Retribution (75 page)

When he noticed Layla’s captors were out-flying him, his throat swelled and his chest burned. He tried to mind search her, and was able to sense her location, but he couldn't make a connection.

Losing sight of the crimson cloaks flattened his lungs, and his flight wavered, but he forced himself to shake it off and focus. He could still sense her, and he’d follow her until they landed or until he died.

Layla had been outwitted, and rightfully so. She was a foolish witch for basking in the murder she committed. Now she was a helpless witch in the grasp of seven Unforgivables.

Her muscles remained numb, but they were no longer invincible. Her captors’ fingers dug into them. And her strength, though still above average, had ebbed and couldn't match the combined power of those holding her. Her head throbbed, and blood ran from a gash over her right eyebrow, an injury inflicted when they tackled her to the ice. The wound didn’t hurt, but it increased the effectiveness of the spell they placed on her brain. Her thought process was disjointed and scattered, and she had no control over which roads her mind traveled. One second she’d be thinking about how she might escape her predicament, but before she could fully process the thought, it would change, and she’d wonder if the blood getting in her eye would make things harder. She thought about the battle she fought. She wondered where they were taking her. She remembered killing Agro. Then she remembered she was still in trouble.

Yes, she was a jumbled and useless mess, but among all the disorderly confusion there was one constant. She never stopped thinking about Quin, and she never stopped worrying about his condition. He was always on her mind, and the other notions were merely scenery around him. Like birds flying by, she saw them, but they never had her full attention.
   

The sky flashed as a boom shook the atmosphere, and people starting yelling.

“We’re under siege.”

“Is it her family?”

Her family… Layla hoped they were okay.

Her body jolted, and one of her captors screamed while releasing her ankle, but the other six tightened their grips as the world brightened and explosions rang out. The pressure in Layla’s ears shifted. Then she fell from the Unforgivables’ hands, dropping less than a foot before roughly landing on her hands and knees.

The ground was hard and cold – ice dusted in snow. Was she still on the glacier? It had to be a different one. Quin said there were a lot of them in Washington, and they’d been flying for a while. Or had they? She couldn't be sure. Her mind remained scrambled.

She raised her head and looked around, finding about three dozen crimson cloaks and several figures in olive-green. Forcing herself to focus on the green-swathed magicians, she realized they were the mercenaries who'd fled her and Quin’s wrath before the battle. They faced the Unforgivables, scared and nervous but ready to fight, and the Unforgivables faced them, confused and taken aback but ready to defend their prized catch.

Well she didn't belong to either group, damn it, and in the scattered seconds she achieved rationality, she wanted nothing more than to get away from them so she could find Quin. But her mind still skipped from one subject to another, and her body felt frozen to the ice. They had her wrapped in spells, so she was forced to watch and think and fear and forget and remember, while they decided her fate.

Guthrie stood between Lynette and Token, who had their palms aimed at the witch, keeping her incapacitated.

Looking from one scheming comrade to the other, Guthrie had the urge to grab their heads and slam them together. They’d been fools for taking the witch. They’d just watched her slaughter an army for fuck’s sake. If they had a lick of sense they would have left the scene when Guthrie suggested it. But all the soldiers who’d defected wanted to see Agro go down, and Lynette was sure capturing the witch was the best way to restore the power they lost decades ago.

And on at least one thing, Lynette had been right – Layla was no lamb.

Shit.

Guthrie looked over the captive at the magicians who’d attacked mid-air. “Who are you?”

“Members of the New England Mercenaries,” one of them answered. “We've been hired to bring her to our boss.”

“Who's your boss and why does he want her?”

“That's none of your business.”

“You’re outnumbered,” Guthrie countered. “Speak up or die.”

The mercenaries shifted, and the one who spoke before responded. “How about a compromise? Our boss would make a generous trade for her. We could put you in touch with him. Then we’d all come out winners.”

A woman’s voice drifted across the ice. “That's not going to happen.”

Guthrie tensed and looked over, finding a group of magicians wrapped in powder-blue cloaks. They landed a few yards away then squared their shoulders and raised their palms.

One of the mercenaries cursed and turned away from Guthrie, and the rest of them followed suit, preparing to defend themselves against the newcomers instead.
 

Alarmed by the mercenaries’ rash reaction, Guthrie ordered his soldiers to spread out so they had clear shots at both factions. “And who the hell are you?” he demanded of the witch.
 

“That's none of your concern,” she answered, motioning for her company to expand.

“You've been chasing our cloak-tails again, Venetia,” one of the mercenaries sneered. “You seem determined to let us do the dirty work while you claim the prize.”

“She's a soul,” the woman hissed, “not a prize.”

Guthrie’s breath caught in his chest. This silver-haired witch, this… Venetia, spoke with an authority even Agro never achieved, and her pale-blue eyes held wisdom Guthrie had never seen. Her aura was strong and bright and confident, and her comrades looked much the same.

“Fuck the Heavens,” Token whispered, staring at Venetia. Then he glanced at Guthrie out of the corner of his eye, portraying a silent apology.

Guthrie’s gut tightened, and as he turned his gaze on Lynette’s profile, he spoke into her head. ‘
You were right – women are always the death of the men who fixate wholly upon them, and you just fucking killed me.
’

Surrounded by opposing armies, Layla stayed glued to the ice, her mind skipping and her heart hurting.

Something solid came down on her back, and she tensed, holding her breath as a large arm wrapped around her ribs. She expected to be slammed to the ice or ripped into the air, but neither happened. The body encasing her wasn't putting any weight on her or attempting to pick her up. Her lungs demanded oxygen, and as the air rushed into her nose and throat, the biggest wave of emotions she'd ever experienced yanked a blubbering sob from her chest. It was him, her hero. Quin was blanketing her body. She could smell him…. she could feel him.

“Quin...” she cried, so thankful he was alive, so glad he was there, so overwhelmed to be in his arms.

The surrounding armies’ debate paused. Then the woman named Venetia spoke. “Who's Quin, and why is the earth angel glowing gold and silver?”

“Quin’s her boyfriend,” a mercenary answered. “He's an extremely powerful wizard who acts like her guard dog. I have no idea why she's glowing.”

“It seems you're both chasing a witch you know nothing about,” Guthrie scoffed. “Quin’s Layla's bonded mate.”

Gasps rang out, and Venetia released a musical hum. “Interesting. Is he here now?”

“No,” Guthrie answered. “He was mortally wounded during our battle.”

The words
mortally wounded
made it to Layla's mixed up brain, and she sobbed again, remembering. “Quin...”

“Shh....” It was just a breath that floated through her hair to her ear, but she heard it, and she finally realized no one was attacking her hero. Was he invisible? Or a figment of her imagination? Oh god. She hoped she wasn't imagining his arm around her. She wanted it to be there. She needed it to be there.

“She found her mate,” Venetia whispered, but then her voice hardened. “And you killed him? You killed the earth angel's most loyal protector?”

“Who the hell is the earth angel?” Guthrie returned. “Why do you keep calling her that?”

“Because,” one of the mercenaries answered, “the Crusaders have to coat everything in glitter.”

The Unforgivables gasped as Guthrie quietly spoke. “You're with the Crusaders?”

“Yes,” Venetia answered, “and we'll be taking Layla with us.”

“I don’t think so,” a female Unforgivable argued.

“Quiet, Lynette…”

“No,” she snapped. “They’re outnumbered, and we're the ones who snagged the witch. It's our magic keeping her from ripping everyone's throats out. If they want her, they’re going to have to take her.”

Quin listened to the tumult around him, shielding his angel with his invisible body while trying to communicate with her mind. But she wasn't able to focus long enough to receive his desperate calls, and his bandages wouldn’t hold much longer. His heart had adapted to hers, and the increased pressure behind his blood flow sent the crimson fluid seeping through Serafin's spell. Now it threatened to do the same to his own magical compress.

The tension in the atmosphere spiked, and he took a chance, softly whispering into her curls. “Move your head if you can hear me, love.”

Her trembling paused, her lungs calming as she gave a tiny nod.

“Good,” he breathed, confident no one else could hear him. “Try to fill me with your fire. I know they have your head scrambled, but I need you to try.”

Her breathing quickened, her aura swelling around them, dense and shadowed. Then she frantically shook her head, denying his request.

“You have to try,” he repeated.

She shook her head again, and she’d responded so quickly, he recognized it as a refusal to even attempt the magic.

“I can’t take them by myself, Layla.”

She sobbed, and he got a short glimpse into her head. Her focus was sharpening, and with his body against hers, he had no doubt she’d be able to fill him with fire. If she’d just try.

“Concentrate,” he whispered, tightening his hold on her. His secondary bandage had succumbed to the blood pushing at it, which left nothing but his cloak between his insides and her back, and the velvet was quickly absorbing the flow. He could feel it moistening around his waist. “You have to do it now, love. Please trust me.”

“I do,” she sobbed, dropping her head.

Quin tensed and looked around, making sure no one noticed Layla talking to herself. Most of them were heatedly discussing their predicament, but the witch named Venetia was curiously watching Layla.

Sliding her gaze to Layla's lower back, Venetia’s eyes widened. Then she jerked a hand into the air, getting her army’s attention. “Fall back,” she calmly ordered. Then she and her soldiers drifted up and away.
 

The mercenaries and Unforgivables stared at them in confusion, and Quin frantically spoke through Layla’s curls, knowing their cover was blown. “Do it now, Layla. Please.” He hugged her tight and nuzzled her hair, and he didn’t care who saw. They were out of time.

A tiny cry started in her chest, and it built into a terrified scream as she flooded his body with her fire.

The tingling warmth was more intense than usual due to his waning health, but it wasn't uncomfortable, and for a tiny moment, he considered sending just her flames out into their enemies’ midst. But he wasn’t sure how much she'd given him, and he couldn't risk it. This would be his only chance to save her.

He braced himself then summoned his own fire, making the flames big and making them count. Layla's speeding heart had him numb, so he couldn't feel the burn, but he couldn't ignore what it did to his injured insides, and he nearly passed out as his body objected.

Blinking away the encroaching black ring around his vision, he sent the internal blaze from every inch of bare flesh not facing his angel, and he was barely able to keep his weight off her as the explosion rolled from his battered body.

The ice around them melted and cracked as the mercenaries and Unforgivables burned to their death, and not one scream was heard. They didn’t have time.

As soon as the inferno stopped permeating from his skin, Quin released his concealment spells and rolled off of Layla's back, falling to the slushy puddle of water around them. His sense of touch returned when he broke skin contact with her, and the pain hit him hard. He didn’t have enough control over his fire spell and had charred most of his clothes, including the cloak acting as a tourniquet, and he’d burned a good portion of his skin, including the severed tissue around his injury. His insides were also singed, and he was growing weary, his body lacking energy and blood, which continued to seep from his wound, turning the frigid water red.

Layla heard Quin splash down beside her and was terrified to look, but she forced her eyes open. What she found was even worse than she anticipated, and her stomach flipped as her brain sped.

“Oh god.” Sending the bone-biting water away with a sweep of her hand, she lowered her face closer to his, feeling for his breath, but it barely fluttered over her lips.

He looked horrible, stark-white and in obvious agony. Every muscled was flexed as his body twitched and shivered, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Her nightmare came rushing back, but she pushed it away. She was living it, damn it. She didn't need to remember when she was seeing.