been given in life—apparently, I got the average gene, while my sisters split all the others—but instead of lingering on my lack of excessive brains and beauty, I did the one thing I could think of that would set me apart from my luckier siblings: I became the token normal person in my abnormal family.

  Literally.

  I was the one who got acne, gained twenty pounds when I hit puberty, and whose brain got all hot and bothered when it looked at fashion magazines, but then short-circuited when it had to study for a test. The funny thing was, even though my sisters were both more talented and more beautiful than me, I was never actually jealous of either of them. I may have whined about the weight and the acne, but the rest of it, the normal part, I loved.

  Because my family was so vastly different, all that human frailty was extremely alluring. I very badly wanted to be like everyone else, with their human problems and instinctive knowledge of just how finite time actually was—something which forever forced them to live within the constraints of the here and now, aware that Death was riding just beyond the horizon, lustily coveting their souls.

  I left any thoughts of Death as a Pale Rider behind and returned to the problem at hand.

  “Thanks, Jarvis. I appreciate your mass-killing support. No matter how many times I get singled out as the bad guy, you’re always in my corner. Thank you.”

  Jarvis waved my thank-you aside, his brow knit in concentration as I watched the wheels spinning away in his head. I could see he was as baffled by the situation as I was.

  “I think what you said might be correct, Miss Calliope,” he said finally. “Although there is one other possibility, I can’t imagine it would be that . . .”

  I ignored the last part, fixating on the idea of who could be trying to frame me.

  “So who could it be? I mean, it can’t be Thalia,” I offered, biting my thumbnail. “She’s in Purgatory under lock and key.”

  My older sister—and the person who had previously tried to make me the fall guy in her wicked scheme to take over Death, Inc., and all the rest of Death’s purveyance—had been sentenced to one hundred years of solitude in a cramped cell in Purgatory.

  And I had no doubt that were we to go take a peek, this was exactly where we would still find her. Security in Purgatory was insanely tight, something I knew from personal experience. Jarvis and I had recently been on a “research” trip to the Hall of Death (housed within the confines of the Death, Inc., building in Purgatory), and we’d had a slight run-in with the armored knights guarding the place: I’d almost lost my head to a broadsword during our visit, and needless to say, it was not something I was dying to repeat anytime in the near future.

  “Yes, I suppose it would seem unlikely that she would be able to escape without help,” Jarvis murmured, but his mind seemed elsewhere. “The security in Purgatory is nothing if not reliable. Also, your father made certain the original brimstone structure was retrofitted with every security allowance possible when he created the Death, Inc., offices.”

  “So this is what we do know,” I said. “We know that we don’t know who’s trying to set me up. We also know we don’t know what that Vargr was doing on the subway with us. And we definitely know that we don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do about any of this!”

  I moaned at the hopelessness of our circumstances, quietly banging the back of my head against the white subway-tiled wall in frustration.

  “Frankly, I can think of only one possible next step,” Jarvis said, leaning against the sink. “I think it would be best if we returned to Sea Verge and consulted with your father.”

  I swallowed hard.

  I knew Jarvis was right. The smartest thing to do under these circumstances was to go to my dad for help. He was Death, for God’s sake, and I knew without a doubt he would help me no matter who or what was trying to frame me. Still, I didn’t really want to go back to Sea Verge and have my dad fix all my problems for me.

  Once upon a time maybe, but not now.

  Things had changed. I’d been working hard to shed the old me, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to give the new me a test spin. I would take the initiative this time and not just passively let some asshole use me as a dodge for his/ her evil scheming. I was gonna fight for my good name, and if I drew a little blood in the process, well then, so be it.

  I mean, I don’t want to be a wuss forever, do I?

  I looked around me at the white-tiled bathroom, realizing the irony of my situation. It was right here in this very spot where, only a few precious months ago, I’d begun my return to the supernatural world. It was in this very restroom Jarvis had used a magical cupcake to unspell a forgetting charm I’d placed on mysel
f and then informed me of my father’s kidnapping and begged me to return home with him. Of course, like the sap that I am, I’d relented and we’d made the journey (via wormhole) to Sea Verge that same afternoon. It was there, in the bosom of my familial home, that my mother and our family’s lawyer, Father McGee, had strong-armed me into taking over Death, Inc., until my dad could be found. Little did I know the strange odyssey I would be forced to embark on—or the friends I would make along the way—as I sought to save my dad’s job and my family’s immortality.

  “Okay, I see how talking to my dad is an option,” I began, weighing my words, “but first, I want to call Daniel. He might have some ideas and I—”

  “Of course, call him, yes,” Jarvis said casually, but I could see the effort it took him to let me make my own decision, especially when it went against his better judgment.

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling my phone out of my bag and unlocking it. I had one of those wannabe BlackBerry phones that looked and felt like a high-end PDA, but had half the power and even less reception than the big boys. Jarvis waited patiently as I dialed the number and waited for Daniel to pick up.

  No matter what might be happening in our relationship, I knew he’d help me if I needed him.

  Though I let the phone ring and ring and ring, Daniel never answered. I hated to end the call just in case he was in the shower or something and was racing to get to the phone, but after a few minutes I knew it was a lost cause and I gave up, disconnecting.

  “Okay, Daniel’s a no-go,” I said, putting the phone back in my bag after double-checking I’d left the ringer on high. “I just need to let Geneva know I’m leaving, and then we can go to Sea Verge.”

  “What will you tell her?” Jarvis asked.

  “I guess I’ll say I’m not feeling well. I’m allowed a sick day every now and then, aren’t I?” I said defensively.

  I really wanted to be doing anything but running to Sea Verge, but I knew we had to take care of the problem now before it got too big to contain.

  “I’ll wait here, then,” Jarvis replied. “You’ll be brief?”

  I had no idea how long it was going to take me to get things cleared up with work. It’s not like we were running on a schedule or anything, was it?

  “I don’t know, Jarvis,” I said, unlocking the bathroom door and steeling myself to go lie to my cubicle mate. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

  “Take your time,” Jarvis added dryly. “Because we have nothing but time, Miss Calliope.”

  He got the last words in just as the door closed behind me. Startled, I nearly walked into our office intern, Robert, who was lurking in the hallway. A totally adorable hipster with the cutest Louisiana drawl in town, I would be seriously crushing on the guy if I weren’t otherwise engaged.

  “Hey, Callie,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  I took a step back, blocking the door with my body.

  “Good, great . . . perfect actually,” I said, a nervous grin pinned to my face. He gave me a curious look.

  “Cool,” he said as he pulled at the bottom of his Pink Nasty T-shirt, but didn’t make a move to leave.

  “Yep, pretty cool,” I said, leaning against the door and folding my arms across my chest, hoping he’d take the hint and move the show on the road.

  But the hint was not taken. Robert continued to stand there, yanking on his shirt like a two-year-old. I took a deep breath and renewed my smile, anxiously drumming the fingers of my left hand against the fatty part of my upper arm. We stood in silence and then Robert scrunched his face up like he was getting ready to tell me something really important.

  God, I hope he isn’t going to ask me out. That would be really awkward.

  “Uhm, can I use the bathroom, Callie?”

  Not what I was expecting, but not a complete surprise, either.

  “This one’s got something wrong with it,” I imparted conspiratorially. “I was just getting ready to go call maintenance.”

  “Oh, but there’s more than one stall in there—”

  I didn’t let him finish.

  “Yeah, but the smell is pretty fierce,” I said. “Know what I mean?”

  Robert began to nod his head, but then he stopped, thinking.

  “Okay, but I gotta go kinda bad, so I guess I’ll just grin and bear it,” he said, trying to push past me.

  “Not a good idea,” I said, continuing to physically block his way with my body. I probably had about fifteen pounds on the guy—which I thought would give me the advantage, but I didn’t count on him being as wiry as a cheetah. He took me by the shoulders, squeezing my wussy deltoids with way more power than was absolutely necessary, and easily shifting me out of the doorway.

  I lost my footing and fell, my ass hitting the floor with a loud crunch. Robert didn’t even look down to make sure I was okay—he just stepped over me.

  “Stop!” I cried, rolling on my hip and grabbing both his legs in a bear hug. I yanked my body backward with as much force as I could muster, and the little shit went down, falling almost on top of me.

  Now who’s the cheetah?

  My triumph only lasted a moment before I realized I was now pinned to the ground by Robert’s body . . . and from the snarl on his face, I could tell he was pretty pissed about the change in plan. He thought he’d be through the bathroom door already. He hadn’t expected me to actually put up a fight.

  “You are a pain in my ass, Calliope Reaper-Jones,” Robert spat, his face red with anger. Then before I could stop him, he’d reached out and grabbed me by the throat, wrapping bony fingers around my neck and squeezing. I gripped his wrists, trying to rip his hands away from my fragile trachea, but he was a lot stronger than me. It wasn’t that I was worried about him doing any serious damage—uhm, immortality?—but I didn’t want to black out and leave Jarvis unaware that an enemy was at the gates.

  “Jarvis!” I tried to croak, but I only succeeded in making Robert put more energy into his task. I was starting to lose consciousness, my vision tunneling to a pinpoint.

  This is so not happening right now, I thought as I redoubled my effort to pry his hands from my throat. Seriously, we’re in a place of work here!

  I tried to call out again, to get someone’s attention, but I was fading fast and my body didn’t seem to want to do what my mind was directing it to do. I was really worried I was gonna pass out right there on the floor—which was so not pretty.

  “Who . . . are . . . you?” I managed to squeak out in the brief second that he relaxed his fingers before increasing the pressure again.

  He leaned forward, pushing his face right into mine. I almost gagged on the stench issuing from his open mouth. It smelled exactly like rotten eggs, but with the foulness factor ratcheted up to the three-millionth degree.

  “You don’t recognize me?” he hissed, spraying spittle in my face—which frankly was so gross that if I could’ve died then, I might’ve gone for it.

  “No,” I squeaked.

  “No?” he repeated back at me in a nasty imitation of my own strangled rasp.

  “But doesn’t this give it away, Calliope?” he continued, referring to the feel of his hands on my neck. I drew a blank, which I’m sure showed in my eyes, and he only ratcheted up the throat squeezing.

  Even if I knew what he was talking about, I couldn’t have responded anyway because my larynx was being crushed beneath his fingers. This time I really did start to black out, but being a cat who wasn’t ready to stop playing with his little rat (me), Robert released his hold on my neck and I began to cough, trying to draw in as much air as possible before he changed his mind and started choking me again. I was giddy that I could finally breathe, but now my throat ached so badly I wanted to cry with every inhalation.

  I was too exhausted to move—though my brain was still racing a million miles a minute trying to formulate an escape plan—so I watched, transfixed, as Robert reached up and slid his hands into his hair, giving a quick aggressive tug that peeled the flesh a
way from his face in one cohesive chunk. I gasped (painfully) as he held the flaccid skin forward so I could see his true face grinning down at me. Then, pleased by my reaction, he let the flesh slip from his hands and flop onto his chest, where it hung like a discarded Halloween mask.

  “Now do you recognize me, sweetheart?” he asked gamely.

  All I could do was nod as I stared up into the victorious eyes of my dad’s archenemy . . . the Ender of Death.

  five

  “You again?” I croaked, anger very much at the top of my emotional list as I glared up at the Ender of Death.

  This guy was a Class-A prick: one I’d tangled with twice before and both times had kicked his ass into tomorrow. His primary raison d’être was to get rid of Death (i.e., my dad) and free the rest of us from the Wheel of Samsara—basically he was looking to end the concept of death entirely—and he would not be satisfied until he’d accomplished said task. He had a real Javert-from-Les Miz quality about him, and by that I mean he was totally obsessed with taking my dad down . . . and me along with him.

  “Hello, Calliope,” he said, grinning.

  I felt funny calling the guy “the Ender of Death,” so I went for one of the other names I’d known him by.

  “Marcel, you little shit,” I said, eyes narrowing to slits as I used both fists to start pummeling his chest. “I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  He easily grasped both my wrists and held them tightly to my chest until my fingers started to go numb from the lack of blood flow. I got tired of being on the losing end of the struggle and gave up, letting my body relax, hoping it would encourage him to let me go. This seemed to do the trick and he released me. My hands free, I sank back against the floor, my whole body exhausted from the exertion, and then rolled over onto my side. I immediately started massaging my wrists to get the blood flowing again, and then I scowled back up at Marcel, feeling defeated and pissed off with myself for not knowing any good magic spells to levy at him. Still, with his patrician face—modeled on one of those gaudy Roman Catholic effigies of Jesus suffering up on the cross—and heavy-lidded eyes, I had to admit that Mr. “Ender of Death” Marcel was kind of a good-looking guy. That is, if you ignored the one blemish on his face—a fresh cut across his cheek—and liked assholes who had nothing against choking a girl to get her attention. I knew that while I could appreciate his good looks, I was never gonna love the asshole-ier aspects of his character.