Marked By Magic by Christa Wick
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Glass broke.Wood splintered. Long existent cracks in the walls deepened and branched out like the arms of a giant spider sensing a meal trapped in its web.
"Damn bastards have mortar racks bolted down to the bed of their truck!!" Navarro shouted from where his team covered the drive on the west side of the mansion.
"We're sitting ducks," Fray rumbled from his position on the east side of the house. "We would have been better in the woods."
Denver heard Philia hiss at the man, Fray's words implying that Esme should have been left alone in the mansion to fend for herself. The man's complaint was absurd. Abandoning Esme would only make Quentin more powerful once he captured her and his creature. Such an act of cowardice and betrayal would not only doom Esme, but seal the entire clan's demise.
"Tavi!" Denver shouted. "Anything you can do about that mortar?"
"I know I can!" Philia yelled. "Just not from this side of the house."
"Switch!" Tavi shouted, already sprinting across the entry room.
The two latents crossed in the middle of the house, Philia's hands busy shaping a tight ball of witch light as she ran.
"Make a hole, boys," she screamed as Navarro, Mathis, and Zed unleashed a line of suppressive fire aimed at the Hunters near the truck. "I'm coming through!"
Navarro's fire team dropped to the side at the last second. Philia wound her arm back, her fingers curled around the sphere of witch light like she was pitching a four-seam fastball. Her hand shot forward, releasing the concentrated bundle of explosive magic. Her mind stayed with it, propelling and steering, until it hit the back of the truck.
"Down," Navarro yelled, tackling Philia, his big body protectively covering hers as the other wolves on his team hit the ground.
The truck exploded. More explosions erupted like popcorn as the flames cooked the home-made shells Quentin's men had brought. The Hunters on the west side of the mansion who weren't dead or clutching their guts fled into the woods.
Silence snaked through the mansion as the wolves and latents waited for the next wave.
"It can't be that easy," Joelle whispered to Denver.
"Correct, wolfling. That was just a test," he answered, his gaze feverishly scanning the trees. He knew that Quentin had sent Hunters to the Witches' Council, but the bulk of the bastard's force waited just beyond the tree line, ready to capture the real prize.
"Testing what?" Colt asked, one eye tight against the scope on his rifle.
"Everything. Our response tells them we have battle magic," Denver answered before dropping his voice even lower. "Tells them which latent to shoot in the head first if they get the chance."
His jaw worked itself tighter before he finished answering.
"Worst of all, they are now certain that Esme can't save our ass. So, do they wait or—"
"Swarming from the south!" Seth shouted, the first floor echoing with his warning.
Gunfire erupted immediately. Bullets punched at the building's stone walls, cut through the cheap plywood over the windows, and shattered into dust what few glass panes had survived the buildings many years.
The steady line of bullets began to spread until it ringed the mansion, one group of Hunters in a kneeling firing position as another group belly-crawled through the leaves and tall grass, taking whatever cover they could find.
A cry ripped from Tavi, a round slicing through her shoulder. She hit the floor, her head bouncing off the marble tile.
A thousand curses swirled through Denver's head as the injury managed to take two healers out of commission at the same time, Lana hustling in a manic belly crawl that would have made him howl in good-natured laughter if a stream of Tavi's blood wasn't crawling along the tile.
Power surged up through the floors. Images filled Denver's mind. From the sudden stiff spines of the wolves at his side, he knew that at least Jet, Joelle, and Colt were receiving them, too.
Targets.
From her prison in the basement, Esme was showing his team where to shoot without them having to pop their heads up first to spot the target.
Putting his faith in his mate, Denver was the first to rise, pull his trigger, then hug the floor again. The film flickering in his mind showed the man fall and then another as Colt followed Denver's gamble with a shot of his own.
More shots were fired from inside the house. Some were misses. Most were lethal hits.
A pyrrhic victory, Denver thought, lifting up to put a bullet through another Hunter. Deep down, he knew that every gift—every fighting chance—Esme gave them was another piece gone of the magic keeping her alive.
