Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

Emma was fine. Troy didn’t have her yet. And if I got back into the car and drove off now, I could probably prevent whatever Syrie had seen the start of.

Or . . . I could get what else I’d come for. But could I manage both?

I started down the stairs slowly at first, to make sure I was really alone, but once I was sure, I pounded down the rest of the steps and skidded to a stop in the lone patch of uncluttered floor. For one long moment, I could only gape at the huge basement, lit by one bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. I’d seen it once before, but my memory of the harpies’ stash didn’t do it justice. Or maybe their collection had grown.

There was stuff everywhere. Stacks of it, spilling over and under tables, burying chairs. Drifts of it, piled against the walls. There were clothes, books, toys, dishes, patches of carpet, parts from cars, and even a tower of roof shingles, obviously never used. The harpies had coins, jewelry, polished stones, and glittering hunks of glass in all colors. There were photos, and pillows, and a table piled high with pill bottles, an entire tribute to the pharmaceutical industry, the contents of which they’d probably never even sampled—a tragic waste.

But the worst—or the best, depending on your viewpoint— was a series of human bones displayed on long shelves in descending size order, from femurs all the way past phalanges to bones too small for me to identify, crowned by a macabre display of naked skulls on the top shelf.

The whole thing was overwhelming. It was disgusting. It was . . . a lot to have to sort through. And I only had minutes.

I scanned the basement quickly, and my gaze snagged on a low table covered in boxes full of shiny things, so I picked my way through the ocean of junk toward it.

Normally, I’m not into jewelry—piercings aren’t jewelry; they’re body art—but I’d worn the necklace Nash gave me every single day. Until the night Nea had demanded it as payment for an opportunity to find him. I’d handed it over, but promised myself that I’d get it back, first chance I got.

But the table held dozens of jewelry boxes, most full of tarnished junk, and I had no way of knowing if there was another stash just like it buried beneath a pile of clothes or a stack of books. So I took the trinkets one at a time, tossing rings, earrings, necklaces, and brooches over my shoulder, then shoving the empty boxes onto the pile. I’d gone through eight of them before I finally found my necklace, buried in a collection of silver-plated rings and charms. Holding it again was like holding it for the first time, the night Nash had given it to me.

The silver horse shone in the light from above, wavy suggestion of a mane blowing back in some unseen wind as she raced toward something I was sure I’d been chasing all my life. Her stylized rider was golden and willowy, riding bareback and naked, long hair trailing behind her. Nash said it reminded him of me. Of the old stories about maras riding people in their sleep, feeding from their bad dreams, and the archaic association of the word nightmare with a female horse.

I would only have given the necklace up for a chance to find Nash, and now that I’d found him, I wanted it back, so I could hold at least that piece of him, while Kaylee claimed the rest.

I slid the chain over my neck and tucked the horse and rider into my shirt—then froze at the familiar dry whisper of wings folding and unfolding behind me, a habit comparable to fidgeting in humans and a sure sign that the harpy who’d snuck up on me was either excited or pissed off. Or both.

Shit, shit, shit! I turned slowly to find Troy watching me from the bottom step, his leathery black batlike wings half extended behind him. “You broke the rules.”

I shrugged. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to carve that on my headstone.” But not for a while, hopefully.

“That means I get to break one too,” he said, and before I could argue, he glanced over his shoulder and shouted. “Nea! Come look what I found!”

A second later, Nea jogged down the steps, followed by Desi and the third female harpy, all missing their jackets. They’d dropped the human disguises in their own home.

“Sabine wants her bauble back, and I think we should let her keep it. But she’s gonna have to leave us something else instead.” Troy stalked toward me, and I looked past him to the stairs. But Nea stood at the base of them, and I’d never get past her.

“Hold her,” Nea ordered, and the two other girl harpies rushed me.

I punched the first one in the gut, but before she even hit the ground, Desi grabbed my other arm and nearly dislocated my shoulder. I can hold my own in a fair fight, but two on one? While the other two had harpy speed and strength, clawlike nails, and jaws that could bite through a human tibia? I should have brought a weapon.

The downed harpy stood, and Troy grabbed my right hand. “I think this little piggy is a fair trade, don’t you?”

“Piggies are toes, dumb-ass,” I snapped.

Troy only shrugged. “Want something to squeeze, for the pain?”

I glanced pointedly at his groin, my heart racing so fast my vision was starting to blur. “How ’bout something to break off?”

He shook his head slowly and squeezed my fingers until I had to bend them or let him snap them. Then he pulled my index finger back up, preparing to rip it off. “Should I count to three?”

But before I could answer, a loud thud came from the kitchen. Something heavy crashed down the stairs, tumbling end over end. Nea jumped out of the way in time to avoid the rolling wooden cart, but the microwave hit her leg when it flew off the top. She went down, stunned, but not out.

Emma ran halfway down the stairs holding the rail in one h

and and a steak knife in the other, and I blinked, sure I was hallucinating. I would never have expected fight over flight from her. Did she actually give a damn about me, even after I’d driven her straight into hell? Or did she just want the car keys?

Troy dropped my fist and ran to help Nea. I jerked my other hand from Desi and punched the other harpy. Then I stumbled my way through the piles of junk toward the stairs. But Emma was gone.

Pulse racing, I whirled around to find her in the middle of the basement, buried knee-deep in crap, eyes wide with fear, jaw stiff with defiance. Troy stood behind her, one arm tight around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. Just like in Syrie’s picture.

“Em, you okay?” I asked, as the three others gathered around them, heedless of the mess they stood in. All four sets of harpy eyes watched me, shining in the light from overhead. All four bodies looked tense and eager to lunge at me, finger-claws ready to shred flesh.