Soon, he said to me, the word echoing around my head like a marble in an empty box.

“I believe it’s time to get the honeymoon started,” he said when he finally pulled back again. Since my body was molded to his, my mouth swollen, I wasn’t really in a position to argue.

“Sure,” was all I managed to say. And weakly, at that.

“Let’s switch positions!” Shay called out.

“Not in this lifetime, sister,” I murmured, and kept a grip on Ethan’s hand.

Ethan chuckled with masculine satisfaction. “No worries, Sentinel. You’re the only woman for me.”

Damn straight.

• • •

We did more El shots, a few shots in Pritzker Park, a few shots in front of brick walls, and then the same shots with a variety of people. Shay offered to walk us down to Buckingham Fountain, but Ethan’s looks were becoming increasingly incendiary, and I was losing my immunity to their heat.

“We could take—,” Shay began, but I cut her off with a hand.

She’d been taking pictures for hours. And my mother had long since departed the wedding, so she’d forfeited her right to complain.

“I believe we have adequately captured the moment,” I said, and glanced at Ethan. “Unless you disagree?”

“There is one I’d like to get,” he said with a smile so sly I was afraid he’d suggest she follow us back to the hotel. But instead, he took my hand, and we walked back to the library and the entrance on Van Buren. We reached the arched brass doors, CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY etched into the glass in the arch.

“Here,” he said, and, without bothering to explain, picked me up. I squealed, wrapped my arms around his neck as he centered our bodies beneath the sign.

His smile held cool confidence. “Proof that I managed to get her out of the library.”

I rolled my eyes during the first shot, smiled during the second, and pressed my lips to his cheek during the third. “Thank you for indulging me,” he said, when he put me down again. He pressed his lips to my forehead. But even that chaste act sent frissons of excitement and anticipation through me.

“Thanks, guys,” Shay said. “It was a great event. I’ll be in touch.” But her gaze was on the display on the back of her camera, fingers busily working the controls.

“I bet she says that to all the girls.”

“She probably does,” Ethan said. “But we’re done, so let’s take our leave.”

“Your limo is around the corner,” Amit said with a grin that told me he and Malik had done some decorating.

Hand in hand, we walked around the building to South Plymouth, where the library’s red brick gave way to dark glass and sleek steel. The limo sat at the curb, JUST MARRIED in white block letters across the back window, white balloons affixed to the fender and trunk, blue and white ribbons and streamers spilling out from beneath the back bumper.

“And I guess that’s our ride,” Ethan said dryly.

My first thought was that Amit had been offended by the comment, had made the sound that speared the air in front of us. Ethan realized the truth faster, threw a protective hand in front of me as he stared into the shadowed street.

The sound hadn’t been an objection.

It had been a scream.

A dozen humans filled Plymouth between Congress and Van Buren, and they were beating the shit out of one another, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing through the near darkness. The crowd was a mix of people in street clothes, pajamas, suits, and an assortment of ages, genders, races.

Cars were stopped in the middle of the dark street where people had simply abandoned them, climbed out, and begun pummeling one another, engines running and radios still blasting. Doors to apartment buildings were open, and a paper bag of fast food—someone’s late-night snack forgotten—lay tipped over on the sidewalk.

This wasn’t a party, wedding or otherwise. It was a fight.

I couldn’t tell what had started it. It didn’t look like a turf war or victory riot. This was a brawl that had brought people out of cars, out of homes when they should have been sleeping. And there was no obvious cause. But something had driven these people to violence.

“What the hell is this?” Catcher asked.

A man ran toward us, yanking at tufts of his hair. “The voice! Get the goddamned screaming out of my head!”

This man wasn’t the only one screaming those words—the same words I’d heard Winston mutter. And he wasn’t the only one with panic practically itching across his skin.

I swore, and could feel the blood drain from my face. There’s something in the air, Gabriel had said. It feels like the world is shifting.

Was this what he’d meant?

“Winston,” Ethan said quietly, as if raising his voice might have drawn them closer.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, but the word felt thick on my tongue. And in the back of my throat, the sharp tang of chemicals, just like I’d sensed in the House.

He was only ten feet from us when he suddenly pitched over, and the scent of blood filled the air, adding copper to that sharp tang of magic.

Behind him stood a man in a business suit, tie unknotted and top button undone, dark circles beneath his eyes and five-o’clock shadow across his face. And in his hand, a bloody tire iron. He looked at us, raised his weapon.

“Is this your fault? Are you doing this to me?” The words were demands, his eyes flitting back and forth between us, looking for someone to blame. And since we were the only ones unaffected by the magic—whatever magic it was—he’d picked us.

“Get inside.”

Ethan and I gave the orders to each other simultaneously. But when we looked at each other, we nodded acceptance. We’d just taken a vow to stand beside each other. Might as well get started now.

Catcher looked back at Shay. “Get inside and call the cops. Go. Now.”

She wasn’t a war correspondent. She was a wedding photographer, and horror had her freezing in place, eyes wide and dazed.

“Shay!” Catcher said again, a sharp and decisive order.

She blinked, looked at him.

“Inside. Call the cops. Go.”

He must have gotten through, as she turned on her heel and ran for the door.

Unfortunately, Catcher’s voice, that protective order, had traveled. More of the brawling crowd realized we were there, and turned back to look at us, their immediate conflicts forgotten.

We condensed into a smaller group, a tighter group, scanning the growing threat.

“Sentinel?” Ethan said. “I believe you’re the one with the experience here.”

They didn’t need killing; they just needed subduing. “Knock them out,” I said. “That’s the best way to keep them from killing themselves or each other.”

“Or us,” Mallory quietly said.

“We can distract them, separate them,” Catcher agreed, gaze narrowed as he looked over the group.

The man with the tire iron raised it over his head.

Mine, Ethan said silently, and took off his jacket, tossed it on a parking meter.

That was the first act of the offensive. Amit’s jacket followed Ethan’s. Mallory and Catcher began to gather power; it bristled around us as they prepared magical fireballs.

“Luc is going to be pissed he missed this,” Lindsey said, stepping beside me. She’d pulled a dark elastic through her hair, was twining it into a bun to keep it out of the way. It was a practical move that matched the determination in her eyes. Lindsey may have enjoyed her shares of sass and fashion, but there was no one fiercer in battle.

“Probably so,” I agreed. “Let’s shut this down.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WAR OF WORLDS

There was a rhythm to every fight, a kind of dance between opponents. But the speed, the steps, the music of it, varied. When Ethan and I practiced, it was a fine ballet with careful moves and exquisite precision. This fight was a drunken midnight dance. All elbows and unfocused eyes and stepped-on toes.

I separated two women in nightgowns, slippers still on their feet, who were screaming like banshees between sobbing, terrified wails. Like Winston and the first man we’d seen tonight, they tore at their hair like they might rip the demons away. That obviously didn’t work, which seemed to exacerbate their screaming.