The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(90)

       
         
       
        
What could've been but never would be.


• • •

There was no one on the deck, but this didn't bother Desmond. The destroyer was surrounded by his boats. It would not be going anywhere. The women were somewhere on the ship, and he knew, eventually, his people would find them.

With David missing, Helen was now his second-in-command. He trusted her to do what was necessary . . . and do it efficiently. She'd done an excellent job of rooting out Yesinia's coven, even finding one of the rare and coveted "evolved" witches to bring back with her to the research facility. She was good at what she did, and she had an aptitude for magic . . . a talent he'd augmented with his research into witches' powers.

"Do you want to stay on the deck, sir?" The young man with the walkie-talkie was back. "Or would you like to enter the hatch with us?"

Desmond was not well. His time on Earth was limited and he got exhausted easily by physical activity. As much as he wished he could go belowdecks with his people, he knew he'd be better served staying up above.

"I'll be fine up here," Desmond said.

"Shall I leave some men up here with you?" the young man asked.

Desmond shook his head. "Leave me that walkie-talkie. If I have a problem, I'll radio down to Helen or someone on one of the boats."

The young man nodded, his light red hair and freckled skin reminding Desmond of Devandra Montrose. He'd felt bad destroying the whole line of Montrose women, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that it was better to die now than to be smitten by the hand of the creator when The Flood took control.

He took the radio from the young man, slipping the clip over his belt. He had trouble maintaining his balance, and the cane he used to prop himself up was all he could manage. The walkie-talkie would be safer on his belt.

There was a raised partition by the gunwale and Desmond perched atop it, watching as a phalanx of Flood converts, both male and female, streamed down into the lower regions of the battle destroyer. Their black combat gear reminded him of insects-ants with guns, actually, who were about to march into battle.

As the last of his followers disappeared into the hatch, Desmond was left alone on the prow of the ship. It was silent, the beat of combat boots on metal having ceased once the last of the men and women went belowdecks. Sunlight bore down on the top of Desmond's head and he wished he'd worn a hat. He could feel the sweat pouring down his neck, pooling at the small of his back. He closed his eyes, and the calls of seabirds and the gentle crash of waves against the hull of the ship began to lull him into complacency. 

"Desmond."

He started awake, the timbre of Eleanora's voice reverberating in his ears. He turned his head, scanning the deck of the battle cruiser. There was no one there. He cleared his throat and then coughed up a plug of mucus. He spat it onto the ground, where it began to ooze and bubble. It was disgusting. He hated how foul his body had become as it rotted from the inside out.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning the lion-headed cane slowly in his hands.

He closed his eyes, once again letting the gentle rocking of the ship lull him.

"Desmond."

His eyes flew open. Eleanora was standing in front of him . . . but not the old woman he'd met again so recently in Elysian Park. No, this was the Eleanora of his dreams, the beautiful young woman he'd fallen in love with and lost his virginity to all those years ago.

"Eleanora?" he said, a hitch in his voice.

Her long brown hair hung loose and free around her shoulders, the soft curve of her throat visible through the wide lapels of her light blue blouse. He stared at her wide pink mouth, and even all these decades later he felt himself stirring at the sight of her.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She floated toward him, her long blue skirt trailing along the asphalt-gray surface of the deck.

"To ask you to reconsider," she said. "To beg you not to do this."

Her words made him sad. He wanted to grant her wish, but it was impossible. There was nothing he could do. His hands were bound.

"It will all be over soon," he said instead.

She pursed her lips, her skin translucent beneath the heat of the sun.

"Yes, it will," she agreed. "But not in the way you think. As we speak, my blood sisters are breaking the morale of your people. You think you can come at us with guns, but we have magic, Desmond. And magic trumps everything."

He was confused. What was she talking about?

"And we have you to thank for that," she continued. "Thank you, Desmond."