Leaving the Z-ster at what was left of the curb, I tucked my Glock into my shoulder holster and started around toward the back of the building. I didn’t want to have to use the weapon, but in this neighborhood there was no way I was going to leave it behind. As I walked I also began to recite a warding spell in my head, a simple one that would protect me from most anything some drug-crazed kid might throw my way.
As a weremyste, I could do such things.
Everyone’s heard of werewolves. Weremystes work much the same way. We’re mystes all the time, meaning that we can cast spells and feel magic when it’s used by others of our kind. But for three nights in every moon cycle-the night of the full moon, and the nights immediately before and after-we lose control of our magic and ourselves. Our magical abilities strengthen, but our minds weaken. Some of us descend into a kind of quiet psychosis; others become violent. And many of us, myself included, fall in between those extremes.
I was born a weremyste; I didn’t have to be bitten by one-that would be weird-and I didn’t have a curse put on me, or anything like that. My dad was a myste, too. I’ve known I’d be one since I was fourteen. That was also when I learned the true reason my father went off the deep end every four weeks.
I’m more powerful than some; less so than others. And I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not as skilled with my runecraft as I should be. But I can manage a good number of spells, particularly wardings. In the hands of a master, they could be more effective than a ballistic vest, without the bulk or weight. Of course, I’m not a master.
With the reassuring weight of the Glock tugging on my shoulder, and the power for my spell gathering inside me, I crept along the side of the building, past piles of rusted scrap metal and shards of broken bottles. I figured that most of the people inside would be stoned beyond consciousness, but still I placed my feet with care, in case someone was listening for cops. Or inquisitive PIs.
I found no door along this side, but upon reaching the rear corner of the building and peering around to the back, I spotted a steel door. It was closed, but had no lock.
A cold prickling on the back of my neck-premonition, or instinct honed by years on the force-made me pull out my weapon. I eased toward the door, holding the pistol in front of me. I also released the spell, felt the warding settle over me like a blanket. I reached the door, stepped past it so that I could swing it open and enter the garage in one quick motion. That was the plan, anyway.
I had forgotten about that vanishing money from Jessie’s account and the possibility that she was with a myste. Stupid of me. And nearly fatal.
As soon as I flung the door open, I sensed the spell. It wasn’t particularly strong, but it was an assailing spell-an attack-and whoever cast it had aimed it at me. I braced myself, hoped the warding would hold. It did, but the spell-it felt like an impact attack, meant, no doubt, to seem like I had been hit with a two-by-four-was strong enough to stagger me and to make the doorway shake. By the time I was moving forward again, I could hear footsteps retreating toward the front of the garage.
I followed, Glock ready, the power for a second spell already building inside me. This time I planned to cast an assailing spell of my own. I hate it when people use magic against me; makes me want to get even.
I hadn’t taken five steps, before I slowed, then halted. The smell would have been enough to get my attention-feces, urine, vomit, sweat, fear, desperation-there could have been a body rotting in here. It was hard to tell.
But what I saw was every bit as bad. Worse, really. At least twenty college-age kids lay sprawled over the filthy cement floor, most of them unconscious. At least half of them were emaciated, their cheeks sunken, as if they’d been prisoners in this hell-hole for months. Others-the newcomers, most likely-might have been marginally healthier. But all of them wore stained, tattered clothing; all of them looked like they hadn’t bathed in weeks or longer.
I spotted Jessie Tyler right away, but I couldn’t help wondering how many of these other kids didn’t have anyone searching for them.
I heard a loud crash at the front of the shop. Another glance at Jessie convinced me she wasn’t going anywhere. I eased forward, gripping my weapon with both hands, considering what spell I ought to use. Assailing spells worked best with a precise target. I didn’t have one, at least not yet, and I didn’t want to hurt one of those kids.
Unfortunately, the myste I was stalking didn’t have my scruples. Again, I felt the spell as soon as he cast it-the air was electric with magic. I sensed the heat before I saw the wave of flame rolling toward me. I backpedaled, scared, but also unwilling to ward myself and leave the kids to roast. Fire spells are rudimentary magic, but this myste, whoever he was, had poured serious power into this one. The temperature in the garage jumped twenty degrees. The skin on my face and hands flushed, like I’d been sitting way too close to a campfire.
The flames were almost on top of me when I cast my spell. Three elements, because that was how spells worked: the kids and myself, the fire, and a wall of magic in between. I recited the elements to myself three times, allowing the magic to build inside me. On the third repetition, I released it, the way I would a held breath.
The barrier winked into view and then shuddered as the attack hit it. But like my earlier warding, it held. That wall of flame passed over without burning any of us. There was nothing I could do, though, to keep the guy’s magic from setting everything else in the garage on fire.
I started shouting for the kids to get out of the building. For the moment we still had a clear path to the door I’d used, but I didn’t think that would last long. A couple of the kids managed to get themselves upright and stumble toward the daylight. Several more sat up and appeared to notice the flames. But they couldn’t do more than that. Most of them didn’t stir.
The air grew thick with dark smoke. I didn’t think the building would come down on top of us; the walls were cinder block and the roof was metal. But it felt like we were in a giant oven.
Another pulse of magic shook the garage. I spun toward the front of the building, expecting to see more flames, but nothing came at me. The bastard had blown his way through that metal door, leaving the rest of us to broil.
I ran to the kids and started shaking as many of them awake as I could. Those who I could hoist onto their feet I helped to the door, two at a time. After that it became a matter of carrying the unconscious ones. They were filthy and rank; several of them had open sores on their arms and legs, faces and necks. When all of this was over I was going to bathe in a tub of hand sanitizer.
The smoke-black, choking, probably toxic as hell-continued to thicken, and the heat became nearly unbearable. But to my amazement, I managed to get all of them out without killing myself. Equally amazing, Jessie didn’t run away while I was helping the others. She appeared dazed, her eyes wide but empty, her skin pink from the heat.
I heard the fire engines arrive a few minutes after I carried the last unconscious girl to safety. Moments later a trio of firefighters came running around the corner to the back of the building. Seeing the kids and me, they stopped.
“Good God,” one of them muttered.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re going to need a few ambulances.”
“Spark den?” another guy asked, as the first radioed for help.
I nodded.