The demon jerked the door open.

I didn’t want to die. I would never hug my mom again. I wouldn’t see my sisters grow up. I wouldn’t be there when Bern graduated; I would never find out Leon’s magic. I would never find out if Rogan and I had a chance.

My family would be lost without me.

I wouldn’t die today. Demon or not, I’ll be damned if I lay there, petrified, and let him rip the life out of me. Not today. Not ever.

The demon locked his hand on my throat, pulling me toward him. The monstrous face leaned in, the mouth opening wider, teeth glistening, the red burning eyes excited as he squeezed my throat, cutting off my air.

Lie, my magic whispered.

I clamped both hands on its neck and pushed with all my power. Agony exploded in my shoulders, shot down my arms, and burst into a feathery lightning, biting deep into the demon’s flesh. The creature in my arms screamed, but the shocker’s lightning held it tight and I strained harder, forcing the full reserve of my magic into his flesh.

The scales turned transparent, betraying a glimpse of human skin underneath. Not a demon. An illusion mage. You bastard! Fry, you sonovabitch. Fry.

The illusion broke, a curtain jerked aside, and a man’s face screamed at me, big mouth contorted with pain.

A glowing thread swam across my vision. I had to let go or I’d kill myself.

I unclamped my hands from the man’s neck. He crashed down on top of me. I hit the seat with my side, the dead weight of his body pinning me, nearly crushing me. My back crunched. His feet in black boots drummed the air as he convulsed on top of me. There was nowhere to go. Thick pink foam slid from his lips. I shoved him back as hard as I could and he sagged on the side of the seat, halfway into the car.

I had no idea if he’d survived that. I had to be sure.

My nose was running. Tears rolled down my face, but the panic vanished. I finally saw my gun on the floor, out of my reach.

I gripped the seat and stood straight up, bending forward. My knees popped. I leaned on the left foot and used my weight to wrench the right leg free.

Faint tremors shook the mage’s legs. If he lived . . .

I jerked my left leg free, dove across the seat, grabbed my gun, and fired three bullets into the left side of the mage’s chest. Well, if he wasn’t dead, he definitely wasn’t happy. Great, I’ve turned into my mother. That’s what she would say.

The 4Runner hadn’t moved. Its driver door was still open. Nobody shot at me. Nobody followed the illusion mage.

I grabbed the corpse by the dark long hair and raised his head to see his face. A man in his thirties, tan, sharp-featured, wearing a black T-shirt, a trench coat, and black tactical-gear pants. Never seen him before.

I was a licensed private investigator involved in an accident. The tollbooth camera had likely recorded the crash. All my training said I had to call it in and hold tight until the cops and first responders got here. If Troy had a neck injury and I moved him, he could end up paralyzed. He could be bleeding to death internally.

But Troy and I were sitting ducks here. If that semi came back and rammed us again, there would be nothing left but a metal pancake and a bloody spot. Right now whoever had sent the illusion mage thought he was taking care of the job. If I called authorities for help and he somehow listened in, he would know we weren’t dead. There was no telling who would show up.

I grabbed the corpse by the T-shirt and yanked it deeper into the car. So heavy. The T-shirt ripped. Damn it. I hooked my hands into his armpits and heaved, lifting with my legs. Finally, the body gave and slid forward. I rolled him on his side, bent his knees, and slammed the passenger door closed. So far so good. I popped the right rear door open, keeping the Range Rover between me and the highway, and got into the front passenger seat.

Troy didn’t move. No blood. No obvious injuries. I unlocked his seat belt and checked his pulse again. Still alive.

The impact of the crash had crushed the left side of the Range Rover. Most of the hood was almost intact, but the entire driver door looked out of commission. There was no way to open it. I had to move him from inside the cab.

A truck tore past us and swerved to avoid the 4Runner parked on the shoulder. The vehicle showed no signs of life. I could’ve sworn I’d seen two people in it.

I found the switch on the side of the front passenger seat and flipped it, pushing on the seat’s back to flatten it as much as it would go.

Behind us a blue SUV took an exit lane, then veered sharply back onto the tollway before my heart had a chance to jump out of my chest.

I grabbed Troy and gently, an inch at a time, began to slide him over on to the flattened seat, trying not to jostle him. I pulled and heaved until finally he slid in.

The empty driver’s seat gaped at me. I climbed over Troy and landed in it. My feet barely reached the pedals. The switch moving the seat forward didn’t respond. I perched on the edge of the seat, pressed the brake pedal, and pushed the engine-start button.

Start. Please, please, please start.

The engine roared to life. There was no sweeter sound.

I put the car into reverse. The Range Rover’s door screeched, parting with the booth, and then suddenly we were free. The engine sputtered. I floored it. The warehouse was fifteen minutes away. I turned on Hammerly, made a left on Triway, and zigzagged through the labyrinth of small streets as the rain poured on, flooding the pavement.

Minutes stretched by, slow and sluggish, the Range Rover coughing and creaking, threatening to die any second. Time turned viscous. I kept checking the rearview mirror. No semis.

Troy stirred in the seat. I glanced at him. He was blinking quickly and tried to sit up.

“Stay down,” I told him.

He did.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Back of the head. My vision is blurry. What happened?”

“I’m taking you home,” I said.

“Need to notify . . .” He patted down his pocket.

“Don’t move,” I told him. “We’re almost there. Rogan has a team watching our house. One of them has to be an EMT.”

“Call it in.”

“When we’re safe.”

Streets flashed by. Gessner. Kempwood. When our street appeared out of the rain, I almost cried. I drove around the warehouse to the back. One of the massive industrial garage doors gaped open, and I steered the Range Rover inside, screeching to a stop a foot from the bumper of an armored Hummer.

“What in blazes . . .” Grandma Frida stepped out from behind the Hummer, a wrench in her hands. She saw the mangled side of the Range Rover and saw my face. I must’ve looked bloodless, because my seventy-two-year-old grandmother sprinted across the floor to hit the button on the door remote. The reinforced door clanged down, cutting off the world outside.

I ran into the living portion of the warehouse as Grandma Frida grabbed the med kit out of one of the metal cages. Cartoon noises floated from the media room. I stuck my head in. Arabella, blonde and short, sprawled on the couch. Catalina, taller, thinner, and dark-haired, sat on the floor among a scattering of brushes and hair ties. Matilda sat on the floor in front of her, between Bunny and a large seal-point Himalayan cat. One half of her hair was twisted into an elaborate braid.

Everyone looked at me.

I forced a smile on my face. “Matilda, where is your dad?”

“He’s taking a nap,” she said.