Still lying on my stomach, I wait for the sound of bullets to end downstairs. When they do, I make a T with my hands and call, “Time out.”
Paige’s voice echoes from downstairs. “Darcy?”
“I’m alive!” I shout as I stand and brush myself off. “Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“Run!”
I can hear her swearing quietly and conferring with David.
Gunfire erupts again from downstairs. This time, it sounds like we’re returning fire. Then there is more return gunfire from outside. Meanwhile, I stand here facing a witch, and I wish I were back downstairs.
Melchora removes a handful of feathers from her cape. “You are difficult to kill, demon. I think, this time, I will not fail.” She cocks her arm, ready to launch the projectile.
I slap myself hard. Melchora hesitates. She’s momentarily confused.
I do it again. My open palm swings as hard as it can against my cheek. Come on, you little shit. You want to be free, Dudley, so come out and play.
Again and again, I slap myself, trying to get my adrenaline pumping. Trying to get my pulse up. Trying to release the rage and anger inside me. Melchora watches, confused and delighted.
Right hand. Left hand. I think about all the things that piss me off. Bennet’s death. My family banishing me. Lupe. Strike after strike leaves my face feeling hot and sore. My hearts beats harder, faster.
“Enough!” She flings the feathers at me. Their needle-sharp shafts aim directly for my heart.
“No!” I shout.
Just like at Fiona’s home, a gust of wind blasts from my body. It funnels down the hall and disrupts the trajectory of the feathers, casting them aside. Their steely points impale themselves on the walls and floors around me. The air flows from my body and knocks Melchora on her back.
Wind still blowing in her face, she scrambles to look at me. She screams. The sound of her screams and the blowing wind begin to muffle. I know this moment—the prelude to Dudley’s arrival. I must keep him close and also at bay—that fine line between control and chaos. I close my eyes.
My memory shifts into overdrive, and I recall the words Fiona said when she tested me. Bhí an saol ina chalm.
I say them over in my mind. Bhí an saol ina chalm.
The noise returns and is no longer muted. I open my eyes. The wind continues to howl. “Bhí an saol ina chalm!” I shout.
I’m still in control. I’m doing this. I march toward Melchora. The air intensifies as I get closer. It all concentrates on her.
She scrambles to her feet and plants them firmly on the floor to resist my tempest. With a sneer in my direction, she vaults herself into the air and wraps her feathered cloak around her body. Midair, her body warps into a spiral. The hem of her cape expands, except it’s no longer a cape—it’s wings. In mere seconds, she transforms into an owl. Using the gust of air, she catches the wind and explodes out of the window behind her. Glass rains down as she disappears through the frame.
I sprint for the window. The storm dissipates as I no longer focus on it. Through the broken glass, there is no sign of Melchora, only the house next door.
My body is warm, but my heart is calm. I’m still in control, and I’m still me—but I’m not sure for how long.
“Darcy!” shouts a voice behind me.
David stands there, gun in hand. Paige is behind him, leaning against the wall, where a dozen feathers are impaled. She inspects the feathers.
There’s no time to debate. Using all my strength, I take three running steps and launch myself through the open window. Without even an ounce of grace, I land on my shoulder. My body crashes on the porch roof of the house next door.
I hear shouting in Spanish and turn to see Hugo aiming an assault rifle at me. Bullets whiz in my direction, peppering the shingles around me. Next to me is a second-story window, and I dive through it, broken glass scraping and cutting my skin. I brush off the bits embedded in me. Blood seeps from the wounds.
An explosion rocks the walls around me. Through the window, I can see a fireball rising into the air, following by thick black smoke. It’s a war zone out there.
I’m in an empty bedroom. There’s an open door to an empty bathroom and a closed door that presumably leads out of the room. I twist the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Something’s blocking it from the other side.
My body is cooling, so I know I’m losing Dudley. I slap myself a few more times, but it’s not working. I’m running out of thoughts that will piss me off, as I’m focused on not getting shot. It’s going to take some next-level agitation to bring him out.
I grab a piece of the broken window, take a deep breath, and slice it along my palm. Blood flows easily from the cut, and I clench my fist repeatedly. Each time I squeeze, the pain intensifies.
My temperature rises. My pulse quickens. It’s flight-or-fight time. I use my strength to break through the door… which is a really stupid thing to do.
My momentum carries me through the door and across a narrow hall. A weak wooden handrail is the only thing that could stop me from plummeting down to the first floor. It doesn’t. So I do.
My body lands with a thud on the ground floor. Dust and debris erupt around me, momentarily clouding my vision. The dust settles, and I am horrified.
There are crosses everywhere. Wood. Iron. Brass. Silver. With Jesus. Without. Crucifixes of every shape, size, and color surround me like a forest of toxic trees.
Nausea hits me like a truck. Unable to control myself, I gag and cough. The energy of the symbols radiates through me and instantly weakens
