The doors open, and Ciprian, Alistair, and Luca rush toward us.
“Gods, fuck.Fuck.” Luca covers his mouth as he stares at the amputated wings in my arms. “Are those his?—”
“I-I’ll call for help,” Ciprian sputters, yanking his phone from his pocket. It rings, but his fingers are shaking so badly that he drops it. Alistair bends—his movement blurring as he catches it before it can hit the ground and presses it to Ciprian’s ear.
Sheena answers, and Ciprian gulps. “It’s bad, shit, it’s really bad.” His wide black eyes stand out against his pale skin. “Send Idris and wait for us in the wing.”
The air crackles a second later, and a purple vortex appears beside the SUV.
Silent as the grave, Celine steps toward it. Her fingers are curled around Malach with a focused intensity that makes my hair stand on end.
Luca rubs his chest with the heel of his hand. “Is he?—?”
“Alive? Yes.” I don’t bother to say barely. That’s obvious.
A gust of wind whips against us. It rustles the feathers of Malach’s detached wings, making them brush against my arms. I shudder. It unnatural, the once living part of Malach reanimated temporarily by the breeze. I want to drop the bloody wings, but Celine asked me to carry them, and I’m not going to let her down. Not after what I witnessed.
Gingerly adjusting my grip, I follow the others through the portal in time to hear Celine break her silence. “Do you have any healing potions?” she asks Idris.
He shakes his head. “No. Our relationship with the witches remains tenuous. With the alliance so new...”
Celine turns to Alistair, frowning when she notices the silent conversation happening between him, Ciprian, and Sheena.
“I’ll do it,” Sheena says. “Of course, I’ll do it. You don’t have to ask.”
Idris stiffens, and a muscle in his cheek flexes as he closes the portal. “Be careful, little djinn.”
Sheena pulls a jeweled dagger from the sheath strapped to her leg, wincing as she looks from Malach’s bloody body to his severed wings. “Let’s do this in stages,” she says. “I’ll do the life-threatening injuries first.” She nods at Ciprian, and his throat bobs.
“I wish Malach’s injuries were healed,” he whispers.
Sheena’s spine bows. Her feetleave the floor; her hair floats; and my skin pebbles as her eyes turn purple, glowing unnaturally. She’s otherworldly, and I stifle the primal urge to run.
All magic has a presence. Witches, angels, demons—you can sense them if you know what to look for, but Sheena’s magic is different. It’s sentient. I can feel it examining the wings in my arms before moving on.
“His injuries are severe,” Idris says. “She’ll be depleted.”
“Of course.” Ciprian curses. “I should have thought of that.” He grabs Sheena’s ankle, and black smoke spews from his mouth.
“What’s wrong with him?” Luca’s eyes flicker yellow as he reaches for Ciprian.
Alistair wraps both arms around his waist to hold him back. “It’s okay,” he hisses. “Ciprian is fine; he’s lending her his magic.”
Idris reaches up and links his fingers with Sheena’s, stiffening as soon as their skin touches. “It is worse than I feared,” he groans. “The fact that he’s alive is astounding.”
Frozen in place, Celine clings to Malach, her stare never leaving his face. It’s swollen beyond recognition, mottled by bruising and dried blood.
My muscles bunch, static rolling over me. I want to help him. Gods, the urge is unmistakable, but I don’t understand why. I have no issue with Malach. He’s good in a fight, selfless in a way I find foolish, and utterly irrelevant to me.
Why do I feel as though I’ll lose something irreplaceable if he doesn’t recover?
I watch, frozen in place, as the others rush to Sheena’s side, volunteering without hesitation to become her magical batteries. Alistair’s eyes turn red. A drop of blood drips from Ciprian’s nose. And Luca’s mouth falls open to reveal thick fangs as long as my finger.
Do something.My mind is screaming at me, andI stumble forward. Unable to reach Sheena while holding the wings, I press my bare wrist to Ciprian’s forearm. The tug on my magic is immediately. A drain pulling directly from my core, it siphons power from me, passing through Ciprian into the pocket-sized djinn.
My entire body glitches, electric ripples running from the top of my head to the balls of my feet. Celine curls into me. Malach’s limp arm bumps my hip, and she tucks her face into the curve of my neck.
Someone roars. No, that sound is coming from inside me—blood pounding against my eardrums.Will I survive this? Will any of us?I’ve barely processed my fears when the pull cuts off all at once.