It was better if he was closer to the building. Closer to Darin. That way, they’d survive, and hopefully, so would everyone else.
So, as Finn ran toward me, I pressed my finger to the needle.
I made myself bleed.
The omnibus fired.
Finn’s face flashed with disbelief.
Darin swore and threw out a fire shield. A millisecond later, Finn’s shield joined his.
The missile slammed into their blue fire. It exploded in a violent eruption. The heat swept over me, hellfire-hot. I sucked in a breath, and it seared my lungs.
Their shield bowed then held. The ice-blue fire and the red-hot fire wrestled like two angry giants.
A half-second after my first shot, I pivoted and aimed at the northwest side of the Night Den—the uninhabited part. I shot again. Then I hit the southern edge. Another shot. Another.
Finn and Darin shielded. I fired. I bombarded the Night Den, just like Jagger had demanded.
And while I burned my favorite place in the world to the ground, I watched Finn.
I never took my eyes off him.
In the ten seconds it took me to empty the omnibus of a dozen missiles, his expression shifted from love to disbelief, to shock, to rage.
Flames shot from the brick, curling into the fog and painting it red. The thick mist hissed as it hit flame, and black smoke writhed as it combined with the fog to create a ghostly new creature. The acrid smoke burned my lungs, smelling of Furtig, blood, and bone. My eyes stung from the hellfire burn, tearing and blurring Finn’s face. I blinked the tears away. I wanted to see him. I wanted . . .
I slung the omnibus into my holster and threw myself onto the motorcycle, kicking the cold machine to life.
Across the street, the fiery explosion ate through the brick. Battling it, Finn conjured mist that ate flame and darkness that swallowed fire. Darin turned as I revved the motorcycle. He snarled and launched a blue fireball at me. I ducked, and it skimmed an inch over my back. It hurtled past and rocketed into the Hudson, swallowed by the black water.
Time to go.
I gunned the engine, and the bike roared. I dropped low and sped into the fog.
I chanced one last glance back. Darin had turned back to the warehouse, wrestling with the flames, but Finn was staring after me. His eyes reflected the violent fire. The Night Den burned, and towering before the inferno, Finn’s rage burned even hotter. The hot flames of him licked at my back. A fiery oath.
I left him and was swallowed by the fog.
7
The wind was a mournful ghost wailing over the Hudson. It scraped over the black waters and dragged up mouthfuls of anguish, so the dark night was a mourning marrow of midnight lamentations.
The boy.
Where was the boy?
The wind churned the water and shoved at the waves, calling his name.
Boy?
Boy . . .?
The wind had followed the solange-eyed one into death, but it hadn’t been able to follow the boy into his watery grave. Where had he gone that the wind couldn’t follow? Why couldn’t the wind—a powerful, cunning, wondrous being—follow the boy where he went?
It had promised to always look after him. To be human enough for the boy. To be his wind.
Why couldn’t it find him?
