Bolan and I freeze in place.
“Scan with the phone, Princess. Slowly.”
I put Coda back on speaker. We haven’t accidentally happened upon a single other person yet, so I’m likely being too cautious keeping them at my ear anyway. I move my phone left to right along the corridor wall, then turn around and scan the camera along the other wall in the opposite direction until I’ve executed a full circle.
I see nothing on the walls. No signs, no marks, no doors. There’s barely a single layer of white paint on the drywall … as if these walls have been quickly built in place to section off certain parts of the interior …
“Next left, then stop. There’s a concentration of energy.” Coda finally sounds a little pleased. “Assholes are trying to hide it.”
“Like they know you’re coming,” Bolan mutters.
“They’ve been fucking hunting us awry for centuries, wolf,” Coda says. “They’ve learned a few tricks.”
“If it is this so-called Möbius Group at all.”
“It’s got their fingerprints all over it.”
We turn left, and the minimally painted walls abruptly transform into a worn red-brick corridor.
A small seating area opens to the immediate left. It’s empty, excepting the modern and expensive furniture and a scattering of mostly empty champagne glasses. Two silver ice buckets that could have come from any of my father’s numerous castles are set on a low sideboard. Open bottles of champagne are shoved into the half-melted ice.
“Cigars,” Bolan says, nostrils flaring. “Expensive.”
“Someone was celebrating,” I say. Emotion flares in my chest, settling to seethe with each measured breath I take to try to keep myself focused. “An achievement?”
“Or an acquisition,” Coda says. “Get me through those doors. Now.”
On our right, ornate antique double doors are set into the brick wall. Not original to the building. But also, at first glance, not reproductions.
I wrap my hand around the handle.
Bolan cries, “Wait!”
Too late. The essence sealing the doors tries to grab me, searing across my palm, then streaking up my arm and over my shoulder. I stifle a moan of pain.
“Fuck, Mirth!”
Bolan reaches for me, but I raise my other hand, phone and all. “Stop! It will jump from me to you.”
I loosen my hold on my essence. It surges up and through me, then simply nullifies the essence spell warding the door. The ward collapses with a fizzle of energy, and the latch clicks under my hand.
Bolan grasps my shoulders, holding me back gently so he can tug my hand free of the door. He turns that hand over. My skin is seared a deep pink. Heaving a panicked breath, he shoves up the sleeve of my purloined sweater. More streaks mar my creamy skin, tracing my veins.
“Sully will soothe it,” I say calmly. Though honestly, my hand feels like it’s literally on fire. Fine beads of sweat have broken out along my hairline. I’m not quite certain I’ve ever experienced this level of physical pain … not in a long time, at least.
“Whatever mage is tied to the ward will know we’re here,” Coda says, clearly exasperated by the lack of stealth in our breaking-and-entering abilities. “If they’re in the area …”
“They’ll be heading this way,” Bolan mutters.
Still crowding in behind me, the rock star reaches around and shoves open the door.
It swings open to reveal a young girl with dark-blond, slightly curly hair and dark-blue eyes. Half-hiding behind a barrel chair, she’s wearing cat-print pajamas and only one sock. Her eyes are red, her nose swollen. From crying.
“Mirth …” she whispers, completely dismissing Bolan.
Kitty.
I’m across the room — a plush office of some sort — and crouching to sweep the nine-year-old into my arms before Bolan can hold me back. She presses her face into my neck and takes a shuddering breath.
