Ethan pulled back, looking over the mountain of debris we hadn’t yet moved. We’d moved a lot of rubble, but the concrete on top of the cavity where Taylor lay was at least five feet long.
It’s not the bar, he said. It’s the concrete that’s pinning it in place.
I wasn’t giving up.
“Mallory,” I said. “We need some of that good magic.”
She passed the dog to one of the humans, dusted grit from her hands, pulled out a small, worn notebook from her pocket. “Okay,” she murmured. “Okay.” She walked to the rubble, grabbed a broken rod of rebar, began scratching in the sheet of concrete.
“Jesus, is she doing magic?” One of the humans who’d asked us for help walked toward Mallory, looked ready to snatch the rebar out of her hand.
Catcher pushed him back. “She’s my wife, and she’s on our side. You lay a hand on her, and you’ll answer to me.”
Whatever he saw in Catcher’s eyes had the man reassessing his position, his desire to start a fight.
“She’s on our side,” I confirmed to the man, stepping up to them. “Focus on Taylor, and don’t worry about the magic.”
I took my sword back from Catcher. “Help her,” I said, and unsheathed it. Because I had a bad feeling I knew what was going to happen when Mallory fired up her magic. And sure enough, the wind shifted, and suddenly there was heat and sulfur on the air, a burning zephyr through downtown.
I think Mallory just dialed Sorcha’s number, I told Ethan.
We’re moving as quickly as possible, Ethan said.
Move faster, I said, scanning the street, the air, with narrowed eyes, trying to pierce through the veil of dirt that still clung to the humidity in the air. Too bad dragons didn’t have headlights. That would have made the spotting easier.
“Jesus,” the human said, and I jerked my head around.
Mallory stood in front of the block of concrete, arms shaking as she reached toward it, palms out, lips moving in that quiet cadence sorcerers seemed to prefer. Catcher and Ethan held up opposite sides of the slab, which was now four feet off the ground.
“Not Jesus,” Mallory quietly said, eyes closed in concentration. “Just futzing with some testy Higgs bosons. Oldest trick in the book.”
“Quit staring,” Catcher snapped to the other humans who stood by, dumbfounded, as he and Ethan held up the concrete, “and get Taylor out.”
Snapped out of their haze, they dashed forward. One began tossing aside the rest of the debris that pinned Taylor; the other took her hands, began to pull her free.
And then we heard the sound of a voice in the sky.
Sorcha and the dragon.
I took a step forward, trying to nail down their position, but the sound echoed across the buildings. “Ethan,” I said, a warning.
“I hear it. Nearly there, Sentinel.”“Taylor!”
I glanced back as the humans pulled a slender and dirty girl from beneath the rubble.
As Ethan and Catcher returned the concrete to earth, Taylor’s mother screamed and pulled the girl into a fierce embrace, both of them crying, the tears carving more streaks in the soot that marked their faces. “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor,” her mother sang, rocking the girl, who sobbed in her arms. “My baby girl.”
“It’s because of Tootsie,” Taylor said. “Where’s Tootsie?”
“She’s right here,” said the human who’d held the fuzzy dog, walking it to the pair, at least until it leaped into Taylor’s arms. Taylor sobbed and hugged the dog, and her mother embraced them both.
This is why, Sentinel.
I looked up, looked across the mound of debris, and met Ethan’s gaze.
This is why you take chances, with love, with life . . . with children. Because sometimes you lose them . . . and sometimes you don’t.
The dragon’s scream interrupted the thought—angry and shrill.
“Incoming!” Catcher yelled.
“Inside!” Ethan said, guiding the humans back through the hole and into the remains of the building, where at least they wouldn’t be visible.
We stepped into the street: Sorcerer. Sorcerer. Vampire. Vampire.
“Just four crazy kids against the world,” Catcher said, warming up.
“They should make a Lifetime movie about us,” I said.
Mallory snorted. “It’s cute you think he hasn’t already written to the company with a proposal.”
The dragon burst through the haze like a rocket. And even after what we’d seen last night, the shock of seeing a dragon fly past the tony shops on Michigan Avenue was nearly visceral.
They came in low and trailing blood. The dragon was wounded, bleeding from a gaping hole in its back driver’s side flank. The Guard had hit their target; it just hadn’t been quite enough. In fairness, I didn’t know who manufactured tank rounds, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t calculated the effect on a giant flying lizard.
“Attack!” came Sorcha’s demand, followed by a greasy pulse of magic.
The dragon turned, swooped back, but it was whipping its head from side to side, as if trying to dislodge the magic and its creator.
PAIN.
It dove toward us. Ethan and I dodged, rolled, and came up with katanas lifted, scraping swords against the dark, wide scales on its abdomen. It sounded like we’d slid metal against metal, the friction throwing sparks into the air.
I didn’t think we’d done any damage, but the dragon shrieked again as it flew forward, arcing toward the sky to get space enough to make the turn. But it misjudged.
Its wings brushed the building, and it lost its balance and pitched to the right, throwing Sorcha to the ground. Ethan held out a hand, holding me back as she climbed groggily to her feet.