City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set

by Clara Coulson

  “They weren’t the only ones,” a new, gruff voice breaks in. It’s Riker, standing in the threshold between the foyer and living room and leaning heavily on his cane. “I just got off the phone with Ramirez. This Tuchulcha character slipped through our defenses at the hospital. He took Veronica Adams and rode her body right out the front door roughly twenty minutes ago. On Charun’s orders, I assume.”

  “Damn it.” Delarosa growls under his breath, frustrated. “St. Joseph’s, right? That hospital is only six miles from…from Waverly College.”

  “Sir,” I say, stepping past Ella and Delarosa, “how many people do we have guarding the summoning circle in the woods outside the Hague dorm?”

  Riker checks out my disheveled appearance, tearstains and all, and clicks his tongue to convey some unspoken judgment. He replies, “Yesterday, I assigned five lower-level detectives to patrol the area directly around the circle, with two more as lookouts. Ramirez is updating them now on the latest developments.”

  Ella saunters up beside me, and her hand lands on my shoulder in solidarity, defending me against Riker once again. “That’s not going to be enough, Nick. We need to scramble all available agents, to hold Charun and Tuchulcha off long enough for us to retrieve Cooper. If Charun takes Cooper to the Eververse…that’s it. We’ll lose him. He’ll die. We can’t enter their realm, their home turf. We’d never stand a chance of winning a fight beyond the veil.”

  “I know,” Riker says, and I swear I catch the hint of a grin on his grumpy face. “That’s why I sent out an office-wide alert before I walked in the door. Now, if we’re done talking about this fiasco, then let’s get our asses in the car and go. It’s a twelve-minute drive to Waverly from here, and that’s if we don’t get stopped by a cop for going twenty miles over the speed limit.”

  Delarosa, Ella, and I all exchange glances, and I take a split second to wonder if I’ve caught my first solid glimpse of the real Riker, the one beneath the grief and pain. Then I’m rushing out the door, as fast as my injured ankle can take me, two steps behind Ella and Delarosa, two steps ahead of the captain who is a lot more than meets the eye. Thirty seconds later, we’re all piled into an office SUV, Delarosa at the wheel. He flips the key, puts the car into drive, and floors it before anyone has a chance to buckle up.

  As we’re peeling around the corner, the terrible driver mutters, “Do you guys realize that none of this shit would have happened if Charun had just asked us, or the ICM, for help in retrieving this stupid key?” Three wild, dangerous turns later, nobody has responded to his comment—we’re too busy holding on for our lives—so he adds, in an annoyed tone, “Eververse monsters, I swear. They are so fucking rude.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I kill myself in the most spectacularly stupid way imaginable. And yet, I don’t regret it.

  The SUV skids to a stop two spots down from where I parked my work car when this whole nightmare started a few days ago. Delarosa cuts the engine, and we all haul ass out of the vehicle, sprinting across the road and the lawn outside the Hague dorm, toward the shadowy patch of trees that hides a deadly magic secret. Despite his screwed-up leg, Riker is only half a step behind us, his jaw set tight to stop himself from crying out in pain. I’m not much better off, with my twisted ankle and healing shoulder; every step jars both injuries, jolts of fire zipping through my skin.

  As we near the tree line, a virtual army comes into view. Black-clothed forms pour into the woods from all directions, every available agent in the immediate vicinity of the campus. Among them, to my surprise, are our friends from the ICM. Marcus, Erica, and the other practitioners from the failed raid hang behind the wave of advancing agents, power walking their way through the trees. They appear to be discussing either DSI’s complete and utter incompetence or their lack of an adequate lunch, judging by the expressions of distaste and annoyance plastered on their faces. Except Erica. She does, at least, look mildly concerned about the situation at hand.

  We cross into the woods and catch up to the ICM guys, who nod in greeting as we blow by. Erica throws me a smile and a wink, opens her mouth to say hi, but before she gets a sound out, something to my left stops her short. I glance over my shoulder to spy Ella shooting Erica a death glare, eyes like burning coals, and for the first time, I feel the full sense of being the baby on the team, in need of “protection” by a clucking mother hen. When I turn back to Erica, she’s got an eyebrow fully cocked in disbelief, and I realize she must think I told my team, willingly, about our night together. Can’t wait to explain that one.

  You know, if I live through this one.

  Delarosa, Ella, Riker, and I leave the unconcerned ICM guys (plus Erica) in the dust, catching up to the rest of the DSI agents speeding through the trees toward the summoning circle. As we close in on the clearing, Ella shifts closer to me to say, “Cal, I want you to hang back with the second line of defense.”

  “What? No. I need to—”

  She slaps my one free hand. “Think, Cal. What are you missing?”

  “Huh?” I peer down at my gloved fingers, and it hits me. “Rings. I didn’t get a new set of rings after the raid.”

  “Precisely. You might be a good shot, and you may know your way around a knife, but we’re about to cast some serious energy in there. Fire and lightning and force and who knows what else. You can’t fight in that arena without your own rings, Cal. Sorry.” She flicks my ear. “Maybe next time. For this round, pick a tree, hunker down, pull your gun, and provide support to the agents—”

  Out of nowhere, a shockwave blasts through the woods, knocking down three dozen agents like bowling pins. It smacks me in the chest, and my feet slip out from under me. My ragdoll body goes sprawling backward, bounces off the ground, twice, and then rolls eight feet across the damp earth. I come to a rocky stop covered in half-decayed leaves, my back basically glued to the sticky mud beneath me. The coughs that wrack my chest are so intense I’m worried, for a moment, that the impact cracked a rib. Even better, my sling, torn off in the fall, lies useless in a bush three feet to my right, and hot pain radiates through my left shoulder.

  As soon as my eyes stop seeing double, I roll over onto my stomach and push myself to my knees with my good hand, try to get a handle on the scene. Ten agents are down for the count, some unconscious, others cradling broken limbs. At least two have serious head injuries, faces bloody, and one might have a broken back—he’s calling out for help, immobilized on the ground. The least injured agents around him come to his aid, pulling out what little medical equipment they have on their belts. One of the helpers hands off her gear to another, moves back, and grabs her phone to call in the medics.

  We didn’t even have time to set up coms.

  I search the area for any of the companions who were running alongside me, but the only one I find is Delarosa, who’s leaning against a tree fifteen feet away. One of his eyes is screwed shut, and thick blood streams down his face. Something sharp, maybe a broken branch, tore into his forehead and temple, less than half an inch above his brow line. A close call.

  Hauling myself to my feet with the help of the nearest tree trunk, I shake off the remaining shock and continue on toward the clearing. Less than a quarter of the initial assault force advances with me, and it occurs to me, a sinking stone in my stomach, that Charun probably waited until a majority of the agents were within “optimal attack distance” before he unleashed the brutal energy wave. I keep forgetting, with the full breadth of his monstrous appearance lodged in my mind, that Charun is an extremely strategic, intelligent creature. Perhaps more intelligent than any human could ever be. He’s a major figure from ancient myth, after all. A virtual god among men.

  Close to the clearing, I tug my gun from its holster. It won’t put Charun down, won’t even deter him, but if someone else is up to bat, I may be able to distract the demon enough for that person to land a few good blows. I hop over a tree downed by the shockwave, land in a crouch, and shuffle forward, taking cover behind the widest
trunk I can find on the edge of the clearing. Peering around the edge of the tree, gun raised, I appraise the showdown already in progress.

  Ella Dean, with Riker as backup, along with Ramirez and three other agents I don’t know, are throwing everything they can conjure at Charun’s face. The death demon himself stands before the summoning circle in a defensive position, blocking beggar magic attacks with his bare, meaty arms and taking swings with his massive hammer whenever someone gets too close. Behind him, kneeling at the edge of the circle, is Tuchulcha in Veronica’s burn-marred body. The assistant is chanting, low, in what I can only assume is Etruscan, as he rearranges the design of the circle to prepare it for a banishment spell.

  And behind Tuchulcha, lying prone and bloody on the opposite edge of the circle, is Cooper Lee. Unconscious. Entire face swollen, black and blue. His right arm is set at a severe angle, badly broken, the sleeve of his shirt torn to shreds. The rest of his shirt is intact, however, obscuring his upper body, and he’s too far away for me to assess any other injuries.

  If Charun hit more than his arm—say, his chest—then Cooper could be dying right now, from internal bleeding, collapsing lungs, or any other complication from having a large hammer driven into your torso at a high speed. For all I know, Cooper might be in the middle of multiple organ failure, his slim body shutting down on him. He might have minutes, or less, to live, if he doesn’t get medical attention immediately. I need to—

  A powerful presence materializes behind me, and I whirl around, gun in hand. Only to find it’s Erica, crouched down beside a nearby tree, her palms supercharged with magic energy. The concentration of power is so intense, my eyes are dragged into magic sensing mode against my will, and the world around me transforms into a surrealist painting. A fog of lingering blue energy drifts through the air, the remnant of Charun’s mighty shockwave attack. Within that fog, Erica’s palms, which were exuding a subtle green aura in the normal visual field, explode into blinding torches of vibrant emerald. The intense light burns into my corneas, and I have to look away.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “Cut the light show, will you?”

  The green glow dims slightly, and Erica whispers, “Ah, forgot you were a tracker. My bad. Although I suppose you can consider it payback.” There’s a hardness to her tone that betrays her joking words. “What level of asshole must you be to kiss and tell, Kinsey?”

  “Not really the time to discuss the complications of our amorous affair, witch.” As soon as the colorful, dancing spots fade from my vision, I redirect my attention to the ongoing battle in the clearing. “But for the record, I didn’t spew out a vomit of intimate details around the water cooler, if that’s what you’re thinking. I got caught in a corner, thanks to that bastard Delarosa. Ella put two and two together, and I have a funny feeling she’ll be shaming me about it until the end of the freaking world.”

  Erica crawls out from behind her cover and shuffles over to my tree in order to get a better view of the clearing. “See? That’s the thing about you Crows. You can’t mind your own damn business.”

  “Last time I checked, Charun is Crow business, barring a threat to the general public. That’s what you explicitly told me at the diner the other night.” I finger the trigger of my handgun as the clearing fight intensifies. Charun swings his hammer again, narrowly missing Ella’s head, and roars out a phrase of furious Etruscan when his target darts away to a safe distance. Swallowing, throat dry, I continue, “Since we’re in the woods and not out on the street, your terms of ‘help’ don’t apply. So what are you and your ICM pals doing here?”

  Erica positions herself on the other side of my tree, half-exposed to the clearing. The deep green aura engulfing her palms brightens again—I make the smart decision to look away this time before the light grows too intense—and three trees felled by Charun’s attack begin to shake and then rise from the ground. Releasing a faint gasp of concentration, Erica lifts two, four, maybe six tons of solid pine. With her mind.

  Once more, I find myself awed by the might of an ICM-level practitioner. The Council doesn’t screw around with its membership choices.

  As the trees float higher and higher, Erica replies to my question. “Well, I might have pushed a few of Marcus’ buttons, convinced him that letting anyone, even a Crow, get dragged to the Eververse to be brutally murdered would be poor form for a respected Council leader. If word got out that he could have prevented such a horrible death but chose not to, on the basis of some Crow-resenting principles…let’s just say that not all members of the ICM would look kindly on such coldness.”

  A smirk plays on her lips, highlighted by the eerie green glow. “Sometimes, being a human practitioner, you do have to sacrifice an ounce of goodwill with the other supernatural communities in favor of protecting your fellow humans. Crows are annoying, yes, but they are also people. And people never fare well in the Eververse. Especially when they’re taken against their will.

  “So, here we are, Cal.” She sends me a trademark wink. “Positioned at strategic points around the clearing. Ready to create a nice diversion, so you can reclaim your little friend—Cooper Lee, is it?”

  Ten or fifteen seconds pass where I can do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at Erica the witch. The first time Riker sent me to see her at the occult shop, he said she was more forthcoming than most of her peers. But manipulating her own local Council leader into assisting DSI on a dangerous rescue mission by playing on the man’s fear of public reproach? Erica Milburn is not forthcoming. Erica Milburn is a friend. And Nicholas Riker knew that before he sent me her way.

  How long, I wonder, have they been trading secrets, playing tricks behind the backs of both the ICM and DSI? If only I had time to ask about it now…

  But I don’t.

  Because we’re in the middle of what is quickly becoming a warzone.

  Ramirez and two of the agents I haven’t met, a young woman and an older man, assault Charun from three different directions, while Ella, who just threw a fireball at Charun’s right arm, retreats to a safe position to collect herself for another beggar magic volley. Charun doesn’t appear at all perturbed that the blue flesh of his arm has been seared black, that his skin is peeling off, cracked, in a thick layer, revealing pink, bloody muscle underneath. He bellows out another Etruscan curse and reels his hammer back again for another brutal strike. But he can’t mow down all three approaching agents at once, not with their varied angles of approach, so he concentrates on Ramirez, swooping in from his left, and aims his next hammer attack at the captain’s head. Then he swings.

  Ramirez, wearing the ghost of a grin, feints to the left, leaping out of the path of the oncoming hammer. The edge of the hammer’s head skirts over the fabric of the captain’s coat, missing contact with his fragile hip by a fraction of an inch. Ramirez lands in a graceful tuck and roll, spins around on his knees, aims two fists at Charun, and unleashes a powerful force attack with his beggar rings.

  The wall of energy slams into Charun’s right side, and because the beast is still mid-swing, the blow destabilizes his stance, causing him to spin out of control. His hammer slips from his fingers and drives itself into the dirt less than three feet behind Tuchulcha. The fire spirit, caught off guard, stumbles forward into the circle, smudging his half-finished handiwork. From my hiding place, I hear the angry spirit spit out a string of—surprisingly—English swears.

  Meanwhile, the other two agents launch their own attacks at Charun in tandem, and the demon takes an electric jolt to the face two seconds before another blast of fire eats into his already injured arm. This time, he staggers back, releases a howl of pain, nearly falls to one knee. And for a second, I think us puny DSI agents might actually have a shot at shutting down Charun’s final rampage.

  I’m wrong.

  Charun shrugs off the pain far faster than any human could, and far faster than any of the attacking agents assumed he would. Quicker than my eyes can follow, Charun lunges, not for his hammer but for the retreating form of th
e young female agent who zapped him with her electricity rings. His enormous hand is nothing more than a blur, wrapped in a pulsing blue aura, as it shoots out, grabs the woman by her thigh, hoists her into the air, and then throws her across the clearing at the velocity of a speeding train. Directly toward a tree—toward instant death on impact.

  Erica almost drops her trees to try and save the poor woman, but, it turns out, she doesn’t have to. Ella Dean skids to a stop in front of the target tree, holds up her hands, and activates her force rings. They create a funnel in the air that catches the woman, directs her flailing body around the tree, and sends her sailing off at a shallow angle until she slows enough to hit the ground with bruising—but not deadly—force.

  The woman rolls to a stop thirty feet outside the clearing, half in, half out of a thick, prickly bush. I hear her exhale in sweet relief, even as she curls into a frightened ball, trying not to cry in the middle of a battle. She can’t be more than three or four years older than me, this woman, far outclassed in a match with an Etruscan Psychopomp. But she came to fight anyway, without hesitation, to try and save one of our own.

  Cooper Lee.

  Who’s now started to writhe on the ground where he lies. Slowly regaining consciousness.

  My own relief freezes into instant fear. If Cooper wakes up and tries to get away, Tuchulcha—now hard at work on his circle again—might harm the injured archivist further.

  I shimmy closer to Erica and murmur, “What’s your distraction plan? Attack Charun and Tuchulcha at the same time?”

  She reaffirms her magic hold on the trees still floating in midair and nods. “Yeah. Marcus and I go after big blue, while two of the other guys take on the fire spirit. We’ll drive both creatures away from the circle, giving you a clear shot to get in, grab your friend, and get out on the opposite side of the clearing. Our last guy, Chris, is lying in wait near your exit point. If anything tries to chase you, he’ll give you magic support, help you get away clean. Sound good?”