Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The wraith—or whatever the hell it is—takes in a deep, wheezing breath. “I smell,” it says with a slow, hissing exhalation, “power.”

The entire freaking bar turns and looks at me. Makes sense I can’t catch a break.

“Sorry,” I mumble, giving a sheepish wave and standing. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I look up toward the wraith. “Hey, man, mind if we take this outside?”

It makes a noise, some high, keening wail, one that sets my teeth on edge and causes the people nearest it to cry out in pain.

“Later,” I tell my friends, and hop the railing separating our table’s platform from the dance floor proper. I mutter apologies as I bump my way past a few people, until the rest simply move out of my way.

My friends are up and following after me, but I don’t have time to wait for them. Removing the undead thing screaming behind me is my top priority.

I know where the emergency exit is. Just like I know that if I take six running steps up the stairwell immediately outside the door, I can skip the last stair and be in the alley before the wraith can find its way around the side of the building. Another twenty-one steps to hit the half fence in the alley. Thirteen steps and a hard right and I’ll be on the street across from the city park that meanders its way into Mathers.

Not that I’ve had to do this a few times or anything.

It all goes according to plan until I jump the fence. Some idiot fuckstain put a pile of trash on the other side. It’d be fine, except the trash isn’t wrapped up in neat little bags. Nope, nothing but flimsy cardboard boxes.

I stagger out of the alley with a foul, rotten milk slush clinging to my jeans. A patch of coffee grounds and partially dried spaghetti sticks to my shin. But it’s the used condom stuck to the bottom of my shoe that really adds class to the whole thing.

Another wail from behind me. Damn. The wraith isn’t as dumb as I’d expected. It didn’t bother to chase me down the alley, like the harpies or yeti or river dragon did. Nope, it went around the block.

My feet pound against the pavement as I book it toward the park. I really don’t want the fight to break out there; Mathers has charms in place to prevent normal people from seeing the weirdness that is our campus. Anyone who drives through thinks they’re viewing a ritzy private college. The park’s outside the university’s jurisdiction.

There are only two options. I can stick to the paths that lead onto the campus, which are partially hidden by the large trees overhead, or cut across the lawn and take the shorter, but more exposed, route.

Before I can decide, there’s the warning sensation of magickal power in front of me. Robin Goodfellow appears out of nowhere, drunken smile in place and glass of beer in hand. I let out a squawk of surprise when I run into him, which he finds amusing. He lifts his glass and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Phineas Smith... That’s your name, isn’t it? Your friends were pretty worried about you.”

No shit, Sherlock.

I shrug out from under his arm and keep running. Well, trying to run. Goodfellow has a hand gripping the back of my shirt, slowing me down as he stumbles to keep up. He jabbers away, asking how I intend to defend myself, if I think anyone’s coming to help me, if I’m scared to die. I don’t waste my air to answer, even as I respond in my head.

Can’t defend myself consistently. The only person who ever shows up in the middle of my shitshows is Roark, and he’s not even on campus. As for the third question... Can’t be scared of the inevitable.

Every moment I’m delayed, the inevitable threat of my death comes closer and closer to reaching me. There’s no way I’ll get to the side paths in time to beat this wraith to campus. I need to cross the lawn instead, exposed to the wraith’s attention and with Goodfellow hanging on me.

I’m halfway over the expanse of damp grass when Goodfellow stumbles hard and loses his grip on me. A moment later, he yelps a curse and then he’s gone, leaving nothing more than his glass of beer tumbling to the ground.

“Stop!”

&nbs

p; The force of the wraith’s scream is like taking a socket wrench to the balls. I stumble, wincing as I fight my body’s urge to obey the command.

We learn spellcasting at Mathers, but most magickal beings these days can’t infuse their words with power. Only the older beings can, the ones that crawl out of the shadows of the outer darkness in search of a fix. They’re bloodhounds drawn to raw power and they never give up the hunt easily, which is why I have more run-ins with them than other magick users do over the course of their entire lives.

“Stop,” the wraith orders again.

This time, my knees lock up, my legs snap together, and I eat shit in the middle of the lawn. I roll to a stop a few feet away and try to crawl. Too bad my body’s having none of it.

The wraith hovers twenty feet from me. That greenish flame has extended from its eyes, engulfing its body in hellfire. A pale, fleshless hand reaches out toward me and even across the distance, the invisible pressure of its bony fingers digs into my chest. “Power.”

I wince as the wraith’s magick tries to claw its way farther into me, searching for the ley line’s source. “Look, if I could give you some, I would. The problem is I don’t really have a lot of control in stressful situations like this.”

The grass around my body starts to quiver, like it’s caught in a light breeze. Here and there, tufts begin steaming, then smoking. My control wavers in and out, sending flickers of darkness through my vision and worse nausea curling through my guts. Dammit. Thirsty Thursday and ley lines don’t seem to mix.

The wraith doesn’t seem to care about my warning, judging by the way its jaws clack together.

I take a breath, close my eyes, and reach deeper for the ley line. It’s the middle of the park, but no one’s around to get hurt. I’ll take out this freak and head back to the apartment, no harm, no foul.