Page 11 of Wynter

Too late for the Jewels Cafe mug, too. It crashes to the floor and shatters. And since whipping the broken pieces at Ghost’s jugular might land me in prison, I decide to pummel him with the milk and cream instead.

I pick up the two full metal pitchers—thank you, Amber, for always keeping them restocked—and send them at Ghost like twin fists. He blocks the milk with an invisible shield and scrambles to his knees. The cream almost hits the side of his head. Almost. But his magic intervenes, and this time it’s not a shield.

Ghost spent his first semester at St. Vincent’s learning to weave a net out of thin air. Got so good at it that he could fashion a hammock for us to cuddle inside of and make out. And for his final project, he turned it into a trampoline, so our class could do back flips when we trained to fight.

Now, he uses that same weave to deflect the cream and send it flying back at me. I have plenty of time to duck, but it would leave Amber and Julian defenseless. Wonky Magic Julian and Crazy Shifter Amber, neither of whom is prepared to fight back.

I am. I flick my wrist, and my barstool levitates and swings like a bat. It slams into the cream head-on, and the metal pitcher goes flying. Not at Ghost but right at the—

“Not the door!” Amber screams a second before glass shatters and the pitcher clutters onto the sidewalk.

“Wasn’t me,” Julian adds. And, to be fair, usually it is him. So I can see why he’d want to clear that up.

I’m about to blame Ghost but yelp instead. Because cold winter air rushes inside the cafe and coils around my wrists. It binds my hands behind my back and keeps me from flicking my wrist. Keeps me from fighting back.

The Wyn that Ghost knew would be at his mercy. That Wyn needed one hand free to cast. Zoe Wynter—Cleanly Den witch extraordinaire—only flicks her wrist for show.

Okay, fine, I didn’t learn that trick as a maid. It was back at the agency, which was good for something, at least. Like making sure my attackers are unprepared for… well… this.

I send my magic out to feel for objects. Solid objects. Objects that obey my command as one and zoom toward Ghost. Mugs, tables, chairs. And Ghost is completely unprepared.

A chair slams into him and sends him sprawling. Amber’s iced cappuccino flies off the bar, stops above his head, and tips upside down. Ghost yelps as cold liquid pours onto his head, but somehow manages to deflect the mug I aim at his crotch.

I throw a barstool at him next, but he deflects it, too, and it clatters out the broken door. A chair follows suit and takes down the Pumpkin Spice Latte sign. A table shatters the floor to ceiling window and slams into the side of the Cleanly Den van.

“Zoe, stop!” an old man shouts, his voice partially drowned out by the complete chaos around us. No, wait, not an old man. Amber.

“I’m not the one who—” But that’s as far as I get before Ghost retaliates. He forms a sphere of air around me, one I’m all too familiar with. It doesn’t let air in, or out. In training, he’d use it until his opponent would tap out or pass out. I’m not about to do either.

I hold my breath and quickly scan the room. Chairs. Tables. Mugs. I gather them all, like an army of Trolls ready to attack. Had to face one, once, and it’s not an experience I want to repeat.

I’m about to strike when someone knocks on the back door. I hear it open, there’s a bunch of cluttering as whoever it is brings things in from the alley, and then stomps their boots to kick off the snow. They make their way across the back room toward the cafe. It sounds like they’re pushing something—like a cart—probably a delivery, and I refocus my attention on Ghost. Who glances toward the back room, too.

I know I won’t get an opportunity like this again, so I strike. Mugs feign left and then fly at Ghost from all angles. Tables zoom toward him while he’s distracted by mugs. They hide chairs, which jump out from behind them and try to hit Ghost over the head.

Except Ghost surrounds himself with a shield, and they all bounce off and go flying. Mugs clatter onto the street, chairs nearly take out the overhead lights, and a table flies toward the back room… just as a scrawny postal worker pushing a baby stroller steps through the door.

Chapter Four

Zoe

“Watch out!” Amber shrieks.

The postal worker—who’s too busy making funny faces at his baby to pay attention to his surroundings—jumps. His head snaps up, his sunken eyes widen, and he visibly recoils—none of which does any good against the incoming table.

What would do some good is pushing the stroller out of the way. That’s what I’d be shouting. If I could talk. Or breathe. Neither of which is an option while I’m stuck in Ghost’s impenetrable sphere.

I have seconds to act. Seconds to decide if I should try to save the postal worker’s baby, or take out Ghost. One’s the humane choice, the other’s the agency’s choice, and Agent Wynter was trained to survive.

Truth is, I won’t save anyone if I’m unconscious—or dead. I know that not everyone can be saved. And I know that I can do a lot more good in this world if I live to fight another day. My job is to save myself, so I can save future lives; so it’s a good thing I’m not Agent Wynter anymore.

Zoe Wynter—Cleanly Den maid—has only one job. To save the postal worker’s baby. So I focus every last bit of energy on the massive flying table and slam on the magical brakes. Yank on it and try to pull it to a stop before it slams into that tiny, innocent life.

The postal worker jumps into action, too. He launches himself on top of the stroller—sacrifices himself to save his baby—but I’m pretty sure his skinny frame wouldn’t do much good. If anything, a table that size will probably knock him out and crush them both.

After that, it feels like everything happens in slow motion. My vision goes dark around the edges. My knees start to give out. The table keeps flying with no sign of slowing down.

A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. And just when I think it’s too late, the sphere around me bursts. Suddenly, Ghost’s magic joins my own. We pull together—try to stop the behemoth of a table from crashing—but even working together, there isn’t enough time.