The stairway was just as still as it had been on her way out, but there was a charge in the air that made the hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stand up. She tried to tell herself it was just her nerves, but her nerves were telling her quite firmly that the hunt for her was on. She wasn’t sure how far along it was, but there was no doubt she’d been missed.

The door at the bottom of the last flight of stairs looked like it had been built to withstand a nuclear blast. It was reinforced steel with three dead bolts on the outside—not one of them locked. She flew through it, the maze of pipes indicating that she was in the basement. Although with its array of hooks, chains, and what she was fairly certain were a variety of medieval torture devices, “dungeon” would have been a more appropriate term.

Is that a freaking rack?

Chained to the far wall and naked to the waist was Malcolm. He raised his golden head in terrified disbelief. His right eye was swollen almost shut, and a trickle of blood ran from a nasty cut on his nose. But the worst damage she could see was the absolute despair in his eyes. “Jane, what the hell are you doing?” he rasped. “You need to get out of here.”

“Malcolm, honey,” she choked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Did you know your mother was this kinky?”

“Jane, seriously,” he wheezed.

She crossed the dungeon at a run, her stupid wedding shoes clacking obnoxiously over the concrete floor. “I’ll go as soon as you do,” she promised him, reaching for his chained wrist. “Just tell me where those bitches hide their keys.”

He shook his head and winced. “No keys. She conjured the chains out of thin air.”

The rage was boiling faster and redder now in Jane’s body, coalescing behind her eyes. A familiar electric tingle came with it, and she knew her magic had fully shaken off the dampening effects of whatever Lynne and the twins had done to her. She took a step away from Malcolm.

“Thank God,” he mumbled, clearly taking her step back as a retreat.

Footsteps sounded overhead, along with shouts. Time was running out. Inhaling a deep lungful of stale air, Jane called together all of the power in her body. Conjuring? They’re not the only ones who can do tricks. She let out a dry laugh as the magic formed a hard, angry ball in her chest.

Malcolm’s head lolled up, uncomprehending. “Jane . . .” he began, but he met her eyes and clamped his mouth shut.

She moved the ball of fire outward, toward her fingertips, and clenched the chains around his wrists. She felt a detonation somewhere inside her, and at the same time the chains exploded into rusted sand that rained down on their feet. Without the chains to support his battered body, Malcolm slumped to the damp cement ground.

“Jane,” he whispered, dark eyes wide.

“Shush,” she told him. “Talk later. Right now we’re in the middle of a daring escape.” They headed for the service door, Malcolm limping miserably on an injured leg while Jane tried to contain her impatience. You’re the moron who insisted on rescuing him, her mind informed her huffily, and she smiled in spite of herself.

The smile lasted through their slow progress up the stairs, but disappeared abruptly when the service door refused to open. “Shit.”

She entered her code again, and then Malcolm’s, and, finally, what she was pretty sure was Laura Helding’s, but the little LED flashed red and the door didn’t budge. “Shit shit shit shit.” The footsteps sounded louder now, more frenzied. She channeled a few exploratory tendrils of magic into the keypad, but they bounced back painfully into her hands. Magic-proof—I’d want that, too, if I spent my time going around killing other witches’ families.

“Let me try,” Malcolm offered, stumbling toward the door. He winced, and she wondered if he’d cracked a rib or two.

“No point,” she disagreed. “They’ve locked the place down.”

Malcolm looked stricken. “Then it’s over. They’ve won.”

Jane fought the urge to shake his broken-looking shoulders. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “Why are you so in awe of your family? They’re just witches, not gods. Are you really going to just give up? Stand here and wait for them to come and make up a new set of chains for you?”

Something changed in Malcolm as he processed her words. He seemed to stand up straighter, and his eyes blazed beneath his puffy, blackened lids. “We have to get to Gunther’s desk,” he said resolutely. “Which means—”

“That we have to go through the main house.”

He nodded slowly, and without waiting for more discussion, she dragged him grimly toward the main hall: if this was the end, they’d go down swinging.

A shout echoed through the high-ceilinged entryway when they burst into it, and Jane spun toward the sound. Belinda Helding was raising a bony finger to point at them, but Jane—who didn’t bother with the dramatic gesture—was faster, and the woman smashed against the wall before slumping to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Jane had never felt so powerful, so angry—but also so in control. She ran toward Gunther’s desk, shoving Belinda’s limp body out of the way with her shoe. “Malcolm, tell me what all this is,” she urged. The control panel was an incomprehensible mass of buttons and lights.

He shook his head helplessly. “Can’t you just . . . ?” he wiggled his fingers as a demonstration.

She consulted the magic sparking through her veins for a moment, finding power but no intelligence, and shook her head. “I’m pretty sure I’d blow the whole thing up, which probably wouldn’t open the doors.”

He turned back toward the console. “What if we—”

Ding. It was the softest noise, but they both turned toward the sound as if it were machine-gun fire. It had to be Lynne. Heart pounding, Jane funneled all the electricity in her body to her hands, where it crackled almost visibly.

The elevator doors slid open painfully slowly. Jane started to launch her magic at it, but managed to pull it to the side just in time as Malcolm’s father stepped out, scotch glass in hand, looking beyond dazed.

“What are you kids doing setting fireworks in the hall?” he slurred, crashing into the door frame as he staggered toward them. He didn’t appear to notice the charred hole in the marble wall beside his head, the remnant of Jane’s aborted attack. He did stop when he reached Belinda’s prone form on the floor, but only for a brief moment before he stepped over her body. “Huh. Never liked her.” He turned to his son. “Malcolm, Blake’s got a poker game on two”—he frowned suddenly—“but this isn’t two.”

“Dad,” Malcolm said carefully, “do you know how the security system works?” Jane stared at him incredulously: the man couldn’t even work the elevator. But Malcolm nodded reassuringly as his father tottered toward them.

“I always did think these gizmos were neat,” he announced happily, setting the scotch down so hard on the desk that some sloshed out. “Malcolm, have you talked to your mother? I think she’s mad at you. You know how she gets. I got worried so I locked her in our room upstairs, but I think she’ll find a way out. She always does.”

Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “Dad, we’re leaving,” he said softly.

The older man turned his bleary eyes up to his son’s face, taking in the damage there for what appeared to be the first time. “That sounds right,” he agreed, turning back to the control panel with a shrug. “Wish I had . . . well, water under the bridge. You remind me of her,” he added suddenly. Jane, who’d been watching the stairway for more intruders, frowned in confusion when she realized that he’d been talking to her. She was like Lynne?

“She was sweet when we met,” he explained, his words alternately hesitating and running together. “Smart young thing, and pretty, too. More like you, less on her shoulders. You two should go now,” he added sadly, and a soft beeping noise was followed by an audible click. He frowned at Malcolm’s naked torso, quite possibly noticing it for the first time. He unbuttoned his own pink shirt and handed it to his son before settling into Gunther’s padded chair in just his undershirt. “Even taxis still have standards. Some things do stay the same.” He sounded sleepy.

“Malcolm, come on,” Jane urged, pulling him toward the door, but he resisted, wincing at the pressure on his ribs. “It’s only a matter of time before your mom gets free.”

“No!” Malcolm cried. “We have to—you have to do something about my dad. When she finds out he helped—”

“Don’t worry ’bout a thing,” his father slurred in a relaxed singsong, swiveling the chair back and forth. “Never did figure out how you managed to hide things from her, kid. Bet it’s good—you always were a smart one. But my way works, too.” He winked and raised his scotch glass pointedly and drank a lengthy farewell toast as Malcolm finally let Jane pull him through the carved wooden door for what she fervently hoped would be the last time.