Boundary Crossed (Boundary Magic Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter 39

Several things happened at once.

I started pulling the trigger, and I hit Quinn in the stomach and the leg before he soared over me—and straight into Chewbacca, who had snuck up behind me with the length of pipe. The frat boy roared as Quinn tackled him and rode him to the ground. By the time Chewbacca’s back hit the grass, Quinn had sunk his teeth into the kid’s neck.

I just watched, stunned, as Quinn fed off the boy. I hadn’t seen Quinn in action before, but he was powerful, savage. It was nothing like the polite, delicate wrist feeding I’d given Maven.

“Quinn,” I said after a moment. “That’s enough. He’s done.”

For a moment I didn’t think he would listen, but then the vampire detached himself from Chewbacca with a snarl, forcing himself upright. The boy’s body slumped to the ground, but I could see his eyelids fluttering. He was alive.

Quinn turned to glare at me, defiance in his eyes and blood smeared around his mouth. My gaze dropped to his wounds. Vampires had hard skeletons, I was discovering, but I’d shot him in the gut and the meat of his thigh, and his wounds were healing more slowly than Kirby’s shots to the temple had. His clothes were saturated, and he was still bleeding. I looked back up and met his gaze without flinching.

It probably should have bothered me, seeing him feed on the kid. I was dimly aware that I was supposed to be appalled, but all I felt was . . . tired. And relieved. If Quinn really had been working for Itachi, there’d be no reason for him to save my life.

“Do you believe me now?” he demanded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes,” I said simply. I nodded at Chewbacca. “Can you press him?”

Quinn grunted in affirmation and turned back to the kid, who was sitting up now, one hand pressed to his neck. Quinn crouched awkwardly in front of him, keeping his wounded leg straight. “What’s your name?” he commanded.

“Brian.”

“Look at me, Brian.” The kid complied, eyes huge with shock. “You will stop trying to hurt people. You will go home and forget everything you saw here tonight.” For the first time, I could actually
hear
the pressure in his voice, and I wondered if it was the tattoos or if I’d just gotten stronger. “All you will remember is that you and your brothers were messing around out in the country, and you fell on an old barbecue fork. Do you understand?”

Brian nodded, looking a little dazed, and Quinn backed off.

There was another crash from the barn behind me, and I met Quinn’s eyes. “Simon,” I said, and we turned and sprinted toward the doorway.

In the barn, Simon was lying half on and half off one of the makeshift steel tables, breathing shallowly.

Without discussing it, Quinn walked backward down the aisle, his gun pointed up at the hayloft, while I rushed to Simon’s side. Blood had soaked through his jacket, and I could see puncture wounds where he’d landed on something that had sliced through the fabric and into some skin. There was broken glass scattered next to his body, and I couldn’t tell how much more was under him. Or inside him. “Simon!” I said, frantic. “How bad is it?”

Simon just stared up at the barn ceiling, blinking. “Fucking booby trap,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think . . . he had it in him.”

“Hey!” I snapped, smacking his cheek a little, and his eyes rolled toward me. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Fell on . . . old lanterns . . .” He winced, but I knew that wasn’t his only injury. I glanced down and spotted half of a ladder. I cursed as I leaned down to look at it. Atwood had sawn the rungs partway through the middle, and Simon, who had been expecting a
magical
attack, hadn’t even noticed. He’d tried to run up there after my niece. Just like I’d asked.

“Simon?” I said again, even though his eyes had gone distant. There was no response.

“Oooh-ee, girlie, you are in
trouble
!” came a whoop from above me. I backed a few steps away from Simon so I could see the edge of the balcony.

A sixtyish man in jeans and a faded flannel shirt crouched at the edge, a gleeful expression on his leathery face. “That is a Pellar right there. You’d best rush him to a hospital before he bleeds out.” He flashed crooked yellow teeth at me, and I pointed my gun at his face.

The older man just tsked at me. “Wouldn’t do that, girlie,” he drawled, carefully tilting his body sideways. His right hand, which I’d thought he was leaning on, was actually holding a gun that was pointed behind him. I stood on tiptoes to see past the witch. About four feet from his back stood a dark-gray Pack ’n Play, its sides spotless and its plastic edges gleaming. It was the only thing in the entire barn that looked new.

“You might hit the wee one.” Atwood said smugly. Then he added, “And if you don’t, I will.”

I glanced at Quinn, but he was right next to me, so his position wasn’t any better. We were at a stalemate.

“Kirby’s dead,” I called up to the older man. “What exactly is your plan now?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a long moment, considering it. “As I see it, y’all are screwed,” he said at last. “When Kirby doesn’t call, Itachi will send reinforcements here to get the kid. Maybe he’ll even come himself.”

“What makes you think Itachi’s involved?” Quinn asked coolly.

Atwood snorted. “I’m not as dumb as them Pellars think I am. I know who Kirby’s been talking to on the phone.”

“He might just hang you out to dry,” I pointed out. “Leave you here to take the fall.”

“He might,” Atwood allowed. “But I’ve got the prize.” He smirked at us. “Now, if you wait and fight, the kid could get killed. If you touch me, the kid will
absolutely
get killed.” His eyes narrowed. “But if you walk away, she’ll go off and live with some nice folks who’ll raise her.”

I winced. The Beretta was getting heavy again, and I was at the limit of my nerves. “You got any ideas?” I said to Quinn out of the side of my mouth.

He gave a tiny shake of his head. “Ordinarily I’d jump up there, but without knowing how far her aura extends . . .” he murmured.

Seeing us talking, Atwood said, “So? What’s it gonna be? You really wanna start a gunfight when I’ve got mine pointed at the kid?”

I took a long, long look at him and the Pack ’n Play, judging the distance between them.
Help me out here, Sam.
Could I really take risks with Charlie’s life? Was that what my sister would want?

“Lex,” Quinn whispered to me, “Simon’s heart just stopped.”

For an instant, I froze. Then I put the Beretta in the holster and nodded at Quinn to follow my lead. He tucked his .45 into his belt behind him. “Okay,” I said. “You win.”

A dubious look crossed Atwood’s features, but I didn’t pause long enough to watch. “Let’s get out of here before Itachi shows up,” I said to Quinn, already moving toward the barn door under the hayloft. “The shitkicker can clean up his own mess.”

Quinn looked genuinely surprised, but he followed my lead, trusting me. I crossed under the edge of the hayloft and waited for him. Then I reached out and snagged the .45 from his belt, raised it straight in the air—and fired two shots up into the old wood beneath Billy Atwood.

There was a clatter and a muffled thump. I set the pistol down on the closest table and stepped back so that I was just under the edge of the hayloft. “Boost me up,” I said urgently.

Quinn just stared at me in shock. “Quinn!” I yelled, and he snapped to comply, forming a stirrup with his hands. I put one of Hazel Pellar’s crimson Keens into his hands and he lifted me straight up, putting a little restrained bounce into his movement. I hit the edge of the hayloft with my stomach and held on.

Atwood was lying on the loft floor, shock frozen on his face. I quickly assessed his wounds as I was clambering up onto the floor beside him. It looked like one bullet had gone up through his foot and grazed his forehead. The other had entered through his buttock and gone up into his gut. I had no idea what it was doing in there, but whatever it was had been enough to force him to drop the pistol—I was guessing a spinal injury. “Thank you, Sam,” I muttered under my breath.

Kicking the gun away from Atwood’s twitching hand, I hurried over to the portable crib, starving for a glimpse of my niece. I peered into the shadows of the loft—

And there she was. My breath caught in my throat, and I fell to my knees next to her, leaning on the edge of the crib. Charlie was on her back in the Pack ’n Play, still wearing the lavender jersey dress John had put on her for the party. I leaned over and hovered my fingers in front of her nose. “Charlie? Baby?” I said. She didn’t stir, but her breath was warm and steady on my fingertips. She was perfect.

I wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and rock her in my lap, but I couldn’t, not yet. “Quinn!” I yelled. “Stand back, okay?”

Without waiting for his response, I dropped to the floor and kicked Billy Atwood, once, twice, until his body slid off the hayloft. He’d lost consciousness by then, but I would have done it regardless.

“Put him next to Simon!” I ordered. I scooted to the edge of the hayloft, rolled onto my stomach, and lowered myself until I was hanging off the edge by my hands. Then I bent my knees and made the four-foot drop to the barn floor.

Quinn lifted Atwood up, letting him thump down on the steel table next to Simon. “I need you to call an ambulance for Simon, but then stay quiet, okay?” I said grimly. Without waiting for Quinn’s nod, I imagined my goggles, closed my eyes, and
focused
.

The first thing I noticed was Quinn. His vampire essence blazed in my radar, a bright, tempting red flare. With an effort, I pushed it away and concentrated on the blue, human sparks of Simon and Atwood.

Only Simon didn’t have one.

My gut clenched in fear and desperation, but I forced it down, focusing on Atwood. His blue spark was faint, and I could already see it beginning to dissipate, with the sickly yellowish-brown essence rising to the surface.

I reached in and
pulled
. There was probably a better way to do this, I knew—some sort of ceremony or something—but I had no idea what it was. I had no idea what I was
doing
, really. I was just operating on instinct and hope and the frantic desire not to let my friend die. Or at least, not to let him stay dead. So I imagined my hands were like a net or a fan, and I waved Atwood’s essence toward me, not daring to hope.

Later, I would compare it to the scene in
The Little Mermaid
where Ursula pulls the mermaid’s voice out of her throat with phantom hands. Instinctively I herded Atwood’s essence through the air with cupped palms. It was hard to keep it together, keep it contained once it was released from the witch’s body, but my focus was absolute. I drove the essence toward Simon’s chest, redirecting it into his heart.

And then I covered his heart with both hands, my tattoos writhing on my arms, and held the essence inside my friend, refusing to let it leave him again.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, locked in my mindset like a trance. Eventually the paramedics came, and Quinn had to pull me off Simon by force. I lashed out at him for a moment, beating at him with my fists and feet, and then I returned to my senses as the last bit of my power and energy seeped out of me. I went limp in his arms, and for the third time that day he reached down and scooped me up.

He must have fetched the car and changed his bloody clothes while the ambulance was on the way, because he was wearing clean jeans and a soft, faded T-shirt that tickled my cheek as he carried me outside. This time I was too weak to be annoyed.

Quinn put me in the front seat of the car before disappearing back into the barn for a few minutes. I zoned out, not quite asleep, not quite awake, feeling like I’d run a marathon and then followed it up with two hours of hot yoga and a sedative. I saw the ambulance pull away, sirens screaming, but couldn’t muster any feeling about it. I’d done the best I could.

A few more minutes went by, and then
the passenger door opened again. Quinn ducked in and thrust a warm bundle into my arms. Charlie! With effort, I managed to lift my arms enough to hold her, inhaling the scent of tear-free shampoo and John’s house. I wanted to talk to her, to murmur assurances that both of us would be okay, but I didn’t have the energy. She was still unconscious anyway.

Charlie was going to have to sit in my lap, since we didn’t have a car seat. Kirby had used one, but there was no sign of his vehicle at Atwood’s property, and we didn’t want to stick around and look. Quinn told me he had called the cops and told them the truth, more or less: that Atwood was a small-time fence who’d decided to branch out into kidnapping and selling attractive babies to childless couples. It would probably be an issue that there were no actual kidnapped babies on the premises, but Quinn was pretty confident that the cops doing the search would find all sorts of other stolen goods, as well as the baby supplies Atwood had used for Charlie.

Quinn drove carefully back into town, heading straight to John’s house. It was after four when he pulled his car into the driveway and turned off the engine, his eyes trained on me. He looked as tired as I felt, and I realized that he was close enough to Charlie to be human.

He wasn’t the only one she was affecting. I was still tired, but after twenty minutes of holding a null, I no longer felt like I was about to collapse into a puddle of ooze. I found my voice. “Tell me about working for Maven,” I said, shifting Charlie to the crook of my right arm.

Quinn frowned through the windshield for a moment. “She trusts Itachi,” he said after a moment of silence. “She believes he is loyal to her. But she’s also aware of how . . .
thirsty
he is for power. So just in case, she keeps a handful of vampires who are sworn to
her
scattered throughout the state. And when I was traded to the two of them, she found out I had a gift for pressing people and a background as a cop”—he shrugged—“so she claimed me for hers.”

“How did you feel about that?” I asked.

“I was glad.” He smiled ruefully. “Well, no, I was bitter and angry and heartbroken, but after I got a little distance from my death, I ended up being grateful that I belonged to her instead of him.”