Page 183 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve—only then registering the eyes on us.

Women. Dozens. Wide-eyed, stunned women outnumbering their male counterparts twenty to one. It wasn’t until they spotted the two familiar Grayshellians in their midst that the witches fully grasped what our presence meant.

Panic ignited.

“The nearest gate is two blocks over,” Ansel barked as chaos erupted. He turned to the cluster of witches and shouted, “Run! Get to the door!”

Gasps and screams meshed into a frenzied wall of sound. The witches bolted for the entrance, and Lana and I stayed behind to usher them through as Ansel sprinted toward the front of the building to lead them out.

There were humans too, I realized with no small kernel of horror.

But it was the Hazelharborians we were here for—all healers. We’d need them soon. Their energy shimmered with some ethereal blend of laughter and light, unmistakable even before the hierarchy crest tattoos registered in my scrambled brain.

When the building shuddered, I locked eyes with Lana. She swore, throwing her arms wide as she cast her shield. I did the same, grateful Ansel had shared his well—at least I could be of some fucking use. He was barking orders at the front of the theater, though we couldn’t make out the words.

How many? I asked, reaching out mind-to-mind.

Didn’t say, Ansel replied sharply.

Great, Lana bit out.

Shimmers of light flickered through the space as more shields rose—witches protecting each other, slipping out one by one. Relief carved through my chest.

“Good, ladies, now run!” Lana barked, the words layered in her unique brand of affection: rough-edged satin. She liked these girls. This mattered to her.

With that fact searing through my mind, I turned toward the splintering sound ripping the space in two. A jagged crack carved through the gilded plaster, splitting the wall. Bits of drywall crumbled and fell.

Demons had never had much taste for my blood—usually kept their distance. But as gnarled arms punched through the crevice, shattering the ceiling, I figured that truce was over. I rolled my shoulders until my back popped, twisting my neck side to side. The second crack didn’t come from me.

I glanced at Lana. She grinned—a sharp, serpent’s smile.

Like mother, like daughter, I thought.

Prove it, halfling, she teased, blades singing free with that telltale shnick.

Loser buys dinner?

Bacon-wrapped filet mignon?

Deal.

Cackling, I charged the demons clawing their way after the fleeing witches. Adrenaline roared through me—old and welcome. We dismembered the first wave with practiced ease, our Grayshellian blades biting through flesh and bone.

And God help me, I moved like her. The soul who first gave me breath. Who poured her blood into my veins.

Lifetimes lost. And still, our blades fell in synchronized rhythm—a lethal dance of mother and daughter cleaving through the abyss.

When the final body fell, the last of the witches fleeing with Dad, I panted, “Ten.”

Lana’s smile wasn’t a pretty thing. The woman was preternaturally beautiful—harsh lines, striking angles, and that shorn blonde hair—but her grin? That was predatory. And right now, victorious.

“Fifteen,” she said breathlessly.

“Fuck,” I laughed. We backed our way down the aisle, eyes sweeping the ceiling where more monsters clawed their way through the breach. But we weren’t here to exterminate. We were here to ferry souls.

Reluctantly, we turned to follow.

Flames climbed the heavy maroon curtains flanking the stage. Lana and I cast out air, drawing it back to choke the fire as we retreated.