Priceless by Shannon Mayer Page A

of blue hit him, absorbing into his skin, and he held his breath, stumbling with the anticipation of pain, loss of vision, something bad. But there was nothing. Blinking, he stood back up and looked around. There was only one figure left and it stood five feet from him. He raised his gun as Martins ran up beside him.
    The cloaked figure tipped its head sideways, as if considering them both.
    “Lower your hands,” O’Shea barked.
    As if on cue the figure whipped its hands up, and O’Shea fired. He watched in horror as, in slow motion, the bullet curved almost ninety degrees to blow a hole in Martins’ forehead right next to him.
    O’Shea froze, unable to comprehend what had happened, his mind reeling at the impossibility of what his eyes were telling him.
    More screaming. Adamson was screaming for him, his partner was dead and the bullet was from his gun. His eyes flew back to where the figure had been, but it was gone along with the others.
    In that moment, O’Shea felt his world spin out from under him; the only thing keeping him from losing it was the woman who cried out for his help. Holstering his gun, he pushed everything else away and ran toward her voice.
    *-*-*-*
    “Rylee. Scared,” Alex whispered, his body pressed hard against mine as we crept forward. The only chance we were going to have was to break out through the flames and hope to hell we didn’t catch fire. Not how I saw my day panning out when I got up that morning.
    “I know, buddy. We’re going to run fast, around the house to the Jeep,” I said, scratching him behind the ear. “Understand?”
    He huffed into the dirt. The smoke filled the room fast, my lungs ached, my eyes burning and my hope fading. If they, the bastards who’d taken India and attacked us here, had blocked the trap door, I doubted they would have left the cellar door to chance.
    “Now,” I said, prepping my body to hit hard, hoping I was wrong, hoping the door wouldn’t be barred magically.
    Our bodies hit in tandem and we were flung backwards, bitch slapped by the power that held the door against us. I grabbed the jug of salt water and flung it on the door, but it did nothing; the spell was on the other side.
    Intermittently howling and choking on the smoke, Alex sat on the floor, tears streaming down his face.
    Even with all the weapons I had, there was nothing to break through magical barriers. There’d never been a need, and we were about to die because I hadn’t been prepared.
    I slumped to the floor, as a gunshot went off outside.
    “What the hell?”
    Alex answered. “Guns.” He paused. “Big guns. Man with gun here.”
    Man with . . .
    “O’Shea!” I screamed. “Here, we’re trapped!”
    Another round of gunshots went off, then the sound of sirens. Shit, I’d never been so happy to have a constant tail from the agent that had tried to frame me for murder.
    Coughing, I crouched back to the floor. Within moments, there was rattling on the cellar door and then it flung open. But it wasn’t O’Shea.
    “Milly!” I ran up the steps and caught her in a hug. She was crying, her hands white with powdered salt. The fire raged behind her, but it wasn’t as close as I’d thought; the smoke had just been funneled toward us. Nice.
    “I’m so sorry, Rylee.”
    “Hey, you made it in time, that’s all that matters.” Alex ran around us in circles, yipping until O’Shea ran into view. The wind, the real wind and not some magicked wind, picked up and blew the smoke and fire back out into the wheat field. That wasn’t good either, but better than the alternative.
    I turned to face him, putting Milly just behind me. I couldn’t help it; we were a team, but when it came to O’Shea’s anger, she didn’t deserve to get the brunt of it.
    But he didn’t flare up. His face was pale, and it occurred to me he’d just seen magic for probably the first time in his life.
    “Where’s mini-me?” I asked, hoping to shake him out of his stupor.
    He stared blankly at