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Shrapnel blasted overhead, slamming into the overturned desk. Metal dented. The steel frame bucked, banging into her. Bullets continued to fly as she watched Westvane walk — not run, not dodge, zigzag or army crawl, butwalk— toward the wall of windows.
“What are you doing?” Truly flinched as bullets sprayed the back wall. Plaster puffed from the holes, clouding the air. “Get down!”
Dark eyes blazing, he glared at her. “Stay there.”
“But —”
“Don’t move.” Black wings folded, he strode toward the front door, dismissing her without looking back. “You do, I’ll kill you myself.”
Under normal circumstances, she would’ve taken umbrage at his nasty tone. The threat of murder didn’t thrill her either. Toss in his dismissal and… yeah. None of those things ranked high on her list of favorite things. While under fire, however, didn’t seem an appropriate time to be offended, or voice opposition to his demented, death-trap of a plan.
Hunkered down, she watched him go, then made plans of her own. Holding a stationary position wasn’t smart. She might not want to walk into the fray, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hold down a secondary position and ensure no one broke through the back door. Which meant she needed to open the gun safe and get her hands on a weapon. Or several of them.
Glancing over her shoulder, she calculated the distance to the back of the shop. Fifty feet of open space between her and the storeroom. She knew the code that opened the safe. Montrose had made her memorize it her second day on the job. “Just in case of an emergency,” he’d said, which definitely qualified as now. So…
Only one hurdle left to jump — the fact she’d never fired a gun.
Not exactly encouraging. Her lack of education in this area didn’t say much for her, given the assignments Montrose sent her on. Safety should, after all, come first. And self-defense fell under that umbrella. Knowing how to shoot, however, didn’t matter right now. She didn’t need to be a marksman. All she needed to do was aim and pull the trigger. After that, she’d worry about whether or not she hit the bad guys.
She was, after all, a Door Master. Or at least, was supposed to be. She might not understand her role yet — or know exactly what being a magic-wielder entailed — but necessity was the mother of being-brave-enough-to-learn-on-the-fly.
The thought made her pause.
Her mind stopped racing. A sense of calm descended. Automatic gunfire bombarded M&B as the realization she wasn’t defenseless took hold. She was a Door Master. No… she wasthe Door Master. The only one left of her kind. That had to count for something. Which meant Westvane was wrong. She could help instead of stand by and watch. Maybe, if she concentrated hard enough, she could access the magic. Put the power Westvane insisted she commanded to good use, but… her eyes narrowed on the storeroom door… how?
She hadn’t lied. Opening the door, releasing the Wendigo, had been an accident. A one-off she didn’t know how to replicate. More understanding — and practice — would no doubt change that, but for now, she needed to help any way she could.
Inching across the debris-littered floor, she peered around the corner of the overturned desk, then slide onto her belly. Army-crawling toward the storeroom, she stayed low and searched for the spark. The one she’d felt, then seen in her mind’s eye, at the house. There must be a way for her to access the magic — a method or sequence to follow, a resource to tap that would result in her conjuring a door. If she managed to open one, she’d dragged Westvane and Montrose into theEcotone,away from the danger,into a place they could regroup and figure out what the hell was going —
Bullets zipped over her head.
Flat against the floor, she slithered to her right, sliding behind the next desk in line.
“Truly!”
“What?”
Westvane snarled. “You want to die?”
“You’re not going to kill me!”
“Try me.”
“Shut up and, for the love of all that is holy, listen for once!” she yelled, trying to locate him in the chaos.
Long fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, plastic casings smashed, some of the long bulbs blinking, others shattered and buzzing. Bright light strobed, throwing shadows across the walls, cutting through drifting drywall dust and —
“Holy hell,” she whispered, gaze locked on Westvane.
The odd glow wasn’t coming from broken ceiling lights.
The shimmer emanated from Westvane. Like an avenging angel, he stood near the broken window, a shield of smoke in one hand, a crackling black-flamed sword in the other. A spray of heavy ammunition slammed into the shield. Westvane’s feet slid back a foot, absorbing the assault. A moment passed before the smoke-shield spun and hurled each bullet back, acting like a machine gun. Return fire peppered the street, ripping across asphalt.
Baring his teeth, Westvane swung his sword. A bolt of black lightning left the tip. Electricity slammed into a car. Steel shrieked. Metal twisted as the jagged stroke blew the vehicle sky high.
Men on the street screamed and scrambled. A single voice cut through the confusion, shouting directions. The gunfire stopped. Smoke from burning cars and buildings billowed into Montrose & Brim.
Curling the scarf from her neck, Truly wrapped it over her nose and mouth. “What’s happening?”
