Chapter 6

I planted my hands on my hips. "When I asked for a discreet location, this wasn't what I had in mind."

Beside me, Justin pushed the brim of his service cap up to peer at the two-story building across the street, its brick fa?ade featuring lovely arched windows and old-world charm. A sign hanging by the wooden door read, "Police Museum," and below that, a temporary sign warned, "Closed for Renovations."

"Who'd expect mythic activity in a police museum?" he asked. "No one. Plus, the renovation won't be starting anytime soon. The whole roof needs replacing and they're having trouble getting funding for it."

"But…" I eyed his dark blue uniform, then waved at the one-way road between us and the museum, a steady stream of traffic rushing past. "You can just walk right in. How are the rest of us supposed to get in and out of there without the whole street noticing?"

"The back door. Come on, I'll show you."

He led me to the nearby intersection, where we waited at the crosswalk for the traffic light to change, like proper law-abiding citizens. Crossing the street, we entered a narrow alley lined with dumpsters. Three buildings down, the back of the museum was almost unrecognizable, the pretty tan bricks covered by gray paint—to hide the graffiti, I assumed.

A large rectangular opening in the back of the building acted as a covered garage, and instead of an overhead door, it was blocked off with a chain-link fence. The only thing inside the dim space was another dumpster.

"Did you bring the stuff?" he muttered, glancing up and down the alley to ensure we were alone.

"Yep." I dug into my purse. "But bolt cutters didn't fit in my bag, so I borrowed the magic equivalent."

Retrieving what looked like a metal dog tag, I stuck its key-like end into the padlock on the gate and whispered, "Ori clausum aperio."

Pale pink light shimmered over the artifact, and the padlock popped open. I slid it off, then fished a suitably worn-looking replacement out of my bag. Leaving it hooked on the fence, I pulled the gate open and walked in. Justin followed me.

The museum was a surprisingly cramped maze of halls and offices that had been converted into display rooms, but that wasn't what interested us. The basement was the place to be if you wanted to build an oversized summoning circle in secret.

The lower level featured a large, open concrete room interrupted by a few pillars, with all the museum's storage confined to the shelves along the back wall. The windows had been bricked over decades ago—this wasn't a great neighborhood—meaning the basement was completely private. Pending a thorough sweeping of the dusty floor, there was more than enough room for a summoning circle or two.

A spark of excitement joined the nervous foreboding that had taken up residence in my stomach. This was it. This was the place where we'd save Ezra.

"Will it work?" Justin asked, examining me in the glow from his phone's flashlight.

"I think so. If we dress like construction workers or something, nobody will think twice if they see us going in and out." I grinned. "Thanks, Justin."

"Sure. But if you get caught, don't mention me."

"Wouldn't dream of it. But are you sure you're okay with this? You shouldn't put your job at risk."

"What's my job compared to someone's life?"

"You don't even know Ezra."

He squeezed my shoulder. "But you do."

I smiled unsteadily, and we both hurriedly turned away from each other. As usual, us Dawson kids were no good with mushy feels.

We snooped around for a few more minutes, then started back up the stairs. As Justin poked his head into the shadowy garage area to check for witnesses, I glanced around the history displays. A police museum. I couldn't think of many locations more unlikely for an illegal demon summoning.

I used my borrowed padlock to secure the gate over the open garage, then Justin and I waltzed casually out of the alley and joined the lunch-hour bustle that had consumed the main street. Trying not to look too shifty walking next to a cop in uniform, I accompanied him to a coffee shop two blocks away where we bought a couple big chicken wraps to go. I'd monopolized his lunch break, so I couldn't send him back to work hungry.

Unwrapping our food, we walked and ate at the same time, heading toward his squad car, which he'd parked five blocks from the museum. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, shoulders hunched against the chill wind, and traffic whizzed by in a steady flow. We halted at an intersection.

Justin swallowed a mouthful. "Tori, I was wondering…"

Tearing off a bite of my wrap, I leaned closer to hear him as half a dozen people gathered around us, waiting for the light to change. "Mm?"

"After you've helped Ezra and taken care of that cult…" He shifted his weight. "I was thinking… maybe I could swing by while you're at work one evening and get a drink?"

"Really? You want to?"

He nodded. "And, uh, if Aaron is around, that'd be cool."

My astonished gawking flashed into a beaming smile. I'd known Aaron could charm my brother given half a chance.

"Of course!" I threw my arm around him and squeezed, a cherry tomato spilling out of the wrap in my other hand. "I can't wait for you to meet everyone!"

The small crowd around us began to move, and I realized the light had changed. Still grinning, I stepped off the sidewalk. People streamed past us, marching toward the curb we'd just left.

"I am allowed to come into your guild, right?" Justin asked, uncertainty creeping into his tone. "That's not breaking the rules?"

"Rules, shmules." I dodged a power-walking businessman. "You're my brother!"

"That wasn't actually an answer, Tori."

"Yeah, well—"

A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.

As I was yanked off balance, adrenaline fired through my veins and I flung my head back. My skull met something equally hard and pain burst on impact. Dropping my wrap, I whipped my elbow out, hitting a soft torso and eliciting a grunt from my assailant. Then I was spinning, my arm cocked and hand clenched into a fist.

My gaze landed on the face of my attacker—the stocky blond cultist whose knee I'd shattered in the cemetery two days ago. His teeth-baring grin registered in my brain an instant before I saw the object in his hand.

The shiny length of steel.

Pointed at me. At my chest. Aimed for my heart.

My own momentum carried me straight toward it, and I had no time. No time at all. The mere second I needed to change my trajectory didn't exist.

The blade plunged into my chest.

I felt it. Felt the razor edges parting my skin, my muscles, my organs. Felt pressure and pain where I'd never felt anything before, in parts of my body that should never be touched by a foreign object.

My arm hovered in the air, halfway through the strike I hadn't completed. Motionless, I looked down at his hand curled around the dagger's hilt.

His fingers tightened, then he pulled the knife away. The blade slid out of my leather jacket, coated in shining red blood. Droplets spilled off the steel, falling in slow motion, sparkling as they floated down toward the pavement.

He drew the dagger back—and time snapped back to normal as he swung it toward me a second time.

Bang!

The sound exploded in my ears, and the cultist keeled over, shock splashed over his face and a bloody hole in his forehead.

People were screaming. Shouting.

"Tori!"

People were running. Fleeing.

"Call an ambulance!"

The ground was hard against my back. Was I lying down? When had I lain down?

"Prop up her feet! You, put pressure on the wound—hurry up! Tori, stay with me."

My vision was blurring. A face above me wavered in and out of focus, white as a ghost, hazel eyes just like mine shining with tears.

"Where's the goddamn ambulance?"

Hands were touching me, prodding me, pushing on my chest. A sound, growing louder. Sirens. Wailing, crying. I'd never realized how sad the sound of sirens was.

"Tori, stay with me."

"Tori."

"Tori!"