Free Charmed by Michelle Krys Page A

takes a few labored steps with my dead weight in tow before swinging me easily over his shoulder so that I’mupside down. Blood rushes to my head, my face mashed into his dirty canvas jacket.
    My stomach warms with the promise of magic. I call it down to my fingertips only to come to the realization that moving objects and flying aren’t going to help me out of this particular situation. I try to summon the wind power I used on Jezebel in my room, but no matter how hard I concentrate, my body doesn’t react.
    Panic takes over, and I give up on magic, straining instead to grab on to the banister as he carries me up the stairs. All I get for my effort is some serious palm burn. When we reach the top of the stairs, I try to latch on to the doorframe, but my fingers can’t catch purchase. The lobby carpet flashes beneath me, and then we burst into the pale outside light.
    “Help! Somebody help me!” I scream.
    “Quiet,” he orders, a hint of a Spanish accent coming through.
    “Screw you!” I shout back.
    “Have it your way.”
    I open my mouth to scream again, but this time, no sound comes out. I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream until my face is red and hot and I can’t scream anymore. But the only sound is the distant crackle of the fires. Icy fear shoots down my spine.
    I beat and pound against his back even though I know it’s a waste of effort, until he unceremoniously drops me into the back of a van. The wind is knocked out of me when Iland on my injured arm, my mouth yawning open in a silent scream.
    “You’re hurt,” he says.
    He reaches for me, but I scuttle back on the dirty carpet, cradling my arm against my body.
    Someone kicks me.
    “Watch it!”
    I gasp. The girl from the closet cowers next to a sweaty blond guy who looks no more than fifteen. They’ve both got their hands tied behind their back.
    My captor grabs the fleshy part of my good arm and pulls me out of the van. I get my first good look at him in the dim light of dusk.
    He’s got close-cropped dark hair, blue eyes, and straight, white teeth that stand out against his darkly tanned skin. He’s average height, but beneath his jacket, his shoulders are broad with muscle. He could be eighteen or twenty-eight. I don’t know.
    He shrugs out of his jacket, and in one swift motion reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a stomach absolutely ripped with muscle. A trail of hair leads from his belly button to the boxer briefs that peek out over his pants.
    My God.
    It takes me a half second to snap out of it and realize it’s not such a great thing when an angry prison inmate takes off his shirt in front of you.
    I frantically search for an escape route, only to feel fabric wrap around my injured arm. He’s…binding the shirt over my wound.
    I—I don’t get it.
    I look up at him for an answer.
    “I don’t want you bleeding all over my van,” he says gruffly.
    “Yeah, right, Cruz.” I glance over to see a guy in a trucker hat coming around the corner with a cocky strut.
    “You just wanted to show off for the chick.” This comes from a dark-skinned guy in a blood-splattered tank top who jogs up the alley.
    “Laugh it up,
pendejos
,” Cruz answers, without so much as a glance over his shoulder. “I bagged three. That’s a record. How many did you get?”
    Silence.
    “Exactly,” he says. He pushes me back into the van, then slides the door closed. A moment later, he’s climbing into the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbles. Latin club music fills the van.
    The guy in the hat pokes his head inside the open passenger window.
    “Need some help with your catches?” He glances back at me, his eyes roving over my body. I become acutely aware of my layered tank tops and jean cutoffs that show a lot more tanned skin than is strictly necessary in a jail setting.
    “I think I can handle a few humans,” Cruz answers.
    Humans? If Los Demonios is a prison for the paranormal, then