The wave of heat came first, racing ahead of the shrapnel and knocking us both to the ground. Quentin was jolted out of my hold, landing about four feet away. I let forward momentum carry me into a roll, ignoring the pain reawakening in my shoulders, back, and knees. I had more pressing problems, like the question of whether or not my hair was on fire. A chunk of the hood embedded itself in the ground a foot from my head, and I amended that idea; burning hair wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as being decapitated by the flying remains of my car.

Momentum gave out and I rolled to a stop, tucking my head under my body and listening to the debris raining down around me. There were a few soft thuds, then silence. The air stank of gasoline, smoke, and melted tar, but no one was screaming; I decided to take that as a good sign. Even so, it was several minutes before I raised my head.

The remains of my car were smoldering in the gate, pinned by the portcullis. The vegetation on all sides was charred and broken, but the gateway itself wasn’t even scratched, and the stones were clean. Whatever spells they’d built into that thing were holding.

“If this was part of the alarm system, I’m going to kill them,” I muttered.

Quentin was where I’d dropped him, head resting on his arm. None of the debris seemed to have hit him; that was a small blessing. I walked over and bent to check his pulse, noting the scrapes scoring his arms and neck. He looked like he’d taken less damage than I had. His pulse was fast, pushed up by panic and adrenaline, but it was there, and it was strong.

“You’re lucky as hell, kid,” I said, brushing the glass away and rolling him onto his back. My hands left bloody prints on his shoulders and upper arms. I straightened, despite the protests from my back and knees, and turned to face the parking lot. And I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. People are pulled to explosions by an instinctive desire to see something forbidden, and that goes double for the fae. Only a few minutes passed before I heard running footsteps and Jan shouting, “That’s Toby’s car!”

“Well, it was,” I said, even though none of them were close enough to hear me. My hands were starting to seriously hurt. That would have to wait. There’d be time to worry about how badly I was or wasn’t injured later, if I was lucky—time was turning into a limited commodity, and if Quentin and I were targets, it was running out.

Jan crested the rise separating us from the parking lot, Terrie running close behind her. Terrie was panting, one hand pressed against her chest, gaping at the wreckage.

“Oh, my . . .”