“Martine!” Escobar roared from above, his rage-filled tone making her stomach do a somersault.
Panic seized her, threatening to immobilize her.
Run, run as fast and as far as you can. You have to get to Derrick!
But where? How the hell do I get out of here?
While she pondered the way out, the floor beneath her began to quake.
And that was when the first fireball landed right at her feet, singeing her front paws.
Okay. Escobar had broken out the magic—right here in front of a human in broad daylight.
Game on.
Chapter Fifteen
“What the hell was that?” Max yelled over another series of loud rumbles and a flash of yellow light inside the apartment building.
Dianna Brooks grabbed Max’s arm, her eyes intense. “Escobar! It’s Escobar! We have to hurry!” she shouted, fear for her daughter so acutely written on her face, Derrick squeezed her hand to offer some measure of comfort.
He and Max had gone to Dianna’s, walked right up to the door and rang the doorbell, ready to take Martine’s prick of a father out if he interfered—magic be damned.
And they got damn lucky. Gavin Brooks was off at some tavern, drinking himself into his usual sundown stupor. Though, Dianna hadn’t quite put it that way.
She also didn’t appear terribly surprised to find them on her doorstep, which had caught Derrick off guard. She’d ushered them into her small house in Queens, offered them hot tea with honey and some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Dianna struck Derrick as warm and friendly, not at all skittish or fearful. Though diminutive in size, she possessed a commanding personality—as evidenced by what happened next.
When they told Dianna that Martine was missing, and the story of Escobar, she’d surprised them both by pulling on her coat and ordering them to take her to this address.
Neither he nor Max had questioned how she knew where they’d find Martine. They were both still in too much shock that Dianna had agreed to help at all, after Martine’s description of her childhood, coupled with the fear she’d described was so deeply ingrained in her mother. But neither of them said a word as she marched out of her house, her face full of angry determination.
“So Martine’s here?” Derrick hollered, yanking Dianna out of the way and shielding her when a spray of hot embers rained down on them.
Dianna, no more than all of five feet tall, and as dark haired as Martine, shoved him aside with impressive force, her lips thinning, her green eyes fiery. “I’d know the scent of my daughter anywhere, and she’s here!”
In a flash, she tore up the steps, her conservative purse balanced in the crook of her arm by its strap, swinging wildly.
He and Max followed, racing behind her, dodging falling sheetrock and flaming balls of fire. Derrick didn’t question what was going on—he didn’t have time to. All he had time to do was trust Dianna knew her business, and she’d help find Martine.
She stopped at the top of the third flight, holding up her hand, cocking her head.
“Where the hell are we?” Max muttered under his breath.
Dianna turned to them, her eyes narrowed, her heart-shaped face hard. “Escobar’s—and he has my daughter. And now I’m going to kill the bastard!”
Max and Derrick passed each other the “look.” The one filled with more unexpected surprise that Dianna was so damn fierce.
Derrick hissed into Max’s ear, “If she gets herself killed, Martine’s gonna kill me. We have to stay close.”
Max began to charge after her again, his last comment ringing in Derrick’s ears. “I’ve got Dianna’s back. No matter what, find Martine!”
And then an entire wall collapsed on top of his brother.
* * *
Escobar raced down the stairs just as she made a leap for the landing above to scurry away from him. Avoiding his grasp by mere inches but putting her right back on Escobar’s floor.
The hair on Martine’s back lifted, shivering along her spine as he tore after her, stomping back up the stairs, hurling flaming balls of fire, pieces of the roof falling around her feet in loud, crashing chunks as snow fell through the holes in wet splotches, making visibility low.
She zigzagged, swooshing down the long hallway, trying to remember the numbers on doors to keep track of where she was, skipping over hot metal and debris.
“Martine!” Escobar bellowed—before everything went quiet.
Painfully, deadly quiet.
Stopping short, her heart crashing against her ribs, Martine paused to listen.
Silence. There was only silence.
That meant one of two things. Escobar was planning a different course of action.
Or all hell was going to break loose.
Something made her turn around then, demanded she do so. Something premonitory and cold, painful and terrifying.