Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

There was much to be said for the traditional, he thought as he watched one of the last two dworg pitch to the ground. Especially when it was your enemy who fought traditionally. The natural weaponry of the dworg, combined with their unholy healing, inborn armor, and resistance to magic, had been devastating three thousand years ago.

But the world had changed since then, hadn’t it?

It had been a near thing. Four of the six from his squad were injured, and Rob was dead. He’d lost some blood himself—head wounds do bleed like crazy—but nothing important. But he and his squad had drawn the dworg within range of those he’d sent to the barracks. The grenades had killed about a third of the dworg outright. When they were followed by devastating fire from six Uzis, those dworg still alive and mobile had tried to flee.

Uzis have an effective range of about two hundred yards. They hadn’t made it.

The machine guns had run out of ammo, however, so his men were finishing the last two monsters the old-fashioned way—tooth, claw, and swords. “Don’t rush,” Isen had told them. “No point in taking chances. There are sixty of you and two of them. Take your time.”

SANTOSreturned with the pair of AK-47s while Casey was chopping off the head of the last dworg José had shot with the Uzi. The one that had started eating. It certainly didn’t look alive, but no one was willing to take chances. He used the sword Cullen had found in the depths of the tankmobile’s trunk.

Cullen was too busy to wield that sword himself. He was trying to keep José alive.

Lily looked at Santos for one long moment. “How are you in hospitals? Is your control up to spending time there?”

“My control is good.”

“First, go get Cynna. Take the AK-47s back with you. Then you’ll ride in with Cullen. He has to go to the ER with José and Andy. I don’t want him unguarded.”

Santos’s expression didn’t change, but she saw his throat work when he swallowed. “What about Steve?”

“Steve’s dead. So is Agent Fredericka Parker.”

RULEwasn’t answering his phone. Lily tapped in a quick text— I’m okay. Cynna’s okay. Attacked by dworg. Casualties. Call me. She’d just hit send when her phone chimed. It was Ruben. “You’re being psychic, I guess.”

“I’ve had no hunches today, unfortunately. I’m calling to tell you that Benedict, Arjenie, and Nettie were attacked at the hospital by a pair of what I’m told are called dworg. Benedict held them off until Sam arrived. Sam dispatched them.”

Lily was silent for a long moment. “He held off a pair of them? All by himself?”

“They had to break through the exterior wall. That provided him with a tactical advantage, and he had a hunting knife.”

A second ambulance pulled up next to the first. “I have to go. We didn’t do as well as Benedict. We’ve got two dead—one Bureau, one Nokolai—and several wounded, three of them critical.” Andy, who’d been the black-and-gray wolf who’d leaped to attack the first dworg with Cullen. José, whose guts Cullen had packed back inside the hole a barbed tail had ripped in him. And Fielding, whose heart had stopped once while they were loading him into the first ambulance, due to shock from blood loss. Fielding hadn’t been injured by a dworg, but by shrapnel from the RPG.

Lily knelt beside Andy. He’d just come around, which was both good and bad. Bad because the pain had to be terrible. Good because it let him change back into a form the hovering EMTs were willing to transport.

Andy didn’t look as bad as Fielding and José. No blood. But his chest was caved in. One lung was collapsed, and Cullen thought there was damage to his heart, too. If he hadn’t been lupus, he’d be dead. He still might be. At any moment, he could lose this fight.

They’d brought in a helicopter for José and were loading him now. He was still alive, too. That counts for a lot with a lupus, Lily reminded herself. If they both held on another thirty minutes. Even twenty. Shit, fifteen. Every minute helped.

“Didn’t . . . freeze . . . this time,” Andy whispered. He smiled.

That smile hurt all the way down. She touched his cheek. “You were fantastic. Cynna and I wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t acted.” She looked at Cullen and nodded. With a touch, Cullen had Andy asleep again.

“How in the hell did you get your hands on an RPG?”

“Interagency cooperation,” the Big A said.

“It’s from ATF’s raid?”

“Yeah. I’m sure the assholes would have cooperated like crazy if I’d asked.” He looked around. “This is one goddamn fucking mess, you know that? Rickie . . .” His jaw worked. Then his gaze sharpened. “Goddamn vultures.”

Lily followed his gaze. The press had arrived.

“. . . BROUGHTCynna back here,” Lily told Ruben. As soon as the wounded were on their way, she’d called Ruben back. “Cullen checked her real quick before he left. He says she’ll probably wake up with a bad headache soon, but she’s okay. I’m going to head to the ER now. Ackleford’s willing to take the scene until Karonski gets here. Then he needs to go to the hospital where they’re working on his man.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to the press first. People are likely to panic if they don’t hear something.”

She grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep it brief.”

Brief was good. Maybe she’d get through it without falling apart. Can’t alarm the public by falling apart on camera. “Yes, sir.” She disconnected and started to rub her face, but noticed her hand was shaking. That didn’t make sense. She was sure she’d burned through every drop of adrenaline her body had pumped out.

Why hadn’t Rule called her yet? It had been . . . she glanced at her watch. Seventeen minutes. Not that long. Obviously he was away from his phone for some reason. Hell, maybe he was in the shower. “Casey,” she said to the only one of the guards—other than Santos—who hadn’t been badly hurt, “do you have keys to the tankmobile?”

“I’ve got a set, yeah.”

“Okay. I’m going to talk to the press, and then we’re heading to the ER.” She took a couple of steps, stopped, and turned. Casey was right behind her, guarding her still. He was built chunky. Solid. His hair was mouse brown, his eyes a faded blue. She didn’t know him well, just enough to put a name to his face, plus a vague impression that he was on the quiet side. He could have died today. “Casey. You did well. All of you did extremely well today.”

She wondered if it was anger that tightened his mouth—who was she, to tell him he’d done well? But it might have been grief. He’d cried earlier, about Steve. “José will be okay,” he told her, as if she’d been the one asking for reassurance. “You’ll see. He’s a fast healer.”

Her phone chimed. It wasn’t Rule, but she answered automatically anyway. Maybe because she had no idea what to say to Casey. “Yes.”

“Miss Yu?”

“Who is this?”

“Philippe. Have I called at a difficult time? My regrets, but this is urgent. I’ve left several messages for your mother, but I’m afraid she hasn’t returned my calls. It’s about the feuilles de brick avec fruits de la passion .”

“The what?”

He sniffed. “The pastry I make for you with the passion fruit. I am sorry to give you difficult news, but we are going to have to adjust the menu.” He launched into an account of perverse suppliers, the weather, and the impossibility of using any but a certain farm’s passion fruit.