“It’s a long story,” she said. “Take your phone call. I’ll be finishing up dinner if you want to talk.”
I nodded. Roy sidled up beside me as we walked back to the living room. “Vetted?” I asked, almost silently, but his ears didn’t need the help.
“They’re clean. Well, clean enough.” He slid me a glance. “Of course, you could just send them away.”
“I’ve been preaching unity for a while now, and as soon as we get some, I send them packing?”
He grinned. “Be careful what you wish for.”
I was trying to think up a suitable reply when Fred returned. “Your party’s on the line.”
I reentered the living room to see Jonas striding down the burning tunnel in full battle regalia, some sort of black shiny armor that made his white hair all the whiter by contrast. And on either side of him was a woman: one tall, thin, and dark-haired, maybe somewhere in her early forties, the other old and round and grandmotherly, with hair almost as white as his. I wondered what they were doing in an underground bunker that still looked to be on fire.
And still coming this way, despite the fact that they’d just left the wall of glass behind.
“Jonas,” I said, preparing to ask him to step back a little, because the weird 3-D effect of the spell was confusing my brain.
Really confusing, I thought, as the three of them stepped down onto carpet, their shoes denting the plush pile.
And then kept right on coming.
Chapter Forty-three
A swarm of leather-coated war mages streamed around the figures, enveloping the trio in a flurry of activity for a second, before dissipating like mist—and leaving them behind. Because they weren’t images. They’d just walked out of a freaking wall, crossing half the world in a millisecond, without so much as breaking stride.
And there was only one group in the world who could do that.
“The children,” I whispered, stumbling back into Roy.
“What?”
“Get them out! Get them now!”
I heard raised voices, running feet, and felt Roy jerk me behind him, none of which would do any good against the two Pythian acolytes with Jonas—and how the hell were there more acolytes?
“Cassie—” Jonas said.
“Get down!” I told him, and threw everything I had, trying to shift the women far enough that we’d have time to get the kids out, at least.
But nothing happened, except for a power drain that dropped me to my knees and ripped a sound out of my throat. And did nothing else, because the women never even moved. Except toward me.
And toward the line of snarling vamps that were suddenly in the way, guns and fangs out, forming an impenetrable wall. That was just as suddenly gone—where, I didn’t know—dismissed by a wave of a hand. And I was scrambling back, trying to reach the stairs, even as spells were going off and people were screaming and glass was shattering, including the whole line of windows.
But nothing touched the women—not the first damn thing.
Of course it didn’t.
And then everything abruptly went quiet. Not frozen, but slowed way the hell down. Jonas raised a leisurely arm, to deflect a curse. The witches piled up in the doorway, their latest spells barely moving in front of them. Fred paused with a child under each arm, slowly reaching for another. And Roy, who had somehow avoided whatever had happened to the other vamps, was caught halfway through a lunge, body tensed and arm outstretched, like a pro football player diving for a ball.
Or a vamp diving for an acolyte who was no longer there.
Because she was standing in front of me.
I scrambled back, head swimming, nose running, elbow bruising on the iron railing of the stairs. Which I grasped, pulling myself up. If I could reach the door, if I could force them to chase me, if I could lead them away from the suite—
But the younger one shifted, appearing above me at the top of the stairs. And the older one grabbed me from behind, her grip surprisingly strong. Leaving me trapped between them, desperate and caged and helpless—
And clasped to a massive bosom while someone made shushing sounds, like to a traumatized child.