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Nothing happened. The moon didn’t come back out, and the shooter didn’t come over the wall to investigate.
Okay, he’s moving back, Belle said.
I closed my eyes and sucked air into my burning lungs. That had been close.
But the danger wasn’t over yet. Not for me, not for Belle. Not if the growing urgency in the wild magic was anything to go by.
Something was about to happen. Something bad.
Belle, get out of the café. Now.
She didn’t answer but she did respond. Her fear surged through me, and though I couldn’t see her, I knew she was bolting for the back door. I rose and padded toward the next dividing wall, remaining low and gathering the threads of an immobilizing spell around my fingers.
I’m out in the parking lot.
Even as she said that, two things happened.
The warning in wild magic peaked.
And the café exploded into flames.
Chapter Thirteen
For several seconds I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
Shock held me immobile as the force of the explosion lit up the entire area and washed heat across the rooftops.
“You bastard!” Even as the words were torn from my throat, I thrust upright and flung the spell at him.
He spun around, and I caught a glimpse of something glittery at his neck. Then he raised the rifle and fired again.
I instantly dropped down; the bullet pinged off the top of the wall just above my head, sending concrete shards spinning. Then he was running—coming at me rather than away.
I closed my eyes and did the one thing I’d sworn not to do again—I reached for the wild magic. It would take too long to craft a spell powerful enough to get past the charm he was wearing—and, even then, there was no guarantee my magic or my knowledge would be capable of such a feat.
But there was little defense against the wild magic, as few witches had ever dared to do more than protect it. Those who had attempted to use it had either died or come close to it—such as my mother.
Why I seemed to be the exception, I had no idea. And, right now, didn’t care.
It answered my call swiftly, almost joyously—a white-hot heat that surged through my body with such force that for a moment it felt as if I would tear apart.
In an instant, everything was sharper, brighter; I could hear his footsteps, smell the faint musky pine scent of him on the air. Hear the whisper of his breathing, and taste his anticipation of the kill.
This wasn’t a result of the wild magic. This was Katie—or rather, her ghostly werewolf capabilities sharpening mine.
I waited until he was close; until his anticipation, amusement, and the certainty of an easy kill were thick and heavy on the air.
Only then did I set the magic free. “Pin him,” I said, “and tear that gun from his grip.”
From the other side of the wall came a strangled sound of surprise, then nothing but an odd sense of satisfaction.
I rose. The shooter was being held—arms and legs akimbo—three feet off the rooftop. His gun lay a good ten feet away from him and had, from the look of it, not only been made safe, but actually snapped in two. The wild magic—and Katie—was a little pissed at the shooter. I suspected the only reason it hadn’t also snapped the shooter in half was because it couldn’t react against life without being ordered to do so.
And I wouldn’t order this man’s death, no matter how angry I was. To do so could adversely stain the wild magic forever.
Belle, you okay? I climbed over the wall and strode toward our captive.
Yes, but the back half of the upper floor is on fire.
