Hexed

worriedly.
    No, I wasn’t sure. Nightwalkers were unstable by nature. Ansel might decide he liked the taste of living blood and be unable to give it up again.
    “Don’t anyone look at me,” Maya said irritably. “I know I’m the only one here without so-called magical abilities, but the fuck I came here to have someone stick a knife in me.”
    “Yeah, me either,” Fremont said.
    I sat up. “No one’s getting sacrificed, because we’re not calling the sorcerer. We’ll think of another way.”
    Coyote huffed a breath. “Like you blowing up the building? Forget that. I’ll be the sacrifice, ladies and gentlemen. You can stick the knife into my heart.”
    Everyone stared at him in silence. I opened my mouth to object, but Mick beat me to it. “No, they’ll need you once the hex is broken. The logical choice is me. As long as I become dragon after I get stabbed, I can heal from it.”
    His words worried me. Mick was so far into his dragon bad-ass I’ll-do-anything-to-nobly-save-you mode he might just let himself be killed—permanently. “Too risky,” I said. “What happens if there’s too much time between the knife thrust and the sorcerer removing the hex, or us killing him? I’m pretty sure you’d have to shift right away, and you can’t do it while we’re locked in here.”
    “There’s not much choice,” Mick said.
    “There is,” Coyote said. “Me.”
    “Stand down,” Nash began, but Maya cut him off.
    “Don’t you dare volunteer, Nash Jones. You do, and I’ll kill you myself.”
    “Listen to Maya,” I said to Nash. “Magic won’t kill you, but I guarantee a foot-long blade to the heart would.”
    Coyote raised his voice over ours. “There’s no more argument. I’m doing it.”
    “But your powers are gone,” I said in alarm. “You might die for real.”
    Coyote’s smile became genuine. “Aw, Janet. You mean you’d miss me? I’m touched. But I’m a god, sweetheart. Sacrifice, life and death—it’s all part of the job.”
    “He’s right,” Cassandra said in a choked voice. “His blood would boost the spell through the hex.”
    “No!” I tried.
    Coyote stood up, walked to the middle of the room, and lay down flat on the floor. “Sorry, Janet. It’s got to be done, and it’s got to be done now. Mick, grab the knife and the incense. Let’s get chanting.”
     
    I COULDN’T STOP them. Cassandra made us sit in a circle—Ansel included—with Coyote at the center. Because Cassandra didn’t trust herself on her emotional jag to work the necessary magic for the summoning, Mick conducted the ceremony.
    He stripped off his shirt and knelt, his sculpted muscles gleaming with sweat. His dragon tattoos glowed with fiery light, and the bite marks where Ansel had fed were black against Mick’s neck.
    Coyote was the calmest, lying flat on his back, arms at his sides, eyeing the knife blade without fear. I had no idea whether Coyote was working some ploy—he couldn’t really die, could he? He must be planning some trickster god thing behind his unruffled expression. He’d let Mick stab him and then spring to his feet as soon as the sorcerer showed up, rip the guy’s head off, and laugh at us for being afraid.
    Wouldn’t he?
    Sage burned in a bowl, its sweet smoke dulling my senses. I was drained from the magic I’d tried to work in the kitchen, and with Mick’s warm voice intoning the spell, plus the smoke, I wanted to drift to sleep in spite of my fears.
    Mick spoke phrases in Latin, a language I’d never bothered to learn. He raised the knife, clasped in both hands, and called the ununculous by name, which, Cassandra had finally revealed, was Emmett Smith.
    I’d started laughing when she said it. I’d expected something grandiose like Lucifer or Ezekiel or Damien, and she gave us Emmett Smith.
    Maya sat next to me, folded in on herself, her face on her knees. She rocked back and forth a little, miserable, and I didn’t have the strength to comfort her. Nash at least had seated himself protectively beside her, his gun in his lap. Fremont sat on my other side, wedging himself against me to seek my protection, because Ansel was beyond him. Then Cassandra, then Pamela, and around again to Nash.
    Mick’s face ran with sweat. His voice wound louder and louder, until finally he shouted the mage’s name and slammed the knife into Coyote’s chest.
    The blade entered with a wet, meaty sound, and blood washed out to coat Mick’s hands.
    “Holy shit,” Fremont