Page 16 of Light

The same chunk of my psyche that understands every note of it.

“Emma.” I try to slow her again. If she goes down on this cracked concrete, even my lightning reflexes won’t be fast enough for the save. “Velvet, I know you’re freaked. I am too.”

“This isn’t freaked,” she rebuts. “This is terror, husband. To be clear, a lot of it. Plain, unfiltered terror.”

“All right, I get that too.”

“No.” She quickens the pace despite having to grab at her back, looking like she’s literally shoving herself forward. “I’m not sure you do.”

“I was there, damn it. I heard every word that came out of that girl’s mouth and exactly how it came out.”

“And you’re still telling me to stay calm about it?”

“I’m begging you to be careful about it.” I manage to stop her long enough to circle around for a resolute stare. “Even if she’s one of Faline’s converts—”

“If?”

“So you’re going to sacrifice our child to that terrorist, then?” I snarl. “Because that’s what you’re on the verge of doing—”

“I’m trying to save him, damn it!” Her tear-brimmed eyes catch the moon glow, and now I feel like the world’s biggest douche—but only for a second. At this moment, there’s only room for one of us to be taking the terrified and morose path. I’m more than willing to let that be her. “I’m trying to save all of us!”

I plant my hands to my waist, taking advantage of her emotionally induced stall. “Well, you won’t at this pace, in this goddamned darkness.”

Which, just like that, is no longer darkness.

Due to the fact that my wife, using her own terminology, goes full glowworm on me.

Yeah, the whole effect. Her pores are as blinding as Hollywood sky trackers. Her eyes are mixes of blazing blue and gleaming gold. Her hair is like strands of gilded sunlight.

In a word, under any other set of circumstances, fucking gorgeous.

All right, so that’s two words—but I’m not counting the first because it’s basically the modifier for every minute that passes now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Fuck.” While it feels good to really pop one out, I refrain from succumbing to an adjoining rant. Just the growl is one word too many. I know it after a single flash of a glare from my gorgeous wife.

“Bright enough for you?” She fires it while spinning around and then continuing her possessed pace.

I follow, letting my own stress shatter the confines of my composure, turning my fingers into ten light batons. If she’s that hell-bent on getting home, might as well turn it into a family affair. Focusing less on camouflaging my powers also means I can concentrate more on her. With just half a block until we get back to the safe house, I’m willing to take the risk—

“Holy crap!”

—of something exactly like this happening.

Emma joins me in whipping back around to confront the source of the exclamation.

While dread still pumps through my veins, it’s diluted by at least a few drops of relief. “Cal,” I whoosh out, pivoting toward the gawking guy. While there’s nothing optimal about this intrusion, at least we’re talking to someone with a rational head on his shoulders. Or so I hope. We weren’t at the party long enough to get the details on what that saucy Juliet really is to him. Casual date for the night? We’re in luck. But if they’re at friends-with-benefits or more…

“She’s not with me.” Unsurprisingly, Calvin deciphers my urgent expression. “Juliet,” he clarifies nonetheless. “She’s not with me.”

I nod, instantly understanding, but Emma’s already stomping up with one hand fisted at her side and the other splayed against her stomach. “What do you mean, ‘not with you’? Where the hell did she go? Is she still at Maddie and Mel’s, or did she completely—”

“Okay, whoa. Shit,” Cal rushes out. “She’s still there; I swear. She didn’t poof or anything.” The guy proves his wise mettle once more. Though our wedding reception concluded so bizarrely that many have written it off as a publicity stunt to expose Emma’s superpowers to the world, Cal clearly believes differently—enough to respect Emma’s trepidation and give his answer straight. “She’s asleep in the guest bedroom. Passed out right after you two bugged.”

“Thank God.” Emma’s voice is thick with solace despite her tightly contorted face. She looks down at her middle, which she now covers with both hands. “I know, Bean,” she murmurs. “I know. Just a little while longer.”

She finishes with such a wobbly sigh, I move in without thinking and sweep down to scoop her up. But before I get her knees secured, she’s stepped clear—closer to Cal and his growing gawk.