Death Rite Genie: An Urban Fantasy Folly Page 4

  She plunged her fingers into her hair and scratched. “S-something’s crawling on my scalp.”

  “You have siphons. They’re insistent burrowers. They aren’t deadly, but if they get under your skin, it’d take a year and a day for the iron in your blood to poison them.” I stored the machete and summoned an iron comb, quickly pulling it through my hair and stepping to her.

  She froze, her wide, horrified eyes swinging to me. “How do I get rid of them?”

  “Hold still. I can help with that.” I ran the comb through her hair.

  She blinked at me, her hands fluttering in her hair. Small wisps of smoke curled from the comb as I whipped it aside, casting off the burning, dead husks. I dragged it through her hair again, easily overcoming any knots and tangles.

  Her cheeks and ears turned red. “Are you flea-combing me?”

  I chuckled through my nose. “I guess it’s like that.”

  The house shook again. Another unearthly wail rebounded from downstairs.

  I tilted my head in the direction of the noise. “We gotta get out of here. Exits?”

  She took the comb from me and yanked it through her hair. “There’s only the front and back doors in the house. We could break a window.”

  I nodded and hurried into the hallway. The dirt was three inches deep, and maybe it was my imagination, but it sucked at my shoes. I glanced over my shoulder. Lucy was right behind me, furiously combing her hair. Smoke wafted from the iron tines. Since she wasn’t screaming, I felt safe assuming the siphons weren’t burrowing into her skin.

  Roots erupted into the room we just left. One right after another, following the sounds of our footsteps. I yanked open the closest door, clamped my hand over Luce’s mouth, and dragged us inside. I barely closed the door when the roots entered the hallway. Lucy pressed against my chest, huffing through her nose. Light filtered in through the slats of the door, and I could finally make out the room I’d chosen to hide in: a walk-in linen closet with shelves crammed full of toiletries, paper plates, linens, and boxes. It smelled strongly of basil soap. Hopefully it was enough to mask our scent. Then again, I wasn’t certain Blight Lords tracked by smell.

  I pulled my hand from her mouth and gently shushed her, though I was sure she knew silence was best right now. I tried to give her space, but the shelves were tight against my back. The roots shot along the hallway and into another room. I hoped the floor was still structurally sound. I didn’t want to fall another story today if I could help it.

  Lucy jerked the comb through her hair until the smell of iron-smoke was gone. While she tucked the comb into her back pocket, her breath hitched, and she panted like she’d run a six-minute mile. Her hands shoved against me, but I couldn’t lean away from her. She covered her mouth, gasping and trying to be quiet. More groaning from the Blight Lord, but it sounded farther away, and slight vibrations only shook the house now.

  “I can’t breathe,” she rasped, curling her fingers in my shirt. “Get me out of here.”

  Something shambled down the hallway. I felt like a dick, but we needed to stay put. I could only imagine what her claustrophobia was doing to her nerves right now, and I didn’t know how to help her other than getting her breathing back to normal. I knew from our time bonded that touch centered her, but there was hardly an inch of space between us. Maybe it was an inch too much. I slid my hands around her waist and dropped my forehead against hers.

  She stopped breathing, her wide eyes locked on mine.

  “Inhale,” I whispered, taking a deep breath and holding it.

  Another mutated plant hustled by. Her gaze darted to the shadow it made.

  I let go of my breath in a steady stream. “Exhale.”

  She focused on the shadows outside the door. There was nothing we could do; not locked up in a linen closet while she was having a panic attack.

  I cupped her face, forcing her to give me her attention. “Focus on me, Luce.”

  She sighed shakily, then took a deep breath. We breathed like this for what felt like hours. Her arms slipped around my neck. Her deer-in-headlights stare lessened, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but her expression leaned more toward the intense side. Whatever space there was between us was gone, and her body relaxed against mine like a hedonistic cat’s.

  I dropped a hand to her hip, the other brushing her hair back. Lucy’s fingers stroked the back of my neck and gooseflesh rose on my body. It felt like I was in middle school again and playing seven minutes in heaven, only this time the girl—the woman—knew I was in the closet with her. Maybe it was the tight space, maybe it was seeing her in a bra, but right now, all I could think about was what her mouth tasted like. I nudged her nose with mine, testing the waters. She tilted her head and her lips parted, her breath caressing mine.

  What am I doing? We were only friends. She’d made it clear last night she didn’t want to be just a promise. I never told her it wasn’t. I should have, but I was too angry and hurt to say anything else. And now she was in my arms, possibly still under the influence of a panic attack, and I was putting the moves on her.

  Roots shot through the door.

  They curled around our waists, our ankles, and I barely had the presence of mind to wrap my arms around her, my hands protecting the back of her head before the roots yanked us off our feet and dragged us through the half-foot of grave dirt.

  Lucy screamed.

  Roots twisted around our shoulders and torsos like pythons squeezing their prey. We slammed against the wall. I grunted, taking the brunt of the impact. I couldn’t move my legs or arms. Lucy’d somehow pulled hers between us, but with the vines constricted around us, neither of us could move much.

  I lifted my head, dirt spraying in my face and mouth. I gagged, spitting it out. I had a second’s warning before the roots jerked us down the stairs.

  Pain erupted in my elbow. I yelled. Exploding fire radiated up my biceps into my shoulder and neck. I slammed against the banister again, and my collar bone crunched.

  I fought for consciousness. I didn’t know how we’d get out of this alive, but at the very least I should be awake for my death.

  Chapter 5

  Mal’s grip loosened but not enough for me to free my arms as we bounced and tumbled down the stairs. We crashed against the dirt-covered floor. He groaned low. If my face wasn’t smashed against his chest, I wouldn’t have heard it over the ruckus of being dragged through the kitchen.

  I could only assume it was the kitchen. It smelled like rotten potatoes, and that smelled like something died. Oh no. What if there was an actual dead person in my house? My stomach froze. Mom and Mags were missing. Maybe… No. They were only missing. Something else was causing the smell. I wiggled against the roots to lift my head.

  The blood had drained from Mal’s face and his eyes were glassy.

  The tree roots pulled us through the smashed backdoor, broken glass raining on us. Only one of Mal’s arms shifted to protect us. Is Mal hurt? My ribs squeezed my lungs. He was only in this position because of me. What if he is seriously wounded? We were in more trouble than I’d realized. Mostly because he’d have to rely on me, and I didn’t know how to do any of this on my own.

  Cold air smacked me and I wished I hadn’t needed to take off my sasquatch hoodie. Yes, it was hideous, and yes, I looked awful in it, but it was fleece-lined and super warm. The momentum at which the roots dragged us slowed considerably. I lifted my head and squinted in the bright sunlight. The buzz of insects was louder than summer evenings with cicadas screaming to each other, and the smell of the compost bin coated my sinuses and tongue.

  I noticed the missing realty sign when my bottle appeared in a puff of blue smoke next to it—totally not helping with the situation at all. We were supposed to be a team.

  “The realty sign is back here,” I said.

  Mal’s head swiveled, his chest seesawing air beneath mine.

  The backyard was in shambles. Maple seedlings ran around the yard carrying whirligig seeds that were
nearly as tall as them, planting the seeds. Where had they gotten those? October wasn’t the time of year for that. Giant tulips and cosmos patrolled the perimeter of the privacy fence, and my exquisite portable pizza oven was a twisted lump of metal.

  “No!” I struggled against the roots. “Not my pizza oven! You monsters!”

  The buzzing coalesced into dark shadows in the air. I jerked again, now able to partially lift my torso.

  Mal’s arm was a bloody mess and the tented skin around his collarbone was a sure sign it was broken. Crap! How would I get us out of this situation?

  A low, grating noise came from the shadows near the corner of the privacy fence where a silver maple tree grew. Yesterday, it was tall, healthy, and the leaves had taken on a yellow tint. Today, black bark sloughed off like moldering wood, clumping together on what had been green grass—now drought-brown. The leaves were shiny, like slime coated them in a thin layer, and the shade made me think of rotting wood.

  The face in the trunk unnerved me the most.

  It wasn’t Mom or Mags. Thank goodness. The face was definitely male with angry jack-o’-lantern yellow eyes. I swear its roots were legs and the boughs were forming arms. How many limbs did a tree need?

  The tulip patrol bobbed around the tree, their leafy arms waving in exultation as they shimmied the compost bin away from the fence. They removed the lid.

  I gaped. “How are they doing that without thumbs?”

  “Break the roots,” Mal said through gritted teeth. “Arm’s broken.”

  “Shit.” I wasn’t surprised. I’d already suspected that, but I’d held out hope. “I can’t move my arms much.”

  The roots slithered up my leg, tightening around us. Something smacked my ass and I yelped. I craned my neck to look over my shoulder. The trailing ivy plant, its leaves more over-watered green mush than healthy sage green, landed on my butt and fluttered over my pockets. I gasped, feeling every twitch of movement from the ivy on my rear. Ice swirled in my chest and my teeth chattered.

  “That pervert plant is trying to pick-pocket me!” Attempting to unseat the plant-goblin, I wriggled as much as I could. It shoved its leafy hands in my back pocket. An unearthly noise emanated from it, and the scent of cut grass permeated the air. The thieving plant bolted away from us, trailing smoke.

  Of course! “Your comb’s in my back pocket. Can you reach it?” I shivered, my skin prickling. “I could really use my feet right about now.”

  “I can try.” His voice strained as he tugged his arm lower, untangling from my hair, tugging against my scalp, and his hand skimmed my lower back to my left butt cheek.

  Grunting with effort, he pulled the comb out. He jerked. I’m not sure if he yelped or if it was the tree, but the roots keeping my body pressed deliciously against Mal’s sprang apart and we were separated. Well, most of us, anyway. The roots still tied our feet together, but I could get up. The tulip patrol marched toward us; their leafy hands grabbed Mal under the shoulders. He gasped, his face blanching as they yanked him backward.

  “No!” I grappled for him but I only ripped the comb away from him. “No!”

  I scrambled to my feet and fell face-first onto the dead grass. I flicked a glance at my bottle. It still wasn’t helping. Honestly, I didn’t know how it could. There wasn’t anything useful stored in it. The roots still looped around my ankles slithered up my calf. I patted the grass, searching for the comb, then curled my fingers around it.

  I jackknifed forward and smacked the roots. They recoiled, but not completely.

  “Get”—smack—“the”—smack—“fuck”—smack—“off of me!”

  The roots, now blackened and ashy, dropped away. The tulip soldiers pulled Mal backward to the compost bin. He swatted them with his good arm, but the left side of him was mostly limp. This can’t be happening! If mutated plants were pulling a man toward a compost bin, it had to be bad news. Adrenaline surged through my system. I clambered to my feet. The buzzing shadows swarmed around me.

  I squeaked and flailed my arms. Have you ever tried to hit millions of things the size of flying breadcrumbs? It wasn’t easy. The few bugs I caught with the iron comb puffed into smoke. As if they had a hive-mind, they stayed away from the big bad iron killing them.

  Mace appeared in my hand. I gotta say, my bottle really wanted me to mace someone, and with my luck, it’d probably be me. Teeth chattering at the thought, I tucked the tube of pepper spray in my pocket as I shimmied around the raised garden box, gracelessly trying to punch things that could be everywhere at once. Something hit the back of my ankles, I tumbled onto the hard ground, and the breath slammed from my lungs. The bugs dive-bombed me. I swatted the air with the iron comb, barely granting myself a reprieve.

  “This is my house,” I growled. “You are not welcome here.”

  They didn’t care.

  I lurched to my feet, swinging a weapon that was too small against a swarm. The tulip soldiers were shoving Mal into the compost bin. It was only ten gallons; he wouldn’t fit, not even in pieces—I would know. Mom joked about this when my ex-fiancé wasn’t my ex yet. Were the mutated plants intending to turn Mal into fertilizer? He yelped. Oh, god. I can’t lose him. He couldn’t die this way! I needed him in my life; I needed to help him. If only I had iron bug repellent. Or fire. Magic dragged in my core.

  A can of aerosol hairspray puffed in a cloud of blue smoke at my feet, then a lighter a second later.

  “That’s a great idea!” I tucked the comb in my pocket, ducking and weaving the swarm, and scooped up the soon-to-be flamethrower.

  I flicked the lighter on and depressed the nozzle on the Aqua Net can.

  A fireball whooshed into the swarm of insects. It sounded like corn popping. I cringed. A pair of giant cosmoses undulated toward me and I trained my hairspray and lighter on them. “Come any closer and I’ll melt your freaking faces off.”

  They didn’t have faces, but that wasn’t the point. They didn’t heed my warnings either, so I flamed on. The petals curled and one cosmos regurgitated the same slime they shot at us upstairs. I caught it in the trajectory of my inflamed cone of hairspray, and it exploded, knocking me on my ass.

  My pants were on fire. Wasn’t that only supposed to happen when you lied?

  I rolled on the ground, and snuffed out the flames quickly, leaving behind burned holes in my jeans. I smacked them until they stopped glowing and climbed to my feet.

  The flowers were burnt to a crisp. And the raised garden box. Mags would kill me. My brain stuttered. The garden box could easily hold Mom and Mags’s bodies. It was over three feet tall and six feet long. Mal shouted in pain, anger, or fear. Maybe all three. I broke out into a sweat and zeroed in on him. My family was still alive and Mal needed me. I dropped the lighter and hairspray. I didn’t want to set him on fire accidentally, and the can felt empty anyway. He was legs first and halfway inside the compost bin. One plant lifted a stick and tried smooshing him farther in the bin. He yelled, smacking a flower with his good arm. Time was running out. I was losing him, and I didn’t know what to do. I clapped my cheeks. I couldn’t dwell on what was happening. I needed to do something.

  I raced toward him, ripping the iron comb from my back pocket, and bitch-slapped one tulip soldier across the petals. It shrank back.

  “Let him go!” I scraped the comb at it one more time, scoring the flesh of the stalk. Green blood oozed from the gouges. “Let him go!”

  The other tulip soldier understood me—or the iron—and released Mal. But the surrounding roots didn’t. They squeezed and pulled. Mal grabbed one side of the compost bin and struggled to lever himself out. His other arm hung awkwardly and the broken bones lifting the skin at his shoulder had worsened.

  I banged the comb against the roots and they spasmed. I hit them again, anger and fear propelling me to put as much force as I could behind every swing with the five-inch comb.

  “You only compost plant material and eggshells!” I raked the tines across the roots. “You do not put meat
in compost bins!”

  The Blight Lord groaned, retracting its blackened roots from Mal. Maybe it was the law about what to compost that finally got through its wood-brain. Maybe it was the iron. I latched onto Mal’s good arm and pulled him from the bin.

  He tumbled onto the ground, his pants a shredded, slimy mess, blood and muck staining the fabric. His shoes were missing. I grabbed him up. A flower patrol headed toward us, angrily shaking their leaves. The loose soil around the Blight Lord unfurled and the ground rolled toward us like roots were snaking their way undercover.

  “The realty sign.” Mal pushed me in front of him. “Run. Now.”

  He didn’t need to tell me twice; I raced for the sign. It was the same one I’d seen yesterday with the blurry numbers and glyphs. I smacked it, shook it side-to-side, and shrieked. Adrenaline, panic, and fury had me too ramped up to understand how to open it.

  Mal stopped beside me. It appeared as though he peeled it apart. The door to the Lantern opened and I ducked inside, not bothering to shift to smoke.

  Pressure from the transition from the Iron Realm into the Lantern stuffed my ears. The moment I stepped foot on asphalt, I spun to see Mal stumble inside and slam the door shut. My bottle materialized in a blue puff.

  He was worse off than I thought. Bone splintered through the skin of his elbow and his collarbone looked awful. Bruises were already forming around his neck and shoulder. His feet were a bloody mess too.

  He stared at me, chest heaving with every ragged breath. “It’s never simple with you, is it, Luce?”

  I threw my arms around his waist, burying my face in his stinky shirt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that thing was in my yard.”

  His good arm wrapped around me. “Thanks for saving me.”

  I leaned back and smiled at him. “We’re by no means even, but you need a hospital.”