Page 39 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

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Ambra breathes in, one moment so still, before power flashes around them.

Immediately, she slams up a shield around them, yanking Gurlien in close, and a crack splits the air.

Gurlien has a chance to inhale, to open his mouth to say something before the very motorhome around them…

Detonates.

Ambra clutches at him, plaster and wood crashing into the shield around them. Splinters fly through the air, blindingly fast, the very concrete pad beneath them shuddering.

Her ears pop, and in between one moment and the next, fire slams against the shield.

Gurlien staggers against her, the heat brutal even despite her shield, and she squeezes her eyes shut, tightening her fist in his shirt, doubling the shield, tripling it, coating more and more power into it, the effort catching in her throat.

Her feet slide on the broken linoleum, and fire flings around them, roaring into her ears, until…

All at once, it stops. The fire disappears, leaving a broken wreckage around them, a smoldering smoking wasteland.

Her breath hitches.

A trap.

Gurlien stumbles, almost clattering them to the ground, but she widens her stance, gripping the magic around her tight, holding him in place.

And there’s…nothing.

Just the wind blowing snow through what should be a warm pocket of air.

Cautiously, Ambra lowers the shield, keeping her grip on Gurlien’s collar, but nothing but wet slush hits them.

“What the fuck?” Gurlien sputters, still gripping the bags.

Her wards are in shreds, littered all over the forest floor, snow piling on the broken remains of the couch, scorched beyond recognition.

Ambra doesn’t even let herself swallow, stilling herself, tasting the air.

No other demon had touched the place, and the stereotypical tang of wight or spirit magic is nowhere to be found.

Which means humans.

Shards of cupboard and splinters of the closet are spread all over the tiny clearing. Burnt scraps of fabric char against the snow, and a sleeve of a brightly colored sweater still smolders on the driveway.

It shouldn’t be in the driveway. That had been safely in the closet just moments before.

Ambra’s head lightens, and she forces herself to breathe, to get air into her system.

“Fuck,” Gurlien mutters, and he’s not struggling against her grip, just standing close, his shoulders broad. “What—”

“Shh,” Ambra breathes, and there had been no attempt on the leash, none at all, since she had left Johnsin floating dead and bleeding.

Carefully, she loosens her hand on his collar, instead gripping his wrist where she had tied the leash, and the skin on the back of her neck crawls.

Someone had been here. Someone with enough knowledge to discard demon wards and then lay a trap that could systematically rip apart a protected space, all without alerting her. Someone with enough familiarity with her to suss out a hiding place so quickly.

Or knew of it from before, when Ambra had visited it with the body. Had taken the time to carefully hang up her clothes, had stocked the food for her, had shown her the beauty of this area.

Only a few people have that ability, and only a few people would dare.

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