Page 36

“Who killed this phasmagus?” Samantha asked, dreading the answer.

Alexia lowered her head, her hoodie hiding it entirely.

“Well?” Samantha glowered at Benchley.

“Uh, The Summoner,” Benchley muttered.

It made sense. The Summoner wouldn’t want a phasmagus that powerful to live. Considering how many people he’d killed, and his abuse of their bodies, it would be his worst enemy. Samantha felt the sick feeling in her stomach intensifying.

Beatrice skidded down the hallway and with a yowl launched herself onto the back of the sofa. Pushing her head through the slit in the curtains, the cat began to angrily meow.

“Uh, that’s not good,” Benchley muttered.

“He doesn’t know about me, right?” Samantha whispered. “Right?” She ransacked her memories of the night in the Fenton graveyard. Had she done anything remarkable? Well, Amaliya had dragged her through the ground to her side, but that wasn’t Samantha’s powers showing. Or was it?

Back arched, hissing loudly, Beatrice continued to make her unhappiness known.

The three people in the living room were motionless.

“Maybe it’s a dog,” Samantha said, her voice cracking.

Alexia finally looked up, the lenses on her glasses catching the light from the TV. “Right. Totally.”

Benchley let out a nervous laugh. “There’s no way he knows about you.”

A second later there was a loud whoosh and a sound unlike any other Samantha had ever heard filled the house. She clapped her hands over her ears as Beatrice screeched, tore across the back of the sofa, and vanished down the hall. The noise, a cross between rushing water and boulders falling, was deafening.

“What’s that?” Samantha cried out.

“What?” Benchley asked. He whipped about, looking frightened as the bag of chips fell from his hands.

“That sound!” Samantha screamed over the din.

Alexia and Benchley stared at her in fear.

“I don’t hear anything,” Alexia finally said.

“Fuck me! How can’t you hear that?”

“You’re a supernatural,” Benchley said, his voice nearly drowned out by the racket outside. “We’re not.”

With a sudden surge of anger, Samantha launched herself off the couch and stormed over to where her purse sat on the kitchen table. She jerked her pink Glock out of its hidden holster inside her Betsey Johnson bag and stalked toward the front windows. “Benchley, Alexia, get down. Don’t move.”

Benchley slid off the couch and crawled to his sister’s side. Alexia dug around in a bag she had brought in with her.

The weight of the gun in her hand steadied Samantha’s nerves as all the years of lessons at the firing range kicked in. Samantha took several deep breaths, then, careful to keep out of view, she looked out the front window.

Two dark figures stood in the shadows of the pecan trees that bordered the property line between Samantha’s small house and the neighbor’s two-story. Dark waves of purplish magic flowed out of one of the figures and crashed against the ward. The magical bubble was holding against the torrent of dark magic, but the surface was rippling under the assault. The taller form’s eyes were glowing red fire.

“Okay, I got someone hitting the ward with purple magic. Black witch, right?” Samantha asked.

“Yeah, totally,” Alexia answered, laying a cross, a dagger, and some spell bags on the floor next to her.

“Second one has red eyes. Vampire?”

“Or demon,” Benchley said, shaking his head. “I hate demons.”

“Are they eyes like fire, or just glowing red?” Alexia asked.