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“Some of the witches out here can’t use their magic. We’re being overrun!”
Hazel bit back a curse.
“We need you out here, too. Can you call Merle? Shit!”
Scuffling sounds, a grunt.
“If you can make it to Pioneer, Anjali will be there coordinating the response. It’s bad, Hazel. At this point, we’d need something like a ward around the city to get rid of all of them.” Another grunt, a yell. “I gotta go!”
The call ended.
Hazel stared at the phone, her heart beating triple time, her hands trembling. With a ragged breath, she shook herself and quickly dialed a number. Rose stood next to her, watching her with wide eyes.
It rang two times before a cheerful voice said, “Lucía speaking, who is it?”
“Hi, this is Hazel Murray, one of the witches who—”
“Oh, I know all about you!” Lucía interrupted her, her voice full of sunshine. “Maeve mentioned you often. Basil is such good friends with her, and she still talks about how much she liked staying with you last year. Of course, the circumstances weren’t all that great, but she so appreciates how you took such good care of—”
“Lucía,” Hazel cut off the torrent of words spilling from her. Lucía was notorious for talking like a waterfall, and if Hazel didn’t stem it, she’d be standing here for the next half hour listening to the demon-shifter’s bubbly monologue. “I need to speak to Deimos. Right now. It’s urgent and very important.”
Lucía might have been designated as Arawn’s PR person and first point of contact, but for this, Hazel had to talk with the enigmatic being who was actually calling the shots while Arawn was gone.
“Oh.” A short beat of silence from Lucía. “Um, sure. Yeah. Of course. Got a pen and paper? I can give you his direct number.”
“Yes, please.” Hazel grabbed a notepad and a ballpoint pen.
Lucía rattled off the number, and Hazel scribbled it down.
“Thank you,” Hazel said. “Have you heard from Arawn?”
“Yes, he’s still busy trying to catch the beast. Won’t be back anytime soon.”
“Right. Thank you again. I need to go.”
Hazel hung up and immediately dialed the number for Deimos.
Arawn’s right-hand man picked up after the third ring. “Hazel Murray,” he said in his smoky-smooth, cultured voice. “Good evening. What is the nature of your call?”
Not even missing a beat at the fact that he knew it was her before she’d said a word—did he have her number saved and showing on his phone?—she launched right into it. “There are demon riots all over Portland. We’re trying to handle it, but some of the witches are losing their magic and can’t fight.”
“Such a shame.”
She ground her teeth. “We need assistance. We need you to send in some of your people and help us deal with this.”
“This is happening on witch territory?”
“Yes.”
A silken pause on the other end. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Arawn does not have jurisdiction on witch territory. He doesn’t interfere in witch business.”
She suppressed a frustrated sound. “I am hereby inviting you onto witch territory. I am asking for aid.”
“And from which position of authority do you speak? Is this an invitation agreed upon by all of your Elders? Are you their spokesperson, empowered to negotiate on their behalf?”
She couldn’t lie, not to someone like Deimos. Like his master, he could probably sniff out any falsehood immediately, even over the phone.
“No,” she said, her voice terse. “But I’m sure they won’t object when you come to save them. No one will raise a complaint.”
