Spellcasters (64 page)

I turned to see the front door slam open and three men dressed in black barrel through. All three turned their guns on us, then disappeared as smoke filled the room.

S
omeone started shouting orders, but I was doubled over, hacking my lungs up, unable to hear anything but my own coughing. I pulled my shirt over my nose, but it didn’t help. My eyes teared up from the gas; between that and the smoke, I was blinded. Fingers grabbed my arm and tugged me forward. Trust Lucas to keep his calm, whatever the situation.

I stumbled behind Lucas’s dark shape. A doorway loomed before us. As we moved through it, the smoke lessened, but my eyes still streamed tears. I wiped my free arm across them. Lucas kept pulling me, presumably toward the back door and clean air.

“Paige!” Adam’s voice. Through the smoke I could make out his outline running toward us.

“Get outside,” I rasped. “It’s—”

He charged. The hand on my arm wrenched me backward. I tripped and spun to see that it wasn’t Lucas holding me. It was Weber.

I punched at Weber, but my fist glanced off his shoulder. His other hand sheared down. I felt something hit me between the ribs. Heard Adam’s bellow of rage. Lucas lunged through the door and cut Adam off in mid-charge. The stink of sulfur and burned flesh overwhelmed the fading smell of the gas. Lucas gasped in pain. I tried to wrench myself from Weber’s grip, but he held me fast.

“Nobody move!” Weber screeched, his voice shrill with panic. “I’ve got the girl.”

A split second of clear, if near-hysterical, thought. Of course he’d grab the girl. They always grabbed the girl. But why did I have to be the girl?

Then cool steel pressed against my throat, and I stopped thinking. The blade pressed into my throat, and blood trickled down my neck. In that moment, it seemed that even to breathe might be fatal, that with the slightest movement some vital artery would be severed. As I held my breath, I became aware of another pain, sharper and lower. My rib
cage. I pressed the spot. Blood seeped through my fingers. I’d been stabbed. The thought hit me so hard I rocked, and in rocking felt the knife nick my throat again. I closed my eyes and began to count, fighting against panic.

“Move the knife away from her throat,” Lucas said, his voice even but strained.

“She—she’s my hostage.”

“Yes, I know,” Lucas said slowly. “But if you wish her to remain a viable hostage, you cannot take the chance of accidentally wounding her, so please lower that—”

A loud scuffle cut him off, as the men from the other room barreled into the kitchen. I didn’t dare look to confirm that, could only stare at the empty space in front of me. Weber tensed, and the blade dug into my throat again.

“Stand down!” Lucas shouted over the clamor. “He has a hostage. Put your weapons down!”

“Everyone against the wall,” a man barked.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am,” Lucas barked back. “I gave you an order. Lower your weapons!”

“I take my orders from the Nast—”

“You’ll take your goddamned orders from me or you’ll be regretting it into the next life! Now stand down.”

A moment of silence, then the pressure on my throat lessened. “I want a helicopter,” Weber said. “I want—”

“You want to get out of here alive,” Lucas said, his voice returned to its usual soft, reasonable tones. “The house is surrounded by professional snipers. The moment you step into their line of sight, they will shoot.”

“I—I have a hostage.”

“And they are trained to handle that. You’ll be dead before you have time to hurt her.”

Weber hesitated, knife trembling against my throat. Adam tensed, but Lucas kept a restraining hand on his shirt. Lucas’s lips moved in an incantation. Then he stopped as Weber lowered the knife.

“Good,” Lucas said. “Now you need to—”

“Esus, god of water’s great gift!” Weber shouted, sliding his fingers along the knife’s blade and flicking my blood to the floor. “Esus, hear me!”

“You don’t want to do this,” Lucas said.

Weber’s eyes rolled back and he started speaking in another language. I counted to three, then threw myself forward. He caught me, one arm going around my neck. My feet flew out as he yanked me back. Adam
lunged at Weber. The knife shot to my throat. Weber yelled a warning, but Adam kept coming. The knife bit through my skin. Then Adam stumbled, thrown off balance by Lucas, who’d this time had the presence of mind to use a knock-back spell rather than touch Adam.

“Everybody stay back!” Weber shrieked.

“We will,” Lucas said, motioning Adam to move behind him. “Now, lower that knife—”

“Esus!” Weber shouted. He wiped the dripping blood from my neck and flung it to the kitchen floor. “Take this offering and deliver your loyal servant!”

Weber paused, but nothing happened. I looked at Lucas. He met my eyes and I could see his fear, but he motioned for me to stay calm and wait. Weber ran through his supplication twice. Then he waited. We all waited, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.

“He’s not answering,” Lucas said softly. “He won’t interfere. Now, if you want to negotiate, you need to lower that knife. I won’t talk to you while you have a knife at her throat.”

Weber looked at the ceiling one last time, then lowered his gaze to Lucas. “If I lower the knife, they’ll shoot me.”

“No, they won’t. They have their weapons down, and they won’t take the chance that you can get your knife back to her throat before they aim and fire. Lower the knife …”

As Lucas continued reasoning with Weber, the knife blade quavered against my throat. One slip, one push too hard against the skin, and … oh, God, it hurt to breathe. Blood now soaked the front of my shirt, wet and clammy against my skin. Where had I been stabbed? Beneath the heart, I knew, but what was there? What organs?

And then I thought: Goddamn it, you’re standing here sniveling and hoping your boyfriend saves you before you bleed out. Typical witch.

I closed my eyes and whispered a spell. Though the words of the two men covered mine, every syllable pressed my throat against the knife blade. I ignored the pricks of pain and kept casting. As the last words left my mouth, the knife went still. I swallowed and prayed it wasn’t a coincidence. I counted to five, waiting for the knife to resume shaking. It didn’t. Another swallow, then I concentrated my all on holding the binding spell and very slowly eased sideways, away from the knife.

“Don’t—” Weber started, then realized he couldn’t move his hand. “What the—?”

Weber’s other hand shot forward to grab me as I side-lunged out of his reach. The spell snapped. I saw the knife blade swing down. As I twisted
and dove for the floor, the knife slashed through the side of my stomach. Then Lucas grabbed me, knocking the knife away, as Adam launched himself at Weber. Weber screamed. The stink of scorched flesh filled the tiny kitchen. The Cabal SWAT team leapt into action. And it was all over.

O
f the next hour I remember only images and snippets that whizzed past at MTV speed. Lucas stanching my wounds. Adam pacing behind us. The SWAT team leader barking orders. A man examining my wounds. Adam snapping questions. Lucas reassuring me. A weight on my chest, slowly bearing down. Gasping for air. Lucas shouting orders. A door slamming. Road rumbling beneath tires.

The next time I came to, I was lying on some kind of bed that vibrated and swayed. I struggled to open my eyes, but could only pry them open a slit. When I inhaled, the air was sharp, metallic. I felt a light pressure around my mouth. An oxygen mask. A surge of panic made my head hurt. I dipped toward unconsciousness again and fought my way back.

A soft jolt and the vibrations ceased.

“Finally.”

Lucas’s voice, distant and muffled. A squeeze on my forearm. I felt the warmth of his fingers, resting on my arm. Then his breath tickled my ear.

“We’re here,” he said, still sounding as if he was a room-length away. I had to concentrate to make out the words. “… you hear me?”

A clang, then the whoosh of an opening door and the dim light turned midday bright. Lucas’s grip on my arm tightened.

“What are you doing here?” he said, voice cold.

Another voice answered. Familiar … Benicio. “I came in with the team. Our team. The one you requested. How is she?”

A clatter, and the low murmur of other voices. My bed jerked. Lucas’s fingers brushed my forehead as my bed lifted. A jolt, a murmured apology, and I was tugged into the sunlight. A few bumps, then the squeak of wheels and the rush of air. Lucas’s hand found mine and gripped it as we moved.

“You’re upset,” Benicio said, his voice low.

I managed to open my eyes enough to see Lucas at my side, walking fast, Benicio beside him, leaning in for privacy.

“And that surprises you?” Lucas clipped his words, voice colder than I’d ever heard it.

“I don’t blame you for being angry, but you know I had nothing to do with this.”

“It was all a misunderstanding. Or a coincidence. Have you decided yet? If not, may I suggest you choose misunderstanding? It provides more opportunity for prevarication.”

Benicio reached for Lucas’s free arm. “Lucas, I—”

Lucas swiped at his father’s hand, catching it and knocking him back. Benicio’s eyes went wide. Lucas’s face twisted as he spun to say something, but as he wheeled around, he noticed my eyes were half-open and stopped in mid-turn. He bent over me, nearly tripping as he tried to keep pace alongside the stretcher.

“Paige? Can you hear me?”

I tried to nod, but had to settle for fluttering my eyelids. He squeezed my hand.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re in a hospital—a private hospital. Robert arranged it. They need to …”

I slid back into unconsciousness.

The cuts on my neck proved the least of my injuries. The blade had left only shallow gashes that required no more than a quick cleaning and small bandages. I’d sustained two other injuries—one serious but relatively painless, the other minor but painful as hell. The chest wound had cut my lung, collapsing it. The doctors had inserted a chest tube, cleared out the blood, and reinflated my lung, which now seemed fine, although they had to keep the chest tube in for a day or two. The abdomen cut had sliced only through muscle—well, okay, undoubtedly more fat than muscle, but the doctors said “muscle” so I’m sticking to their version. Though the wound was superficial, every time I moved, it was like getting stabbed all over again.

The next morning I opened my eyes to see Adam hunched over a psychology textbook, highlighter in hand. I reached up to rub my face and nearly toppled the IV stand onto the bed. Adam grabbed it just in time.

“Shit,” he said. “I finally convince Lucas it’s safe to leave for a few minutes and you decide to wake up. If he comes back, close your eyes, okay?”

I managed a weak smile and opened my mouth to speak, then made a face. I pointed to the water. Adam poured me a glass. He started to put in the straw, but I grabbed the glass and took a gulp. The water hit my parched throat and bounced back, dribbling out my mouth.

“That’s attractive,” he said, reaching for a tissue.

I snatched it before he could do anything as humiliating as wipe my face. He picked up something from the dresser.

“Brought you something.” He handed me a stuffed beanbag bear dressed in a black witch’s hat and dress. “Remember these?”

“Hmmm.” I struggled to focus, still woozy. “Right. The dolls.” A small smile, as the memory surfaced. “You—” I wet my lips and tried again. “You used to buy them for me. Gifts.”

He grinned. “Every ugly wart-faced witch doll I could find. Because I knew how much you loved them.”

“Hated them. And you knew it. Used to lecture you on sensitivity and stereotyping.” I shook my head. “God, I was insufferable sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

I swatted him and laughed, then gasped as pain shot through my stomach. Adam grabbed for the call button, but I lifted my hand to stop him.

“I’m okay,” I said.

He nodded and sat down on the side of the bed. “You had us pretty worried. At the house everything seemed okay, but then, boom, you blacked out and your blood pressure dropped—” He shook his head. “Not a good scene. I was freaked, and Lucas was freaked, which only freaked me out even more, ’cause I figured this guy doesn’t scare easy and if this scares him, there must be a reason to be scared and—” Another shake of the head. “It wasn’t good.”

“Paige.”

I looked up to see a figure in the doorway. The voice told me it was Lucas, but I had to blink to double-check. Pale and unshaven, he was still dressed in the suit he’d worn for the missionary ruse at Weber’s house, but the jacket and tie were gone. His shirt was wrinkled and splattered with coffee stains. One sleeve of his shirt was charred at the forearm, with bandages peeking through the gaping hole. That was the drawback to working with Adam—when he got mad, you had to stay out of his way, or you paid the price in second-degree burns.

“I’ll be outside,” Adam said, shifting off the bed.

He slipped out the door. As Lucas approached I saw that the stains on his shirt weren’t coffee brown, but rust red. Blood. My blood. He followed my gaze.

“Oh, I should change. I—”

“Later,” I said.

“Do you want to call Savannah? I can—”

“Later.”

I held out my hand. He took it, then reached down to hug me.

An hour later, I was still awake, having persuaded the nurse to hold off on my pain medication. First I needed answers.

“Are they holding Weber in L.A.?” I asked.

Lucas shook his head. “My father won that battle. Weber is in Miami, with a trial date set for Friday.”

“I don’t get that,” Adam said. “Why bother? They know the guy’s guilty. What are they going to do, say ‘Whoops, we didn’t issue a proper warrant’ and let him walk?”

“He’s entitled to a trial,” Lucas said. “It’s Cabal law.”

“But is it a
real
trial?” I asked.