The Windhaven Witches Omnibus Edition : Complete Paranormal Suspense Series, Books 1-4 Carissa Andrews (the beginning after the end read novel txt) 📖

I cast him a knowing look. “He was probably right about that.”

“Don’t you start, too,” he says, casting me a warning look.

“It doesn’t matter now. We need to get the Gilberts here as fast as possible. Do you still have my phone?” I say, holding out my hand.

“Well, yeah. But what do the twins have to do with this?” Wade asks, digging my phone out of his pocket and handing it to me.

“Colton’s a biomancer, remember?”

“Shit,” Wade says, rolling his eyes.

“But that’s not all. We need Cat, too. My dad’s remains need to be burned in something called the Fires of Eternity, or his soul can’t be released to…” my eyebrows tug inward and my shoulders drop, “your dad. Shit, Wade—you can’t be here. If he finds out…”

“Look, we’ll deal with that bridge when we cross it. Right now, the priority is getting out of here in one piece. Call the twins,” Wade says, shaking his head. “I’ll give you some cover.”

Again the room rumbles and I nod quickly, kneeling down. The faster I do this, the better. Wade kneels as well, taking off his coat and holding it around us like a cloak of protection.

Taking a deep breath, I punch Cat’s name and start silently praying she’ll answer the phone. It’s been so long since we last talked and with everything that happened last semester between Colton and the revenants—and her and her Fetch—I haven’t even known what to say.

The phone starts ringing and I hold my breath, waiting for her to pick up. After four rings, her voicemail picks up.

“Dammit,” I spit, hitting the redial.

“No answer?” Wade asks, being thrust forward as something hits him from behind.

I shake my head, clutching the phone to my ear. Again, it goes to voice mail. Immediately, I dial Colton instead. His phone also goes to voice mail.

I exhale in exasperation. “Neither of them are answering me.”

“Then we need to figure out how to get out of this mess on our own. I think if we can edge along the wall, we might be able to make it to the underside of the stairs,” Wade says, tipping his head toward the open slats letting in our only source of light.

“Then what? It’s not like we’ll be able to fit through them,” I mutter. The sandstorm spirals around, peeling back layers of rock and mortar from the wall that holds the other side of the stairs up.

“Maybe we can peel back one of the treads. It might give us some room to get out. If nothing else, it looks like the wall is blocking the sand a bit better than this damn coat. Come on,” he says, nodding toward the stairs.

Getting up into a crouched position, I shield the side of my face with my right arm and start almost duck-walking toward the stairs. Wade does the same, continuing to hold his leather jacket up to protect us.

Sand pelts the other side of his jacket. The sound is reminiscent of rain falling on the roof or hitting the edge of a windowsill. Larger stones buried in the walls crumble and pull into the cyclone, as if being drawn to the center of a black hole.

I race forward, practically diving into the small alcove in order to be shielded beneath the stairs.

“That was close,” I breathe, turning around to face Wade.

Just as I face him, a stone the size of his head dislodges from the wall beside him. It hits him in the shoulder, pushing him off balance. He stumbles backward a couple of steps. Another rock, much larger than the first, and already caught in the vortex, cycles around, catching him in the back of the head.

I blink back my horror and dismay. But before I can even reach out for him or call his name, his eyes dim. His expression doesn’t even change.

Then, as if in slow motion, his knees buckle beneath him. In the longest of seconds ever, his arms fall to his side, and he lets loose his jacket. It’s scooped up by the sandstorm behind him, instantly consumed by it. The dark strands of hair across Wade’s forehead flutter wildly, almost as if he’s just on a joyride in a convertible, as he drops to the ground.

Rushing forward, I somehow manage to grab onto his upper body, hoisting him up before he can fall face-first into the dirt. With all the strength I can muster, I yank him backward, dragging him into the tiny space beneath the stairs.

My body trembles as I try to gently set him down on his back. Placing a hand behind his head, I support his neck as I lay him flat. Removing my shaky hand, I fight the urge to hurl. My hand is totally covered in crimson, and a small pool of blood begins to spread across the sand beneath his head.

A guttural cry escapes my lips as I scramble to find a pulse on his neck. My fingers slip and slide against his skin and my hands quake too much to get a good read.

“Wade, stay with me—” I say, barely holding back my sobs. “I’ll get you help. I swear, I’ll get you help.”

The typical flush of color that would be splashed across his cheeks is fading and even his lips take on an odd whitish tinge. I bend forward, clutching him to my body as I instinctively rock back and forth.

My worst nightmare is coming to pass.

“Wade,” I repeat, over and over. Tears stream from my eyes, mixing with the sand and grit covering my face, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Beyond the small wall, the stones and sand continue to circle, ripping away years of history from this space, but all I can worry about is Wade and whether or not he’s okay. And if he’s not—then the fucking cyclone better just scoop me up now, because I’m done. End me now.

“Stop—”