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The roof sloped low into a stockyard. Air boiled with soot and embers. Flames shot skyward through the roof of the inn above their room. Below in the yard, panicked neighbors rushed like ants to and from the building as contents rained from windows or were carried out to safety in bags and boxes.
Free of the rending of brain and body the dual magics imposed, she fell exhausted to her knees. Blood and smoke blinded her. She coughed until she heaved, her ribs straining. But she couldn’t rest yet. They still weren’t safe. Doran might be gone, but the fire still raged.
Taking Cam beneath the arms, she scrambled over the slates to the roof’s edge. Judged the distance to the ground, then praying it wasn’t too far, pushed him off. He fell spread-eagle amid a heap of dung and garbage. She groped for purchase with her legs, reaching out for a handhold. The slates gave way, broke like scree, tumbling toward her. Dragged her with them into the dark and the bricks of the yard below.
She lay beside Cam, feeling for a pulse, praying for a breath. But he was too still. His body cold. Or was that her?
Blood from cuts she couldn’t feel dripped into her eyes. She wiped it away.
A silver glow hovered over them. Burned through the pain. She reached out, touching Cam. And let the light claim her.
Cam came awake, every nerve ending scraped raw, every part of his body seemingly twisted out of shape as if some force had wrung him like a sponge. He groaned, shaking the stench of death from his mind, though it lingered at the corners.
Where was he? He hefted himself onto his side, his hands encountering something oozy soft that stank to heaven. An acrid wind blew ash into his face, stung his nose. He was outside, looking up at the inn. Above him, the second floor glowed red, fire lapping out the windows, curling down the walls. Screams and shouts and smashing glass sounded behind him. What the hell had happened? He remembered a man. And a fight. And then…where was Morgan?
Oh, please don’t let her be up there.
He sat up, his vision going dark as dizziness swamped him.
There she was. Curled on her side nearby, one hand outstretched, her wolf-head ring glittering in the light from the blaze.
“Morgan.” He shook her, prayed she’d wake. Look up at him and smile. Hell, he’d settle for one of her scathing glares. “Morgan, we have to get out of here. Now.”
He didn’t know what had happened up there, but it hadn’t been good. Successes didn’t leave you tossed on a rubbish heap feeling like the bottom of someone’s boot. If Buchanan found them like this, it was over.
He staggered to his feet, breathing through the pain until he steadied himself. Then kneeling, he gathered Morgan into his arms. She smelled of smoke, her hair, her clothing. Ash streaked her face, mingling with what he prayed wasn’t blood.
“Cam?” she murmured, burrowing her head against his chest. “You’re alive.”
“And trying to stay that way,” he ground through clenched teeth. “Hold on.”
But she’d already drifted off.
Focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, he carried her out of the yard and into the street. Plunged through the chaos of the firefighting. Just one more victim trying to escape. Unremarkable. Unremarked.
He needed a safe haven. A place where no one would ask too many questions. Would accept what had happened to them without thinking they were insane. He knew of only one place. One person.
Ensign Traverse.
Chapter 11
The target had been sighted. An open shot. An easy kill. Another body claimed by the Serpent Brigade.
Out of habit, he reached for his cross for one last good-luck rub before remembering. Charlotte had it. Locked away in a jeweler’s box.
He was on his own.
His finger tightened around the trigger, his focus narrowed to the kill zone of the enemy’s chest.
The report of the gun echoed across the rocky hills, followed by the anguished screams of a woman, her cream and gold gown, her glossy black hair, her dusky Spanish features—all spattered now with blood and bone and offal.
“Hábleme, Papa!” she wailed, bent over the dead man’s corpse. “Papa! Mi Papa.”
Others emerged from the church: the woman’s new husband, the rest of the wedding party, the priests. The weeping and screaming and shouts for vengeance curled up from the valley like smoke, but he’d already slung his rifle over his shoulder, already erased the evidence of his hiding place.
Target eliminated. Mission accomplished.
The images followed Cam up and out of sleep, the gnawing pain in his gut sending him rolling for the side of the bed to heave, the spasms clutching his stomach long after he’d thrown everything up.
