Priceless

not what I’d call good manners on our part.
    He nodded, his face shutting down, all business again. Which was good. Really, it was. As I tried to convince myself of that fact, O’Shea led me around the side of the van closest to us while Eve dug into the fresh meat on the ground.
    “These vans are equipped for anything, even scaling buildings.”
    There was a click when he slid the door open that, to me, sounded like a shotgun blast, and I spun to face Eve. But her head was still down, the edges of her neck covered in blood and intestines as she pulled the men apart.
    I clamped my teeth together, unsure of whether it was to keep the vomit from spewing up and out of me or to keep my teeth from chattering. Either way, I had to hold it together. O’Shea grabbed the rappelling gear, one harness and a massive coil of rope. I peeked into the van. It was chock full of weapons, my kind of weapons. Blades of all lengths, whips, leather armour and even a couple of shields. What the hell? No, there wasn’t time to question this, though I had a sneaking suspicion this was no coincidence. This was my first real look at the Arcane Arts division of the FBI. At least they came prepared, though their training was sorely lacking.
    I pulled down two large blades—one curved, one straight—and settled them on my back in a cross pull holster that sat there as if it were made for me.
    I fingered a tag on the leather straps and my breath froze. “This has my name on it.”
    “What?” O’Shea asked, his eyes scanning the tag. “That . . . doesn’t make any sense.”
    They knew about me. Shit! But why would they have put stuff in my size into their van and then chased us across the badlands? As O’Shea said, it didn’t make sense.
    India’s fear hit me in a wave that collided with my own, spiralling upwards through my body until it was all I could do to keep from screaming. A large pair of hands grabbed my arms and shook me, forcing me to look up into O’Shea’s eyes.
    “Pull it together, Adamson. I can’t do this without you.”
    More than anything else, that admission snapped me out of it. Later. I would deal with the implications of this later.
    Geared up, we crept around the edge of the van. Eve had finished feeding and preened her feathers.
    “How are we going to get past her?”’
    Now that I had the weapons, I could probably take her on; she was young and inexperienced, scared. Alone. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I motioned for O’Shea to stay behind the van.
    “Let me deal with this,” I said, my resolve firming. “You get the harness on. Seeing as there is only one, you will have to pack me down.” I told myself Eve was just another child,
just another child
. That mantra spun through my head, but it didn’t lessen the fear making my skin clammy.
    The Harpy lifted her head, her beak clacking at me. “You are too stupid to even believe. Do you think I won’t kill you because I’ve feasted well?”
    Lifting my hands to show her I had no weapons, I shook my head. “No, I expect you won’t kill me because your sister asked me to free you, Eve.”
    She let out a screech, her eyes widening until they were completely dilated, and she stumbled backwards, her wings flapping. “She wouldn’t have told you my name.” But her voice had lost its edge and she sounded like the child her sister claimed she was. Her emotions swirled toward me, and I let myself feel them. Fear, uncertainty, loss, and pain.
    Wiping my hands on my jeans, I tried not to shake as I stepped toward her. Her left foot glittered as she stepped away from me, a blood red ruby catching the light as she walked.
    “You’ll have to hold still if you want me to remove that,” I said, pointing at her foot.
    Her feathers trembled, rippling as if there were a breeze blowing, but there was no wind. Just the raw emotions that shook her frame.
    Eve said nothing, and I took a steadying breath and pulled one of the swords out. She hissed and raised her wings, her terror filling me. She was afraid of me. Her emotions were raw, an open book, and I knew if I kept tapped into them, I might have the warning I needed if she was going to attack me. Maybe.
    Moving slowly, I spoke to help calm her. “I have a pet werewolf you know. His name is Alex. He was from a pack that tried to kill him, and somehow he ended up on my porch one night, bleeding and hurt.”
    I was a few feet closer, and she lowered her wings. “Why didn’t you kill him?”
    “I