Free No Rest for the Witches by Karina Cooper Page B

shrieking all the way up her shoulder.
    â€œIt’s a trap!” Silas’s voice.
    No shit.
    Naomi twisted, lashed out a booted foot, and collided with something softer. A grunt beside her transitioned into static as a fist slammed against the side of her head. “Bitch,” a man hissed.
    As she staggered, skull ringing, the man threw her into the open space. Her knees grated against the ground, shoulder wrenching as she sprawled face-first. Dust wafted into her nose, her eyes, and she reared back to dig her palms into her sockets, cursing.
    â€œStay down,” Silas ordered, his voice strained. The echoes threw it back at her from every direction.
    But the intensity in those two words kept her knees on the floor. Her heart slammed in her chest as she blinked furiously through grit and the aching pain behind her eyes. Slowly, blearily, the world came together.
    A figure in synth-leather pants perched on the corner of a shipping crate. His shirt wasn’t anything more than a few straps, the kind of accessory Naomi saw a lot of in the mid-low clubs she used to frequent. He was lean, nearly as wiry as she was, and a shock of white-blond hair drifted into his near-black eyes. He smiled lazily, an expression that did nothing to warm the glacial chill rippling down Naomi’s spine.
    Barefoot, gnarled toes planted against the crate beneath him, he looked as out of synch with the setting as the woman held in his loose embrace.
    Lillian Clarke had always seemed untouchable to Naomi. Her hair was kept summer-gold and swept into an elegant chignon, and her aristocratic features told a tale as blue-blooded as Naomi’s own—the Clarkes had been in the city since before the quake, and were one of the few families who’d managed to regain their former glory. Even the lines, new lines of grief and exhaustion and the parchment creases of age, couldn’t detract from the woman’s unmistakably chic demeanor.
    But her black tailored suit was dusty and rumpled, and tendrils of hair had escaped to untidily frame her face. Her hazel eyes met Naomi’s, wide with fear; flaring in recognition, in—Naomi’s gut twisted—wild hope.
    The kid, maybe no older than twenty, toyed at Lillian’s lapel with the point of a knife. His arm crossed her body, draped over her shoulder in a casual display of possession, and every cell in Naomi’s body surged to vicious, violent fury.
    The last time a Clarke woman had been held hostage, she was murdered. It couldn’t happen again.
    It wouldn’t. Not to Phin.
    Not . . . not to Naomi. Not again .
    She surged to her feet, managed only a step before the kid’s smile died. “Stay down.”
    As if that was all the order they needed, a boot slammed into her back. She toppled, snarling, back to her hands and knees.
    The instant the foot lifted, she straightened, jerking her hair out of her face. “Who the fuck are you?”
    The kid’s eyes brightened, glittering black. Lillian’s jaw tightened as his arm pulled her closer against his chest. “Beautiful,” he breathed.
    Across the bare circle, a man at each arm, Silas tried to take a step and grunted as one kicked out his knee. He fell into a kneel, cursing savagely.
    The kid raised his free hand, palm down. Pain flared low on her abdomen, a lick of fire that stole her breath. It’d been months since the seal of St. Andrew had activated; that long since a witch tried to do anything to her. The pain was something a missionary learned to live with—to appreciate—but after too long dormant, it shrieked through her nerves. Sizzled unbearably.
    Naomi gritted her teeth.
    Purple light licked out from under his palm. With his eyes bright and wide, he cocked his head, watching her. “Do it,” he told her.
    â€œStop, please,” Lillian whispered.
    Naomi flattened one hand against her jeans, just over the tattoo, and lurched to her feet.
    The kid