“Where’s Clarence, Nicky?” I asked, moving away from Sylvie and Lilac while glancing behind Nicky to the back of the shop, where I hoped Tamara and Hector would triumphantly emerge and save us all.
Except they didn’t. Just my luck, Nicky boy probably had a construct floating around in the alley.
The tip of the gun wavered in my direction then returned to Sylvie. “It’s Nick, you arrogant ass. And Clarence is safe. You’ll get him back once I have the stone.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Bobby? So far from—Oh, I was an idiot. He was haunting Sylvie, not Sylvie’s house. I tuned out Bobby’s annoying chant as best I could. Nick’s armpits were damp with sweat, and the longer he held that gun aloft, the less steady it would be. I didn’t actually have time to be incredibly annoyed by Bobby.
He was annoying beyond belief, but he did provide a great distraction in one sense. Hoping I wasn’t about to get myself shot, I asked, “Why did you have to hurt Bobby, Nick?”
Confusion clouded his features. “Bobby? What does he have to do with any of this?” Which made me think my gut had been wrong, until he added, “That was weeks ago.”
Yeah. He’d killed Bobby. Probably with the same gun he held in his hand now. The one whose muzzle was drifting slowly away from Sylvie and Lilac. Thank goodness.
Kill Bobby. Kill Sylvie. Then Bobby wailed, that terrible sound of grief I’d heard from him before.
Sylvie’s gasp of outrage brought Nick’s attention and his gun back to her, and my small gain was lost.
“You. With your suburban life and your filthy rich parents and all your advantages. Couldn’t you just give us this one thing? Magic was ours! She should have given it to us!” Sweat streamed down Nick’s face. “When my gran was dying, she told us about her sister and you. About the power.”
Something more than just stress was going on here. Nick’s face looked waxy, like he was ill. Maybe on drugs.
“You killed my ex-husband! For what?” Sylvie pulled the rock from her bag. “This?”
I sent up a prayer of thanks that Nick hadn’t shot her when she reached for it. Apparently, Lilac had similar feelings, because she clasped her hands together and looked heavenward.
Just as I was certain Sylvie was going to chuck the rock at his head and still end up shot, a sharp thud reverberated through the small shop.
Bobby’s wailing stopped, and everyone flinched—but not Nick. If he had, with that gun in his twitchy hands—
Another thud, this one even louder, had us ducking—but not Nick.
After the third thud, I traced the sound to its original: a construct pounding on the glass door.
He was larger than the first construct and highly motivated to get inside. So motivated that, with his supernaturally enhanced strength, he should have shattered the glass door.
The construct’s bulk and awkwardness would have been harder to sneak past Phoebe, certainly, but I was surprised Nick didn’t simply kill Phoebe and her beau, leaving the place empty. Why hadn’t we been confronted with Nick, his construct, and two more victims?
But then the creature’s eyes glowed a dim purple color. Glowing eyes . . . I looked at Nick and saw the sweat, pallor, and shakiness for what it was. Exhaustion. He was directly controlling the construct. That wasn’t how they worked; they weren’t puppets. Which was why Nick was killing himself with the effort.
“Why can’t it get in?” Nick glared at me, and for the first time, the gun was nowhere near Sylvie. “What did you do, reaper?”
Lock. Lock-lock. A manic, high-pitched giggle followed.
“Soul collector,” I said. “No scythes required.” It was an automatic response to the age-old slur, not because I wanted to get shot, but because my brain was busy trying to figure out why that construct couldn’t get in. Hector and Tamara weren’t likely to be the cause. They’d have joined us by now if they hadn’t found their own trouble.
“Soul collector, reaper, death, why can’t it get in?” Nick was desperate. Sweat was streaming off him.
But why? Why was he so frantic? He was the man with the gun.
In the background, Bobby kept chirping, Lock.
Finally, that piece clicked into place. Lock, lock and key. The key in Lilac’s pocket. We were locked in this store, safe from outside harm. That had to be what was keeping the construct out. And I trusted Hector’s cursed objects. That construct wasn’t getting in.
But why was Nick literally killing himself to get the creature inside?
And I looked at him. Not in a panic, not while trying to talk him down or draw his attention away from Sylvie. I just looked. His eyes were wild, his hair soaked, his skin waxen—and his finger was on the trigger guard.
“Nick.” He didn’t hear me, so I repeated his name twice.
Finally, he looked at me. His eyes weren’t wild, but tired and confused. “Why can’t it get in?”
“A demon’s cursed object is protecting the shop. No one, nothing, is getting inside.” I saw Lilac pat her pocket and then practically collapse with relief.
Sylvie, on the other hand, was eyeing the gun, then Nick, then the gun. I wasn’t convinced she’d keep her cool. She looked mad enough to grab the gun from Nick, and that might be just enough push for him to actually get the gumption to shoot her.
Nick’s legs wobbled, and he against the edge of Lilac’s desk. The tip of the gun was pointing away from us, toward the ceiling, wavering. I had a nasty feeling. A choking, breath-stealing feeling.
“Nick.” I tried to sound calm. I tried.
The tip of the gun rested against his head, the muzzle still pointed at the ceiling.
