“Crawford? Where are you?” Sinclair radioed.
She staggered to the kitchen. Sinclair stood silhouetted against the bright light of the open back door. She paused, as a memory bubbled up. A figure in SWAT-team gear surrounded by swirling smoke at the doorway in the warehouse. She tried to focus on his body, resolve the silhouette into someone she knew. The shadowed figure in her mind raised his gun, and the memory faded.
Sinclair rushed through the thinner smoke of the kitchen. She let him drape her arm around his shoulder. The air trembled and shuddered as Laura’s spell released up the hall, a short burst of her body essence expanding in a sphere. It touched the spell trap, and white light flashed as Sinclair yelled for a medic. He half carried, half supported Laura through the door as the staircase exploded. The force of the blast lifted them into the air, and they sprawled into the yard with debris raining down on them.
Laura landed roughly on her side, but her body shield absorbed the impact. She curled to her knees as coughing wracked her body again. The one inhalation had been enough for appearance sake. Oily soot smeared across her upper lip as she wiped at her running nose. Sinclair lay facedown about ten feet away.
You okay, Jono? she sent.
He stirred as her words touched his mind, raising himself to his knees. They faced each other in the same position, their faces covered with soot and scratches.
Okay, he sent back.
Emergency personnel rushed into the yard. Someone slapped an oxygen mask over Laura’s face. Two EMTs lifted her, one on either side, and carried her to the front of the house. In seconds, she was in an emergency van.
Foyle appeared. “Are you okay, Crawford?”
She nodded, letting the mask speak for itself. She watched Sinclair being led to another van behind Foyle. She pulled the mask down. “Too much smoke. I burned out my sensing ability.”
“Why the hell didn’t you use your mask?” Foyle said.
He confused her again. His concern was genuine. “I thought my body shield was good enough. I’m sorry.”
“Can you go back in?” Foyle asked.
She made a show of taking another hit of oxygen. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to get someone else.”
Over Foyle’s shoulder, Sinclair caught her eye. He nodded, impressed. Foyle was buying it. He believed she was overcome with smoke inhalation. She allowed herself a small inward smile. If there was one thing she was good at, it was appearances.
CHAPTER 22
CRESS PEERED INTO Laura’s mouth. The leanansidhe ’s dark orbs shifted back and forth, her unique vision affording her more than simple sight. She didn’t need a flashlight.
Glass cases lined a wall of her office, jars and canisters filling every available space. Protection wards hummed at various levels of intensity, warding against herbs and spells interacting or activating. As a fey healer, she combined traditional medicine with the esoteric needs of the fey. She dropped her hand from Laura’s chin and rested it on her shoulder. “There’s some mild inflammation, but no essence implications. You’re fine.”
“That was risky,” said Terryn.
Laura let Cress lift her hair to examine the faint remains of the concussion bruise. The physical aspect of the injury had healed so quickly that Laura had not thought about it for a day or two. “I was careful,” she said.
Terryn leaned against the open door. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You forget you’re not immortal sometimes.”
Laura dangled her feet off the short examining table. There was no denying she was tired, and Terryn wouldn’t believe her if she said she wasn’t. You don’t get almost blown up by a bomb, escape from one burning building then run into another one without getting winded. He was right. As a druid, she had a stronger constitution than humans, but it didn’t come close to the strength of other fey. She didn’t bother hiding the exhaustion in her voice. “I didn’t ask for this, Terryn.”
“I want to sideline Janice. You don’t have to do two glamours,” he said.
She hopped off the table. “You mean three. Just because I don’t change my appearance as Laura Blackstone doesn’t mean it isn’t a job. I still have the Archives ceremony to work on. At least no one’s trying to kill me there.”
Terryn shook his head. “That doesn’t help your case, you know. Let Sinclair prove himself. Put him to work with Foyle instead of Janice.”
She rubbed her eyes. The tender skin felt raw and dry. “Okay.”
He didn’t try to hide the surprise on his face. “Okay? That was easy.”
She gave him a lopsided smile. “Because you’re right. I’m stretching myself thin. If I lose my edge, I start missing things. We put Crawford on sick leave and Sinclair on Foyle. That will free up time for me to work on Blume.”
Cress paused at her work space. “You need to rest, Laura. The physical aspect of the concussion is healed, but your body essence is working at near capacity to heal the rest.”
“I’ll deal with Blume in the evening. I can swing that. I don’t sleep much anyway,” she replied.
Cress stared with those inscrutable black pools she called eyes. She glanced at Terryn, and Laura felt the light flutter of a sending pass between them. They were worried about her. It was comforting-she was worried about herself-but she had continued working with worse injuries before.
“Have you remembered anything more?” Cress asked.
“Nothing helpful. You were right, though. It’s coming back,” Laura said.
Cress nodded. She picked up two sealed jars from the counter. She held up one with a thick solution in it, vibrant green. “Drink this when you get home. It’ll fortify your body essence and soothe the throat burn.” She handed Laura a smaller, opaque jar. “You have burn patches that aren’t much worse than a sunburn, but they’re still draining essence from you. Draw a bath when you get home and dissolve this in it. Your skin will heal faster.”
Laura held both jars, thinking she’d rather eat the paste than drink the vibrant green sludge. “You’re ordering me to take a bath?”
Cress smiled. “Exactly. You’ll smell better, too.”
Laura slipped the jars into her bag. “I have had a couple of stinky days.”
“Can we talk about Blume before you leave?” asked Terryn.
Cress pushed Laura toward the door. “No, she can’t. She needs to go home and take a bath and go to bed. Now.”
Laura made a show of resisting, but it was obvious she wanted to leave. She stopped by her InterSec office to pick up the rest of her things and took the elevator down to the garage as Laura Blackstone, working-late public-relations director. If Cress was so concerned about her comfort and health, the least Laura could do was drive her Mercedes home.
Realization hit her when she started the car. She couldn’t go home. She rested her head against the steering wheel listening to music, trying to drown out thoughts of anything else. At the end of the third song, she turned off the car and went back to the elevator lobby. In the blind spot of the security camera, she resumed the Crawford glamour.
She jumped in the SUV. Cress might have thought it best that Laura go home, but Janice still existed and now had the seeds of a private life. Under the circumstances, Janice couldn’t disappear for no established reason. Someone would notice. Whoever wanted her dead would notice and find it curious. Inspiring curiosity was something Laura avoided when it came to her glamours. It was how she had gotten into her newest persona tangle. She pulled out of the garage and drove to Sinclair’s apartment.