“Get down!” 

Jaelle needn’t have bothered. Mrs. Peterson was already kneeling, one hand grasped her husband’s waistband, and her other held her up, shaking against the dirty linoleum floor. Liam grunted with each strike of the door, his face flushed. They both looked so pale.

It was times like these when Jaelle felt the most useless. She couldn’t pick up a key, couldn’t help Mal fight off the attackers. No action she took could directly affect the outside world unless it was through influencing someone that could affect the world. So, what options did that leave her? 

She could change her appearance— make herself look like something impressive or frightening, but somehow she didn’t think that tactic would work on these men. They were too cold, too unflinching in their attack on Mal. She watched him use magic both defensively and in attack, but neither of the suits blinked. Jaelle’s heartbeat surged in intangible fury; it felt real enough to her.

Mal needed help, and she couldn’t do anything.

The door gave, and Liam Peterson tumbled through it in a spray of limbs. Jaelle turned with them, taking in the shelves and cleaning supplies, and most importantly, the emergency exit. “Through that door!” she hissed. “Get out and head for the tree line! We’ll be right behind you.”

Blue fire began to encircle Mal’s hands, and Jaelle blanched. This was about to get messy—the sort of messy that led to too many questions about strange powers and otherworldly destruction. She hoped he could keep it contained to this space, but just in case Mal couldn’t, Jaelle scrambled for an alternative to the destroyer of worlds.

She ducked into the hallway, waited for the emergency door’s clanging alarm, and then forced herself into a different shape—herself but male, her hair buzzed, her shoulders broader, and her legs longer. She flickered a moment, trying to solidify the deception, but it was difficult to force herself into this different of a shape. By the time she managed it, the spell was nearly ready.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Jaelle leveled an incorporeal gun with steady incorporeal hands at the nearest of the attackers. He promptly shot through her.

Well, so much for that idea.

Jaelle turned and ran back through the hall, letting the illusion fade with the same relief as someone carrying too much weight might put down their burden. It would be up to Mal unless—please God— they got some help. By the time she reached the Petersons, Jaelle looked herself again.

She waved them on, directing them into the woods behind the backcountry gas station. Hopefully, the fear and adrenaline would keep them from noticing that she didn’t disturb the shrubs they passed.