Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

We were in a dark corner of the ballroom of the palatial house in London that until recently had housed the Pythian Court. It still housed them, actually, because I’d brought us back to just before everything went kablooie. Not because I was a glutton for punishment, but because the asshole acolytes who were about to blow this place sky high had thoughtfully turned off the wards first.

But since the reason the wards were down was the three or four dozen dark mages on the premises, I didn’t think crawling around in the open was a great idea.

“Come on,” I told them, and staggered to my feet.

We hurried across the open floor, past the French doors that had been replaced after Mircea and I helped obliterate them sometime back in the eighties. We stayed out of line of sight to the main hall, where another me was about to flash in with a trio of badass witches. And ended up beside the wall where Agnes had once been frozen by a goddess in disguise.

For a moment, all I saw was gothic wood paneling, the kind that looked like it belonged in a country gentleman’s library rather than a ballroom. But it was there for a reason. Because when Rhea turned a wooden rosette, a narrow section of wall slid back, revealing a slender hidden staircase.

“Mages on the second floor,” I reminded them softly as we left the first behind.

“So why aren’t we on the third?” Fred whispered. “Or better yet, inside the room? Why are we taking the scenic route?”

“Because I don’t want to materialize in a room full of dark mages?”

“Why would they be there? Why would anyone be there? This place is about to go up like a firework!”

“Because that’s the way my life works,” I hissed, as Rico cautiously pushed open the paneling on Agnes’ hall.

And just as quickly pulled back in.

“What?” I asked, moving to the front so I could see. “Crap.”

“What is it?” Fred demanded.

“Some of those mages who aren’t supposed to be here.”

“What?” He poked his head under my arm, so he could get an eye to the crack in the door. And saw the same thing I did—two guys lounging around, smoking. Like this whole place wasn’t about to be.

“What in the hell are they doing there?”

“Having a smoke.”

“Having—that’s just stupid.”

“Not if the acolytes failed to mention that this place was about to go up in flames,” Rico whispered.

“They wouldn’t do that,” Fred said, sounding shocked. “Would they?”

“You don’t know them.” That was Rhea, her usually gentle face suffused by something that looked like hate. “The adepts, they’re . . . They didn’t care. Two dozen children, and they didn’t care.”

“It’s safe to say they didn’t care how many mages made it out of here, either,” I told Fred.

“No offense,” he whispered. “But your acolytes are dicks.”

No argument there. But they weren’t the problem right now, their stooges were, and how to get around them. And we didn’t have a lot of time.

And then we had less.

A familiar sound came from below. A sound like a door opening in some paneling. And then boot heels started hitting stairs, a lot of them. Like maybe someone had seen us come in and got a few buddies together to check it out.

“Damn,” Fred said.

Yeah, that about summed it up. I looked back the other way, but it was worse than before, since the smokers had been joined by a guy dragging a sheet made into a bag. A bag that clanked with what, at a guess, was every valuable he could find.

“They’re plundering her,” Rhea whispered, quivering because she was so furious.

“I can take them,” Rico told me, dark eyes level.