Page 122 of Hell Bent

Hellie’s eyes narrowed. “This is my life. You’re the impostor.”

Fine. Maybe Alex was nothing more than a thief who had stolen someone else’s second chance. But she was alive and Hellie was dead and she was going to protect what was hers—even if she didn’t deserve it, even if it might not be hers for much longer.

“This isn’t your life,” she said to the thing that wasn’t Hellie. “And you are trespassing.”

One of the snakes lunged forward, its bite so fast Alex didn’t see more than a blur, and then the demon recoiled, clutching its smoking cheek.

“You can’t banish us that easily,” Hellie whined. She looked almost like Len now, hair straggly, forehead pocked by acne. “We know you. We know your smell. You are nothing but a stepping stone.”

“Maybe,” Alex said. “But right now I’m the bouncer and you better run.”

Alex knew they hadn’t gone far. Their demons needed freshly harvested misery to survive in this world. They’d be back and better prepared.

She heard sirens wailing down the street, and as she turned, she saw the flames were no longer lapping at Il Bastone. The front of the house was charred and spattered with foam, the stone around the doorway blackened and smoking, as if the building had exhaled a deep sooty breath. The fire on the hedges and grass had been extinguished—flattened by Turner’s roots. The mighty oak. As she watched, they seemed to retract. Her snakes had vanished too.

She couldn’t untangle the mess of fear and triumph she felt. The magic had worked, but what were its limits? They wouldn’t be safe until those demons were back in their jar with the lid screwed on tight, and just how were they going to manage that? And how were they going to explain this to the Praetor and the board? She’d been bold enough claiming Il Bastone was her house, but she wasn’t even a member of Lethe anymore.

“Find the others,” said Turner. “I’ll talk to the hose haulers. I called it in and I’m still police even if you’re both…”

“Banished?” offered Alex. It was possible the Praetor wouldn’t even realize they’d been at Il Bastone since the fire had started outside. But if he took more than a cursory glance inside, he was going to see the leftovers of their dinner and anything else they’d left behind. She wasn’t sure how serious Anselm had been about criminal trespassing and she didn’t want to find out.

Mercy, Tripp, and Dawes were waiting in the alley, stamping their feet in the cold.

“You’re all right?” she asked as she approached.

“Alex,” said Tripp, bracing his hands on her shoulders. “That was sick. They actually ran from you! Spenser looked like he was going to shit himself.”

Alex pried his hands free. “Okay, okay. But they aren’t done with us. We all need to stay alert. And you need to remember that’s not Spenser.”

“Absolutely,” said Tripp with a somber nod. “Still fucking cool.”

Mercy rolled her eyes. “How bad does the house look?”

“It isn’t terrible,” Dawes said hoarsely. “Hopefully the firefighters will tell Turner the extent of the damage.”

“You sound like shit,” said Tripp.

Mercy blew out an exasperated breath. “I think what he means is that it sounds like you inhaled a lot of smoke.”

“There’s an ambulance,” said Alex. “You should get checked out.”

“I don’t want anyone knowing we were here,” objected Dawes.

Alex didn’t like the relief she felt at that, but she was glad Turner was willing to cover for them and that Dawes was willing to go along.

The firefighters and paramedics had been joined by two black-and-whites, and Alex saw Professor Walsh-Whiteley, bundled up in a long overcoat and a dapper little cap, approaching Turner, who was talking to two uniformed cops.

“The Praetor’s here,” Alex said.

Dawes sighed. “Should we talk to him? Try to explain?”

Alex made eye contact with Turner, but he gave the faintest shake of his head. The old Alex wondered if he was covering his own ass, laying a trail of trouble that would lead away from him and directly to her and Dawes. They’d make easy scapegoats. And it was Alex who had brought them back to Il Bastone, who had claimed it as hers.

“We should get out of here,” Alex said, herding them toward the parking lot. They could slip out on Lincoln Street, wait for Turner there.

“I didn’t see Anselm,” said Dawes.

Tripp didn’t seem to care. “Maybe he went back to New York?”