“I don’t recall you staying put long enough to use one!”
“If I do this time, will you listen?”
“If you do?” She barked out a laugh. “As if you have a choice!”
“Wrong answer,” I said, and shifted.
Chapter Twenty
A moment later, I was in the same crouch, but no longer in the same place. For a second, I stayed put, disoriented from a shift I wasn’t supposed to be able to make, and from the view. Which looked like I’d just stepped into the heavens.
The waterfall off the wagon had blocked much of the outlook from inside, but there was no such problem here. I could see the vast valley spread out below, the moon riding a wall of purple-black storm clouds above, and the huge arcs of lightning flashing between the two, because the storm still raged beyond the bubble of my spell. And us caught in the middle, rain beating violently against the small time stoppage as if it knew we shouldn’t be here, as if it resented the tiny well of peace in the midst of its fury.
For a split second, despite everything, I just stared.
Like the girl on my left was doing. Her long, dark hair was undisturbed by the gale-force winds that couldn’t touch her, yet her face was shock-pale, her blue eyes staring outward with the same awe that was probably in mine. Because she was young, so very, very young, that this just might be her first time at the rodeo.
It wouldn’t be her last.
Agnes, I thought, my stomach clenching as I looked from her to Gertie, who was bent over, her ample rear in the air as she reached down into the hole on my opposite side.
Leaving me stuck between a Pythia and her heir, with no way to freeze them both.
Especially not when some movement of mine caught Agnes’ attention, and she looked down—
And was tackled by a frantic blonde, coming up from the roof in a fluid motion entirely unlike my usual awkwardness, because desperation does wonders for hand-eye coordination. Or hand-knee, because I got a leg around one of Agnes’, at the same time that my left hand grabbed her left arm and my right arm went around her throat, leaving her plastered against the front of me as she cried out, as Gertie spun, as Rosier screamed, because he was somehow dangling from the hand of a snarling Pythia.
And then everything froze, like another time stoppage, only it wasn’t. The lightning still flashed; the girl in front of me still breathed in quick, shallow motions. Gertie’s sharp brown eyes still glistened as she coldly assessed the new situation. And Rosier continued to thrash around and scream bloody murder.
Nobody had ever accused him of reckless bravery, I thought, wondering what came next. Because the idea of dueling Gertie was not . . . attractive. But we couldn’t stay like this forever. My spell would unravel soon, and the only thing I liked less than the thought of dueling an experienced Pythia was dueling her while plunging through the air.
But I didn’t have to worry about it, because Gertie decided things for me, stretching out her arm, and thrusting Rosier’s small body over the abyss.
“I. Will. Drop. It,” she told me, voice low and venomous.
“My spell will catch him,” I replied, trying to keep my own voice steady, even while wondering if it would. And if I could shove Agnes at her and freeze them both before Gertie did something to Rosier or to me. Or before Agnes did. Or before I fell off the roof, because the damn thing was slippery as ice.
But my power didn’t seem to have an opinion this time, maybe because it didn’t work so well on fellow Pythias. Or maybe I was just having trouble concentrating. Which wasn’t helped when Gertie made a sudden, savage gesture and half my spell collapsed.
The wagon tilted sharply toward me, one side abruptly reentering real time. And I started to fall, my feet slipping dangerously on the wet roof, with no hope of traction. Until my back hit a wheel and I managed to grab on. And to tighten my grip on Agnes’ throat, because she was struggling now, and struggling hard. “Cut it out!”
“Let her go!” Gertie thundered.
“It’s not my fault she’s here!” I yelled as a wash of rain and wind slapped me in the face, and the wheel turned perilously behind me. “This is between you and me—”
“Let her go or I drop it! Now!”
“Let her go!” Rosier screeched, now dangling over open, active air. “Let her go!”
“There’s a net!” I pointed out, furiously. “The witches—”
“Hate demons, and are savage in this era, girl!” Gertie said, looking pretty damn savage herself, even with purple-tinged curls whipping around her face. “And the wind down there would likely blow him off course in any case! Now let my acolyte go if you want to live!”
“Give me my partner, and we’ll trade!”
“You’re in no position to make demands!”
“Neither are you!”
Although I could be wrong about that, I thought, when a tunnel of quick time boiled through the remains of my spell, hitting me with a burst of wind as strong as a fist. I staggered back, ten minutes or more of storm all slamming into me at once, although that might not have been so bad: I had a damn death grip on that wheel. At least, I did until Agnes took that moment to slam her foot down on mine, to wrench away, to lunge for her mistress—
And to fall, because slanted, rain-slick boards are not forgiving.
I had a split second to see Gertie drop Rosier, reaching desperately for her heir; to see him plummet over the side, still screaming; to see Agnes sliding backward, unable to find purchase—
And then we were both falling, the force of her impact sending us over the side and into thin air.
I grabbed her, wrapped my arms around her, and tried to concentrate enough to shift. But I didn’t get the chance. Because what looked like a mini cyclone blew up out of nowhere, right below us, the maw swallowing the world in darkness. And then swallowing us, the swirling bands of black closing over my head, the force of the disturbance wrenching Agnes away and pulling at me even as I struggled and tried desperately to shift.
Tried and failed, because I’d felt something like this before, and it wasn’t a cyclone. I stared at the tiny scrap of sky still visible far above me, knowing that I was in the maw of a portal. Specifically, a time portal that Gertie had used on me a couple of times now, a return to sender that plopped me back whenever and wherever I’d started out.
It meant that Agnes was probably back in Victorian London right now, wondering, What the hell? And that I was about to be back in Vegas, in my damn apartment sans Rosier, sans Pritkin, sans anything to show for two-thirds of a bottle of potion. A bottle I couldn’t replace at the moment, and wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to. And fuck that, fuck everything about that, I thought, gritting my teeth and fighting.