SEVEN
DR. KOSTICH HADN’T been kidding when he commented that a full arcane concussion blast could blow out the walls of Gabriel’s house.
“He underestimated it, however,” I said to Cyrene as we sat huddled in a police car some eleven hours later. “It blew out the walls of the houses on either side, too. I hope they find the two cats belonging to the old lady who lives next door.”
“And her fish,” Cyrene said, hugging the blanket that was the only thing between her bare skin and everyone else. “I feel so bad about the fish. What was Baltic thinking trying to blow us up like that? He knew we wouldn’t be killed.”
“No, but we’re vulnerable now,” I said in a hushed voice as yet another policeman bustled past, talking into her radio and carrying a clipboard. “We don’t have a stronghold to keep
