Blind Warrior (The Weavers Circle 3)

Grey set his fork down and reached for his bread. “You can be anything, right? Ever get around to trying to be a fish?”

“No, I still get the heebie-jeebies when I imagine bigger fish in that damn pond.”

“So be a big fish.” Grey shrugged.

“Knowing Baer, he’d try to be a shark,” Dane threw out with a chuckle.

Before Baer could answer, the doorbell rang, and all sounds of utensils stopped.

“Anyone expecting a delivery?” Clay asked.

There was a round of negatives from everyone at the table.

“I’ll get it,” Wiley said, his chair scraping along the floor.

Everyone was quiet as they returned to eating dinner. A twitchy kind of itch started in the back of Grey’s brain. He was used to screening people who came to the house. The aunts said that the pestilents could enthrall people, and he always checked everyone to make sure their intentions were good. Scowling, he inwardly cursed because he missed his powers. He hadn’t been incredibly useful to the group yet, but this had been the one thing he could do.

A man’s voice echoed the short distance from the front door to the dining room as he explained his car had broken down and he needed a number for a local garage. Apparently his phone was dead, too. Wiley led him into the dining room.

“His car died—” Wiley started, but didn’t get any further.

Gunshots filled the air. Everyone shouted at once. Ruby was growling and barking. Thoughts and emotions pummeled Grey. Fear, adrenaline, panic…a wave of feelings pounded into his brain. Pain screamed through his head and he froze.

He’s got a gun!

Wiley, get out of the way!

The guy’s possessed!

Are there more pestilents?

Before Grey could get his wits about him, someone—Lucien, judging by his size—grabbed him out of the chair and threw him to the floor. He hit hard. Lucien pressed him onto the floor, crawling on top of him.

There was another shot, and Lucien muttered something Grey didn’t catch as he held him. Fuck, he was heavy, and Grey squirmed to get out from under him.

“Let me up! What are you doing?”

Tomato-tinged breath hit his nose. “Protecting your ass, that’s what I’m doing. Damn man came in here with a gun!”

“Did anyone get hit?”

“I don’t think so. Guy’s a bad shot. Clay has him down. Wiley punched the hell out of the poor guy’s nose. Go, Wiley! Little guy’s got some gumption.”

Grey’s ears rang from the shots, and he lay under Lucien, trying to sort through what he was hearing with his ears and what was cluttering up his brain.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” Clay demanded.

Lucien got off Grey and he scrambled to his feet. That was when he noticed a funny feel to the room. A kind of extra weight to the air that smelled faintly of pestilents. He should have picked up on that earlier, and he scowled. He was going to have to pay attention to things other than his lack of sight. Anger churned in his belly, turning the food he’d eaten into a hard lump.

“I asked you, who sent you?” Clay repeated.

Rustling noises filled the room along with shoes walking across hardwood. Grey hated not being able to see what was going on. The man wasn’t answering. With his powers, he would have been able to get to the bottom of the attack in an instant.

There was another sound, like a fist hitting flesh, and the guy began to whimper before he cried out, “What the hell? Where am I? Why are you hitting me?”

Fuck. They’d get nothing from the guy. Whatever thrall he’d been under had worn off. He obviously had no idea how he’d even gotten there.

“Baer, call the cops,” Clay said. “They can deal with your sorry ass.”

Grey stood still as cops were called. The smell of gunpowder fought with the food smells, and he felt around for the chair, finding it on its back on the floor. He set it to rights, then sat down—not even sure if he was at his place at the table. Not that it mattered. They wouldn’t be eating anymore.

The cops arrived quickly, subjecting nearly all of them to questions. Grey was skipped after the first one. Seemed no one wanted to know what the blind man saw. Not that it mattered. Their attacker wasn’t talking, and they had no idea why someone would want to shoot them.

Well, that was what they told the police. It wasn’t like they could give the real reasons.

As they moved into the family room, Grey simmered with fury. The one thing he’d been good at doing—identifying people’s reasons for being here—had been taken from him. He was fucking useless to the rest of the Weavers. He answered questions and stood around as the cops got all their statements before leading the man away.

It was quiet until Clay spoke up. “Fuck, it’s like they know our Soul Weaver is hampered or something. How would they know to send someone now?”