He heard the screeching of tires from outside, the sound of cars riding up onto the pavement. Sirens, too. They split the air and shook the ground.
McCain gave his appearance one last look before he turned the sword around in his hand.
McCain knew from the memories of Max that in this time magic was a relative secret. Known only among the magical races, the ordinary populace was kept in the dark.
Though Max, the dullard, had appreciated and upheld this secret, McCain had no need for it.
He heard the scattering of feet as men jumped up onto the pavement. Then they paused, no doubt in sight of the completely torn apart door.
He heard weapons being pulled from their holsters.
McCain stood in the middle of the store, burnt carpet surrounding him, glass and splintered wood strewn at his feet.
Four police officers finally found the courage to throw themselves through the door.
With their weapons held high, they pointed them at Max.
“Stay where you are. Drop the… sword,” one screamed, hesitating when it came to mentioning the sword.
For it was still glowing. Glowing with ethereal fire. The kind of fire that cannot be explained by the simple minds of these men.
Max tipped his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. “I will not drop the sword,” he commented in an even tone.
And his sword? He sent a pulse of magic into it, and the blade glowed brighter until its internal fire was unmistakable.
He watched the men’s anger give way to shock.
Though McCain found the interaction amusing and would have liked to revel in these simple humans’ confusion – he didn’t have the time.
So McCain strode forward.
The police had no chance. If McCain had wanted to, he would have sliced through them, cut them from ear-to-ear, his burning sword turning their bodies into ash before they had a chance to hit the floor.
He did not.
He whispered a sleep spell under his breath.
The men fell. And McCain pushed on.
There was much to do.
Much to do.
Chapter 2
Chi McLane
We barely made it to the car before Max collapsed. His hand had been flat and warm against my back, his fingers brushing down toward my coccyx. It had been a goddamn pleasant sensation, but it hadn’t lasted.
Max, on account of my hardly insignificant injuries, had chosen to drive. Then again, who was I kidding? Max always drove.
He walked around the side of the car, opened the door, and then the strangest turn overcame him. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It was as if a massive storm cloud plowed over his face. At first, I saw it in his eyes. His usually deep, soulful brown eyes – the kind of eyes that always drew me in and held me even if I wanted to kick the bugger. But now those eyes – they did the strangest thing. They almost flickered as if they were a candle and somebody had just crossed in front of them.
“Max,” I asked, voice hesitant. A touch of a frown spread across my lips. My lips were still tingling from our kiss, but there and then they stopped.
Max staggered. He reached out a hand and clutched the door for support, leaning down and pressing his face against the window. I doubted he was smelling the glass.
“Max?” I asked in a more insistent tone as I got out of the passenger seat and staggered around to him. My body was very much still bruised and broken, but that didn’t stop me from lurching forward just in time as Max fell. His legs simply cut out from underneath him, his body slamming against the door. He tried to hold onto the metal frame, tried to recoup his balance, but his broad, strong fingers simply slipped off.
Max crumpled against the pavement.
“Max,” I screamed as I reached him, shoved down to one knee, and grabbed him by the shoulders.
He was out cold, except his eyes were wide open.
A thrill of pure fear stabbed through my heart. I’d never felt anything like it before. It was as if someone was trying to gouge the muscle free from my chest. That pure terror told me those wide-open, sightless eyes could mean one thing and one thing only: Max was dead.
I crammed the back of my hand over his mouth. With the other hand, I searched for a pulse. I felt one – steady, rhythmic, low, but there. “Max,” I said more insistently now, clutching his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. But no matter how hard I shook, he would not wake.
My heart continued to thunder as terror gripped me harder and harder. Though Max had been attacked on plenty of our adventures, he’d never just collapsed like this. I had no idea, no idea—
Suddenly, I felt something. The strangest sensation. It welled in my stomach, split through my chest, and shook into my head. It was such a strong, visceral feeling, I had to clutch a hand to my brow, fingers almost slipping against my sweaty, blood-soaked skin.
I felt woozy. I shifted hard to the side, clutching the door for support so I didn’t face-plant the comatose Max. But just as soon as that splitting, woozy feeling spun through me, it stopped.
With fingers gripping the door tighter, I pressed a hand against my mouth. “What the hell was that?” I whispered. But there was no one to speak to; there was just Max. I returned my attention to him, giving his shoulders one last shake. It became rapidly clear that he couldn’t be woken.
I shoved a hand into my pocket to grab my phone. But then I remembered it wasn’t there.
I shoved forward, ripped jeans snagging against the wet bitumen as I plunged a hand into Max’s pocket and removed his phone. I
