The Protection of Ren Crown by Anne Zoelle Page B

yellow hit her, making her lurch to the right. Her shield pulsed.
    Help her, not me! I tried to yell at Constantine, but no sound emerged.
    I pushed and pushed at the net strands, anxiety making my caged magic frenzied, but impotent. Nausea rose within me at my complete inability to move or act.
    Then Olivia fell. A scream rose within me. The sound and feeling of it choked my silent throat. A net engulfed her and she too was forced motionless beneath it, her face turned away.
    Concentration turned en masse to Constantine, who stood in front of me but slightly to the side.
    A device in the leader's hand was aimed at Olivia’s head. “If you move,” the leader said to Constantine as the others prowled closer. “The Price girl dies.”
    “Kill her then.” Constantine's voice, usually dripping with false charm, was ice cold.
    My throat constricted with the sounds I tried to make.
    One of the men holding a net device edged close enough to grab Constantine's arm. As soon as his fingers touched Constantine's skin, the assailant shrieked—a high-pitched animal noise—and fell to his knees, screaming in absolute agony. He clutched his hand, wildly shaking it as if attempting to dislodge acid.
    A compatriot grabbed his collar and scrambled backward with him— away from Constantine—while he rapidly cast healing spells on the man's hand, a hand that looked like it was crumbling.
    Constantine smirked.
    Sitting in his room making diabolical mixtures and practicing sex spells probably didn't engender a lot of tactical fighting savvy. Other than his blasts at the leader when he had knelt next to me, Constantine had been solely diverting magic aimed his way in the perennially bored manner he exuded outside of his workshop. But Constantine was Professor Stevens' protégé and a genius with materials. Whatever personal shields he wore obviously worked in the First Layer and had vicious defensive properties.
    With his perpetual arrogance, though, Constantine was watching the pain he'd caused and missed the leader's asymmetrical features morphing in fury.
    A huge wave of blackened purple flew from the man's hands and exploded against Constantine's face. Constantine stumbled, and magic peeled away like destroyed skin, eating away his shield set and exposing what lay beneath. A horrifying set of crisscrossing patterns twisted across Constantine’s face.
    His head bent toward me and I could see every disfiguring violet bloom. His expression twisted into something violent and lethal and his fingers gripped a jagged metallic star on his belt then threw it. As it coursed through the air, the metal changed properties, becoming silver mist. It attached like a web to the asymmetrical man, who fell to his knees, holding his throat, gasping the last breaths of a gutted fish.
    Active magic and sound ceased completely and the parking lot lights eerily illuminated the deadened space.
    Constantine's fingers slipped under his own shirt to grip his stomach. The disfiguring violet marks turned nearly black then receded, leaving clear, unmarked skin behind. His expression promised death, but whatever he had done to heal himself had taken its toll. The hand lifting from his shirt shook.
    The other was gripping a second metallic star.
    Above his mocking smile, Constantine's deadly gaze pinned the remaining two men—promising to give one last death before he was put down. “Who will it be?”
    The men looked at their leader and edged closer together—away from Constantine.
    The leader's eyes didn't stray from the star in Constantine's hand as the man painfully pressed a button on the device at his waist. The metallic mist burst away from the leader's skin and fell to the concrete in droplets. Then the droplets gathered together and reconfigured to form a silver star once more.
    Rasping, wet breaths became measured pants, and the leader rose with great difficulty. His finger maintained contact with the device at his waist. He still had magic, but I