Hettie collapsed to her knees, gasping, the muscles in her chest and the cords in her throat raw, torn and stretched out like taffy. She stared up blearily in search of her sister, but Abby wasn’t there.
Glamor, she thought with a curse.
She grabbed Diablo with trembling fingers and pushed shakily to her feet. Thirteen sorcerers formed a ring around her, watching her and the gun in her hand a touch fearfully.
“Did…did it work?” a small male voice asked.
“Now, now, Hettie, put the gun down. I know you better than you think. You don’t want to hurt any of us, or yourself for that matter.”
She whipped around, blood rushing through her. Berkeley. Next to him was a slight woman with brassy hair and a defiant glare. Her eyes reminded Hettie of the void of an empty grave, or the night sky fra
