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  I only knew all that about Willow because I read it in the dossier on her the gnomes in Capstone’s research department had prepared. On my own, I did not know much about history, unless you were talking about what happened during season one of Game of Thrones. I was a butt-kicker, not a nerd.

  I didn’t have to be a history buff to know Willow had forged her path throughout the centuries with her looks and on her back. It was one of the reasons why I did not like her. Women who relied exclusively on their looks and sexuality irritated me. If my mother knew Willow, she would call her “a do-nothing bitch.” I did not agree with Mom on much, but that description hit Willow on the head.

  Willow probably knew I was not her biggest fan since I have never been known for my subtlety and tact. She likely thought I was jealous of her. Jealousy was the go-to explanation for attractive women when less attractive women did not like them. I was not jealous. Well, not of Willow’s looks. I was a tad jealous of her money. Whoever said money was the root of all evil had never been behind on her rent and in credit card debt up to her eyeballs. I was both. Financial discipline, like historical knowledge, was not one of my strengths.

  Willow seemed to be wrapping up her soliloquy of clichés when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, dark forms swoop out of the darkness of the night into the brightness cast by the Institute of Peace’s outside lights.

  My pulse starting to race, I spun to look at the flying figures through the clear curtain wall.

  Before I could raise my voice in warning, the flying forms crashed into the curtain wall, ripping through the thick glass like it was tissue paper. The breaking glass sounded like crashing cymbals. People below us in the atrium screamed. Some pointed up in the air at the monsters beating their wings there.

  For that was what they were: monsters. Three of them. Each the size of a Mini Cooper, each with the body of a different animal—a dog, a ram, and a rattlesnake—and each with giant bat wings that beat the air so powerfully they generated gusts of wind. Their wings were crimson red and leathery, with long sharp talons on the ends. Their bodies were bluish-black. They glistened evilly with an oily sheen.

  Gargoyles. The only gargoyles I knew of in the city adorned the Washington National Cathedral, over three miles away in the northwest quadrant of the city. I didn’t understand what was happening. Gargoyles protected the buildings they perched on from demons and evil spirits, which was why they were often placed on churches. They simply did not sprout wings, become animated and oversized, and crash into buildings miles away from their roost.

  Clearly nobody had told these gargoyles that.

  The dog gargoyle suddenly swooped down. Shrieking, the people in the atrium scattered like ants. The dog gargoyle’s massive jaws clamped down around the waist of a man who had tripped and fallen in his haste to get away.

  The gargoyle rose into the air with the screaming man. Blood spurted from him like fuel from a ruptured gas tank. The gargoyle shook the man like a terrier who had caught a rat. The man’s bones cracked loudly enough to be heard over all the pandemonium. The man’s screaming died as he did.

  The dog gargoyle opened its jaws, spitting the man out like bad tasting candy. The man’s torso hit the floor, followed a second later by his lower body. His guts oozed out of him like a mound of spaghetti drowning in red sauce.

  The gargoyle’s powerful bite had ripped the poor man in two.

  2

  People’s screams got louder. They trampled each other in their haste to get away from the monsters and out of the building.

  The sound of gunshots rose above the cacophony as Willow’s men opened fire on the gargoyles. Their bullets had no noticeable effect.

  My earbud exploded with sound, the men under my command all yelling at once.

  I grabbed Willow’s bare arm. Dragging her alongside of me, I moved as quickly as I could in my stupid heels away from the area overlooking the madhouse that was the atrium. We left the media behind. They all just stood there like dumb mutes, their eyes following Willow, not even looking up at the gargoyles, still under the spell of her glamour.

  I yanked open an office door. This was the panic room I had supervised the preparation of before I escorted Willow on site. I shoved Willow inside. She went sprawling on the floor. Her heels flew off and one of her boobs popped out of her low-cut gown. In my haste, I had pushed her harder than I meant to. Sorry, not sorry.

  “Stay here,” I commanded. “The room is fully warded. Nothing will be able to get in without your permission.” I started to close the door on her.

  “Wait!” Willow shrieked, climbing to her feet unsteadily. “Where are you going?” The screams in the atrium had not lessened. If anything, they had increased.

  “I’m going to go help those people.” I tried to close the door, but Willow put her hand on it, stopping me.

  “You’re not leaving me alone.” It was an order, not a question. Willow’s sex kitten voice was gone, replaced by a tone more like the crack of a whip.

  “Just watch me,” I said. “There are innocents out there. Kids. You’ll be safe here.” I tried to remove her arm, but she shifted it and still blocked the door.

  “I don’t give two shits about those mundanes and their drooling little STDs,” Willow said. Her green eyes were unyielding emeralds. “And neither should you. I pay you to protect me, not a bunch of slack-jawed mundanes. You’re staying here with me.” She shook her head at me in disgusted disbelief. "In over three hundred years, I've never met a stupider human than you."

  "Three hundred years? Wow, you don't look a day over a hundred."

  Willow recoiled as if I'd slapped her. The vainer someone was, the more insecure she was. "You take that back!" she screeched.

  I smothered a smirk and brushed her hand off the door. I wasn’t gentle about it.

  "If you don’t stay here and protect me you ugly, big-assed witch, you're fired," Willow swore, her face red with anger. Witches and warlocks practiced black magic. Actual witches wore the label like a badge of honor. For those of us who did not walk on the dark side, calling a Gifted woman a witch was the equivalent of calling a mundane woman the C word.

  Willow’s slur broke the camel's back. Willow’s throat beckoned me like a bullseye beckons a marksman. Dear Lord, I silently prayed, lead me not into temptation . . . tomorrow. But not today.

  I punched Willow in the throat. Willow doubled over, gagging, clutching her neck. I’d hit her hard. But not too hard. I was irritated, not homicidal. I could’ve punched a hole clean through her neck if I wanted to.

  "You can't fire me," I said. "I quit. That’s my letter of resignation." I wanted to yank her godawful shoes off and fling them at her as well, but I resisted the impulse. I thought it demonstrated phenomenal restraint, yet no one showed up to give me a humanitarian award. A clear double standard.

  I slammed the door on Willow’s hunched over form. “Claudo,” I murmured as I waved my hand in front of the door in the necessary pattern while I exerted my will, activating the wards a Capstone ward specialist had placed on the panic room. The door shimmered for a quick moment as the wards snapped into place. Claudo was Latin. Latin was the language of magic, much like math was the language of science.

  I turned away from the door, kicking off my despised heels as I did so. I had struck Willow without thinking in the heat of the moment. Acting impulsively was nothing new for me. Now, I was starting to regret the punch. Not because Willow didn't deserve it, but because of what Oscar might say and do about it when he found out.

  Oh well. I'd burn that bridge later.

  In bare feet, I raced back toward the area overlooking the atrium. I peeled off my pantsuit jacket and dropped it on the floor as I ran. It hindered my movement too much. The transmitter and earbud attached to it fell away as well.

  I skidded to a stop at the railing and hastily assessed the situation.

  Things had gotten worse in the short time I’d been dealing with Willow. More people lay on the atrium floor, injure
d or dead. Blood stained the light-colored floor like red paint on a canvas. The gargoyles were still in the air over the atrium. They were swooping down onto the hapless people below like birds of prey.

  A couple of Willow’s mundane security guards were trying to shepherd people to the only exit on this side of the building. The other guards were gone. I guessed they’d pushed their way to the front of the crowd fleeing the building in the face of these flying nightmares which were apparently immune to their bullets. Cowards. Willow should fire them, not me. Then again, in their defense, they had never faced magical creatures before.

  Most of the media were gone. They must have snapped out of the effects of Willow’s glamour and run away. The remaining two cameramen had their cameras trained on the gargoyles and the carnage they caused.

  Evidence of the hidden magical world was going to be on the nightly news. Fantastic. The Conclave, the magical world’s ruling body, was going to be pissed. And when the Conclave got pissed, the people who had gotten them pissed tended to disappear.

  A woman howled like a banshee as the ram gargoyle swooped down, hitting her with its big head, sending her flying into a wall. A miniature version of the woman wailed as the girl watched with wild-eyed horror. The woman’s daughter, obviously.

  Where the heck was one of those blasted costumed Heroes when you needed them? Licensed Heroes always seemed to be there when you didn’t need them, and they were nowhere to be found when you did need them.

  Somebody had to do something before all these people got slaughtered.

  Since there was no Hero handy, I guessed that somebody was going to have to be me.

  And yet, I hesitated for a split second. There was no way I would be able to deal with the gargoyles without violating the Conclave’s First Rule of Magic.

  Screw the Rules, I thought, chiding myself for my hesitation. More innocent people would get hurt or killed if I did not step in and do something. Dad had taught me that right was right and wrong was wrong. I’d worry about the Conclave later.

  I backed away from the railing to give myself a running start. Aiming for the dog gargoyle, which was the one hovering in the air closest to me, I took off running.

  I hurdled the railing like a track star. My Gifted legs sent me shooting through the air toward the dog gargoyle like I had a jetpack on my back. I was vaguely aware of one of the cameramen filming me flying through the air like no mundane was capable of.

  Yeah, the Conclave was definitely going to be pissed.

  I arced through the air above the atrium, my arms windmilling, my head almost grazing the glowing white ceiling. Then I started to drop. The air whistled in my ears.

  My aim was true. I landed astride the dog gargoyle’s back with a bone-rattling thump, right in front of where the thing’s bat wings were attached to its body. Pain shot through my nether regions. My lady parts weren’t going to be happy with me tomorrow. Assuming there was a tomorrow.

  Now that I was up close and personal, I saw the dog was some sort of mastiff. A bulldog, or maybe a Rottweiler. It didn’t matter. Perhaps I’d investigate its pedigree later.

  There was a dark flash in the corner of my eye. I ducked down low, flattening my torso against the dog’s body.

  The ram flashed by overhead with a rush of disturbed air. The ram gargoyle had claws instead of sheep hooves. Those claws grazed my back, slicing through my blouse and into my flesh. Pain erupted like a volcano on my back. Still, it could have been worse. If I had not ducked in time, the ram would have smacked headfirst into me with its horns, which were large and curved like those of a male bighorn sheep.

  Trying to ignore the pain, I shoved myself back upright. I slammed a fist down, striking the canine gargoyle’s big head with a blow that likely would have decapitated a real dog. My magic made me strong. Not as strong as some Metahumans, but stronger than the strongest non-Meta mundanes and stronger than most Gifteds.

  Ow! Pain rippled through my fist and up my arm. Despite the fact the body my legs were wrapped around felt like flesh, punching this thing’s head felt like punching a concrete block.

  The gargoyle shook my blow off like it had been a mosquito bite. It twisted its neck, snapping at my hand with canines as long as my forearm. I snatched my hand back before I was forced into a Captain Hook impersonation.

  Uh-oh. What now? I hadn’t planned past leaping and punching. Story of my life. Should I now pat him on his head soothingly and ask, “Who’s a good doggy?”

  Before I could implement the lamest plan ever, I felt the gargoyle’s muscles bunch up under my legs. Instinct made me grab the scruff of the gargoyle’s neck.

  I’d barely grabbed the scruff when the gargoyle started bucking and flipping in the air, trying to shake me off. I held on for dear life. If I had known I’d be going through this, I would have gone to more rodeos in preparation. By more rodeos, I mean I would’ve gone to a rodeo. I’d never been to one before. I was a city slicker, not a cowgirl.

  In just a few seconds of being bounced around, my legs’ and hands’ grips started to slip. If I hit the ground from this high up, I’d be so dazed I would be easy pickings for the gargoyles, assuming the fall didn’t break my fool neck.

  Desperate, I waved my free hand in a long-practiced gesture as I waggled my fingers and exerted my will. “Ignis!” I said through clenched teeth.

  My hand burst into flames. The fire was warm, but it didn’t burn me. A sorceress was immune to her own spellfire.

  I shoved my burning hand against the gargoyle’s flesh like I was branding a bull.

  The gargoyle let out an inhuman shriek that was a bizarre mix of a wolf’s howl and a rooster’s crowing. It set my teeth on edge. It was an unmistakable cry of pain. Good.

  Emboldened, I gathered my will and released it in a torrent through my arm instead of in a steady stream.

  Whoosh! Both the gargoyle and I were engulfed in fire, as if we had been drenched with gasoline and set ablaze.

  The gargoyle’s shrieks of pain increased in intensity, deafening me, making me want to cover my ears. I did no such thing. I instead kept shoveling my will into the blaze, increasing the intensity of my spellfire.

  The gargoyle spun wildly in the air, out of control, falling like a shot bird, making me dizzy.

  The gargoyle and I smashed into the stage Willow was supposed to accept her humanitarian award on.

  The gargoyle was on its side, struggling like an injured cockroach to right itself. My leg was pinned under the beast, making me cry out in pain. I didn’t let go of the monster though, nor did I let up on my spellfire. I took care to confine my spellfire to me and the gargoyle, and not let the stage catch on fire. It would be horrific if I destroyed this human-chomping gargoyle, only to also kill everyone else in a raging inferno.

  The gargoyle started to crumble, bits of it flaking away, collapsing under the force of my spellfire like it was a sand castle pounded by a wave.

  Then, suddenly, the gargoyle fell completely to pieces. The weight on my leg lessened dramatically. I was no longer pinned down.

  Cautiously, I withdrew my will, canceling my spell. The raging bonfire of my spellfire went out like it had been deprived of oxygen.

  I stood up. Black fragments like super-sized grains of sand fell off me, joining a larger pile of the stuff all around me. I was no forensic magician, but my guess was my spellfire had burned off whatever magic had animated the gargoyle, not to mention destroying the integrity of the gargoyle’s body. It was good to see the gargoyles had a vulnerability.

  Magicians like me stored magic like a battery, and that big expenditure of magical will had tired me, draining me of a good bit of my magic. My chest heaved with exertion. I got a flash of naked flesh. I glanced down.

  I was as naked as the day I was born. Though I was immune to my spellfire, my clothes were not. They had burned off in the inferno, leaving only soot stains on my otherwise bare body.

  I flushed in embarrassment, then tried to shove the silly emotion aside
. People seeing me in my birthday suit was the least of the bad things that had happened today. Even worse things would happen if I didn’t do something about the two remaining gargoyles. Even so, the vain part of me wished I had salad for dinner last night instead of a double cheeseburger with bacon and fries.

  A high-pitched scream cut through the tumult in the room. The scream came from a kid dressed in his Sunday best. The ram gargoyle had latched onto the boy with its claws and was flying toward the high ceiling with him. A woman, presumably his mother, stood underneath them, looking up, wailing almost as loudly as the kid.

  I didn’t know if the ram intended to rip the kid apart or drop him from the ceiling. I couldn’t let either happen.

  Wishing I knew how to fly, I twisted my head around frantically. I spotted a microphone stand nearby on the stage. I lunged for it. I knocked the microphone out of it, causing screeching feedback from the atrium’s speakers that temporarily drowned out the screams of mother and child. Holding the vertical metal part of the stand in my right hand, I stomped hard on its base. With a metallic pop, the circular base separated from the vertical metal.

  I focused my will on the metal in my right hand, waved my left hand in the necessary pattern, and said “Ignis.” The metal pole burst into flames. If your will was strong enough, spellfire could burn just about anything. Magic was not subject to the usual laws of science.

  I took three quick steps forward, and then I flung the flaming microphone stand like it was a javelin. It zoomed through the air with a hiss, toward the ram gargoyle. If I had stopped to think, I probably wouldn’t have thrown it out of fear of hitting the boy by accident. It wasn’t as though I was an expert javelin thrower. I was no Olympic athlete.