The other one stepped in, ready to take over. I ran down the street to the other corner, putting space between us, but they followed quickly, eyes darting back and forth as they closed the distance.
I moved to the right, and they dodged.
They might have moved like animals, but there was something very human in the way they looked at each other, in the way their eyes met, as if silent communication passed between them. Silent agreement.
They made a deep and guttural sound. The one who’d first followed the woman into the street stayed where he was. The other moved to cut off my exit, as though they were executing a careful plan.
Were they working together? No. That was impossible, just fear and panic making me paranoid.
Either way, they were getting closer. I looked for escape. I glanced around, remembered the alley that ran between two buildings to my left. The fire escapes for both ended there, and a gate halfway down the alley kept people from playing around on them. Well, prewar, anyway. Now the gate was always unlocked; folks who lived in the Quarter used the alley as a shortcut.
I didn’t think wraiths could climb. So if I could get into the alley, I could get behind the gate and close it, putting iron bars between me and them.
I ran for it.
I could hear them lumbering behind me; they sounded more excited. I turned sharply into the alley and barreled toward the gate. I hit the wrought-iron fence, pushed . . . and nearly ran into it when it didn’t budge.
“No, no, no,” I murmured, pushing the gate to force it open, before realizing a shiny new lock had been installed, the gate solidly locked. Of all the damn days for someone to be careful about the damn lock.
I looked up, around. The fire escape was on the other side of the fence, and there was no way to scale it. It was at least seven feet tall, with vertical balusters and nothing to climb.
Like they’d realized victory was near, the wraiths lurched forward.
I was trapped.
I glanced up at the brick walls. There was a monitor at the edge of the alley, the light green like the one down the block. Containment was on its way, but that wasn’t all. The monitors had cameras that would begin filming when the sensors were activated. If I did magic here and now, they’d have me on tape.
“Damn,” I murmured. Talk about a rock and a hard place—or two wraiths and two brick walls and an iron fence. We were down to magic or die.
I decided I’d rather be alive and running from Containment than dead on the street.
“To everything there is a season,” I murmured. I had to hope this wouldn’t be the reason for my incarceration in Devil’s Isle.
Through the alley, behind the wraiths, was an empty building that had once held an art gallery. The gallery was gone, but its sign still hung from hooks in front. NOLA ARTWERKS was painted across the square of wood in curved purple script around a fleur-de-lis.
A sign could be a weapon, as I’d learned.
Moving something wasn’t difficult in itself—I’d proven that enough in the shop today. But there was a big difference between moving something accidentally and consciously getting it to go where you wanted. There was a gap between those things I hadn’t learned how to bridge—mainly because I wasn’t allowed to practice.
I blew out a breath. I was going to have to be very careful, and since Containment was supposed to be on the way, I was going to have to be fast.
I focused on the sign, its warped and beaten edge, and thought of the magic that hovered in the air. I tried to clear my mind, to imagine gathering up all that power, using it to force the sign off its hooks and pull it toward me. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing; this was a best guess.
The wraiths crept forward, drawn by the buzz of energy in the air. But I made myself ignore them, concentrate, set my gaze on the sign, apologize to the person who’d crafted it. Using all that magic in the air, sweat sheening across my skin with the effort, I pulled.
I moved to the right, and they dodged.
They might have moved like animals, but there was something very human in the way they looked at each other, in the way their eyes met, as if silent communication passed between them. Silent agreement.
They made a deep and guttural sound. The one who’d first followed the woman into the street stayed where he was. The other moved to cut off my exit, as though they were executing a careful plan.
Were they working together? No. That was impossible, just fear and panic making me paranoid.
Either way, they were getting closer. I looked for escape. I glanced around, remembered the alley that ran between two buildings to my left. The fire escapes for both ended there, and a gate halfway down the alley kept people from playing around on them. Well, prewar, anyway. Now the gate was always unlocked; folks who lived in the Quarter used the alley as a shortcut.
I didn’t think wraiths could climb. So if I could get into the alley, I could get behind the gate and close it, putting iron bars between me and them.
I ran for it.
I could hear them lumbering behind me; they sounded more excited. I turned sharply into the alley and barreled toward the gate. I hit the wrought-iron fence, pushed . . . and nearly ran into it when it didn’t budge.
“No, no, no,” I murmured, pushing the gate to force it open, before realizing a shiny new lock had been installed, the gate solidly locked. Of all the damn days for someone to be careful about the damn lock.
I looked up, around. The fire escape was on the other side of the fence, and there was no way to scale it. It was at least seven feet tall, with vertical balusters and nothing to climb.
Like they’d realized victory was near, the wraiths lurched forward.
I was trapped.
I glanced up at the brick walls. There was a monitor at the edge of the alley, the light green like the one down the block. Containment was on its way, but that wasn’t all. The monitors had cameras that would begin filming when the sensors were activated. If I did magic here and now, they’d have me on tape.
“Damn,” I murmured. Talk about a rock and a hard place—or two wraiths and two brick walls and an iron fence. We were down to magic or die.
I decided I’d rather be alive and running from Containment than dead on the street.
“To everything there is a season,” I murmured. I had to hope this wouldn’t be the reason for my incarceration in Devil’s Isle.
Through the alley, behind the wraiths, was an empty building that had once held an art gallery. The gallery was gone, but its sign still hung from hooks in front. NOLA ARTWERKS was painted across the square of wood in curved purple script around a fleur-de-lis.
A sign could be a weapon, as I’d learned.
Moving something wasn’t difficult in itself—I’d proven that enough in the shop today. But there was a big difference between moving something accidentally and consciously getting it to go where you wanted. There was a gap between those things I hadn’t learned how to bridge—mainly because I wasn’t allowed to practice.
I blew out a breath. I was going to have to be very careful, and since Containment was supposed to be on the way, I was going to have to be fast.
I focused on the sign, its warped and beaten edge, and thought of the magic that hovered in the air. I tried to clear my mind, to imagine gathering up all that power, using it to force the sign off its hooks and pull it toward me. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing; this was a best guess.
The wraiths crept forward, drawn by the buzz of energy in the air. But I made myself ignore them, concentrate, set my gaze on the sign, apologize to the person who’d crafted it. Using all that magic in the air, sweat sheening across my skin with the effort, I pulled.
