His words were choked off by Teresa’s jaws closing on his throat and pulling him to the ground.
The kitchen door burst open and Reinhold emerged, swinging a cleaver. Without hesitation, he buried it in Tim’s back. The white tiger roared in anguish. The cleaver went flying, but his hide was streaked with blood. He stumbled, weaving toward the door.
The mouse familiar was already fleeing, and the alligator behind her, now in human form as well. “Run!” yelled Reinhold, and Sam snapped out of his paralysis.
They ran, Doris and Wanda bringing up the rear, so close Sam could feel their breath against his back. Teresa let go of the bull familiar and joined them, and Philip was just a gray streak out the door.
Paladino struggled to his feet, one arm hanging limp by his side. “Lean on me,” Sam said, and got his arm under Paladino’s good shoulder. The gangster’s height made it awkward, but together they were able to navigate through the wreckage of the door.
In front of them, Tim the white tiger made the stairs, took on human form, then collapsed in pain. Without missing a beat, Doris shifted as well, heaved him over her shoulder, and carried him to the sidewalk.
“Pull the fire alarm!” she shouted as she went.
Philip raced for the alarm box on the corner. Praying the fire department got here fast, Sam eased Paladino into a sitting position where he could lean against the wall. His face was white with pain, so Sam pulled a pain hex out of his wallet and handed it to him.
“Thanks, boss,” Paladino said, the words ragged. He held up the pain hex, mumbled the activation phrase, then sighed as it took hold.
“Stay here,” Sam said, and rose to his feet, looking for somewhere else he might be useful.
Teresa and Reinhold hugged each other, though blood soaked through Teresa’s dress where the bull had gotten her. Doris stood guard over Tim, who sat on the curb, his head in his hands in a gesture of despair. And Wanda…
She stood at the top of the stairs, watching a column of black smoke boil out of the open door, as everything inside went up in flames.
27
Alistair stood in the midst of the wreckage that just this morning had been The Pride. His home for years. His refuge. The place he and his siblings had built from nothing with their bare hands.
All that remained were scorched concrete walls, charred bits of furniture, and fragments of glass from bottles, dishes, and drinkware. Water from the firehoses dripped from the ceiling, and the air stank of burned wood, silk, paper, clothing—everything that had been inside when the fucking mouse familiar threw her bottle bomb.
Nothing remained. They’d lost it all.
Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to cry, scream, kick things. Howl at the universe for taking yet another thing away from him.
“It’s just a building,” Doris said from behind him. “Not even that—the fire suppression hexes did their work, and the fire didn’t spread, so the building itself is still sound.”
He knew he ought to be grateful everyone got out alive. And he was. But…
“It was our home,” he said. “Literally for Wanda and me, at least until I moved in with Sam. It was the thing we built as a family, where we could be together, us against the world.”
Glass crunched under her feet as she took a step toward him. “Home isn’t a place.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working. You’re just pissing me off.”
“Right.” She turned and headed for the entrance. “I’ll leave you to brood, then. Wanda didn’t want to hear what I had to say, either.”
Of course not—The Pride was Wanda’s life. Who did Doris think she was, trying to tell them it didn’t matter, that they should just be able to walk away and not care?
Alistair knew he wasn’t being fair to Doris, but at the moment he didn’t give a damn. They’d never wanted to be involved in Sullivan’s war, in Fabiano’s schemes. Now everything was in ruins, because the gangsters couldn’t just leave them the fuck alone.
Tim had confirmed it, before Sullivan’s men hauled him away to who-knew-where. He’d wanted revenge against them for the death of his witch, and Fabiano offered him the chance to get it. When it was obvious things weren’t going her way, she’d staked everything on taking Sullivan down at the funeral, while Tim led a group to make sure The Pride wouldn’t retaliate.
Well, mission fucking accomplished. The stupid thing was, they wouldn’t have retaliated anyway, would have tried to work with Fabiano if she won the war and they had no other choice. But Alistair had already defied her twice, and that was two times too many.
Now she was dead, and Tim got his precious revenge, and everything was scorched earth and ashes.
Heartsick, he turned away and walked up the stairs, feeling a million years old. His shoulder hurt like hell, and he wanted nothing more than to go home with Sam, fall asleep, and hope he’d wake up tomorrow to find this was all a bad dream.
When he reached the top of the stairs, though, he saw a sleek black car sitting by the curb. The door opened, and Wanda stepped out onto the sidewalk, her mouth a taut line. Turner remained in the backseat—she’d been talking to him about something.
