Demon Night

wouldn’t get inside, but it would be hard and slick in the rain, on the deck, where even now a light was flashing in quick bursts…
    She blinked. “Ethan?” And then gasped as he went rigid, his teeth digging painfully into her flesh before he ripped his mouth away. She scented blood—but not hers. Feathers exploded in all directions.
    The arch of his left wing collapsed.
    The world tilted as they flipped, dropped through the air. Ethan was swearing, adjusting her position until she was full-length against him and he was holding her tight with his legs. She wrapped her arms around his waist so he could use both hands to fire his guns; each shot flared bright, the sound muffled by the silencer and the racing of his heart against her ear.
    And his voice. “We’re going to land hard, Charlie, and it ain’t going to be water. Fast as you can, you get in the house and put up the spell.”
    A pistol appeared in her hand; after a week of training, it was comfortable. “Okay.”
    She didn’t know if he heard it; he was twisting again, until she was on top of him, the ground rushing up at a terrible speed. Items were spilling onto it. Pillows, blankets, clothes. The mattress from her bed. Everything soft from his cache, she realized almost hysterically.
    He met her eyes. “You hit mean and low.”
    She nodded and tried to hold his gaze but he forced her head down against his chest, turning her on her side and pulling her knees up, her gun clutched against her belly.
    She didn’t hear them land, only the tearing and breaking from deep inside him. Pain ripped through her in a sharp, blinding wave, digging into her shoulder, her hip, her right ankle. She couldn’t turn her head for an endless moment, couldn’t move, couldn’t see.
    Ethan wasn’t moving, either. She whispered his name, and was surprised that her voice worked at all.
    The urge to run filled her like the rising tumult of a fiddle.
    She must have been already crying, because the sob that tore from her was only louder than the others. He’d projected that urgency; there was too much broken within him to speak. His heartbeat was too slow, sounded too wet.
    “I’m going,” she assured him, though she wasn’t certain she could get up. But she’d promised, and now footsteps were approaching over wooden stairs, then over gravel.
    She lifted her head, looked down at Ethan, and everything inside her stilled.
    His wings had crumpled. Something was wrong with the shape of his head, and blood soaked the mattress beneath his body, as if he’d split open.
    “Charlotte,” a familiar voice said.
    Sammael. And he was close.
    Ethan couldn’t defend himself like this.
    Hit mean and low.
    She crouched over Ethan’s quiet form. Her right shoulder hurt too much; she palmed the gun in her left hand and slid the barrel under her bent right knee, hiding it between her thigh and upper calf. And she let her sobs tear free again, asking for Jane, she needed Jane, would do anything to see Jane.
    “I truly hope so, Charlotte,” Sammael said. From the corner of her vision, she saw his shoes appear on the ground beside the pile of fabric and the mattress. She turned her head and met his eyes when he sank to his heels. “Because I plan to ask a lot in return for sparing him.”
    She fired, felt the flash of heat through her pants at the same instant the small hole appeared in his black shirt. Another, and this time she heard a sizzle of the barrel against wet cotton.
    Sammael fell back, his eyes wide with shock, flaring crimson.
    Ethan’s wings vanished under her feet. She didn’t dare take her eyes from Sammael.
    “Go, Charlie.” Ethan’s command was barely audible, and he wasn’t getting up.
    She only needed another shot, just to give him time to heal. One to the head. She adjusted her aim, watched the furrow plow through Sammael’s cheek.
    He slapped his hand against the wound, his eyes narrowing.
    She leapt to the side, but her ankle didn’t hold her weight. Sammael’s wings formed and snapped around. Her leg went numb as the talons at the tips razed the length of her thigh. He’d knocked the gun from her an instant later, had his arm around her throat.
    “Charlotte,” Sammael crooned in her ear. “I’m disappointed.”
    She closed her eyes. Three bullets with hellhound venom. He’d be slower; she’d have a fighting chance.
    Apparently, he realized it at the same time. A dagger gleamed in his hand, and he buried it deep in her thigh, cutting