Touched by Fire (Demons of New Chicago #1) - Kel Carpenter Page 0,38
ate at me as I grabbed clothes out of the dresser. I knelt before her and pushed the sheet back, then dressed her in the most clinical way possible. I’d done this for long enough that it was almost second nature to take care of her in this way. To manipulate her limbs like that of a doll. To dress and clean and carry her because she couldn’t do any of that for herself anymore.
I was just finishing braiding her hair when a quiet voice at the door said, “I got the bags.”
“Good,” I said, focusing on picking up the limp body before me. She was heavier than she used to be, and lighter than she should be. I stood up, and whatever Nathalie thought, it didn’t show on her face. “Let’s go.”
She nodded once, and we were off.
I didn’t glance at the dead bodies as I stepped over them. I didn’t look back at the place I’d called home for as long as I could remember. I held the unconscious girl to my chest and carried on.
As we descended the steps, Nathalie said, “I get the feeling that we’re not just venturing out. Do you have a place in mind?”
“I do.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where,” she continued nonchalantly as I stepped off the stairwell. Instead of walking out the front door, I turned to a metal door with peeling gray paint and a rusted handle.
“You’ll see if we manage to get there without dying.”
I adjusted my grip to lean into the door and used my elbow to turn the lever. It squeaked, echoing up the corridor. Nathalie looked up, but no one opened their door to look. I kicked back and the metal frame resisted but failed as I freed the lock from the latch. It opened and hit the wall behind it with a bang. Fluorescent lights flickered, trying to power on and illuminate the underground parking garage. Nathalie peered through the doorway, then gave me a questioning look.
Instead of answering, I started down one of the rows. The door screeched as it closed behind us. Nathalie’s footsteps followed softly at my heels.
“Nice place you got here,” she said slowly.
While it was filled with cars, they were mostly trashed and outdated. Windows were shattered. Tires slashed. Words had been spray-painted on the scratched and dented metal. What survived the collapse of the American government and subsequent Magic Wars didn’t survive the years of wear and tear that followed. While some factories that made cars still existed, they were few and far between—not to mention expensive.
We’d reverted back to a time that vehicles were a luxury for the filthy rich, or those lucky enough to have one still running from before the wars. Like me.
I came to a stop at the end of the parking garage, in front of a beat-up Honda Civic. The tires were deflated or missing. The windows smashed. The leather interior ripped open and center console was destroyed. On the outside, the once cobalt blue paint was scratched and had been spray-painted over to read: Oppress the Oppressors. It was one mantra that had become popular during the Magic Wars, and a mindset that led to the downfall of humans being in power, despite their greater numbers.
I laid the girl in my arms on the trunk and then got on one knee to reach under the bumper. “What are you—” Nathalie started right as I found what I was looking for. I pressed each of my fingers to the cloaking device, going in a specific order and waiting three seconds in between. At the end of the sequence, the illusion dropped to reveal an old but well-maintained car. I stood up and went around to open the side door. The scent of pine faintly drifted over me. When I went back to pick up the girl, Nathalie gave me an appraising look.
“You hate magic,” she said. Something squirmed inside me, but I ignored it as I carried the unconscious girl to the backseat and then buckled her in. Nathalie came to stand beside me. “But you use it sometimes.”
“You got a point?” I asked sharply, testing the resistance on the seatbelt before standing back up and closing the door.
“More that I’m confused. For someone that distrusts it so much, you seem to use it whenever you need it. I can’t tell if that makes you a hypocrite, or if it just means you don’t truly distrust it—you distrust the people who use it.”