Cold and Broken

Habit had part of my brain assessing the wreck. The rest contemplated what could fling a ton of metal around like a toy. Identification was key to survival.

So was warmth. I pulled on fur-lined gloves, a wicked indulgence, and cursed my newly shorn head.

The magic was old, powerful, laced with pain. It hadn’t been personal, though. I could sense when someone was using bits of me in spells, knowledge that had come with guaranteed damnation. But that was always a given.

Nate emerged, creaking like his car. “Whatever did this is dead.”

“Yes,” I said, “it probably is.”

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