open and stepped into her violated shop.
Unlocking and opening the door was an action she repeated day in and out. She’d never thought of the warning beep of the alarm waiting for her to cross the shop and enter the “all’s well” code as companionable until its absence.
Her pulse sped.
Out of reflex more than out of any expectation that it would work, she flicked on the light switch beside the door. The lights aimed at the front of the reception desk flashed on.
She squinted at the gold oak, chest-high counter. She’d put a welcome sign there, and Troy had nailed up three showcase pieces of artwork. Something pale obscured them. Her brain couldn’t make sense of the sight. She looked away, giving her eyes a minute to adjust.
On the floor beneath the shattered window, a recognizably humanoid figure sprawled, faceup amid so much broken glass that it looked like the corpse rested on bloodstained snow.
A queasy sense of displacement rocked her.
She had no doubt the man was dead. Inside the shop, the sharp, metallic smell overwhelmed her. Blood and death.
The corpse had been skinned. He was a mass of vivid red muscle and white sinew. There were gaping twin holes where his nose should be. And without lips, he grinned a death’s-head rictus at the shop ceiling. And her living room floor. It suddenly struck her as stupid to live above the shop.
Isa glanced at the reception desk because she couldn’t bear to go on looking at him.
Her brain registered what her eyes had tried to show it before.
The breath wheezed out of her chest.
Zoog.
It was Zoog who’d been thrown through her window.
She knew because it was his tattooed skin nailed to her reception desk. In its entirety. Scalp and hair. Legs. Arms. Every single digit, carefully split and peeled as if from bloody twigs.
Pressure built behind Isa’s solar plexus. Horror pounded in her head. Nausea surged. She swallowed it down.
That broke her paralysis. Breath coming in sobs, Isa bolted for the phone on the desk.
Dead.
She slammed the handset down and remembered. Nathalie had unplugged it.
She shoved the chair aside, scrambled under the desk, and fumbled the plug into place. Shaking, unable to get enough air, she struggled out from under the desk and, without bothering to stand, grabbed the phone.
Dial tone.
With quaking fingers, Isa dialed 911.
A hand and cold cloth clamped over her nose and mouth from behind. She fell against a hard, denim-clad leg.
“You were told not to interfere,” a male voice growled.
Some hyperaware portion of her brain recognized that voice and the sly, predatory taste of his magic. Bishop. Patty’s apprentice—no. Daniel’s spy.
He wrapped his other arm around her throat and hauled her upright.
She shrieked into the sweet with the stink of chemicals cloth, and twisted, struggling to win free.
From far away, Isa heard a female voice say, “Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Buzzing filled her brain and ears. It rose and fell almost like a healing chant she remembered from childhood. Her resolve melted into mist and dissipated. The phone slipped from her fingers. She never heard it hit.
Chapter Seven
Pain brought Isa to consciousness. Ice picks stabbed her head in time with her pulse. Burning claws raked the back of her throat. She swallowed to ease the discomfort. It didn’t help. Had she fallen asleep with metal in her mouth? If she had, it was gone now, but the taste lingered. A roll of nausea accompanied a lightning strike in her brain.
She had to get up. Didn’t she?
Frowning, she struggled to remember why.
Gus howling. The crash of glass. The shop alarm.
Her breath caught. Had she dreamed that? Her heart flip-flopped, amplifying the pounding in her skull.
No. She hadn’t.
The memory of Zoog’s dead body and his tattooed skin nailed to her reception desk played against the inside of her eyelids.
Why?
Because she’d helped him? Had she gotten both Zoog and his tattoo killed?
Get
Unlocking and opening the door was an action she repeated day in and out. She’d never thought of the warning beep of the alarm waiting for her to cross the shop and enter the “all’s well” code as companionable until its absence.
Her pulse sped.
Out of reflex more than out of any expectation that it would work, she flicked on the light switch beside the door. The lights aimed at the front of the reception desk flashed on.
She squinted at the gold oak, chest-high counter. She’d put a welcome sign there, and Troy had nailed up three showcase pieces of artwork. Something pale obscured them. Her brain couldn’t make sense of the sight. She looked away, giving her eyes a minute to adjust.
On the floor beneath the shattered window, a recognizably humanoid figure sprawled, faceup amid so much broken glass that it looked like the corpse rested on bloodstained snow.
A queasy sense of displacement rocked her.
She had no doubt the man was dead. Inside the shop, the sharp, metallic smell overwhelmed her. Blood and death.
The corpse had been skinned. He was a mass of vivid red muscle and white sinew. There were gaping twin holes where his nose should be. And without lips, he grinned a death’s-head rictus at the shop ceiling. And her living room floor. It suddenly struck her as stupid to live above the shop.
Isa glanced at the reception desk because she couldn’t bear to go on looking at him.
Her brain registered what her eyes had tried to show it before.
The breath wheezed out of her chest.
Zoog.
It was Zoog who’d been thrown through her window.
She knew because it was his tattooed skin nailed to her reception desk. In its entirety. Scalp and hair. Legs. Arms. Every single digit, carefully split and peeled as if from bloody twigs.
Pressure built behind Isa’s solar plexus. Horror pounded in her head. Nausea surged. She swallowed it down.
That broke her paralysis. Breath coming in sobs, Isa bolted for the phone on the desk.
Dead.
She slammed the handset down and remembered. Nathalie had unplugged it.
She shoved the chair aside, scrambled under the desk, and fumbled the plug into place. Shaking, unable to get enough air, she struggled out from under the desk and, without bothering to stand, grabbed the phone.
Dial tone.
With quaking fingers, Isa dialed 911.
A hand and cold cloth clamped over her nose and mouth from behind. She fell against a hard, denim-clad leg.
“You were told not to interfere,” a male voice growled.
Some hyperaware portion of her brain recognized that voice and the sly, predatory taste of his magic. Bishop. Patty’s apprentice—no. Daniel’s spy.
He wrapped his other arm around her throat and hauled her upright.
She shrieked into the sweet with the stink of chemicals cloth, and twisted, struggling to win free.
From far away, Isa heard a female voice say, “Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Buzzing filled her brain and ears. It rose and fell almost like a healing chant she remembered from childhood. Her resolve melted into mist and dissipated. The phone slipped from her fingers. She never heard it hit.
Chapter Seven
Pain brought Isa to consciousness. Ice picks stabbed her head in time with her pulse. Burning claws raked the back of her throat. She swallowed to ease the discomfort. It didn’t help. Had she fallen asleep with metal in her mouth? If she had, it was gone now, but the taste lingered. A roll of nausea accompanied a lightning strike in her brain.
She had to get up. Didn’t she?
Frowning, she struggled to remember why.
Gus howling. The crash of glass. The shop alarm.
Her breath caught. Had she dreamed that? Her heart flip-flopped, amplifying the pounding in her skull.
No. She hadn’t.
The memory of Zoog’s dead body and his tattooed skin nailed to her reception desk played against the inside of her eyelids.
Why?
Because she’d helped him? Had she gotten both Zoog and his tattoo killed?
Get
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