I can only hope that means the good guys are winning.
“Lizzy.” Rachel clutches my arm, her eyes wide. I follow her gaze to the trail. The men have crested the hill, their dark shadows slithering along the rise, heads swiveling. It’s only a matter of minutes before they figure out where we are.
“We will purge you!” Brendan shouts.
Rachel shoots me an incredulous look. “You seriously fucked that guy?”
“Not my proudest moment.”
“For over ayear?”
“Bigger fish, Rach.” I find two more big rocks, one for myself and one for Kate, who glances at it and shrugs, returning to her flowers.
“What do we do?” Rachel whispers. And that, more than the goons and Brendan’s face and the gunfire, is what truly terrifies me.
Rachelis supposed to know what to do. Rachelalwaysknows what to do.
But now she’s looking at me like she’s counting on me. Like she actually believes I’m a person whocanbe counted on.
“I smell wet cunt!” one of the goon’s shouts. Another starts catcalling. They’re moving in on us from behind, Brendan and the others from the front, all of them taunting and whistling, telling us in excruciating detail what they plan to do once they get their hands on us.
There are at least a dozen now. Maybe more. I’ve lost count of their shadows and shapes, the cold, wet smother of their dark energy.
I grab Rachel’s hand. Steel myself. “Don’t waste a shot, Rach. Hit hard, and dodge.”
“Hit hard and dodge. That’s the plan?”
“You got a better one?”
She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. Offers a tiny smile, a flame of hope in the darkness. “No, yours is solid. I like it.”
We take deep, steadying breaths. Clutch our makeshift weapons.
And then, we wait.
We wait and wait and fuckingwait.
The men do not attack.
They do not follow through on their threats.
As far as I can tell, they haven’t even entered the cemetery.
“Why is it so quiet?” Rachel whispers.
I close my eyes. Try to pick up on anything, but… she’s right. The rain has stopped. The taunting has gone silent. We wait a few more minutes to be sure.
Nothing.
“Are they gone?” she asks. “Maybe the demons caught up and?—”
Something sails over the hawthorns, a blur of flame and glass, crashing into the headstone next to us in a brilliant burst of orange and violet.
“Move!” I grab Kate, and we stumble out from behind our headstone just as another Molotov cocktail explodes on top of it.
The flames surge bright, chewing through Kate’s flowers, petals blackening and blistering. The fire doesn’t fizzle out, though. It intensifies, sliding like water over the headstones, undulating between bright orange and a dark, hypnotic purple.
“That’s no ordinary fire,” I say, my heart bottoming out.
