Big Joe shook his head. “Keep dreaming. Underwood wants that box. One way or another, we’re not leaving here without it.”
I kept my gun trained on them but glanced over my shoulder at Bethany. “Bethany, give me the box. It’s the only way I can be sure.”
“Not on your life,” she said.
The moment I took my eyes off them, Big Joe and Tomo moved like lightning, reaching into their jackets and pulling out their guns. I cocked my gun. “Don’t,” I warned.
Big Joe kept his gun trained on me. Tomo drew a bead on Bethany. Thornton growled louder, his hackles rising. Somehow he found the strength to lope toward them, but he was slow and his whole body shook from the exertion.
Tomo kept his eyes on the wolf’s approach. He swallowed nervously, his instinctual aversion to the undead kicking in. “Call this fucking thing off,” he yelled, his voice wavering.
“Thornton, get back,” I said, but the wolf ignored me. He inched closer to Tomo, snarling and baring his fangs. Then, without warning, one of his front legs gave out and he tipped forward, off-balance. Tomo kicked him hard across the snout. Thornton skittered backward, tripping over his tangled clothes and collapsing to the floor.
Big Joe locked eyes with me and spat on the floor. “You dumb piece of shit. You’re fucking with the wrong people.”
A voice from behind him said, “No, gentlemen. You are.”
Tomo and Big Joe turned.
Standing in the doorway of the auto body shop was a man in his late fifties with a mane of coppery red hair on his head and a neatly trimmed beard that matched it. He wore a long, hunter-green duster that flapped behind him in the breeze. He wasn’t alone. To one side of him stood a tall, statuesque woman in a black leather jacket, her skin as smooth and dark as onyx. She had black, braided dreadlocks tied back behind her head. On his other side stood a lean, sinewy Asian man in a black turtleneck and mirrored sunglasses.
“Who the fuck are you clowns?” Tomo demanded. He and Big Joe turned their guns on the newcomers.
The red-bearded man grinned. “The name’s Isaac Keene. These are my associates Gabrielle Duchamp and Philip Chen. Commit those names to memory, gentlemen. The next time you hear them, you’re going to want to run.”
The two enforcers cocked their guns. Big Joe said, “Sorry to break it to you, pal, but there ain’t gonna be a next time.”
They both pulled the triggers in quick succession. At the same time, Isaac waved a hand in the air before him as if he were tracing a giant circle. The bullets hung in midair, frozen just a few inches away from Isaac. He thrust his arm out in front of him, palm forward. There was a quick, bright flash, and suddenly Tomo and Big Joe were off their feet and hurtling back toward the shop wall as if a wrecking ball had hit them.
But Isaac’s hand was empty. He wasn’t holding a charm or artifact the way Bethany and Thornton did when they worked magic. The flash—the spell—had come directly from the palm of his hand. Isaac, I realized, was carrying magic inside him.
Tomo and Big Joe crashed hard into the wall, their guns flying from their hands, and then fell in a heap on the floor, unconscious. The suspended bullets fell harmlessly at Isaac’s feet, tinkling like wind chimes.
A loud squeal of tires came from the street outside. Underwood’s black sedan pulled away from the curb and sped past the auto body shop. He would be back, though. I was sure of it. He wanted the box too badly to let it go.
The man in the black turtleneck and mirrored shades, Philip Chen, moved away from Isaac’s side so fast he was little more than a blur. In a second he was in front of me, grabbing the front of my shirt in his fist and slamming me back against the wall. He wrenched the gun out of my hand, his grip so strong I thought my fingers would break under the pressure. Philip pocketed my gun. Then he smelled me. He brought his face right up to the bloodstains on my collar and shirt and sniffed me like I was a bouquet of flowers.
“I can smell your blood,” he said, his face close enough for me to feel hot breath on my throat. Where he gripped my shirt, his stone-like fist pressed so hard into my chest it felt like my ribs were going to crack. I couldn’t breathe. In the reflection of Philip’s mirrored sunglasses, I saw my own face turn red with asphyxiation. “Your fear and confusion make your blood smell like candy to me,” he said.
“Philip, don’t,” Bethany said.
Philip scowled. “I saw him through the wall when we were coming up on this place, Bethany. He was holding a gun on you. Give me a reason not to open him up.”
“Believe me, I’d love to see him get what’s coming to him, but we need him,” she insisted. “Someone named Underwood is after the box. Trent’s the only one who can tell us who he is and what kind of threat he poses.”
Philip seemed unconvinced, continuing to press me against the wall with his face inching closer to my neck. I glanced down and saw my boots were dangling several inches above the floor. Philip wasn’t just holding me against the wall, he was holding me up, and effortlessly. His strength was staggering.
“Philip, that’s enough,” Isaac said.
Bethany had been unsuccessful, but apparently two words from Isaac were all it took to make Philip back down. He lowered me to the floor, relaxing the pressure on my chest, but he kept a tight grip on my shirt. I coughed and gasped air into my lungs. Philip’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a grin. His canines were long and pointed, sharp enough to pierce flesh. “I guess it’s your lucky day,” he said, “but you so much as breathe wrong, I’ll tear out your throat.”
Given those sharp teeth, I had no doubt Philip could do just that if he had a mind to. I looked into his mirrored shades, wishing I could see his eyes to get a better read on him. I realized with a jolt that I could see my whole torso in the reflection, but I couldn’t see Philip’s arm holding my shirt. The front of my shirt was bunched and twisted, but there was no hand gripping it, just the knot of fabric.
“You don’t have a reflection,” I said. Apparently, I’d developed a knack for stating the obvious.
Philip grinned, showing his fangs again. “When you look this good all the time, you don’t need one. Now just stay put, or I’ll show you what kind of damage a vampire can really do.”
I figured it wouldn’t be smart to put that to the test. Across the shop, I watched Bethany approach Isaac.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said. “You know it’s against protocol. It’s your own rule.”
“You can blame Gabrielle,” he said. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was hard enough getting her to stay at Citadel last night when she knew Thornton was in trouble, but she threatened to go to him as soon as the sun came up, with or without me. Since I couldn’t talk her out of it, I thought it would be safer if I came with her. As for Philip, well, you know what he’s like. He won’t let me out of his sight. So, the gang’s all here.”
The woman with the dreadlocks and leather jacket knelt beside Thornton. She cradled him gently in her arms, and suddenly I put two and two together. Gabrielle Duchamp was the one Thornton kept talking about. The love of his life.
Thornton had changed back to human form, but he looked worse than ever. He was wasting away, his emaciated body nearly lost in the folds of his tattered clothes. The lights on the amulet pulsed so dimly I could barely see them.
Gabrielle kissed Thornton’s face and mouth. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
His discolored, necrotic hand reached up to stroke her hair and touch her face. He winced in frustration and pulled his hand away. “I—I can’t feel you.”
“How is he?” Isaac asked, putting a hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder.
She scooped Thornton up in her arms, lifting him off the floor as though he weighed nothing at all. “There isn’t much time,” she said. “We have to get him back to Citadel.”