No Rest for the Witches Read Online Free Page A

path through the ruins of the pre-quake city, and making sure he arrived at Matilda’s sanctuary in the Old Sea-Trench had been touch and go. And a strain on her already frayed patience.
    She’d agonized between hope and despair, ignored everything but Phin as she’d struggled to keep one part of herself focused on the here and now, and enough of the fountain’s magic on him so he didn’t bleed out. She’d never had to juggle both before.
    Now, exhaustion licked at her.
    But she didn’t have time to give in, tempted as she was to crawl in beside Phin and crash. She straightened, easing off the bed and to her feet, wincing as her joints popped loudly in protest.
    Someone moved behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Joel’s haggard face. He’d sport dual black eyes for a few days and the swelling at the bridge of his nose looked painful, but at least his nose was straight again. Probably Silas’s handiwork.
    She’d been too focused on Phin to care.
    Joel jammed his hands into his pockets—a pair of Silas’s jeans, she noted. Too big for the shorter man, but belted in place. His shoulders remained hunched. “Is he . . .” His voice came out on a croak.
    â€œHe’s fine.”
    As if her short reassurance was enough, he blew out a hard breath and collapsed back to the wooden chest he’d claimed as a perch. It creaked alarmingly, but held. Most of the junk Matilda collected was in pretty good shape. She’d seen the woman restore the strangest pieces to working order, bits and things Matilda brought back from her many and mysterious travels.
    â€œThank God,” Joel was saying, and repeated it again on a harsh whisper.
    Thank nothing. It was a miracle Phin had survived the trip, much less had it in him to hang on long enough to let the fountain of life do its thing.
    And the thought tore open a hole inside her chest she didn’t know how to cope with.
    Phin’s nut brown curls were longer than when she’d seen him last, as if he’d forgotten to make time to see his stylist. He was paler, too, though that could have been the blood loss she’d fought hard to fix. He slept peacefully, lines of pain finally eased from his face. But they’d been replaced with lines of something else—worry. Fear.
    She hated it. Hated that he was stuck topside while she was locked below. Hated that she still woke up in her modified tent, aching and alone.
    But they’d known that going in.
    It was all part of the life they both led. Phin was a topsider, a wealthy man from a prestigious family who’d dedicated his life to helping the kind of people Naomi had once been tasked to hunt. After Timeless—after Gemma had died in Naomi’s arms—they both knew the Holy Order of St. Dominic would be all over them like flies on shit. There would be investigations, questions, scrutiny.
    And Phin—the stupid, noble man that he was—was determined to stay where he was, to provide as much safety as he could for the accused witches he’d failed to help before Timeless had gone up in smoke.
    Naomi reached out, ran her finger along the line of his leanly muscled bicep, and held her breath when it threatened to shudder out of her chest.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Joel’s whisper jerked her head around. He bent over, his elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. Part of her wanted to tell him to relax, that it all ended up fine.
    The rest of her wanted to jump his shit.
    Naomi gritted her teeth. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but she was three seconds away from losing her goddamned mind.
    She was better than this.
    The bedroom door opened. Silas stepped in, soundless. He moved like a cat when he wanted to; a hell of a trick when he topped out at six-three and was built like a brick wall. His gray-green eyes met hers, then slid to the bed.
    â€œHe’s fine ,” she repeated, and because he raised