A Local Habitation
Page 92
The lights were off in the cubicle maze, but I didn’t need them; the blood trail was all the guide I needed, and even in the dark, it was bright and clear as day. I put a hand on Elliot’s shoulder, motioning for him to be quiet. Gordan was somewhere nearby, and the Coblynau have some of the best night vision in Faerie. I, on the other hand, was practically blind while my eyes adjusted. That put us at a dangerous disadvantage.
“Where’s the light switch?” I whispered. If we could make a bright light, we might be able to turn Gordan’s night vision against her.
“Other side of the room,” Elliot whispered back.
So much for that idea. “Stay down. We’re taking this slow,” I said, and stepped away from the door. Elliot followed me, his footsteps echoing. I winced. I’m not as stealthy as, say, Tybalt, but at least I’ve had a little training. It was clear that Elliot hadn’t had any.
“Elliot, be quiet,” I hissed.
“I—”
There was a flash of light as the gun went off ahead of us. I shoved Elliot backward, diving for the floor. There was no new pain; she missed. That didn’t mean she’d miss again.
“Cover your mouth!” Elliot shouted.
The smell of lye rose in the air, hot and insistent. I covered my mouth and nose, closing my eyes just before a tidal wave of hot, soapy water washed over me. The cats yowled, caught in the flood. This was no simple steam cleaning; I felt myself lifted off the floor as the water rose. I shuddered and squeezed my eyes more tightly shut, trying to pretend I wasn’t floating. Repressing the panic attack was taking my full attention. I don’t like water. I don’t even like baths; just showers where the water never comes up past my ankles and there’s no chance of going under. But now I was submerged by a magical wave I couldn’t escape or control. I just had to hope Elliot knew what he was doing, and wasn’t going to drown us both.
The water swelled and then receded as the wave broke, leaving me as soaked as the rest of the room. Elliot’s magic hadn’t extended to drying this time. I raised my head, gasping, and turned toward him. He was staring into the distance, hands still raised. “Elliot . . . ?”
“Did I get her?” he asked. There was a dark stain spreading across his formerly pristine shirt. Gordan didn’t miss after all.
“Yeah, you did,” I said.
“Ah, good,” he said, and smiled, before pitching forward onto the floor. I started to move toward him, but stopped as I heard the sound of footsteps on the catwalks above. Gordan was still on the loose.
Elliot was bleeding out; he needed medical attention. But he was inside the knowe, and I couldn’t get him outside for the ambulance to find, even if I could explain where he’d gotten the gunshot wound. He’d flooded the room to drive Gordan back, and there was a chance the water had made it into the chamber of her gun, clogging the firing mechanism. It was a stupid chance to take: I knew that. It was the only chance I had.
The cats were clustered on filing cabinets and desks, wailing. Using the cacophony as cover, I ran to the ladder on the far wall and began to climb. Half the cats fell silent, watching me. They couldn’t follow, but they would watch. I found that oddly comforting; whatever happened next, it wouldn’t happen unseen or in secret. The cats would see, and they’d tell Tybalt.
Being soaked didn’t make the climb any easier. The ladder ended just as I started to feel like my knees were going to give out, and I stepped onto the catwalk, my wet shoes making a marshy slapping sound. There were footsteps ahead of me, just around the corner. I leaped forward in a wild dash. “Stop right where you—”
April was standing over Quentin’s body, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and sad.
“—are,” I finished, sliding to a stop.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and disappeared.
Something pressed against the small of my back. Behind me, Gordan said cheerfully, “Maybe the gun works, maybe it doesn’t. Now put your hands where I can see them. I’d say this wasn’t going to hurt, but we both know I’d be lying.”
Oh, great.
THIRTY-TWO
“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE FOLLOWED. I’d have taken good care of him,” she said. “Walk until you hit the wall, then turn and put your shoulders against it. Keep your hands away from that knife. It wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, walking forward. I couldn’t count on the gun being waterlogged, and if it wasn’t, there was no way I’d get Quentin clear before she shot one of us. For the moment, I needed to go along with her and hope for a chance to turn the tables.
“I need to be able to reach your wrists, and I can’t trust you to hold still without incentive. Hence your pretty boy.” She sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t been able to trust you to do anything. You don’t follow directions.”
I reached the wall and turned, stealing a glance at Quentin. He was breathing. I covered my relief, looking back at Gordan. She was smiling and relaxed; the tension of the past few days had melted out of her like it had never existed. I’d have been relaxed, too, if I was the one with the gun.
“That’s better,” she said. “I’m glad you’re being so agreeable. It hurts the data if you’re damaged before we begin.”
“Haven’t we already invalidated your data, if you need us undamaged?”
“I’m a little worried, yeah—are you always this fond of trying to get yourself killed?” She shook her head. “I was starting to wonder if you’d last until I got around to you.”
“You were the one that kept trying to kill us,” I snapped.
“Details. That was just an impulse.” She waved a hand, keeping the gun trained on my chest. “I didn’t want you calling your master and his hounds, not after I’d gone to so much trouble to keep him from knowing what was going on. April does a surprisingly good imitation of your liege, don’t you think?”
“You little . . .”
Gordan smiled, seemingly unperturbed. “I’ll admit, it was sort of hard to talk her into it. Little idiot didn’t understand how it supported our project. Still, it had the desired effect; you don’t listen, but you’re still predictable. And don’t worry about my work—I figure I can use you, injuries and all. It’ll be interesting to see what happens when I start with damaged goods.”
“Where’s the light switch?” I whispered. If we could make a bright light, we might be able to turn Gordan’s night vision against her.
“Other side of the room,” Elliot whispered back.
So much for that idea. “Stay down. We’re taking this slow,” I said, and stepped away from the door. Elliot followed me, his footsteps echoing. I winced. I’m not as stealthy as, say, Tybalt, but at least I’ve had a little training. It was clear that Elliot hadn’t had any.
“Elliot, be quiet,” I hissed.
“I—”
There was a flash of light as the gun went off ahead of us. I shoved Elliot backward, diving for the floor. There was no new pain; she missed. That didn’t mean she’d miss again.
“Cover your mouth!” Elliot shouted.
The smell of lye rose in the air, hot and insistent. I covered my mouth and nose, closing my eyes just before a tidal wave of hot, soapy water washed over me. The cats yowled, caught in the flood. This was no simple steam cleaning; I felt myself lifted off the floor as the water rose. I shuddered and squeezed my eyes more tightly shut, trying to pretend I wasn’t floating. Repressing the panic attack was taking my full attention. I don’t like water. I don’t even like baths; just showers where the water never comes up past my ankles and there’s no chance of going under. But now I was submerged by a magical wave I couldn’t escape or control. I just had to hope Elliot knew what he was doing, and wasn’t going to drown us both.
The water swelled and then receded as the wave broke, leaving me as soaked as the rest of the room. Elliot’s magic hadn’t extended to drying this time. I raised my head, gasping, and turned toward him. He was staring into the distance, hands still raised. “Elliot . . . ?”
“Did I get her?” he asked. There was a dark stain spreading across his formerly pristine shirt. Gordan didn’t miss after all.
“Yeah, you did,” I said.
“Ah, good,” he said, and smiled, before pitching forward onto the floor. I started to move toward him, but stopped as I heard the sound of footsteps on the catwalks above. Gordan was still on the loose.
Elliot was bleeding out; he needed medical attention. But he was inside the knowe, and I couldn’t get him outside for the ambulance to find, even if I could explain where he’d gotten the gunshot wound. He’d flooded the room to drive Gordan back, and there was a chance the water had made it into the chamber of her gun, clogging the firing mechanism. It was a stupid chance to take: I knew that. It was the only chance I had.
The cats were clustered on filing cabinets and desks, wailing. Using the cacophony as cover, I ran to the ladder on the far wall and began to climb. Half the cats fell silent, watching me. They couldn’t follow, but they would watch. I found that oddly comforting; whatever happened next, it wouldn’t happen unseen or in secret. The cats would see, and they’d tell Tybalt.
Being soaked didn’t make the climb any easier. The ladder ended just as I started to feel like my knees were going to give out, and I stepped onto the catwalk, my wet shoes making a marshy slapping sound. There were footsteps ahead of me, just around the corner. I leaped forward in a wild dash. “Stop right where you—”
April was standing over Quentin’s body, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and sad.
“—are,” I finished, sliding to a stop.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and disappeared.
Something pressed against the small of my back. Behind me, Gordan said cheerfully, “Maybe the gun works, maybe it doesn’t. Now put your hands where I can see them. I’d say this wasn’t going to hurt, but we both know I’d be lying.”
Oh, great.
THIRTY-TWO
“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE FOLLOWED. I’d have taken good care of him,” she said. “Walk until you hit the wall, then turn and put your shoulders against it. Keep your hands away from that knife. It wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, walking forward. I couldn’t count on the gun being waterlogged, and if it wasn’t, there was no way I’d get Quentin clear before she shot one of us. For the moment, I needed to go along with her and hope for a chance to turn the tables.
“I need to be able to reach your wrists, and I can’t trust you to hold still without incentive. Hence your pretty boy.” She sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t been able to trust you to do anything. You don’t follow directions.”
I reached the wall and turned, stealing a glance at Quentin. He was breathing. I covered my relief, looking back at Gordan. She was smiling and relaxed; the tension of the past few days had melted out of her like it had never existed. I’d have been relaxed, too, if I was the one with the gun.
“That’s better,” she said. “I’m glad you’re being so agreeable. It hurts the data if you’re damaged before we begin.”
“Haven’t we already invalidated your data, if you need us undamaged?”
“I’m a little worried, yeah—are you always this fond of trying to get yourself killed?” She shook her head. “I was starting to wonder if you’d last until I got around to you.”
“You were the one that kept trying to kill us,” I snapped.
“Details. That was just an impulse.” She waved a hand, keeping the gun trained on my chest. “I didn’t want you calling your master and his hounds, not after I’d gone to so much trouble to keep him from knowing what was going on. April does a surprisingly good imitation of your liege, don’t you think?”
“You little . . .”
Gordan smiled, seemingly unperturbed. “I’ll admit, it was sort of hard to talk her into it. Little idiot didn’t understand how it supported our project. Still, it had the desired effect; you don’t listen, but you’re still predictable. And don’t worry about my work—I figure I can use you, injuries and all. It’ll be interesting to see what happens when I start with damaged goods.”
