“You’ll need to recalculate your numbers,” said a voice behind us, and we all looked back.
They emerged through the trees like spirits—a dozen Paranormals with weapons in hand. There was no gold armor this time. Instead, they wore what looked like worn and discarded human clothes.
Half of them were angels—tall and uniformly beautiful men and women with skin in a rainbow of shades, from ghostly pale to gleaming brown-black. Their eyes gleamed gold, just like the tips of their wings, which disappeared as they silently touched the earth.
The rest of them were an assortment of creatures. They were a small and self-made army, clothed like humans, but very definitely Paranormals. And they stood behind Malachi like his dedicated troops. Burke had gotten word to them, thank God.
Rutledge took in the sight, and his eyes gleamed. “This isn’t your fight.”
Malachi stepped forward, stood beside Liam. “Since you’d wreak hell upon us all, of course it is.”
Malachi’s voice dropped. “Disable and disarm the operatives,” he said quietly to his battalion.
He raised his bow, which gleamed gold in the falling darkness.
I was struck blind by memory, of a glint of light off the armor, the weapon, of the Valkyrie who’d come to kill me. Of the red-brown stains across her mouth and lips, and the hunger in her eyes. For death, for blood. I’d never been afraid like that—I’d never experienced fear that had slunk through my muscles and bones like freezing water, leaving me staring at her, my heart racing, pounding in my ears.
I’d had nightmares as a child that a stranger stood at the end of my bed. I’d seen him, but couldn’t scream. I was terrified, but had no voice. I felt just as defenseless when she stared me down.
Sound rushed back like a wave. “Claire. Claire.”
I looked down, found Liam’s hand on my arm, the gripping fingers white with effort. He and Phaedra had moved behind the shed again.
I looked back. The Paras were rushing forward on one side of the wall of men, weapons raised for battle. They’d funneled together on the left, forcing the operatives to regroup, and leaving the right side of the yard open for us. If we could get around the house, we might have a chance to get out alive.
ComTac began firing. Gunshots sang through the air, zipping past the angels and zinging off their weapons. They launched their own onslaught of arrows.
“Let’s move,” Liam said, and pulled me toward the other side of the house, the Dupres behind us.
My adrenaline surged, but my body wanted nothing more than to hunker down until the fighting was over. But I wasn’t seventeen anymore, I reminded myself. I was an adult, with my own power.
We ran for the house, edged to the side of it, and neared the front yard. But Liam stopped short, held up a closed fist to make us stop, too, as he evaluated our options.
He looked back at me. “I’m going to have to draw them off. Wait until I’ve gotten them away from the truck, then run to the vehicle. Get them to New Orleans. And no heroics.”
“I’m not going to just leave you.”
His expression was fierce. “Yes, you are. Do what needs to be done, Claire.”
And then he was gone. He ran past the truck, and two ComTac operatives who’d been assigned to watch gave chase.
Damn. I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t want to waste his bravery. And I had to get the Dupres to safety. I had to keep the Veil closed.
I looked back at Tadji, handed her the keys, looked at her mother and aunt. “On three, we run to the truck.” The fighting was loud, and I had to shout for my voice to be heard over gunshots and the clang of weapons. “Tadji drives. Phaedra and Zana in the front. I’ll get into the truck bed. Okay?”
That, I hoped, would let me use whatever power I might be able to gather if someone chased us. Could I move a helicopter? Didn’t know. But I might need to try. And it seemed safer to do that from the back of the truck than from the front.
“I don’t want any of this,” Tadji said. “I don’t want any of this.”
I looked back. Tadji’s eyes and pupils were wide. She was getting shocky. I had to keep her calm.
I snapped my fingers until she focused on me. “Tadji, I know you’re freaked out, but right now we have to move. Okay?”
She swallowed thickly, nodded.
“On three,” I said again. “One . . . two . . .” I made like a sprinter, crouched and ready to run—but then Zana Dupre screamed.
I turned back, found a black-clad Containment operative, face smeared with camouflage, holding her arm, a bowie knife in hand.
“You’ve got the wrong one,” I said. “I’m the Sensitive.”
He looked at me, was just unsure enough to hesitate. Zana kicked him in the shin, and the surprise put him off balance. He stumbled a few feet away but got his balance again and lunged at me, leading with the knife. I dodged, then kicked up at his elbow to get him to drop the weapon.