He had watched her fighting with Walter. They would talk aboutbattlemagic later.
“What happened to Pecan Protocol?” she demanded as he opened bags for the cats and dumped the contents in the proper bowls, each with the cat’s name on it.
“Walter and I are going to talk to my former girlfriend, and then to visit our client.” He put the bowls on the floor. “You, however, are still under a protective shell, per Mama.”
“You calledMama?” she demanded, shifting up straight inthe bed. She instantly grabbed her head and cussed under her breath.
As children brought up in close proximity to the queen, they spoke foul language aloud only occasionally. Coarse words were not permitted in Aunt Jane’s presence. Also, surviving the war had ripped most expletives from everyone’s language. There had been a saying in the war, when warriors were in a safe zone. “Fear beat fuck.”
“No,” EJ said. “But we’re under Pecan Protocol, remember?”
He sat on the edge of the sofa and eased her back against the pillows. He checked his sister’s pulse and breathing and readjusted the healing amulets, pressing them against her. Except for the headache and the lost time, there were no lingering signs of concussion or other injury, but he hadn’t liked her lack of cognition and her confused repetition immediately after the blast. He especially didn’t like the fact that she didn’t remember talking to Mama.
He also didn’t like the lack of healing in her left hand. It looked like frostbite. If her life hadn’t been in danger, he would have taken her to the nearest ED, but his parents had cautioned against taking her out in public and had told him which healing amulets to use on her. Even now, she had a line between her brows that spoke of pain. “Ojoscalled the queen,” he said. “The blast set off the alarms, and Alex was ready to send the cavalry. Walter stopped him, but not before there was a massive outlay of resources and some prearranged rescue protocol was initiated.”
“Son of a witch,” she cursed, an acceptable expletive.
“Yes, I am,” EJ said, in a response that had begun when he was a child. In witch lineages, very few male witches survived the cancers associated with males and magic, making “son of a witch” a sort of a curse. In EJ’s case, he was the son of twowitches. As to cancers, he wasn’t out of the woods yet, but so far, he had survived the results of magic on a male’s immune system, as had his father. “Just so you know, the parental units were helpful. They suggested this around your head for an hour.” He pulled a curved band from the BOBB bag and snapped it open.
“I’m not wearing a tiara, in bed, under house arrest,” she growled.
“Mmmm.” EJ rested the band on her head. “You’re on your sofa, not in bed, where you should be. And this is Mama’s orders. The gems are a specialized arrangement ofhealingworkings, for headache resulting from concussive head trauma, according to her. It’ll also help your hearing.” He removed his hands, and she didn’t yank it off and throw it across the room like a gem-encrusted Frisbee. “Mama said to put a sprig of rosemary under the crown part.” He bent to the closest pot of rosemary and pinched off three sprigs, tucking them under the edge of the tiara. He didn’t tell her she looked like a woodland nymph from the cover of some old romance novel. “Better?”
Angie blew out a breath. “Yes.” But her tone was irritated, the single word reluctant.
“Good.” He didn’t tell her how his reflexes had kicked in when the blast went off, a ringing of broken bells amid the detonation. He had flown from the ice bath to the stairwell. Had found her lying, boneless, against the gym wall, behind the door.
He’d been naked. Dripping ice water. No weapons except what his voice gave him. Frozen, immobile. Just like the dreams he’d had during the war, of being far away if his family needed him. Of not being able to save his comrades on the battlefield. Night terrors come to life. It had lasted only a half second, but it had been an eternity.
The warrior in him took over, evaluating. Stabilizing his sister. Assuring she had a heartbeat, an airway, no apparent broken bones. Doing what needed to be done.
Ojoshad called his mother. All in seconds.
Walter had carried Ange down the stairs. Vamp-fast.
EJ had grabbed his clammy, sweaty clothes.
Within minutes of Angie being put on her bed, her own amulets against her skin, Angie had opened her eyes and managed to focus. Fifteen minutes later, she had been able to detail everything she had seen in a lucid, linear fashion. She claimed no doubled or blurred vision. She was aware of person, place, thing, date, time, and who the president was, so the amulets were doing their job, except for the headache. But her slurred speech after the explosion, and her persisting headache, were disturbing.
“What did you do with the demon?” he asked, his voice level, calm.
Angie’s eyes dipped to the staff on the sofa before she caught herself.
“It was caught on camera,” he reminded her quietly.
“Well…dang it.”
“Mmmm. Details.”
She blew out a breath. “Ojos, privacy mode.”
EJ raised his brows. Did his sister really think they would have privacy after the attack at the bar, the explosion, and probably most important, her use ofbattlemagic?Ojosdidn’t reply, and Angie didn’t notice.
“When I was a kid,” Angie said, “Aunt Jane had a weapon she called The Glob.”
“I’m aware.” The Glob had been made by Aunt Jane, from her own skinwalker magic, her shape-shifting flesh, and the energy from a massive lightning strike. She had nearly died.She had named the weapon before she was the queen and would have been forced to give it some royal name like the Stone of Containment or the Royal Stone of Power. Or something scientific or fic-based like the Proton Pack, fromGhostbusters. Instead, it was The Glob. Despite her acquired queen persona, Aunt Jane had a way with words and little interest in pomp and circumstance, and she had refused to rename it.
Angie said, “The Glob holds pocket universes, and she shoves attacking magic and anything magical she wants to, really, into them.”
