Biting Cold - By Chloe Neill Page 0,32

few feet away just as the portico crashed to the ground, covering the spot where Paige had stood with a blazing mass of wood—and completely blocking the door.

“Good God,” she said, chest heaving as she looked from me to the blaze and back again. “Thank you. I could have been killed.”

Still on the ground, I swatted at a spark on the arm of my jacket. “Least I could do. Sorceresses were having a bad-enough night.”

When another burst of sparks flew through the window, I climbed to my feet again, then held out a hand to Paige. “We’re too close.”

She let me help her to her feet, her face dark with soot, and we limped back to the pile of books she’d managed to save. Six volumes, their covers singed and dusted with ash.

“All my books,” she said. “All my writings, completely gone.”

“Did you save anything useful?”

She picked up a book and dusted off the cover. “Each book is just one bit of the whole collection. Six books? That’s not even a start.”

Paige hugged the book to her chest. There in the dark, the raging fire reflecting off her vibrantly red hair, she looked like a creature from a Grimm fairy tale.

We both looked up at the sound of footsteps. Ethan, an arm around Mallory, moved toward us.

Paige didn’t waste any time. “You did this.” She bounded forward, intending to pummel Mallory, but I wrapped an arm around her waist and held her back.

“She did this!” Paige screamed, red hair flying about her face as she struggled in my arms. “This is all her fault. All of it! You think we don’t all feel the imbalance? We do! That’s how we know right from wrong, Mallory. That’s how we know it! It’s not a punishment; it’s part of our gift. You use it. You learn from it. You don’t let it drive you to destroy the world!”

“Paige, stop it! This isn’t going to help.” I worked to maintain my grip, but her arms reached out for Mallory, who seemed completely oblivious to the conversation.

“She should have to pay for what she’s done!”

“She will pay,” Ethan said. “But her punishment is not for you to decide.”

“It should be mine. Look what she did!”

“Paige,” I said, “that’s exactly what Mallory tried to do—control things she shouldn’t have controlled. She shouldn’t have done it, and you shouldn’t do it, either.”

Paige shook her head, but after a moment she stopped squirming, so I let her go.

“Everything I owned was there. Everything. All my stuff. All my clothes.” She swallowed thickly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Our clothes, too, and everything else in our duffels. Thank God we’d taken our swords with us. The heat of a house fire might not have had much impact on finely tempered steel, but I’d rather not test that theory firsthand.

“If you want to return with us to Chicago, you can stay at the House until you make other arrangements,” Ethan said. “We’ll also need to get Mallory back safely. We’ve seen her before in magical handcuffs. Perhaps…?”

Paige nodded and wiped her eyes and, with a bare flick of her finger and thumb, whipped out a fierce bite of magic that pulled Mallory’s hands together like they’d been zip-tied.

Mallory just let it happen. No argument. No squirming. I couldn’t help but wonder: Was this the beginning of her contrition or another chance for her to fake remorse until she could escape again?

“Those will keep her for a little while,” Paige said, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “And I’ll call Baumgartner. He can decide where to put her. Maybe in the same place they held her before, but with a little more security this time.”

At the sound of boots on dirt, we looked up. Dark figures approached from the other side of the house.

“Tate?” Paige asked.

I opened my senses and caught the sharp, wild scent of animal. A bit of the tension left my shoulders. Our odds were evening a bit.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Shifters.”

Specifically, Gabriel Keene, brawny and tawny haired, with golden eyes that seemed to look right through you. He was the head of the Apex of the North American Central Pack of shifters. And beside him, a pack mate: tall and lanky Jeff Christopher, my grandfather’s employee. Or former employee, anyway.

They both wore jeans and thick leather jackets, and I guessed their motorcycles were parked nearby.

“What are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Kitten?”

Gabe was right.

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