“Tell that to the people who were in that building you blew up,” Cym shouted with a voice hoarse from tear gas and smoke.
He peeked around Fourteen and saw with dread that the soldiers’ faces were becoming less impassive. The men standing closest to Cym were frowning and shifting restlessly. As he watched, the effect of his wild magic began to spread, and all the men began acting antsy. At any moment the situation was going to spiral out of control, and someone was going to get shot. What had his aunt been thinking?
“That was an accident, sweetheart,” Stella said airily. Cym’s hands balled into fists at the endearment and her casual attitude. “The whole thing is just a big misunderstanding. If you and your champion will come with us, I’m sure we can all sort it out.” The words may have been sweet, but Stella’s tone was laced with venom.
Now they wanted Fourteen too? Well, they couldn’t fucking have him.
Once they figured out about Fourteen’s armor, the Blaike family would no longer need to tiptoe around the magical community. They would roll over it like a bulldozer. And after they pried Fourteen out of it, they could do anything they wanted to him.
Over Cym’s dead body.
He began to shake with anger.
Fourteen still had him pressed against the wall with his body, so he felt his reaction. “Don’t worry, I can get us out of this.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Cym hissed. Had Fourteen’s sense of self-preservation been completely snuffed out by his conditioning? “They have guns. They have all the guns.”
“I have guns.” Was there a trace of wounded pride in Fourteen’s response?
“They. Have. More.” Should Cym try magic again? After what he had done earlier, he had pretty much decided to never try magic again, but the thought of letting a bunch of monsters get their hands on Fourteen after everything he’d suffered made Cym’s tortured throat sting with bile.
His eyes fell on the gigantic gas tank dominating the space behind their assailants and his half-formed plans collapsed. He had no aim or control. If he tried anything, he’d probably take out the whole marina.
Two of the soldiers in front of them began to shove at each other, jockeying for the front position. It hadn’t turned into outright fighting, but it was moments away. Cym saw his aunt’s eyes narrow as Stella realized her hired guns were falling under Cym’s unintentional spell.
“Everyone back up right now!” Stella tugged at the soldier closest to her.
Fourteen tensed, and Cym knew he was about to take the opportunity presented to them to do something incredibly stupid and self-sacrificing. Cym decided to beat him to the punch.
“Agent Fourteen, retreat!” Cym shouted in as much of a commanding voice as he could muster.
He heard a guttural sound come from Fourteen, and he whipped his head around to look at Cym, betrayal in his eyes.
“That’s an order, Agent. Get yourself somewhere safe, now!”
Cym was almost grateful when the emptiness of compliance reached Fourteen’s eyes so Cym didn’t have to see what his order had cost him. Fortunately Cym wouldn’t have to live with the memory of what he’d just done for much longer.
Trying to give Fourteen as much of a chance to escape as he could, he took the empty gun he’d tucked in his waistband and lobbed it directly at his aunt. He didn’t want to watch Fourteen go, but the sounds of his escape were punctuated with grunts and choked off screams. Cym couldn’t stop his traitorous eyes—he needed to make sure none of those sounds were coming from Fourteen.
They weren’t. As Cym turned to watch his soldier’s progress, someone grabbed him roughly, bound his arms, and shoved him into the back of a van with a dog crate bolted down inside.
Through the back window, Cym saw a surprisingly large number of incapacitated soldiers lying scattered about the parking lot while a much smaller group of soldiers chased after Fourteen as he sped away on his motorcycle.
Satisfied that he had done his best to protect Fourteen, Cym turned to the occupants of the van—huddling as far from him as they could get—and he saw his brother Sterling. Before his brother looked away, Cym could have sworn he saw sorrow in Sterling’s eyes. The peaceful blue of a sleep spell tinted his vision, and he knew no more.
Chapter 13Marshall
It was dark by the time they got back to the Boston chapter house, and the air had a bite to it. Marshall could practically taste the imminent snow.
The moment the team made it through the door, Clayton was on Marshall like a nervous puppy. “I made the calls you asked for while you were on your way back. Guardian Callum told me everyone else was busy with their own cases right now, but he was sure you could manage on your own.”
“Dammit, Callum,” Marshall snarled. He may have said he wouldn’t bring Marshall up on charges, but Callum was certainly capable of hanging him out to dry in retribution.
Marshall wasn’t anticipating an all-out war with the Blaikes, but knowing he had backup to call on would have been nice. Formidable though his team may be, if a family as powerful as the Blaikes went bad, they were going to be hard to contain.
“Callum is just covering his ass. The Blaikes were allowed to grow so big because of their loyalty to the Guard. No one is going to want to go against them without substantial evidence,” Adelle said, reminding him that not everything in the world was about him.
Instead of annoying Marshall, it helped settle his irritable mood. It was nice to not have everything in the world be about him for a change.
Marshall gave his sister a wry smile before saying, “Let’s go into the ’Scape and see if we can find some evidence then.” He turned to Clayton. “I haven’t been here since before I became a guardian. Do you have a place for dreaming?”
Clayton’s face lit up. “We just had it redone! You’re going to love it. Follow me.” He bounced with excitement as he led the team through the dark, wood-paneled hallway. “We did our best to keep it as traditional as possible, but we added all the modern amenities that wouldn’t be rendered inert by strong magic.”
The building was smaller than Marshall remembered, but he had been little more than a child when he was last here, so that was to be expected. When he passed an old oil painting of a pastoral scene, he paused, causing Jack to bump into him.
“What are you…?” Jack took Marshall by the shoulders so he didn’t bowl him over when his chest collided with his back.
Jack’s hands were warm and soothing, and the effect was amplified by the magic Marshall could feel humming just under his friend’s skin. Something deep inside Marshall missed the sensation when Jack released him, and it uncoiled, ready to reach out to get it back.
Marshall tamped it down immediately. Dreamwalkers kept control of their magic at all times, or else. It was how things had always been in the Guard, and how they would always be.
Marshall focused his attention on his reason for slamming to a halt instead of thinking about why his magic liked Jack so much. He examined the wall beside him, quirked his lips, and knocked on the wall where the wainscoting began. After a few beats, the knock was returned. “She’s still here!” he exclaimed.
Jack put a hand on the wall and concentrated. “A brownie?” He was referring to the earth spirits known for taking up residence in old homes.
“She kept me company when Da was busy with work. Most of the time she put me to work in the garden.” Marshall grinned at the memory.
