Chelsea grabbed Amber’s arm. “Stop, it’s a kid.”
Andy’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “A kid?”
Chelsea nodded to thin air. “He’s scarred and pale and weak.”
Amber glared and slammed a hand on the closing doors of the elevator. “He’s a minion.”
“The ginger is right.” There was no silk or velvet in Andy’s voice. Just pure carbon steel.
It was hard to feel claustrophobic in Seattle, with its wide-open spaces and the saltwater wind in the air. Being trapped in a hunt by a hedge doctor managed to make this clean city with its artwork and parks feel tiny and airless.
Chelsea reached greedily for the proffered coffee cup with her uninjured arm. Hot, and somehow both bitter and smooth, she savored the drink. One of the hedge doctors had bought her one from the coffee shop downstairs when she limped in this morning. She was on her third. “I swear this almost doesn’t need sugar.”
Words That Burn Like Fire 