Page 69 of A Resistance of Witches

One of the older men snorted, then turned to the boy.

“Shoot her.”

Nineteen

“Shoot her.” The man sounded almost casual as he gave the order.

One moment Rebecca was upright, then she was in the dirt, too weak to stand. She looked at her hands and saw that the left one was covered in blood. The boy grinned and pointed the machine gun at her skull.

No, she thought wildly, but no words came out. Only a pathetic whimper.

A woman’s voice came from inside the house. “Who is it?”

“We’ve got it under control,” the boy said.

“So it seems.”

Rebecca looked up through the veil that shrouded her vision. Someone was walking toward her with long strides. They were backlit by the yellow light from the house, but Rebecca could make out the figure—slim and feminine, dressed in men’s trousers and a button-down shirt, her blond hair forming a halo around her face. Even through the wall ofpain, Rebecca felt a complicated rush of feelings as she took in that familiar silhouette.

“Christ. Rebecca.” She didn’t sound concerned so much as annoyed, and perhaps just a little impressed.

“Good to see you, Claire.”

Claire turned and looked at the men behind her, still pointing their weapons. “Put those things away. Jesus.”

The men did as they were told. Claire crouched in front of her.

“Were you followed?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“How can you be sure?”

Everything was out of focus. She was seeing auras. “I’m sure.”

Claire waited, considering. Rebecca feared she would pass out before Claire made up her mind.

“I had nowhere else to go,” she said softly.

Claire looked at her for a moment longer. Then she turned and addressed the men behind her. “Help her inside. Find her a bed. And get Lucas.”

Two men came and scooped Rebecca up by the shoulders, and she cried out in pain.

“Gently!” Claire shouted. “Look at her. Gently.Idiots.”

Rebecca locked eyes with Claire just before she lost consciousness. “Thank you.”

Then everything went black.

•••

Rebecca woke toa bespectacled man hovering over her with a look of intense concentration on his face. She felt an incredible pressure in her left shoulder and groaned.

“Sorry.” A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead as he dug inside her shoulder with a pair of forceps.

Rebecca gritted her teeth. “Just get it out.”

She was in a bed, one of several she could see from her prone position. The room had an odor that she recognized as the smell of too many young men in too small a space—a thick, sour stink of sweat and beer and cheese.

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