Magic Rises

wheelchair on occasion. The other day I caught her and Doolittle holding brooms and ramming each other with their wheelchairs in the hallways. Apparently they were having a joust.
    Doolittle was probably down there too, listening to the music and complaining about the noise. Being in a chair didn’t seem to slow him down. George had fared worse. Her arm reattachment didn’t take. For whatever reason, her body rejected the limb, even after Doolittle reattached it for the second time aboard the Rush . The arm was gone now. George had to learn how to use her left hand for everything, and it drove her up the wall. Desandra was helping her. She had adapted well. Eventually the fact that one of her children was a lamassu would have to be dealt with, but for now everyone was ignoring it. There was some friction in the Wolf Clan as to where she would fit into the Clan hierarchy, and when Jennifer attempted to chastise Desandra in her very formal way, Desandra told her to cool her tits. Every time I thought about it, I laughed.
    We buried Aunt B on a sunny hill behind the Bouda House. There was no body in the grave, just the things she had taken with her on the trip. I came to visit her every other week. The left tower of the Keep was named after her. That was where the kids stayed when they had to be treated with panacea. I never thought I would miss her, but I did.
    Curran stepped out on the balcony and sat next to me. I leaned against him, and he put his arm around me.
    “Are you okay?” he asked me.
    “Yes. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real that we made it.” I leaned closer against him.
    “Kate?” he asked.
    “Mm-hm.”
    “I am an ass. And an arrogant egomaniac. And a selfish bastard.”
    “The first two, yes. But you’re not selfish.” I stroked his arm, feeling the muscle underneath the skin. “You are the way you are, Curran. You have your valid reasons. I am the way I am and I have my reasons, too.”
    He kissed my hand. “I love you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re with me.”
    “I love you, too.” I looked into his face. “What’s wrong?”
    He took out a small wooden box and handed it to me. What the hell could be so important about a wooden box for that kind of speech?
    “What’s in here?”
    “Just open it,” he growled.
    “I’m not going to open it after you said all that. It might blow up.”
    “Kate. Open the box,” he said quietly.
    I opened it. A ring looked back at me from black velvet, a pale band with a large brilliant stone with a pale yellow tint. I knew that tint. He’d given me a ring set with a piece of the Wolf Diamond.
    “Are you going to say psych ?”
    “No,” Curran said.
    Oh boy.

AUTHORS’ NOTE
Readers often ask why we cut what seem to be perfectly good scenes. The bigger the book, the better, right? It doesn’t always turn out that way. A novel is more than just a collection of scenes. It’s a story, a cohesive whole, and when we edit, we try to make sure that every scene included fits into the narrative and serves some sort of purpose. We really wanted to show Saiman’s rescue, but there just wasn’t a way to include it in the novel. No matter where we put it, it stuck out. So instead we’re offering it to you here as a bonus. Because these are deleted scenes, you will see some identical phrasing and things that tie back to the original manuscript. We hope you’ll like it.

AN ILL-ADVISED RESCUE

    ILONA ANDREWS

Knock-knock.
    My eyes snapped open. Darkness filled the bedroom. I reached over and touched the covers next to me. Empty. Curran must’ve gotten out of bed. Usually I woke up when anything in the vicinity moved, but Curran could be very quiet when he wanted to be, and he had taken it as a personal challenge to sneak in and out of our bed without disturbing me.
    Knock-knock.
    I dragged myself out of bed, slipped on a pair of sweatpants, and swung the door open. A tall, lean man stood on the other side. Barabas, a weremongoose and lawyer extraordinaire. Since I’d joined the Beast Lord and his fifteen hundred shapeshifter nutcases in the Keep, Barabas had helped me navigate the rough waters of Pack politics. Pack papers said he was my advisor. He ignored them and called himself my nanny.
    Barabas never did anything halfway, including his hair. Bright red in sharp contrast to his pale skin, it usually stood straight up on his head like a jagged flame. Today he must’ve done something special to it, because his hair didn’t just look spiky. It