Right, time to cut in, boys: “Hi, my name is Isaac. This is Lefty . . . and Bob.” He lifted his guns accordingly to make the introductions. “And none of us take orders well anymore.”
Jim’s eyes burned as they shifted over. “Listen to me, Isaac . . . get in the house . . . get in the fucking house and stay there. No matter what you see or hear—do not leave. We clear?”
From out of nowhere, the guy pulled a knife that made no sense. Damn thing was made of glass . . . ? What the—
A low whistle started to hum through the air, and Isaac glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the sound. It was the kind of thing that had to be just the wind. . . . There was no other explanation for it. And yet he didn’t feel any breeze on his skin.
“Get in the house if you want to live,” someone said.
Jim grabbed his arm. “You can’t fight this enemy, but I can. If you’re inside there, you’ll be safe—and you can protect that woman. Keep her with you and keep her safe.”
Well, that was one order he could follow—
All at once, Grier’s house seemed to glow with an ethereal light, as if it had been hit with red floodlights from the foundation up. As his eyes struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, a buzzing on the back of his neck grew so intense he worried his head was going to play 7-Up and pop off his spine.
Isaac didn’t stick around.
He tore across the backyard as the unholy wind got louder and louder, praying he got inside and to Grier in time.
Grier hated fighting with her father. Absolutely despised it.
Flipping her omelet in the pan, she centered the thing and then stared at the cell phone she’d just tossed across the island.
Their first call had taken place about an hour after he’d left, and he’d done the dialing. Naturally, he’d discovered her little sleight-of-hand trick and that had led to all sorts of trouble—none of which had been resolved, because she wasn’t giving the stuff back and he wasn’t taking no for an answer and they’d had to cover that rocky ground in code because God knew who was listening.
After going around and around for a while like boxers in a ring, they’d taken a time-out; she’d tried to work while her father had gone into that shadowy world of his.
Although she was just guessing at that part. It wasn’t as if he told her anything concrete.
Still.
Like always.
Second trip through the phone park, and her fingers had done the walking. Her intent had been to make some kind of peace and find out what he was doing, but that had quickly devolved into more half-assed accusations in a language that appeared to be one part pig latin and one part charades.
The former working only slightly better than the latter over the connection.
As her omelet sizzled softly and she took a sip from her wineglass, a gust of wind hit the back of the house, whistling through the shutters, and fondling the wind chimes by the door. Frowning, she looked over her shoulder. Hell of a breeze, she thought, the subtle music of the clay pieces for once not calming her.
Which was what happened when you were being paranoid. Everything went creepy, even the—
A huge shape jumped up to the back door and filled the glass panes. As she let out a scream and leaped for the panic button on the security system remote, Isaac’s face was illuminated out of the darkness by the motion- activated light he triggered.
He started pounding with his fist, but he didn’t do that for long. He wheeled around to face the backyard, flattening against the house as if something were coming at him.
As she rushed over, she disarmed the system, and he all but fell into the kitchen when she opened up. He was the one who slammed them in together, locking the dead bolt and then putting his body against the panels as if someone were going to try to get in.
Between breaths, he commanded, “The system . . . put it back on. . . .”
She did so without hesitation—
Everything went dark.
Except for the blue glow of the flame under the pan on the stove and the yellow halo of the light over the stoop, the kitchen went utterly black—and it took her brain a second to catch up to the fact that he’d canned the lights.
The gun he brought up by his chest didn’t throw much reflection or shadow, but she knew exactly what was in his palm as he shifted over and settled against the wall by the door. He didn’t point the weapon anywhere near her—he wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were trained on the rear garden.
When she tried to come over to look, he put his heavy arm out and held her back. “Stay away from the glass.”
“What’s going on?”
A blast of wind hit the house, the chimes going haywire to the point where they were twisting around on their strings, all but screaming in pain.
And then a strange creaking noise beat out the racket.
Bracing herself on the counter, she looked up to the ceiling and realized it was the whole house. . . . Her family’s brick house, which had stood without budging on its solid foundation for two hundred years, was groaning as if it were about to be torn off from its hold on the ground.
Her eyes went to the glass wall. She couldn’t see anything but shadows moving because of the wind . . . except they weren’t right. They didn’t . . . move right.
Transfixed by the sight of dark patterns shifting around over the ground like thick oil, she felt her mind bend as it tried to form an explanation for what her eyes were taking in.
“What is . . .
“Get down behind the counter.” Isaac glanced up to the ceiling as the house let out another curse. “Come on, baby, hold your own.”
Falling to her knees, she looked at the old mirror across the way. On its wavy plane, she could see out the windows into the garden and watch those all-wrongs wending around.
“Isaac, get away from the door—”
A pealing scream filled the air, and Grier let out a shout and covered her ears. Isaac didn’t even flinch, however—and she took strength from him.
“Fire alarm,” he yelled. “It’s the fire alarm!”
He lunged for the cooktop and shoved the smoking omelet to the side, canning the flame on the burner with a quick twist. “Do what you have to,” he barked.
CHAPTER 23
Matthias drove the last leg of the trip himself. He’d been flown into this town from his little detour over in Boston because although he could pilot a number of different aircrafts, he’d been stripped of his wings since his injuries.
But at least he was still able to drive, goddamn it.
The flight from Beantown to Caldwell had been short and sweet, and the Caldwell International Airport was a breeze—although when you had his level of clearance, the TSA types never got anywhere near you or your bags.
Not that he’d brought any luggage with him—other than that which he carried around in his brain.
His car was yet another black-on-black unmarked with armor plating and glass thick enough to give any bullet a concussion. It was just like the one he’d had when he’d paid Grier Childe a visit . . . and just like the one he’d have in any city he went to, at home or abroad.
He’d told nobody but his number two where he was going—and even his most trusted didn’t know the why
