Spring Rain (The Witchling #4)(16)

She sucked in a breath and shoved away from the wall, twisted and socked him as hard as she could. Troy staggered back with a curse, and Morgan darted into her room. She slammed the door behind her, aware it wasn’t going to impede a fire witchling for long, and snatched the soul stone from its hiding spot beneath her pillow.

The door exploded, and she winced as splinters of wood scraped her face and arms. Before Troy could get her again, she had ducked into the tiny bathroom and slammed the door closed.

Smoke poured in through the vents, and she locked the door, breathing hard and scared. The soul stone was so small to be of such interest to the world, and she gazed at it briefly. In a matter of moments, Troy would knock down the door and attack her again.

She had a secondary bat under the sink and opened the cupboard to yank it free. The sound of dripping water drew her attention to the faucet in the bathtub, and she rose. Drips turned to a stream then to a torrent. The bathroom sink began to fill as well.

The best way to deal with a fire witchling: suffocate her, which Dawn had already tried and failed. Second best: drown her.

Starting to panic, Morgan gripped the bat tightly, her fire magick warning her there were at least three people waiting for her outside the door. Another of Dawn’s henchmen had been a water witchling, like Noah, but without Noah’s conscience.

Water soon filled the bathroom to her calves, her knees, her thighs. She tested the doorknob and wasn’t surprised to find the door sealed, probably by an air witchling, and impossible to open.

Morgan dropped the bat, coughing in the smoke and terrified of the rising water. With another look at the soul stone, she popped it in her mouth and swallowed it, washing it down with the water whose level was at her waist.

The stone was cold enough to burn as it traveled to her stomach, and she turned her flames inward to keep it from killing her. Climbing on top of the toilet seat, she wildly sought another avenue of escape.

There was none. Just water. Hot tears burned her cheeks, and she stepped precariously onto the slippery sink to press her face to the ceiling.

Why is it always water? She’d barely survived the lake incident in December, and this time, there was no Noah to help her live through this one.

Morgan clawed at the vent cover high in one wall and pulled it free, hoping to provide an outlet for the water. Instead, more water streamed into the bathroom.

“Morgan!” the cry was faint. Uncertain if she heard someone calling her name or not, she went still and listened. “Morgan!”

“Noah!” she screamed. “I’m trapped!”

“Morgan, hold on! I –”

She had no time to process the sounds of scuffling. Within seconds, the air was gone. Morgan held her breath and floated, silently screaming for help. Her lungs burned, but not as much as the coldness in the pit of her stomach. Darkness crept from the edges of her mind, and she felt herself start to slide into unconsciousness.





Chapter Six





Beck slept surprisingly well after all the tedious tasks that went into running a school and an attempt to read through some of the archaic writing in the massive book Amber gave him. He woke up later than usual and took a long shower, grateful for hot water after his time in the forest. It managed to warm every part of him but his mourning heart, which remained cold and heavy.

When he was dressed and ready for his day, he picked up his phone. It had three messages on it, one from Biji probably telling him she wanted to go back to the forest, one from Decker and another from a number he didn’t recognize.

He listened to the message from the unfamiliar number first.

“This is Doctor Sheila Bridges. We found your phone number in a cell phone belonging to someone we hope you can help us identify. Please give me a call.”

Puzzled, Beck listened to it again, guessing someone had his number by mistake. He debated ignoring the call, but the side of him that didn’t like others to be hurt got the best of him, and he called back.

“Doctor Bridges,” came the curt response. From the voice on the speakers and sounds of quick movement, she was in the middle of a busy emergency room.

“Hi. You called my number earlier about identifying someone,” Beck said. “I think –”

“Yeah. One second,” she said in a thick Boston accent. There was a muffled sound as if she had placed the speaker against her clothing while belting out a couple of orders. Seconds later, she returned. “Female, no name, no identification aside from a cell phone. Wicked strange medical condition.”

“I think you have the wrong number,” Beck said.

“Your number was listed as home in her contacts.”

His instinct tingled, the subtle whisper of the Light tickling him while he tried to identify what it wanted. Was it simply because it was his obligation to help people and this was an opportunity to make up for failing others? “All right,” he said. “You’re at which hospital?”

“St. Mary Mercy.”

“Which is where?”

“Las Vegas,” Doctor Bridges said impatiently. “Can you be here before my shift is up in two hours? Or should I leave a note for my replacement?”

Beck almost smiled. It was a trick question for him. He could be anywhere he wanted in seconds. “I can be there by then,” he said.

“Great. I just need your name for the emergency point of contact form.”