Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

“Been better,” Emma said, and I was surprised by how steady she sounded. “What the hell is all this?”

“You were supposed to stay in the car.”

She shrugged, the gesture limited by Troy’s grip on her. “I told you I had to pee.”

“I think I’d rather have this than your tiny little finger.” Troy stuck his nose into Emma’s hair and she flinched, but remained resolutely, impressively still while he sniffed her. “She looks good enough to eat.”

If I gave her to them, they’d let me go. But though I was a predator, I wasn’t a murderer, and crossing that line would make Nash see me like everyone else did—as a monster. Hell, I’d see me as a monster if I left her, especially since she’d come down to help me.

But Em saw my moment of indecision, and that’s when she truly started to panic. “Sabine . . . ?” She struggled against Troy’s grip, but he held her easily.

“Let her go.”

Troy’s mocking smile widened. “But she’s good for several meals, and I swear we’d savor every bite.”

“Get the hell off me, you sick fuck,” Emma spat. And I realized she was going to try something an instant before she threw her head back.

There was an audible crunch, then a screech as Troy dropped her to grip his ruined nose. Emma ran for the stairs. Nea and the other harpies lunged for her. Pulse racing, I spun in search of a weapon and grabbed the only possibility nearby—a human femur.

I turned as the redheaded harpy tripped over a box on the floor and went down hard, and I was already scrambling after the other two, Nea in the lead.

Emma hit the first step and grabbed the rail.

Stumbling over a cracked mop bucket, I fought for balance then swung the bone. The ball joint smashed into Desi’s skull, and I spared a moment to be thankful she hadn’t spread her wings, probably because of the low ceiling.

The redheaded harpy crouched and hissed at me as Nea grabbed a handful of Emma’s hair and hauled her down three steps to the floor.

I swung again as the redhead raked pointed almost-claws toward my face. Her nails scored my cheek. My club—someone’s bone—slammed into her temple. The old femur broke in half, but she was down for the count.

At the base of the staircase, Nea stood with one hand tangled in Emma’s hair, the other around her throat. Emma looked scared, but she was holding it together. I stepped forward, ready to fight bare-handed since I’d lost my club—until something heavy landed on my back.

I stumbled forward, scrambling to regain my balance, and Troy’s screechy voice whispered in my ear. “Shoulda just let me have her. . . .” He threw his weight to one side, trying to knock me off balance. If he hadn’t been light—necessary physiology for anything that flies—that would have worked. Instead, I braced one hand against the wall and reached back with the other. My fist curled around a leathery handful of wing, edged by a long, thin bone, like the elongated fingers that frame a bat’s wings.

I pulled. Hard. Something tore with a satisfying, visceral pop. Troy screamed and when he fell, his wing ripped all the way to the pointed joint at the top. His screech hit notes that would have made a bean sidhe wince.

Troy would never fly again.

While he screamed and clutched what he could reach of his ruined wing, I race-shuffled through piles of junk toward the stairs, where Nea had already hauled Emma halfway to the first floor.

I jogged up the steps. Nea heard me and tried to turn, but she was confined by the tight space. I grabbed the base of her left wing and pulled, clinging to the stair rail with one hand. Nea screamed and let go of Emma. I shoved the harpy with both hands. She fell over the rail and crashed into a pile of old-fashioned metal toys.

“Go!” I shouted to Emma, as injured harpies got to their feet below us.

Em bent for something on the next tread, then raced up the last few steps and into the kitchen. On the first floor, I grabbed her arm and hauled her through the house, only pausing for a second when Emma gasped at the sight of Syrie standing in the middle of the living room floor, empty left eye socket aimed right at us, purple pencil clutched in one fist.

Then we were moving again. We ran out of the house, across the yard, and around the side of the store, ducking twice when a harpy lookout dived toward us from the sky. I dug the keys from my pocket and popped the locks remotely as we rounded the corner into the parking lot.

Em pulled open her door while I slid into the driver’s seat, and a second later, she slammed one hand down on her lock. I started the car, shifted into drive, and cut across the corner of the sidewalk, then shot toward the dark road.

“Who was that girl?” Em demanded, panting as the speedometer bobbed toward eighty and I finally remembered to turn on the headlights. “The one missing an eye?”

“Syrie.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. They couldn’t follow us without losing their jobs and forfeiting their lives. But not checking seemed careless. “She’s an oracle. I don’t know where they found her, but they’ve been charging for her services for years.”

“She gave you this?” Emma plucked Syrie’s drawing from the center console, where it had fallen.

“Don’t. . . .” I tried to grab the paper, but she unfolded it, holding it out of my reach.

“Uh-oh,” she said, staring at the image of her best friend.