Page 11 of Dead Beat

“Shit,” she muttered, moving to block the delegates’ view of him, but they were all intent on Tyler and the steel drum.

A crack rent the air and the room flashed white—real lightning.

The Weathermen gasped.

“Is it supposed to be that close?” someone asked nervously.

Crack. Another bolt of lightning. This one came straight down through the ceiling and struck the drum. The delegates grouped around it were thrown backward. Another bolt struck the floor where they’d been standing and the ragged carpet burst into flame.

“Darlington!” she shouted over the ceaseless roar of thunder. “Danny!”

The house was shuddering so hard she was struggling to stay standing. He was feeding this magic somehow. She was sure of it. Clouds of plaster dust gusted down from the ceiling. But Darlington was unmoving, as if his body were braced against the storm, his eyes glowing and fixed on some impossible distance.

She took one quick glance at the screaming Weathermen huddling against the walls and crawling on all fours away from the fire. She had to chance it.

Alex sought that bloom of hellfire. It was easy when she was this close to him. She swept her hand forward, letting the blue flame braid together like the tongue of a whip. It hooked around Darlington’s neck. He snarled, his golden gaze locking onto her.

“Snap the fuck out of it,” she gritted out. “You’re going to bring this whole place down.”

Too late. With the sound of a freight train barreling into a brick wall, the ceiling gave way.

In the next breath, Alex was on her back. The world was dark and near silent and the glow of hellfire was gone.

She tried to take a breath and dust filled her lungs. She coughed, feeling the ache in her chest and her ribs. She’d had the wind knocked out of her.

Darlington was on top of her. He’d braced his body above hers to block the fall of debris. His eyes still shone gold.

“Your horns are out,” she rasped.

A low growl rumbled through him.

Around her she heard the Weathermen starting to call to each other. The bright burst of headlights from a passing car flooded over the room and Alex used the moment to let hellfire surge over her again.

Darlington’s gaze met hers.

“Come back to me, Danny.”

She tasted honey on her tongue. He shut his eyes and when he opened them again they were warm brown, human. The horns were gone.

For a moment they stared at each other, and then horror washed over his face, humiliation. He rolled off her and helped her to her feet, shaking plaster and pieces of wood from his back, unable to meet her eyes.

Alex could hear the wail of sirens, the Weathermen shouting at each other to find a fire extinguisher.

“You’re okay?” Darlington asked.

“Fine, but—”

Darlington clapped his hands and shouted. “Everyone out! Now. Nell, get me a head count. I need to know if anyone was on the second story.”

The demon was gone and only the gentleman of Lethe—efficient, poised, unmoved by anything so crass as a roof caving in—remained.

They all shuffled out the door and across the street, counting off names from the St. Elmo roster as the firemen and police arrived. Once all the Weathermen were accounted for, Darlington pulled out his phone, and she knew he was calling Turner.

“What are we going to tell the alumni?” Nell was asking in between coughs.

“I mean, isn’t this a good thing?” another girl asked. She was supporting a boy with locs who had sprained or broken one of his ankles. “Something actually happened for once.”

“We have to figure out what was different this time,” Tyler said.