Oh, yes, they’d found Boyle all right. By the half-baked, fuzzy reflections she could get from the dew in the grass, he was nearly dead. The shouting grew louder and a thick, wet sound came from the direction of the demons. Isabelle flinched in surprise and her magick snapped back hard and fast like a rubber band.

He was now all the way dead.

“I guess Boyle is no longer a problem,” whispered Thomas.

“Unless he can function without his head.” Her voice came out barely more than a breath.

The yelling across the clearing lulled to almost nothing and then swelled. Isabelle and Thomas didn’t need magick to understand the tromping of demon feet now moved quickly in their direction. Isabelle knew with a rising sick feeling in her gut they weren’t getting out of this undiscovered.

Thomas pushed her facedown into the thicket with a harsh order to stay there, grasped the sword, and struggled to stand to greet the oncoming rush. Lady damn the man! He was injured!

She cast about for ways to use her magick as a weapon in this situation and came up empty since she couldn’t use her ability directly on the demons. All she could do was watch in horror as Thomas took a wide swing and sliced into one of their attackers.

Rough hands grabbed her and pulled her up. She glimpsed the demon Thomas had wounded—tall, muscular and dark-haired. He’d collapsed to the thicket, holding his side and bellowing in pain as his wound smoked and popped.

Her captor swung her around to face the ravening horde. They looked human…well, except for their massive size. They wore leather, the lot of them. Boots, pants, and jackets. Almost like a uniform of some kind. The largest of them, a hulking demon with long red hair and brown eyes barked something at her in their language. She could only glare in response, her hands fisting.

Thomas had been scuffling with them beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw three demons finally bring Thomas to heel, but not before he’d injured two of them. The demons wrestled him down, extracted the sword from him, and tossed it to the ground. Then they heaved him up fast and hard, making him groan in pain, and forced him to kneel next to Isabelle.

His hair fell over his face, concealing his expression, but anger rolled off him in biting, bitter waves. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage her T-shirt made, dripped down his leg. Terror edged up her throat like a razor blade. He needed medical attention, damn it!

More shouting at them in the strange language.

“We don’t understand you!” bellowed Thomas. He flicked his hair away from his face and Isabelle glimpsed his eyes, snapping hot black with ire.