Leashing the Tempest (Arcadia Bell #2.5)(10)

“Apparently so.”

Lon steadied himself on the rocking deck and bent to inspect it. “Christ, this looks familiar. What class of demon is this?”

I shook my head. But this was not something I saw every day—or at all, actually. No one on this plane, human or Earthbound, should need ongoing, permanent protection from anything Æthyric. Especially not a specific class of Æthyric demon. Even my magical order’s temples didn’t have specialized protection like this.

So why the hell did Captain Christie need it?

“Later,” Lon said, pulling me away from the magick-charged seal. As he did, the boat lurched and nearly knocked us both on my ass, so I did my best to put the seal out of my mind and focus on the more pressing task at hand.

A steering wheel sat in front of a panel of instruments that couldn’t have possibly been more foreign to me. I blinked rain out of my eyes and spotted something that looked like a CB radio. Lon was already ducking down to peer at the screen, where a digital light shone.

“Channel number,” Lon shouts w Lon ed, squinting at the screen as he swooped dripping locks of hair back from his forehead. He fiddled with a knob and the volume increased so I heard a voice being transmitted as if through sandpaper static. Sounded like weather bulletins.

“What channel is the Coast Guard?”

“Damned if I know,” he said. “Supposed to be some emergency button . . .”

I pointed at a red button. “Like that one?”

If we weren’t about to die, he might’ve laughed. All I saw were his merrily narrowed eyes, the slight uptick of the corners of his mouth . . . a barely there smile some people might not even notice. Not me. I lived for that smile—my smile—and when I saw it, I relaxed. Just a little. Everything would be fine. This was just a crazy story Jupe could tell his Earthbound friends at school.

Raindrops crested over Lon’s high cheekbones and dipped into the deep hollows of his cheeks

. I pressed my hand against his face—

Then the bridge exploded.

It sounded like war. Like a pipe bomb. A building being demolished.

Blinding white light obliterated my sight for an extended moment. I was floating. Lifted out of my body, passing up through the veil and crossing over to the Æthyr.

Or heaven. Hell. God only knew.

Seconds—minutes?—later, when I realized I was still on earth, I couldn’t move. The white light was gone. I felt rain driving down on my face. Could see part of the bridge, the canvas canopy . . . and the enormous smoldering hole in the middle of it.

The scent of burnt plastic and smoke revived me. I gasped for breath, willing my lungs back to life, then coughed up rainwater.

My feet felt like they were on fire. Smoke unfurled in wisps from my lowtop sneakers. I sat up and tugged one off by the heel: the rubber sole was a black, melted, stringy mess. Yelping, I tossed it away, then immediately jerked off the other shoe and both socks. Was someone yelling? Hard to tell under the storm’s cacophony. Where was—?

Lon. Thank God.

He lay on the bridge next to me, groaning like he’d been socked in the stomach. His jacket and jeans were smoking. I shouted his name and pushed myself up. My hands patted him down, making sure nothing was hurt or on fire.

His eyes flew open when I touched his face. “Oww! Fuck! Your fingers are hot.”

I snatched them away. My skin looked a little pinker than its usual dead-white bartender pallor. I sniffed. Burnt hair. “Boat got hit by lightning,” I explained.

“We’re not dead?”

Anyone else probably would be. As a magician, I had a preternatural capacity for holding more electrical current than the average human. Or demon. I frequently siphoned electricity into it my body and used it to “kindle” my natural magical energy—Heka—for charging spells: electricity flowing inside walls, car batteries, generators, power plants . . .

And lightning.

Not that I was indestructible. I’m quite certain electricity could kill me, though it would likely fry my brain long before I kicked the bucket. And it sure as hell could harm Lon, and as he sat up on the bridge, I wondered just how in the world he’d survived.

“I was touching you,” I said. “I must’ve taken the force of the strike. I—”

A furious gale of wind rushed over the bridge, tilting the boat. I grabbed the railing to keep from sliding across the deck. When the rocking lessened, we both climbed to our feet. My lungs ached. Skin tingled. Hands were shaking. Like I sometimes felt after kindling a big spell. At least I wasn’t in the grips of post-magick nausea. The unsteady boat was already churning my stomach hard enough to make me dizzy.

“Fire.”

I looked up. “What?”

“Fire!”

My gaze shot to the polished teak dash behind the steering wheel, where flames danced wildly, playing tug-of-war with the rain dripping from the singed Bimini canopy. Lon ripped his jacket off and swatted it against the fire. The wet fabric smothered the flames, but the damage was already done.

Blackened, the whole dash. Glass cracked. Wood splintered.

VHF emergency radio melted.

Lon tried to grab the handset, but it was too hot to touch. He rubbed his fingers, breathing heavy as he surveyed the damage on the console, the hole in the Bimini canopy, a massive black spot on the deck where we’d been standing during the strike . . . my discarded shoes. “What the hell?”