A Sense of Danger

by Jennifer Estep

  Since I couldn’t sense exactly where the bombs were, I reached out with my magic again. Anatoly had probably used the same setup on these bombs as he had on the IEDs on the beach in Australia, which meant that these bombs were most likely wired together with cell phones. If I could make contact with those devices, then I could use my galvanism to drain the energy out of the phones and disarm the explosives that way. But there was some kind of resistance, some sort of barrier between me and the phones. I could sense their energy, but I couldn’t quite grab it.

  “In case you were wondering, I also had my men scatter thousands of plastic green nails all over the lawn,” Anatoly said. “Neither one of you has any sort of magic that will let you disarm the devices.”

  Plastic didn’t conduct electricity, so I wouldn’t be able to reach through it and grab hold of the phones’ energy. He had trapped us like rats in a maze, and all I could do was stand still and glare at him. I had never felt so utterly helpless, not even on the beach the first time the bastard had tried to blow me up.

  “Any last words, Desmond?” Anatoly called out in a mocking voice.

  I didn’t have a retort—but Charlotte did.

  “You might want to think twice about blowing us up. Especially since I have this.”

  She lifted her hand. At first, I thought she was showing off the white clutch she’d been carrying all evening, but then I realized she was actually holding a white box—the one that contained the Grunglass Necklace.

  Henrika whirled toward her guard. “You idiot! You let her pick your pocket!”

  She slapped him across the face. That man staggered back and fumbled in his jacket pocket, but all he came up with was Charlotte’s white purse, which was roughly the same size and shape as the jewelry box.

  I glanced at Charlotte, a wide grin creasing my face. “Sneaky, Numbers. Very sneaky.”

  She grinned back and waggled the box at me. “A little trick I learned from my grandmother. I told everyone I took after her. Maybe now they’ll believe me.”

  She focused on Anatoly and Henrika again. “What do you say? How about a trade? The necklace for our lives?”

  Henrika opened her mouth, probably to bargain, but Anatoly put his hand up, gesturing for her to be quiet. Henrika glared at him, but he ignored her and looked at Charlotte.

  “Why should I trade for a bauble I care nothing about?” Anatoly asked. “My men can shoot you where you stand, and I can simply retrieve the necklace that way.”

  “You do that, and my body will most likely drop on one of your hidden bombs,” Charlotte said, her voice full of cool logic. “And then you’ll walk away with nothing. Why, you might even blow yourself up, if Henrika’s Redburn explosive is as powerful as she claims.”

  Anatoly’s eyes glittered, and his aura flickered a dark, dangerous red. “I suppose that’s a chance I’ll just have to take—”

  Suddenly, in the distance, gunfire exploded, each shot cracking through the air like thunder. The Section strike team must have finally realized we were in trouble and were coming to help, even though they would be too late.

  Anatoly snarled and took a step forward, as though he was going to cross the lawn and snatch the box out of Charlotte’s hands. He might not care about the bauble, as he called it, but he despised losing, and Charlotte had outsmarted him.

  Henrika grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Are you crazy? You’ll set off the bombs. I want the necklace, but I’m not stupid enough to die for it. Let’s get out of here! Now! Hurry!” She yanked on his arm again, trying to drag him away.

  Anatoly gave us another angry glare, then turned and ran, leaving Charlotte and me trapped in the middle of the minefield.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlotte

  I let out a tense breath and lowered the box containing the Grunglass Necklace to my side. I hadn’t been sure my gamble would work. But the gunshots had driven away Anatoly, Henrika, and their men, which meant that Desmond and I still had a chance—however small—to escape before the bombs went off.

  Desmond’s hands curled into fists, and his foot edged forward, as if he was thinking about charging after Anatoly, despite the bombs. But he must have realized how suicidal that would be because his foot stilled.

  “Can you sense the bombs?” I asked. “Figure out where they are?”

  Desmond shook his head. “I can sense them, and they are buried all around us, just like Anatoly said. He must have realized that plastic interferes with my galvanism. That’s why he scattered plastic nails in the grass—to keep me from figuring out exactly where the bombs are. And if there’s no pattern to the minefield, then there’s no way of knowing where to step. Anatoly’s men could have spaced the bombs five feet apart, or three, or two. I just can’t tell.”

  Anguish, guilt, and regret shimmered in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. So sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “It’s Anatoly’s fault,” I replied. “Not yours. You have nothing to apologize for. Do you hear me?”

  Desmond gave me a short, sharp nod, although I could tell he didn’t believe my words.

  “All right,” I said. “We have to do something or we’re dead. I’d rather die trying to live than just stand here and accept my fate. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” His jaw clenched. “But I don’t even know where to start.”

  I glanced around. We were standing in the center of the lawn, and the grass was perfectly smooth, as far as I could see. Anatoly’s men hadn’t left behind so much as a bent blade of grass to divulge the bombs’ locations. Still, we had to do something. So I tucked the box with the Grunglass Necklace under my arm so I wouldn’t lose it. Then I removed my stilettos, gently set them down on the grass, and carefully slid my bare foot to the left.

  Danger-danger-danger! my inner voice immediately screamed.

  I stopped and moved my foot to the right. Nothing. Not so much as a whisper from my inner voice. Hmm. I repeated the process, just to double-check myself. The results were the same as before. To the left was danger, to the right was not.

  “Maybe you don’t have to locate the explosives,” I said. “Maybe I can get us out of here with my synesthesia. It warns me about danger, and I can’t think of anything more dangerous than standing here, waiting for the bombs to blow.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Desmond asked.

  His immediate, unquestioning confidence and trust warmed my heart.

  “Be quiet, follow my lead, and step exactly where I step.” I flashed him a wan smile. “And maybe hold my hand, for luck?”

  “Anytime, Numbers.”

  Desmond grinned and threaded his fingers through mine. After these past few days of aching to touch him, that one small sensation nearly undid me. I savored the warmth of his skin, soaking into mine, then dropped my head, focused on the lawn, and concentrated on what I needed to do in order to get us out of here alive.

  Slowly—very, very slowly—I moved to my right, stepping onto the nearest patch of grass that didn’t ping my synesthesia. I held my breath as I fully shifted my weight onto that spot of earth, hoping it was safe—

  And it was.

  No metal plates depressed under my feet, no ominous beep-beeps sounded, and no explosion ripped through my body.

  A tense breath escaped my lips, and I slowly shuffled my foot to the right again…

  Danger-danger-danger.

  I immediately stopped and changed direction, moving forward…

  Nothing.

  I shifted my weight onto that patch of grass, and I was once again rewarded by not blowing us up.

  Again and again, I repeated the process, reaching out with my synesthesia to sense where the bombs were hidden. Desmond held my hand and trailed along behind me, keeping quiet and stepping exactly where I stepped. Slowly, deliberately, we made our way from the center of the lawn toward the crushed-shell path that led back toward the hotel.

  I didn’t know how long it took. Two minutes, four, six, although I could h
ave sworn I could hear the seconds steadily, relentlessly tick-tick-ticking down in my mind, as though I could actually hear the timers on the bombs. Or maybe the phantom sensation was just my synesthesia telling me to hurry up.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever, my feet landed on the crushed-shell path. I eyed the walkway in front of me, but my inner voice didn’t whisper any more warnings.

  Desmond stepped onto the path beside me. “Are there any more bombs up ahead? Any buried under the path?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Because we need to run. Now!”

  He gripped my hand tighter and dragged me along the path. I picked up my skirt and hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides and trying to ignore the crushed shells biting into my bare feet. We made it back to the hotel and sprinted up the steps to the library balcony.

  Danger-danger-danger! my inner voice started screaming again.

  Desmond must have sensed the danger too because he wrapped his arms around my waist and whirled me around, so that his back was facing out toward the lawn. Then he churned his legs forward, shoving us both through the open glass door and into the library—

  Explosions ripped through the air.

  * * *

  Light, heat, fire, smoke. All those things washed over me, but the one that shocked and stunned me the most was the sheer force of the noise—the continued, unending roar of all those bombs going off one after another.

  My ears pop-pop-popped like they were full of firecrackers, and a dull ache bloomed in my skull, but those sensations didn’t even come close to drowning out the overwhelming noise of the explosions.

  Somehow, I ended up lying flat on my back, close to the desk in the library. Desmond plastered himself on top of me, shielding me from the blasts. All that pure, raw force washed over him, and his body convulsed against mine. I wrapped my arms around his waist, wishing I could absorb some of the energy and ease his burden. But of course I couldn’t do that, and I had to settle for gripping him as tightly as he was holding on to me.

  Sometime later, the light, heat, fire, and smoke slowly dissipated, and that seemingly unending roar finally died down to a faint, annoying buzz in my ears.

  Desmond stopped convulsing. His body went utterly still, and he rolled off me and thumped to the library floor, landing on his back. My heart froze, and I scrambled up onto my knees beside him.

  “Desmond? Desmond!” I shouted.

  He shuddered out a breath, then grunted, slowly raised his head, and sat up. His eyes burned like silver-blue stars, and energy crackled in the air all around him. I reached out, intending to comfort him, but hot blue sparks snapped against my skin when my fingertips brushed up against his scorched tuxedo jacket. I hissed with pain and dropped my hand.

  Desmond blinked several times, and some of the energy leaked out of his eyes. He was channeling the raw force of the explosions, slowly but surely getting control of the insane amount of power that had blasted over him and was still pumping through his body.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. My voice sounded unnaturally loud, or maybe that was just the roar of the explosions still buzzing in my ears.

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “You?”

  “I’m fine. I’m just glad we made it off the lawn in one piece.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” Desmond hesitated. “Listen, Charlotte, there’s something I want to ask you about—”

  A hand grabbed Desmond’s shoulder, yanking him to his feet. That same hand turned Desmond around, then clenched into a fist that plowed straight into his face. Desmond staggered back into the desk hard enough to make it screech across the floor.

  My head snapped up. Adrian Anatoly stepped around the desk, both of his hands bunched into tight fists, and a murderous look on his face. He must have doubled back to the library from some other direction to see if the blast had killed us.

  “Well, it seems that the two of you are full of surprises,” Anatoly growled. “I don’t know how you managed to escape my minefield, but no matter. You’re still going to die.”

  Desmond pushed himself away from the desk, raised his hands, and staggered forward. Anatoly shouted, lowered his head, and charged at him. The two men surged in my direction, fists flying, and I rolled to my left, trying to stay out of the way of their deadly duel.

  I scrambled around the desk and staggered up and onto my feet.

  Desmond and Anatoly were exchanging punches, and Anatoly was winning the battle, given his paramortal strength. He clocked Desmond in the jaw, making him stagger all the way back into one of the bookcases. Desmond snarled, pushed himself away from the wall, and surged right back toward Anatoly. I dropped my head and scanned the broken glass, splintered wood, and other charred, smoking debris on the floor. Where was it? Where was it?

  There.

  The gun I’d dropped earlier was still lying on the floor in front of the bar. I hurried in that direction, scooped it up, and whirled around.

  Desmond and Anatoly were locked together, their hands wrapped around each other’s throats, each one trying to strangle the other. I didn’t have a clean shot, so I rushed over, flipped the gun around, and slammed the butt into the back of Anatoly’s head. He hissed in surprise, but the hard blow didn’t even faze him. Too late I remembered his power—that he couldn’t feel physical pain.

  Anatoly head-butted Desmond, sending him staggering back into the bookcase again. Desmond bounced off the wood, but his feet flew out from under him, and he hit the floor hard.

  Anatoly whirled around to me. “You want to play too?” he snarled. “Fine. I don’t care which one of you I kill first.”

  Before I could move, he darted forward and locked his hand around my throat. I raised the gun to shoot him, but he used his free hand to slap the weapon away. It thumped to the floor, well out of my reach.

  Anatoly forced me back and up against one of the bookcases. I dug my nails into his hand and kicked out with my bare feet, but nothing I did bothered him, and I couldn’t break his crushing grip on my throat. Gray spots flashed in warning in front of my eyes. Desperate, I reached down, grabbed one of the books off the shelf, and slammed it into his face.

  He growled, but he still didn’t release me, so I drew the book back and hit him again. And then again. And then again—

  The corner of the book sliced across Anatoly’s cheek, drawing blood, and slapped squarely into his nose, breaking it. That was finally enough to get him to loosen his grip on my throat. I sucked down a breath and hit him with the book again and again, driving him away from me—and straight back into Desmond.

  Desmond staggered to his feet, slid forward, and dropped his pocket-watch chain over Anatoly’s head. Then he yanked the chain to the side, snapping the terrorist’s neck.

  Anatoly might not be able to feel pain, but even he couldn’t survive a broken neck. All the anger, all the energy, all the motion in Anatoly’s body abruptly ceased, as though a transmuter had turned him into a statue.

  Desmond removed the chain, and Anatoly teetered to the side before slowly dropping to the floor, his pale blue eyes wide and glassy.

  Adrian Anatoly was dead.

  * * *

  Desmond and I both stood there, breathing hard, and staring down at Anatoly’s body. Even though I had seen it happen, even though I had seen Desmond kill him, I still couldn’t quite believe the terrorist was truly dead.

  “Charlotte! Are you okay?” Desmond started to reach out, as if to cup my cheek, but for some reason, he dropped his hand to his side instead.

  “I’m…fine,” I rasped through my bruised throat, still sucking down air. “You?”

  His gaze flicked to Anatoly. “Better, now that he’s dead.”

  He didn’t look better. If anything, he seemed even more anguished than before. I opened my mouth to ask him what was wrong—

  “Desmond! Charlotte!” a voice yelled.

  Miriam rushed into the library and skidded to a stop. Her eyes widened and darted from me to
Desmond to Anatoly and back again. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just some cuts, scrapes, and bruises for me. Desmond?”

  “I’m okay,” he replied. “Nothing too serious.”

  Lie, my inner voice whispered. I eyed him, wondering where he was injured. The back of his tuxedo jacket was scorched, and his face had already started to bruise and swell from Anatoly’s punches, but he looked more or less okay. Or maybe it was his heart that was still hurting, more than his physical body.

  “What’s that?” Miriam walked over and grabbed something off the floor. She straightened up, clutching the white velvet box. “What’s in here?”

  “The Grunglass Necklace,” I replied. Somehow, I had managed to hang on to it, despite everything that had happened.

  Miriam held the box out to me, but I waved her off. “You keep it.”

  She nodded and hugged the box to her chest. “Sure thing, Charlotte. The others should be here any second—”

  Section strike team members dressed in black tactical gear stormed into the ruined library, their guns up and at the ready. They paused, making sure that Desmond and I were okay, then swept out the back of the room, heading toward the still-smoldering lawn. No doubt they were going to search the grounds for Henrika, but I could have told them not to bother. Anatoly might have been stupid enough to double back to try to kill Desmond, but Henrika was smart enough to be long gone, even without her precious necklace.

  Gia strode into the library, followed by Trevor. Gia glanced at Desmond and me before looking over at Miriam, who handed her the box containing the Grunglass Necklace. Gia opened the box and stared at the necklace a moment before giving it to Joan, who had stepped into the library behind her.

  Then Gia focused on Desmond and me again. “Mission report.”

  Desmond told her everything that had happened, starting from when Henrika had led us into the library, to the two of us surviving the explosions, to us working together to kill Anatoly.