33

As the final candle sizzled to an ember, darkness choked all direction from the room. I lurched in the vicinity of the stairs only to crash noisily over a tumble of boxes. The meaty thump of my boot told me I’d found the dead realtor. At least he hadn’t gone anywhere.

I toed him again, just to be sure. The thready giggle that erupted from my throat seemed worrisome, but I didn’t have enough brain left to process the reason. Too many of my overtaxed synapses were flailing around the problem of Tabitha.

She shouldn’t have gone with Zuriel. Not that it was strictly impossible for an Anakim to carry another person into the Shadowside—it was just damned difficult. But the confluence of abilities and the effort involved… I couldn’t grok it. Not with those two. She should have sloughed off when he made the transition.

Maybe because she was dead already, that somehow changed the rules. Or maybe Lailah changed the rules for everyone. But the owl was gone. I couldn’t ask her.

“Worry about it later and move,” I muttered, less concerned about talking to myself than the breathless wheeze my voice had become. The searing numbness running from shoulder to fingers reminded me that nothing was fine right now, and I’d be royally fucked if Zuriel popped back to attack again.

Orienting off the murdered realtor, I staggered for the exit. Climbing the stairs was a little better—the choking miasma of death grew distant, along with the brain-numbing buzz of sacrificial magic. My head began to clear, though the rest of me still felt like shit. Once out into the night, I took heaving lungfuls of the cool September air, trading the stink of corpses and clotted blood for damp grass and the subtle burn of turning leaves.

I stared at my parked motorcycle, slow to process the problem it created. Its very presence was incriminating. Despite the gunfire, no sirens shrilled in the distance, but that wasn’t going to last. Police would find this mess eventually, and the less evidence I left of myself, the better. Bullets and casings peppered the basement. That was bad enough. I needed to get the Vulcan out of sight and put another call to Bobby. Remy, too—especially if Bobby didn’t have the traction necessary to make my presence disappear.

Remy. Remington.

Sensation was returning to my dead arm, but not fast enough. I couldn’t ride the motorcycle one-handed. Maybe if I stashed it in Marjory’s garage… Awkwardly, I slipped the bike into neutral and tried walking it to the street. I nearly dropped it before I got to the bottom of the drive. With the bum arm, this wasn’t happening.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, and left it where it was. Angled sideways across the drive, it was even more obvious, and there was nothing I could do about it. Digging my knuckles into the meat of my tingling arm, I continued drunkenly down the lane, finally making it to the Hellcat.

Dropping behind the wheel, I tugged the phone off its charger and called Bobby. His personal line went straight to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. This wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted in the Cloud, and while I hated putting this through on his work phone, he needed to know what had happened out here—especially if I got myself arrested.

The work phone went to voicemail, as well.

Still ignoring me. Yeah, that was it.

It wasn’t because someone had gotten to him already.

Not because he was trapped somewhere.

Or dead.

“Fucking stop,” I told myself. My hands were shaking. My head wasn’t working right—it felt like it had been shoved through a Vitamix. Belatedly, I stuck the keys in the ignition. Not that I should be driving, but I couldn’t stay here.

Hastily, I tapped the number for Remy, switching the device to speaker and balancing it on the dash. He, at least, picked up. The instant he did, a flood of electronica pulsed from the phone, loud enough that I could have been standing right next to him at Club Heaven.

I didn’t bother with a greeting.

“There’s a problem with a house here at the end of the block,” I said. “Basement’s a horror show. Human sacrifice, circle, blood. I left bullets everywhere—”

Remy cut in sharply, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “Zaquiel, slow down. It’s loud in here.” The acoustics shifted as he cupped a hand over the phone. “I can’t hear you clearly.”

“Shut up,” I said. I smacked the steering wheel with the flat of my bad hand. Jagged scissors of nerve pain cut all the way to the bone. “Just listen and shut up.”

“Zaquiel, what on earth—”

I took the turn onto Westminster in a squealing arc, practically shouting over his objections. “That fucker killed her, and then he killed her daughter. Strung her up. All for bait.” My voice was high and reedy. “Bait for me.”

Muttering a comment I didn’t catch, Remy traded the thudding bass of Club Heaven’s main dance floor for something quieter—probably one of the soundproofed back rooms.

“Where are you?” he demanded.

“Parma,” I said, like he should have known that.

“What on earth are you doing in Parma?” In the background, a door opened and closed, briefly filling the quiet with more dance music. A low voice, maybe one of Heaven’s no-neck bouncers, asked him something. Remy was on the clock. He covered the mic completely, muffling all but a hint of his terse response. I bashed the steering wheel again in frustration. The car swerved, and I over-corrected, crossing fully into the oncoming lane.

“I went to Marjory’s,” I snapped. “That bastard killed her. Ripped her fingers off. I…” My air ran out. Sucking a heaving breath, I tried to remember what I’d been saying. At random, I took a turn in the rabbit warren of back streets nestling Marjory’s neighborhood. None of the signs looked right.

“Marjory,” Remy repeated. “Fuck.” The word, from his lips, felt foreign. I had never heard him swear like that before. “Do you mean little Jory—Karl Kazinsky’s daughter?”

“Jory?” I echoed. A NO OUTLET sign flashed lazy yellow blinkers. I sped past, barely registering the words. “Karl? Did he write a bunch of love-letters? Guy was kind of kinky.”

It was like he didn’t hear me. “Explain what’s going on, Zaquiel. Start from the top,” he demanded. His accent thickened the more annoyed he got—and the more worried. “Who killed Jory? And why?”

“That bastard Zuriel,” I said. “He threatened all of them. Every single one.”

“You’re still breaking up. Did you say Zuriel? Are you absolutely sure? Does he know about Karl’s connection to Sal?”

“Sal?” I bellowed, completely derailed. “Fuck Sal. When did that Cait Jenner wannabe get tangled up with one of my anchors?” I screeched to a stop as a blinking guardrail blocked my progress. Swinging the Hellcat in a messy U-turn, the wheels spat gravel as I punched the gas. Porch lights flicked on at one of the darkened houses. A silhouette drifted cautiously to the door, and I sped away before I could be spotted.

No one could catch me out here. So many reasons.

“What are you even talking about?” Remy asked.

“He tortured her and killed her because she was my anchor,” I said. “If Sal had anything to do with that, anything at all—” Words failed as I choked on rising fury.

“When did you anchor Marjory?” Remy queried.

“When the fuck did you marry her?” I shot back. “Does Lil know?”

“That’s nothing but paperwork,” he responded. “Why would Lil care? The State wouldn’t let Jory foster children without a legal husband. That’s all she wanted once Samantha died.”

“Sammy was a woman?” I asked dumbly.

“Zaquiel, in all seriousness, are you injured?” he persisted. “You really don’t sound right.”

“Thorns of the king—Lugallu,” I corrected, but king seemed right, too. The words banged uncertainly around in my brain. A memory—disconnected with the night’s events—shivered from scalp to toe. I’d encountered that magic before, or something very like it. The splinter of knowledge was buried so deep, it registered only as unpleasant emotion.

“What?” Remy’s voice thundered through the phone.

“Nasty bit of magic.” The shivers grew more pronounced. Comprehension remained elusive. “Still can’t feel my arm. Not really.”

“Zaquiel, listen to me. Is our brother still there?”

“Poofed,” I answered. The car swung from lane to lane. Dimly, I realized it was me doing it. “Took Lailah. Tabitha, too.” I curled both fists around the wheel, leaving the phone to skitter loose on the dash.

“Lailah? You really are delirious,” he muttered. The device started to fall as I took another turn. Traffic lights gleamed up ahead. “Please, just stay put. I’m going to—”

I never got to hear him finish. The light turned red. I tried to brake, but I’d lost track of my speed. Tires screeching, the Hellcat fishtailed through the intersection.

So did a pickup sailing down the cross street.

We both laid on our horns, far too late for anything else. Remy’s voice shrilled from the smartphone—all I heard was my name. I swerved hard enough to put the Dodge into a spin. The phone banged against the far window, then clattered beneath the passenger seat. It stopped making noise. Headlights, taillights arced around me in a blur. My seatbelt locked, cutting against my neck as the car banked so sharply, it nearly went up on two wheels. I thought I was going to flip right over. The brakes were useless. My foot was on the floor. A veering Honda, the rusted ass of the pick-up, a utility pole, they all swung by, way too close.

Miraculously, there was no collision.

Tires traded grass for pavement. The Hellcat lurched, then came to a stop, nose pointed into traffic. My head kept spinning for another minute or so. There was a huge neon sign inches from my door.

JESUS SAVES

I cackled madly in its yellow glow.