Ride the Storm (Cassandra Palmer 8)

“Who the hell is she?” Marco demanded.

“A reporter—”

“Damn it, Cassie! We blocked all their numbers weeks ago!”

I just stared at him for a second, and then I started laughing—why, I didn’t know. But it felt good, it felt right, like Marco’s bulk under my hands. Like the sight of Rico, the suave Italian, gently scooping up Rhea’s unconscious form from behind the counter. Like seeing more people step through the mutilated wall, this time women with wands in their hands who I didn’t know, but who Marco must have rounded up somewhere.

And who, along with the vamps, were fast clearing the shop. And in a few cases, heading beyond. And no, no, no.

“Pull them back,” I croaked.

“What?”

“Pull them back! Pull everyone back!”

And to Marco’s credit, he didn’t waste time arguing. “To me!” he called, the deep bellow not needing any amplification.

And to him they came, blood-splattered vamps, the droplets already melting into their skin; the older lady in the floral dress, her face pale and pinched, cradling an obviously broken arm; Augustine, bloody and shaking, but also quietly enraged, his long white hands flexing and unflexing as he stared back at the mages; the chick with the pink hair, crazy-eyed and grinning, a wand in each bloody fist; and the rest of the group of sobbing, filthy, traumatized people.

All except one.

“Where’s Grafton?” I looked around, but I didn’t see him.

People were getting through the wall, scurrying on hands and knees through a tunnel of plaster and wood and warped steel. But I didn’t see him in line. I didn’t see him outside, either, where something was going on, something that sounded like a hurricane and looked like one, too, with chairs from one of the nearby cafés sailing by the missing windows, along with bits of paper and debris. And dark mages, running with their coats flying out behind them, and then flying themselves when they were suddenly ripped off their feet.

Carla, no longer screaming, but blood-drenched and pale, with her daughter’s head buried in her neck, tugged on me. “Lady—we have to go.”

“Where’s Grafton?” I asked.

She didn’t say anything.

“That’s his name, isn’t it? The older man—”

“That was his name,” she said quietly, and handed me something.

It was small and black, and chewed and mangled. And now also wet and bloody. I looked back up at her.

“He died buying us the time to get back in here,” the biker chick told me, from the line. “He went out like a goddamn war mage!”

Carla didn’t say anything. She just hugged her child closer, looking at me with haunted eyes. And then handed the girl off to one of the witches for the trip through the wall, before heading through herself.

“Your turn!” Marco said, taking us toward the ruined wall.

I looked back at the drag, at what definitely looked like a hurricane now, at the glass and wood and bloody, burnt couture that was beginning to get sucked out of the shop. And my fist clenched over the small item in my palm. And then, with the shop starting to disintegrate around us, I laid my head on Marco’s shoulder.

And we were gone.

Chapter Twelve

I woke up. That was sort of a surprise, since I couldn’t remember falling asleep. Or going to bed, although I was in mine. And clean and bandaged and wearing an oversized tee, although I only knew that by feel because the room was dark.

Pitch-dark.

I sat up, heart hammering, although I didn’t know why. And then I remembered why and slightly freaked out, despite the fact that I was safe; I was home. I knew I was.

But something was wrong.

I clutched Billy’s necklace in a confused half panic. The faint light it gave off was usually too dim to see, but the darkness was so profound that it shone like a beacon, illuminating my palm and shining through my fingers. He was in there—I could feel him—although he wasn’t coming out. Probably too exhausted. Ghosts don’t recharge by sleep; they need life energy, and he’d used up most of his saving me.