Ilona Andrews - On the Edge

Of all these concerns, the blueblood and the beasts were most dire. The creatures did resemble hounds, lean demonic dogs from some awful nightmare. And they wanted magic. Their power fed on it. Was there some sort of purpose to their attacks? If they assaulted people at random, drawn to magic, then the four of them, the boys, Grandma, and she, would be their prime targets. The Draytons were among the most magical of the Edge families. Nothing that a blueblood like Declan would be impressed with, she was sure, but by Edger standards, they stood out. How would she protect the boys?

Rose felt a spike of panic and squished it down. First things first. She’d take the carcass of the dead hound to Grandma once her shift was over. Then they would go from there.

And then there was Declan. She had no clue how she would challenge him. What couldn’t he do? What did the fairy-tale girls do in this situation? She strained, trying to remember. Most of the stories involved sorting rice from wheat and weaving gold cloth from straw. She wasn’t sure if he could weave gold from straw but she wouldn’t be surprised if he managed it somehow. No, it had to be something else. Something she knew for sure would work. Some challenge with a trick to it.

Declan’s face surfaced in her memory. What an arrogant ass. She glanced at her uniform. So what if it was an ugly sack of unnatural color?

He’d said she was beautiful.

A man did tell her she was beautiful, wonderful, kind, and smart before. He even told her that he loved her and offered her a safe haven for the boys. And she believed him, right until the point she found out he planned to sell her off.

Declan was an enemy. A very odd kind of enemy, who saved small kids from monsters, tore roofs off houses with his flash explosions, and concerned himself with her safety. She had to keep reminding herself that he was the enemy, because the impact his presence had on her was staggering. It must be his size. Or maybe his sword. Or the unbelievable power of his flash. Or maybe all of the above . . .

Or the fact that he was incredibly handsome, and she had to keep iron control of herself to stop thinking about him. As far as she knew, he couldn’t read her mind, but getting rid of him would prove much harder if he knew what went through her head this morning while he waved his sword around. She had to be adult about this: yes, he was hot and she was vulnerable. She got it out of her system this morning, and that would be the end of that.

His flash was something else. Most people tried to flash by holding their hand as a weapon and pushing the magic out of it. Unconsciously, they shaped the flash with subtle pressure into a form similar to their arm—a long ribbon—and it never occurred to them that it could take any other shape. But he’d managed a perfect half sphere. Rose still practiced with her flash every day if she could help it. It had become second nature to her, and she caught herself doing it without thinking, the way some people tapped their foot or fidgeted. But she’d never tried a half sphere before.

She’d figured out how Declan had done it a moment before he’d let it loose: he’d held the magic inside him, ratcheting the pressure higher and higher, and then dropped his guard on the front of his body completely and let it rip. The flash simply burst out of him, sweeping everything on its way. It was beautiful.

Rose had done it twice on her way to the boundary. Hers was much smaller in magnitude, a mere whisper compared to his roar, because she still had to walk and work afterward. But she knew she could do it, and when she poured enough power into it, her flash wave would be devastating.

Oh, she couldn’t wait to show him. That would knock some of that blueblood haughtiness down a peg. She just needed a good opportunity.

He couldn’t find lodging in the Edge. That was too funny. When did he learn to make pancakes? Maybe it was part of their blueblood tutoring: eight o’clock—swordplay, nine o’clock—archery, ten o’clock—pancake making . . .

Latoya said something from her table.

“Huh?”

“I said, what’s his name?”

Rose frowned. “Whose name?”

“The guy you’re mooning over.”

“I’m not mooning!”

Latoya glanced at Teresa. The older woman nodded. “Mooning. Definitely.”

Rose rolled her eyes and turned to the window. She wasn’t mooning. She was planning strategy. Declan had to have a weak point. Somewhere. Everybody had a weak point.

He was arrogant. That was something. And he didn’t know the Edge. She had to give him some sort of challenge that involved knowing the terrain, something that appeared deceptively easy, so easy he didn’t try very hard until it was too late . . .

A man slid into the opposite chair. He had wide shoulders and green eyes, and he wore a Carolina Panthers ball cap on his head.

Rose stared in complete astonishment. A pair of worn-out jeans and a green sweatshirt toned him down a bit, but not nearly enough. She was aware of the shocked silence at the table next to her.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Perhaps I missed the sight of your lovely body,” he said.

“What?”

Declan leaned closer. “My promise not to ravish you doesn’t extend to this fine establishment, does it? As I recall, it’s only valid under your roof. How could I pass on such an opportunity?”

“If you touch me, I’ll hit you with this chair,” she ground out.

“I had no idea you enjoyed rough courtship,” he said with a straight face. “It was never my particular favorite, but I’ll do my best to play along, provided I’ll get you in the end.”

Rose opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Would you like me to be quiet?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“If you kiss me, I promise to be quiet for a very long time.”

The thought of him bending down and kissing her zinged through her brain, and she clenched her hands together under the table, grimly determined to hide it. “You have no sense at all, do you?”

“You’re quite easy to rile up.” He leaned back. “Your brother is right. You don’t date.”

In her mind she picked up the chair and hit him over the head with it. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I might have a word with your employer,” Declan said. “Amy mentioned that he decided not to pay you.”

Amy shouldn’t listen to other people’s phone calls. “You’ll do no such thing. How did you find me?”

“I followed you. You walk quickly, but I’m used to marching.”

“You can’t be out here. This is the Broken!”

“I’m aware of that,” he said. “Crossing into it felt like my guts were being ripped out.”

“You could’ve died.”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. It hurt, but the pain passed.”

She once saw a caravan master from the Weird try to cross into the Broken. He’d gotten upset over the prices and decided he’d go and get the Broken goods for himself, cutting out the Edger middlemen. Two steps into the nine-foot-wide boundary he went into convulsions. The Edgers let him hurt for about a minute or two and then came to get him. He didn’t complain about the prices anymore after that. Declan’s crossing must’ve been agony. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Where did you get the clothes?”

“Leanne gave them to me. She insisted, actually. She said my appearance might cause a, how did she put it, ‘fainting epidemic.’ ”

Dear God.

Behind Declan the door swung open, and Brad Dillon sauntered into the Burger King. “Well, lookit here. Rose Drayton and her faggot boyfriend. We meet again.” Brad’s voice rang through the Burger King, and Rose found herself the focal point of ten stares. At the counter Juniper went white with fury.