“Lower your gun already,” Sebastian snapped, concerned gaze still on Louis, “so I can treat your brother.”
Alfred’s eyes had gone very narrow. But he didn’t remove the gun from under Wesley’s chin. “If Señor de Leon here came for you, I feel that he might be the sort of chap to bargain, don’t you? His life for yours?”
Sebastian’s gaze darted back to Alfred. “You’re endangering your own brother—”
“Yes,” Alfred said, without concern, “but I daresay I’m endangering Lord Fine more.”
Sebastian set his jaw. A moment later, Wesley recognized his own revolver, now in Sebastian’s hand andaimed at Alfred. “You’re not the only one who’s armed,” Sebastian said.
Alfred laughed. “Oh please,” he said derisively. “You couldn’t bear to hurt a damn fox. Your hands are shaking like a coward’s now; you’re not going to shoot me.”
Wesley saw Sebastian’s chest rise and fall with a hard breath. “Your gun—in the grip,” Sebastian said, his gaze on Alfred’s weapon. “I know what that medallion is. It belonged to the original Duke of Valemount—the relic he made for his tracking magic.” He frowned. “Why is it glowing?”
Oh no.
Wesley could see Alfred come to the realization at the exact same moment. “Sebastian, getdown,” Wesley barked. “Your magic is here and he wants to destroy it—”
Alfred jammed the revolver up under Wesley’s chin, and Wesley felt, more than heard, Alfred’s finger pulling the trigger—
“No!”
Sebastian’s shout echoed around the crypt. And then Wesley’s limbs were suddenly hit with that wave of familiar magic, his entire body going heavy as lead.
Alfred swore like he’d touched fire, the revolver clattering to the stone floor and going off again in another ear-splitting blast. Wesley winced, body flinching involuntarily as Sebastian staggered into the arch with his hands over his ears.
Then Alfred was lunging for Sebastian. Sebastian put up his hands but Alfred was bigger, slamming him into the crypt wall so hard that Wesley’s revolver flew out of Sebastian’s hand.
“What did you do?” Alfred demanded.
Sebastian’s shoulders were heaving, his cheeks flushed with color. “Magic,” he said, a look of wonder in his very wide eyes.
Alfred’s nostrils flared.
“Mymagic,” Sebastian said, raising his chin, still breathing hard. “Enervation. It’s trying to weaken the medallion relic. I don’t know if we’ll win, but my magic will stop you from shooting until you’ve run out of bullets.”
“Fucking paranormals.” Alfred shoved him again, knocking Sebastian’s head against the stone wall and then jamming his forearm up against Sebastian’s throat.
“Valemount.” Wesley yanked at his cuff again and felt metal bite into his wrist. “If you don’t get your fucking hands off him—”
Somewhere above their heads was the sudden pounding of feet and shouts in familiar voices.
“Don Sebastian!”
“Wesley!”
Alfred pressed his forearm harder into Sebastian’s neck. “Who the hell is that?”
“I didn’t come alone,” Sebastian said hoarsely, through a clenched jaw.
Alfred bared his teeth.
“Lord Fine!”
“Sebastian!”
“You can kill me if you want,” Sebastian said, his voice strained, maybe from the pressure on his throat, “but my friends will stop you before you hurt anyone else.”
Alfred abruptly shoved Sebastian to the side, straight into another sarcophagus. He grabbed Sebastian’s revolver from the floor and sprinted away, under the arch and into the darkness Sebastian had come from.
