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The boy was duct taped to a chair by his ankles.
The captor, another man about the age of the two in the trunk, was laughing at something on the television. If not for the gun in his lap and the duct tape on the boy’s ankles, the whole thing wouldn’t seem peculiar.
When the man saw us, he scrambled for his gun.
So, I punched the captor and broke the wrist of his gun-holding arm.
Eli freed the boy, who ran to his family as soon as they came into the house.
The whole thing took less time than brewing coffee.
“Best not to mention Ms. Crowe’s speed,” Eli said to the women as we were leaving.
The younger one nodded, but she was mostly caught up in holding her son.
The widow looked at me.
“Not all witches are wicked, dear.” She patted my cheek, opened her handbag and pulled out a stack of folded bills. “For your time.”
“The raising was already paid,” I protested.
“I took it from them,” she said proudly. She shook it at me insistently. “Might as well go to you. Here.”
Eli accepted a portion of the money on my behalf. He understood when it was an insult not to and when to refuse because the client couldn’t afford my fees.
Honestly, I felt guilty getting paid sometimes. Shouldn’t I work for my city? Shouldn’t I help people? Shouldn’t good come of these skills?
But good intentions didn’t buy groceries or pay for my medical supplies. That’s as much what Eli handled as having my back when bullets or unwelcome dead things started to pop up.
After we walked out and shoved the third prisoner in the trunk of the Cadillac, Mrs. Cormier said, “I’ll call the police to retrieve them. Do you mind waiting?”
“I will wait,” Eli agreed, not lying by saying we “didn’t mind” becauseof coursewe minded. I was leaning on the car for support, and Eli was worrying over my injury. If he had his way, he’d have me at his home, resting and cared for, but I was lousy at that.
It was on the long list of reasons I couldn’t marry him. Some girls dreamed of a faery tale romance, a prince, pretty dresses. I dreamed of kicking ass. I’d be a lousy faery tale queen.
But I still had feelings for a faery prince—and no, I wasnotlabeling them.
So rather head than home, I leaned on the side of the Cadillac, partly because it was that or sway in exhaustion. “I’ll stay with you.”
Once the widow went inside, Eli walked away and grabbed a first aid kit from his car. I swear he bought them in bulk lately. “Let me see your throat.”
“I’m fine.” Dried blood made me look a little garish, but I could feel that it wasn’t oozing much now.
Eli opened the kit, tore open a pouch of sani-wipes, and stared at me.
“Just tired. Sunlight.” I gestured at the bright ball of pain in the sky. Midwinter might be coming, but the sun was still too bright for my comfort.
“Geneviève . . .” He held up a wipe. “May I?”
I sighed and took off my jacket. “It’s not necessary.”
“I disagree.” He used sani-wipes to wipe away my blood as I leaned on the Cadillac, ignoring the looks we were getting from pedestrians. Maybe it was that he was cleaning up my blood, or that he was fae—or maybe it was that there were people yelling from the trunk.
Either way, I wasn’t going to look away from Eli. I couldn’t.
Obviously, I knew it should not be arousing to have him clean a cut in my neck from grave shards because someone was firing bullets at me, but . . . having his hands on me at all made my heart speed.
“Would you like to take the car and leave?” Eli was closer than he needed to be, hips close enough that it would be easier to pull him closer than push him away.
