by Liz Meldon
Moira shook her head, moving faster as she ping-ponged back and forth between the café and the accounting office across the way, the alley behind her completely silent. “Can’t stop. Need to get the energy out.”
“Why don’t you save that energy for when it really matters?” he growled. “Beyond that, you’re riling up the troops.”
Moira risked a quick glance toward the street and found a cluster of demons ogling her. They all looked away hastily when they realized they’d been caught, muttering amongst themselves, and she tried to swallow the anxious lump that had lived in her throat since she woke up this morning. No luck. The damn thing wouldn’t budge, and now she had so much nervous adrenaline pounding through her that if she stopped moving, she might just keel over.
“Well, they can look all they want,” she said dismissively, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. “If they touch me, they’ll be in for the shock of their lives.”
“I did warn the heads of the families about your, er, recently honed abilities.”
“Good. I don’t want to deal with any bullshit. Not tonight.”
“Technically it’s morning—”
“Oh my god, Malachi, shut up.” Normally she could put up with his banter, but Moira had been on edge for hours—it had left her fried before the night had even started. Morning. Whatever.
D-day was here. The minutes ticking by now were the last that Severus would spend inside Seraphim Securities. Cordelia had reconfirmed his location before they set out to meet with the other demons, and Moira’d had to force herself not to glare at that fucking black building ever since she had arrived, its gold letters across the front mocking her.
“So, they all know why we’re here, right?” she asked, breaking the silence and ignoring Malachi’s eye roll. “Like…we’re not here for them—”
“They are aware that our sole interest is in Severus, yes,” Malachi told her as he leaned forward and did a quick sweep of the steadily filling street. It was nearly three in the morning, and Cordelia had cast a ward similar to the one around Alaric’s house to keep their impending activities contained. Unless you were inside her little magical bubble, it looked like any ordinary night. The shops and corporate buildings around them were dark and silent. Silas, some demon weapons-specialist gangster, had paid an official from the city government to cordon off the street from both ends—no need to have an unwitting human drive into what was bound to be the biggest shitshow Farrow’s Hollow had ever seen.
Because the demon mob families were taking down Seraphim Securities tonight. One of Alaric’s contacts had caught wind of the sting, and Malachi had managed to persuade the head honchos to let him, Moira, Cordelia, and Alaric tag along for the ride. While the hybrid—and Gibson and Kingsley—were stocking up on ammunition back at the house and would be here presently, Cordelia was busy doing her part for the troops.
In order to be included, Cordelia had offered to provide an entry point for the assault—with magical hand grenades, half of which she’d bought in Hell, half of which she’d made herself. Each grenade, when detonated, would knock out a specific strand of invisible angel warding around the building, then level Seraphim Securities’ lobby without blowing up the entire structure.
Apparently the inability to enter the main building was the only thing that had kept the demons at bay all these years. The lobby was doable—but anything beyond that was impassable to demons unless escorted by an angel. Enter Cordelia and her bottomless bag of magical trickery. The demonic witch was the only one who could literally see the magic surrounding the building—which mean she was the only one who could hack it. Or, in this case, obliterate it.
As soon as the hour struck, she would blow open the front door with her grenades, disabling whatever high-tech magical security system the angels had in place. The demon mob grunts would clear the rubble, and then the place would be a free-for-all.
Moira knew precisely where she was headed.
Well. Sort of. Malachi and the others hazarded a guess that dungeons holding truant demons would be in the lower levels of the building, so that was where they needed to go first. Meanwhile, the mobsters were interested in money, weapons, and intel. As far as Moira was concerned—let them have at it. They could do whatever the hell they wanted, as long as no one touched her—and no one stood in her way when she finally found Severus.
“Just let the grunts do what they need to do,” Malachi urged, finally pushing up into a standing position. Roughly half a head taller than her, the chaos demon appeared oddly calm about the whole thing. Much to her surprise, Moira was happy to have him here. Not only had he trained her for the last two weeks, but he had found a way to reach Severus. He had followed through on his promise.
Sure, things could go wrong fast. Cordelia guessed there was an additional warding system in place, one that might not shut down as easily as all the others, that would alert all of the Farrow’s Hollow angels, including Aeneas, that something had happened to the building.
“Just remember, after the lackeys clear rubble, we’re moving to the elevator. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t engage if they speak to you. Just move. If we’re in a jam with the feathery bastards, you need to step up to the plate. Offer your memories as soon as you can before they blast us into dust,” Malachi told her somewhat unnecessarily; she could recite tonight’s plan backwards if need be. Moira nodded all the same, her adrenaline spiking when she spotted Alaric and his handlers sauntering toward them from the far end of the alley. If they were here, it meant kickoff time—she checked her phone quickly, then shoved it back in her purse—was less than five minutes out.
Fuck. Moira hopped up and down on the spot, nervous—anxious, terrified, excited, terrified—energy buzzing through her. All that came to a dead halt, however, when a familiar figure stepped out from behind Gibson.
A figure that was supposed to be waiting at home.
With victory beers in the fridge.
“What the fuck is Ella doing here?” Moira demanded, rounding on the spot to glare at Malachi. “Is this a joke? Are you just fucking with me or something?”
“What?” The demon scowled down at her for a moment before looking toward the group—and an irate sort of realization spread across his features. “What is she doing here?!”
“You didn’t know?”
“I would never bring her here,” Malachi snarled, stalking down the alley. When he was within reach, he dragged Alaric aside just as the hybrid warned him about stepping outside of Cordelia’s magic bubble, and his handlers pounced on the pair. They were separated in an instant, with Malachi still snarling hushed comments at Alaric, Gibson struggling to hold him back. Ella, meanwhile, tiptoed around the whole confrontation, jogging over to Moira as she stood there, dumbfounded.
“Hey, so—”
“Don’t you hey me,” Moira snapped as she grabbed Ella’s arm and pulled her aside. She paused, however, when the loitering group of demons on the sidewalk, all clad in black, right down to the ridiculous stripes of grease paint on their cheeks, looked toward them with a little too much excitement in their eyes. Wrinkling her nose, she turned her back on them, blocking Ella from their line of sight.
“Moira, before you—”
“What are you doing here?” Shock rippled through her, numbing the energetic buzz from a few blissful moments ago, back when Moira didn’t know her best friend had tagged along for what could be a very dangerous, very awful adventure.
“I wanted to help,” Ella insisted. Dressed in a pair of slim-fit black jeans and a too-tight grey tee, the woman had managed to tame her wild curls into a glossy ponytail, the smoky eyeshadow a bit much. “I told Alaric, and he agreed to take me.”
“Alaric did what?” Moira glowered over Ella’s shoulder. Down the alley, Alaric glanced her way, then, red-faced, went back to what looked like a very intense conversation with Malachi. Dragging in a deep breath, she refocused on Ella and shook her head. “You can’t be here. Honey, I know you want to hel
p, and I love you for it, but you’re not…”
“Not what? Supernatural? Trained for combat? A demon?”
“Yes to all of the above!”
“I’m armed, okay.” Ella gestured down to the generous curve of her hips, showing off a pair of handguns from Alaric’s collection that Moira hadn’t noticed on her first sweep. “I will shoot anyone who gets near me.”
“What? You… We…” Moira pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. Ella wasn’t here—Moira had just passed out from all the nerves, and this was some awful dream.
“Moira, I’m a really good shot.”
Nope. Not a dream. She cracked an eye when Ella nudged her, only to watch her best friend unholster one of the handguns. In a flash it was in her dainty hand, a stark contrast to the baby-pink nail polish she had applied this afternoon back when Moira’s freak-out about tonight really took off. Like she did this for a living, Ella discharged her clip, fingers flying and gun parts clicking out of place, and then she put it all back together and raised the firearm to the dead center of Moira’s chest—finger off the trigger.
“What do you think I do with my cousins whenever I have to visit them?” she asked, lowering the weapon as Moira stared at her with dish-saucer-wide eyes—feeling like she had never met this person before. Ella shrugged and holstered the gun. “My uncle is a gun fanatic. They live in the middle of nowhere. Literally all we would do every day was shoot stuff on their range.”
“Just because you can do fancy tricks with a gun—”
“That wasn’t a trick—”
“Doesn’t mean you should be here,” Moira finished, throwing her hands up in disbelief. As the rest of their group slowly meandered toward them, she caught Gibson’s eye and pointed at Ella. “Take her home.”
“No.” Ella pushed her hand down. “I can do this. I can help you. Severus is going to need a human to touch when you find him. If he’s been tortured, he’s probably weak, right?”
“I…” Moira looked to Malachi for help, but all he did was scowl down at Ella, his eyes black and a vein she’d never seen before throbbing on his forehead.
“Logically, it makes sense,” Alaric offered, and it took everything Moira had in her not to punch him.
“I’m here for Severus,” Ella said softly, “and I’m here for you. There’s no time to take me back to the house. This is happening.”
In that moment, Moira realized how ridiculously frustrating it must have been for Severus when she’d pulled this exact same stunt in the past. Ignoring his safety warnings, demanding she be involved, putting herself in danger despite knowing better.
Karma was such a fucking bitch.
“Well, I mean, you’re right,” she admitted, as much as it pained her. “I can’t help Severus like you can, and there’s no time… So.” Moira looked at Malachi, who still stood seething behind Ella. “Can you keep an eye on her too?”
“I won’t let her out of my sight,” he growled. The demon then grabbed Ella by the back of the neck and dragged her to his side, her voluptuous ponytail bouncing. She scowled and tried to twist out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t budge.
Ella’s hand twitched toward one of the guns on her hip. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
Jaw clenched, Malachi responded by holding her an arm’s length away, mouth set in a thin line. Moira took a deep breath, massaging her temples as she looked from person to person in her little clique. Okay. This officially just became more complicated.
Like it needed to get more complicated, more dangerous, than it already was. Behind her, things in the street seemed to be gearing up, the hundred-odd demons present slowly separating into defined groups. Cordelia marched straight through the middle of them, a bloodred beacon in a sea of black.
For once, the witch hadn’t opted for Victorian funeral attire, but rather a bright red riding outfit—like horse riding. Red pants, dark brown knee-high boots, black gloves, red jacket buttoned around her slim waist, and a white blouse frilling out around her neck. All she needed was a riding crop and some stupid helmet and she’d be good to go. Before they had left about two hours earlier, Ella had helped the witch with her thick black hair, showing her how to plait a fishtail braid, much to Cordelia’s delight.
“I do enjoy a dash of Earth couture,” she’d purred, eyeing herself in the third-floor bathroom mirror. Moira and Ella had exchanged looks, neither having the heart to tell her that a fishtail braid wasn’t exactly at the epicenter of high fashion.
Now, however, as the wind rustled through the alley, Moira wished she had gone with the same look. Her own white locks hung straight down her back, a perky ponytail tying them all together. Maybe it would have been better to wrangle it all—maybe a bun? She reached for it distractedly as Cordelia met them at the edge of the alley, standing on the sidewalk next to the café, full lips pursed together. One withering look sent the loitering group of grease-paint covered demons into the street to join their mobster brethren.
“The blast should be contained to the street,” the witch remarked, blood oozing down the sides of her face from her hairline. Honestly, it almost didn’t seem worth it to be a witch; Cordelia couldn’t do anything without her body splitting and bleeding.
“Should be?” Gibson repeated, exchanging a quick glance with Kingsley. The vampire sucked in his cheeks with displeasure. Cordelia merely shrugged and moved over to Alaric, who wiped the blood away from her face with his thumb.
As far as Moira understood it, the magical bombs Cordelia had stuck to the front wall of Seraphim Securities weren’t like traditional explosives. When they went off, they would emit a magical pulse that would both disarm the magic protecting the building and reduce the walls around the lobby to rubble. Apparently this kind of gear was quite expensive to purchase in Hell because it required a nuanced hand to create and to handle; based on the handful she’d bought in Hell, Cordelia had made a few of her own in the kitchen yesterday, having returned a day early to prep.
Moira eyed Severus and Malachi’s cousin warily: this chick was scary as fuck.
Suddenly, dozens of wristwatches and phones beeped across the small army of demons, including Alaric’s, Gibson’s, and Kingsley’s. A hush descended as everyone went about turning them off. The hour had struck.
Moira’s heartbeat quickened, her palms clammy, her hybrid body bursting with nervous energy.
Head held high, Cordelia sauntered forward with her hands on her hips. Alaric trailed after, holding her gloves. Dozens of faces turned back to her, waiting.
“Brace for impact,” the witch bellowed, then raised her hands, fingers delicate, as if conducting an orchestra. Moira gulped when all ten digits snapped into fists, each one pulsing with a soft amber glow. Cordelia then yanked something back—like pulling a pair of invisible strings. The reins of a carriage. The pins of two hand grenades. In an instant, the bombs detonated, surges of brilliant color, the most intricate firework display Moira had ever seen, skittering across the Seraphim Securities building—and the walls exploded with such force that it knocked all the nearby demons off their feet.
Moira threw herself back as a whoosh of debris-ridden air, roiling and churning like a hurricane, barreled toward them. The windows of the café shattered. She tried to find Ella, to block the worst of it with this new, much sturdier body, but wasn’t fast enough. She staggered into Malachi instead when the wind hit, crying out.
And suddenly, as quickly as it had started—it was over.
“Ella?!” Moira rasped, coughing as she stood. Coated in a thin layer of dust, she frantically searched for her best friend, her very human best friend, only to find Malachi crouched down at her feet, Ella in his arms. He must have grabbed her and ducked, shielding her from the brunt of the explosion with his body.
Moira swallowed the rush of affection she felt for him in that moment, blinking back tears of relief—of gratefulness that he was already keeping his word. Again.
“I’m good,” Ella
insisted, squirming out of Malachi’s grasp after he stood. She went straight for Moira, helping her brush off the dust and debris. “You?”
“Fine,” she said. A slight twinge in her cheek caught her attention, and her fingers came away bloody when she brushed at it.
“It’s just a scratch,” Ella assured her. She then glanced over her shoulder, eyes on the ground, and murmured a quick, “Thank you.”
Malachi grunted in acknowledgement, but his attention was elsewhere as he pushed by and headed for the street. Grabbing Ella’s hand, Moira hurried after him, eyes wide as she surveyed the aftermath of the explosion.
Just as Cordelia had promised, the entire front end of the building had been blown to pieces. The lobby was completely stripped back, great mounds of rubble and shattered glass piled up where she and Severus had once tried to sweet-talk building plans out of the receptionist, some of it scattered across the two-lane street, too. Some of the demons were already throwing what was left of the big gold letters back and forth, laughing, while others moved forward in tight-knit teams, working on clearing a path to the golden elevators at the far left of the lobby. The wall around the elevators remained intact, as did the remaining building structure. With the amount of charges Cordelia had placed, Moira had worried the explosion might level the whole thing.
But there it stood, encased in Cordelia’s faintly shimmering magic bubble. The buildings on either side remained untouched, and the street was still empty in both directions, illuminated by street lamps.
“Like little worker ants, off to move a mountain,” Alaric noted. Moira flinched; he’d appeared out of nowhere, looking perfectly unharmed, with Cordelia at his side. His observation was apt; dressed in all black, the teams clearing what was left of the lobby swarmed, moving fast and efficient. The rest stood by, some eighty-plus demons waiting in the wings for the next move.
“Right.” Malachi rounded on the spot, glaring them all down—a great towering wall of black clothing and muscle. “We wait for them to clear a path. Do not engage. Do not help them. We move as one to the elevators, clear?”
