now, Nikodemus must believe she’d stolen it and was halfway to Magellan with it, betraying him the way mages always betrayed fiends.
The sound of the motorcycle receded. She was alone. Far away, traffic whooshed along a freeway structure. But this street was silent.
She sat up, slowly, to work her way past the bruises, and stayed on the curb until her head stopped spinning. When her eyes focused, she pulled off the bits of tape still stuck to her wrists. She stood and assessed her condition. Nothing broken, but a great deal was scraped or sore. Her headache, which at Nikodemus’s house had nearly vanished, was coming back full force. Great. She shivered. She had no idea where she was. The combination of wind and fog numbed her joints, and now that she wasn’t distracted by the thought of being murdered, the cold penetrated straight through her. She had no money. Her purse was at Nikodemus’s house. She checked her pockets anyway. Nothing.
Carson started walking. Downhill, since Xia had ridden so far uphill to get here. The streets were wide and dark, not many lights, just locked-up chain-link fences and the smell of cooling asphalt and roof tar. Her everyday world had turned into a dangerous place. She was smack in the middle of a war. If Nikodemus was right and she really was a witch, she had the awful feeling her side wasn’t the good guys.
She tripped over a metal pipe, a short length, a little longer than her forearm, rusted out at one end. She picked it up because there was no other weapon at hand. Whether Nikodemus would come after her she didn’t know, but somewhere out there Kynan was looking for her. She wasn’t going to be unarmed when he found her.
Every so often a car drove past her, blasting music so loud the bass pounded at her ears. One of them slowed down. She ignored the stares and shouts and gestures and kept walking, gripping her pipe. Head down, she counted her steps and headed for the distant lights and sounds of traffic.
The downhill was getting to her knees. Her thighs hurt and her shoes pinched, but she kept walking. The street leveled out for a bit and became residential. Some bars, none too clean from what she saw, a restaurant with dingy walls and paper instead of tablecloths. But mostly homes in various stages of disintegration. Sheets over windows, peeling paint. Barred doors. Her stomach rumbled. Another car pulled even with her and kept pace. A shiny black BMW. She tightened her fingers around her pipe, prepared to—she didn’t know what. Bash someone over the head with it if she had to.
She heard the electric hum of the Beemer’s passenger window sliding down. She walked faster. Colors flashed behind her eyes. The car door opened while the vehicle kept moving, and someone jumped out, running a few steps to keep his balance. She turned, pipe raised, and her blood froze.
Kynan grinned at her. He made a motion to whoever was driving the car, and the door swung shut. He grabbed the back of her upper arm. “Gotcha,” he said.
He was much, much taller than her. Carson brought up the pipe, but he caught it midswing and crushed it into so much powdered rust. He stopped walking, forcing her to stop, too. She drew a breath to scream, and he grabbed her, hand over her mouth, while he stood with his head cocked, studying the buildings. She worked her mouth open and tried to bite him, but his palm was over her mouth, not his fingers. He dragged her up the stairs of a stucco building with a battered mailbox at the top of the cracked stairs. Someone had taped a For Rent sign in the street-facing window.
Once she realized he was taking her inside, she fought. But he was much bigger and stronger, and when she started kicking, he just picked her up and threw her inside, hard enough that she hit the floor and rolled several feet.
“Leave me alone, Kynan.” She scrambled to her feet, eyes darting every which way, looking for a way out. Somewhere to run. “Magellan will never know if you
The sound of the motorcycle receded. She was alone. Far away, traffic whooshed along a freeway structure. But this street was silent.
She sat up, slowly, to work her way past the bruises, and stayed on the curb until her head stopped spinning. When her eyes focused, she pulled off the bits of tape still stuck to her wrists. She stood and assessed her condition. Nothing broken, but a great deal was scraped or sore. Her headache, which at Nikodemus’s house had nearly vanished, was coming back full force. Great. She shivered. She had no idea where she was. The combination of wind and fog numbed her joints, and now that she wasn’t distracted by the thought of being murdered, the cold penetrated straight through her. She had no money. Her purse was at Nikodemus’s house. She checked her pockets anyway. Nothing.
Carson started walking. Downhill, since Xia had ridden so far uphill to get here. The streets were wide and dark, not many lights, just locked-up chain-link fences and the smell of cooling asphalt and roof tar. Her everyday world had turned into a dangerous place. She was smack in the middle of a war. If Nikodemus was right and she really was a witch, she had the awful feeling her side wasn’t the good guys.
She tripped over a metal pipe, a short length, a little longer than her forearm, rusted out at one end. She picked it up because there was no other weapon at hand. Whether Nikodemus would come after her she didn’t know, but somewhere out there Kynan was looking for her. She wasn’t going to be unarmed when he found her.
Every so often a car drove past her, blasting music so loud the bass pounded at her ears. One of them slowed down. She ignored the stares and shouts and gestures and kept walking, gripping her pipe. Head down, she counted her steps and headed for the distant lights and sounds of traffic.
The downhill was getting to her knees. Her thighs hurt and her shoes pinched, but she kept walking. The street leveled out for a bit and became residential. Some bars, none too clean from what she saw, a restaurant with dingy walls and paper instead of tablecloths. But mostly homes in various stages of disintegration. Sheets over windows, peeling paint. Barred doors. Her stomach rumbled. Another car pulled even with her and kept pace. A shiny black BMW. She tightened her fingers around her pipe, prepared to—she didn’t know what. Bash someone over the head with it if she had to.
She heard the electric hum of the Beemer’s passenger window sliding down. She walked faster. Colors flashed behind her eyes. The car door opened while the vehicle kept moving, and someone jumped out, running a few steps to keep his balance. She turned, pipe raised, and her blood froze.
Kynan grinned at her. He made a motion to whoever was driving the car, and the door swung shut. He grabbed the back of her upper arm. “Gotcha,” he said.
He was much, much taller than her. Carson brought up the pipe, but he caught it midswing and crushed it into so much powdered rust. He stopped walking, forcing her to stop, too. She drew a breath to scream, and he grabbed her, hand over her mouth, while he stood with his head cocked, studying the buildings. She worked her mouth open and tried to bite him, but his palm was over her mouth, not his fingers. He dragged her up the stairs of a stucco building with a battered mailbox at the top of the cracked stairs. Someone had taped a For Rent sign in the street-facing window.
Once she realized he was taking her inside, she fought. But he was much bigger and stronger, and when she started kicking, he just picked her up and threw her inside, hard enough that she hit the floor and rolled several feet.
“Leave me alone, Kynan.” She scrambled to her feet, eyes darting every which way, looking for a way out. Somewhere to run. “Magellan will never know if you
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