Chapter 20
I drop to the floor, arms over my head. A shell hit, too close—I need to find a hole, or a trench, any cover that might shield me from the barrage.
But there’s only wood under me, despite the ringing in my ears, the heat and shrapnel. No whistle of more incoming shells—or of the first one, I now realize.
Because this is New York, not France. And the pharmacy is on fire.
I raise my head, trying to stay beneath the smoke. Adrian huddles on the floor beside me, in the same defensive posture I’d assumed. I grab his sleeve. “Adrian! We have to get out!”
He uncurls, eyes wide in the light of growing flames. Exchanging a look, we both begin to belly-crawl toward the front of the store.
Unfortunately, that’s where the fire is. But there’s no other way out.
Black smoke billows, and smaller explosions sound—bottles of alcohol or other flammable liquids. Shards of glass gouge my hands, and smoke and fumes sting my eyes and throat.
It’s hard to make anything out though the choking smoke.
I crawl over a dead body, refusing to look too closely at what remains of it.
The cabinets near the entrance have been blown to bits, and shattered wood, fragments of glass bottles, singed piles of herbs, and pieces of what might have been a toy train litter the floor.
The fire fills the space between us and the door. The ceiling above is an ocean of flame. Smoke scratches at my lungs, and heat sears my skin. We’re trapped; we’re not going to make it…
Out—I need the fire to go out.
I reach blindly into that deep space within me, the wellspring from which the cold poured forth when we were being pursued in the car. Something rises from the depths, emerging from a darkness in my mind that I can’t penetrate.
“Go out!” I shout through my raw throat, and a tide of freezing shadow spills over me, through me.
The flames directly ahead of me flatten, flicker—then extinguish, like a candle flame snuffed between two fingers.
A wave of weakness fills me, as though I’ve done hard physical labor. Adrian grabs my arm and pulls. “Hurry!”
We crawl along the path I somehow made. As we near the door, bystanders grab us, hauling us toward the fresh air outside. The alarm from the nearest firebox rings out, and people are trying to scoop rainwater out of puddles to put out the blaze.
As we’re pulled to our feet by helping hands, there’s a loud whoosh behind us. The path I cleared collapses all at once, fire filling it again, the flames more greedy than ever. We barely made it out in time.
Adrian bends over coughing. I clap him on the back until he regains his breath, then we both stumble away from the crowd. “Are you all right?” I ask frantically.
“You did that,” he says, almost accusingly. “Put the fire out.”
It seems mad, but… “Yes. I did. And no, I don’t know how. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Blood and soot have stained his coat, and he clutches his side. “Damn it. I fell on the ribs that got bruised earlier, and they aren’t happy about it. Are you injured?”
“My throat and eyes hurt, but nothing more.” I turn back to the pharmacy. Flames roar out the shattered windows, and the crowd has backed well away. Alarm bells ring, the fire department on its way to fight the blaze. “Davis and Gabrielli…”
“It would take a miracle for them to get out alive.” Adrian grips my wrist, drawing my attention from the burning pharmacy. “We need to get out of here. That bomb was meant for us.”
My breath catches, and I want to deny it. People are hurt, dead—innocent civilians who were just shopping at a pharmacy. If they’ve been killed because of me…
When I don’t say anything, his fingers tighten, as if he worries I might pull free. “Someone tried to shoot you in Widdershins, then kill both of us on the road. Despite what I said in front of Davis, I wasn’t at all sure it was Gabrielli, and I’d say the bomb proves it wasn’t him.”
“But how did they find us?” I ask helplessly. “We lost them, whoever they are, outside of Widdershins.”
“They must have guessed you’d come back to New York and kept watch on your apartment.” He coughs again, then spits into the gutter. “We need to go to ground. Somewhere no one would know about.” He thinks a moment, then says, “You don’t have any links to Harlem, do you?”
“No.”
“My sister runs a speakeasy and has some tough guys on her payroll. They’ll keep a sharp eye out for anyone suspicious if we ask for her help, and I can see if she’s ever heard of either Myers or Gabrielli.”
“Ordinarily I’m not one for crowds, but I think I’d prefer to be somewhere with lookouts,” I confess. “Assuming we aren’t putting your sister in danger with our presence.”
“Considering some of the people she rubs elbows with, she ought to be used to it.” The corners of his mouth turn down unhappily. “Let’s get away from here and find a taxi.”