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.
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
Nate emerged, creaking like his car. “Whatever did this is dead.”
“Yes,” I said, “it probably is.”