“All right, let’s do it,” Bishop says.
I reach into the backpack and pull out the dagger we packed, slipping it into the sheath on my belt. And then I pull out a knife and slip it into my boot. I feel better already.
When I’m done arming myself, I kick the bag aside. I won’t be needing it anymore.
“Ready?” he says.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Bishop gives me a quick last-minute kiss on the lips. And then we jump off the edge of the roof.
My stomach does a somersault as the cracked pavement nears, faster by the second. But I call the heat of my magic and push it down hard, until I’m floating on the wind.
We fly fast and low to the ground, slipping between buildings like ghosts in the night. We make a turn between two buildings, and the sounds of laughter and club music get so loud it’s like we’re right in the middle of a party. A man stumbles through the street, singing an off-key tune. Panic seizes my chest, but Bishop tows me quickly through a narrow alley before the man can spot us.
The cool wind dries the sweat on my temple, my pulse pounding in time with the music that follows us through the dark streets.
We keep flying long after the noises fade away, the bitter wind nipping at our skin. After a while the landscape beneath us begins to change from city to residential. If we’re going to steal a car, we need to do it now, before it’s nothing but barren highway.
I tug Bishop’s T-shirt, and we touch down in front of a small neighborhood strip mall, strangely intact despite it being in Los Demonios. It should be reassuring, but instead it makes a cold shiver creep down my spine.
One of the shops is called Nails! Nails! Nails!, and a sign plastered across the big front window claims they do the best acrylics in Los Angeles County. Next to it is a restaurant that announces they serve the cheapest Thai food in the area, which I’m not sure is such a great thing, and next to that is a Buck-O-Rama. A half-dozen cars are parked in the small lot out front.
Bishop strides up to a Toyota hatchback—sadly, the most reliable-looking vehicle in the lot. He waves his hand at the lock. It pops open with a click, and he lets himself inside, falling into the driver’s seat. “No keys,” he mutters. “Not a problem.” He climbs back out and pops the hood, his head disappearing into the engine block.
I hug myself against the biting-cold wind, casting nervous glances over my shoulder. “Can’t you just use magic on it?” I whisper.
“Relax,” he answers. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
A second later, the engine rumbles to life. Relief floods through me. Bishop lowers the hood, a triumphant smile on his lips.
“Hate to say I told you so,” he says.
I gasp.
Goth Woman—Zeke—stands behind Bishop, her Mohawk sticking straight into the air in messy spikes.
“Nice work,” she says.
“Couldn’t have done better myself.”
I whirl around at the man’s voice. Eminem grins at me from the parking lot, a dozen other rebels scattered behind him.
Bishop leaps over to stand in front of me. He holds his hands out in a defensive pose as I reach into my belt and unsheathe the dagger. Its heavy metal shakes in my hand as Bishop and I spin back to back, trying to keep our eyes on our enemies. But if they’re scared of us, they don’t show it. I spot Sporty Spice at the back, rubbing her palms together like she’s been waiting for this moment for ages. Bob Marley puffs his chest out, while Hawaiian Shirt picks his teeth with a toothpick, a scary gleam in his eye.
“Care to explain what you’re doing in our territory?” Zeke asks. She takes a casual step closer, her boot heels clacking against the pavement. Up close, her dark eye makeup looks like it was smeared on with a spatula. I’d love to take a baby wipe to her face, but it’s probably not the best time.
“You don’t want to get any closer,” Bishop says in a cool, confident tone.
“Is that right?” she asks, smirking. “Says who?”
“Bishop. Nice to meet you,” he answers breezily. Zeke’s people instinctively move in around us at his cocky tone.
I grip the knife tighter, sweat slicking my palms, but Zeke holds up a hand, and the rebels stop their advance. My pulse races as her eyes narrow on my face.
“You’re the human we sold to the Chief a few weeks ago,” she says.
“Except I’m not a human,” I spit. “I’m a witch.”
Surprise flashes across her face, a low buzz of whispers rising up from the crowd around us. She looks at Bishop.
“Warlock,” he says. He gives her a little wave, a smug smile on his face.
“Might want to check your facts next time,” I add.
“She’s a spy!” someone yells. The rebels charge forward, but with another raise of her hand, Zeke stops them.
The moon sits fat and heavy in the sky. The spell could be happening this minute. I fight a wave of panic. Every wasted second means Paige could be dead.
“I’m going to ask you this again,” Zeke says. “I want an honest answer. If you lie to me you’ll get no mercy from my people. What are you doing in my territory?”
Bishop looks back at me, a question in his eyes: What do we do?
“Be very careful,” Zeke warns.
I close my eyes. We’ve come this far to save Paige, gone through so much, and it could all end now. I press my lips together so I don’t cry out in frustration.
Unless…
An idea rapidly forms in my mind. From what I’ve learned from my forays into Los Demonios, the rebels hate the Chief almost as much I do. If I can somehow convince them to ally with us, we’d massively increase our chances of stopping the ceremony. Plus they wouldn’t kill us—I hope. (Note to self: don’t let it slip that the Chief’s my dad.)
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense.
“Time’s running out,” Zeke singsongs.
I take a measured breath and lock eyes with her. “We came from Los Angeles to stop the Chief from killing my best friend.”