Cold Days
Page 29
Only at the last second did I recognize my attacker through my rage and divert the arc of the descending chair. It broke into about fifty pieces when it hit the floor just in front of the wolf, plastic and metal tumbling in every direction.
The wolf flinched back from the flying bits, and lifted its eyes toward mine. It froze in what was an expression of perfect shock, and in a pair of seconds the wolf was gone, its form melting rapidly into the shape of a girl, a redhead with generous curves and not a stitch of clothing. She stared at me, gasping in short breaths, her expression pained, before she whispered, "Harry?"
"Andi," I said, standing straighter and trying to force my body to relax. The word came out in a snarl. Adrenaline still sang along my arms and legs, and more than anything in the whole world, at that moment I wanted to punch someone in the face. Anyone. It didn't matter who.
And that was not right.
"Andi," I said, forcing myself to quiet and gentle my voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Me?" she breathed. "I . . . I'm not the one who's dead."
The night is young, thought the furious part of me, but I fought it down. "Rumors, death, exaggerated," I said instead. "And I don't have time to chat about it."
I turned toward Bob at his desk, and heard Andi open a drawer behind me. The sound an automatic makes when someone racks the slide and pops a round into the chamber is specific and memorable-and gets your attention as effectively as if it were also really, really loud.
"Get your hands away from the skull," said Andi's shortened, pained voice, "or I put a bullet in you."
I paused. My first impulse was to cover the floor of the computer room with frozen chunks of Andi, and what the hell was I thinking? It was the anger that kept on rolling through me in cold waves that was pushing for that, for action, for violence. Don't get me wrong; it's not like I exactly have an allergy to either of those things-but I'd always done a reasonably good job of keeping my temper under control. I hadn't felt like this in years, not since the first days I'd nearly been killed by the White Council.
I fell back on what I'd learned then. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, reminding myself that the anger was just anger, that it was a sensation, like feeling hot or cold. It didn't mean anything by itself. It wasn't a reason to act. That's what thinking was for.
The old lessons helped, and I separated myself from the fury. I put my hands slowly out to my sides, making sure they were visible. Then I turned to face Andi. She stood with a pistol in a solid Weaver stance, like she'd learned how from someone who knew.
I could deflect bullets if I had to do it, but I couldn't stop them. And we were in a building full of innocent bystanders. "You know about the skull?" I asked.
"Kind ofhard not to," she said. "Since I live here."
I blinked several times. "You and . . . Damn. Way to go, Butters."
Andi stared steadily down the sights of her gun. She was holding herself a little hitched, as if her right side pained her. That elbow I'd thrown must have caught her in the ribs. I winced. I don't mind a little of the rough-and-tumble when necessary, but I don't hit my friends, I don't hit women, and Andi was both.
"Sorry about that," I said, nodding toward her. "I didn't know it was you."
"And I still don't know if it's you," she replied. "Especially with you dead and all. There are plenty of things that might try to look like Harry."
"Bob," I said over my shoulder. "Tell her it's me."
"Can't," Bob said in a dreamy tone. "Boobs."
Right. Because Andi was naked. I'd seen her that way before, because that was one of the hazards of being a werewolf. I knew several, and they'd been my friends. When they change form, clothes and things don't go with, so when they change back, they're stark naked.
I'll give Bob this much-the little creep had good taste. Changing into a wolf must be a really fantastic exercise regimen, because Andi and naked went really well together. Although at the moment, I was mostly impressed with her great big, slightly heaving gun.
"Bob," I said more urgently. I put my hand out, trying to get it between the skull and Andi without actually reaching for it.
"Hey!" Bob demanded. "Dammit, Harry! It's not like I get much of a chance to see 'em!"
Andi's eyes widened. "Bob . . . is it really him?"
"Yes, but he works for the bad guys now," Bob said. "It's probably safest to shoot him."
"Hey!" I said.
"Nothing personal," Bob assured me. "What would you advise a client to do if the Winter Knight broke into her place, fought with her, and cracked two of her ribs?"
"Not to shoot," I said. "The bullet's going to bounce and there are way too many people in the apartments around us."
At that, Andi took her finger off the trigger, though she left it extended and pressed against the guard. She exhaled slowly. "That's . . . more like what I would expect from . . . from you, Harry." She swallowed. "Is it really you?"
"Whatever's left of me," I said.
"We heard about your ghost. I could even sort of . . . sort of smell you, when you were near. I knew. We thought you were dead."
"Wasn't really my ghost," I said. "It was me. I just sort of forgot to bring my body along with me." I coughed. "Think you could maybe point that somewhere else?"
The wolf flinched back from the flying bits, and lifted its eyes toward mine. It froze in what was an expression of perfect shock, and in a pair of seconds the wolf was gone, its form melting rapidly into the shape of a girl, a redhead with generous curves and not a stitch of clothing. She stared at me, gasping in short breaths, her expression pained, before she whispered, "Harry?"
"Andi," I said, standing straighter and trying to force my body to relax. The word came out in a snarl. Adrenaline still sang along my arms and legs, and more than anything in the whole world, at that moment I wanted to punch someone in the face. Anyone. It didn't matter who.
And that was not right.
"Andi," I said, forcing myself to quiet and gentle my voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Me?" she breathed. "I . . . I'm not the one who's dead."
The night is young, thought the furious part of me, but I fought it down. "Rumors, death, exaggerated," I said instead. "And I don't have time to chat about it."
I turned toward Bob at his desk, and heard Andi open a drawer behind me. The sound an automatic makes when someone racks the slide and pops a round into the chamber is specific and memorable-and gets your attention as effectively as if it were also really, really loud.
"Get your hands away from the skull," said Andi's shortened, pained voice, "or I put a bullet in you."
I paused. My first impulse was to cover the floor of the computer room with frozen chunks of Andi, and what the hell was I thinking? It was the anger that kept on rolling through me in cold waves that was pushing for that, for action, for violence. Don't get me wrong; it's not like I exactly have an allergy to either of those things-but I'd always done a reasonably good job of keeping my temper under control. I hadn't felt like this in years, not since the first days I'd nearly been killed by the White Council.
I fell back on what I'd learned then. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, reminding myself that the anger was just anger, that it was a sensation, like feeling hot or cold. It didn't mean anything by itself. It wasn't a reason to act. That's what thinking was for.
The old lessons helped, and I separated myself from the fury. I put my hands slowly out to my sides, making sure they were visible. Then I turned to face Andi. She stood with a pistol in a solid Weaver stance, like she'd learned how from someone who knew.
I could deflect bullets if I had to do it, but I couldn't stop them. And we were in a building full of innocent bystanders. "You know about the skull?" I asked.
"Kind ofhard not to," she said. "Since I live here."
I blinked several times. "You and . . . Damn. Way to go, Butters."
Andi stared steadily down the sights of her gun. She was holding herself a little hitched, as if her right side pained her. That elbow I'd thrown must have caught her in the ribs. I winced. I don't mind a little of the rough-and-tumble when necessary, but I don't hit my friends, I don't hit women, and Andi was both.
"Sorry about that," I said, nodding toward her. "I didn't know it was you."
"And I still don't know if it's you," she replied. "Especially with you dead and all. There are plenty of things that might try to look like Harry."
"Bob," I said over my shoulder. "Tell her it's me."
"Can't," Bob said in a dreamy tone. "Boobs."
Right. Because Andi was naked. I'd seen her that way before, because that was one of the hazards of being a werewolf. I knew several, and they'd been my friends. When they change form, clothes and things don't go with, so when they change back, they're stark naked.
I'll give Bob this much-the little creep had good taste. Changing into a wolf must be a really fantastic exercise regimen, because Andi and naked went really well together. Although at the moment, I was mostly impressed with her great big, slightly heaving gun.
"Bob," I said more urgently. I put my hand out, trying to get it between the skull and Andi without actually reaching for it.
"Hey!" Bob demanded. "Dammit, Harry! It's not like I get much of a chance to see 'em!"
Andi's eyes widened. "Bob . . . is it really him?"
"Yes, but he works for the bad guys now," Bob said. "It's probably safest to shoot him."
"Hey!" I said.
"Nothing personal," Bob assured me. "What would you advise a client to do if the Winter Knight broke into her place, fought with her, and cracked two of her ribs?"
"Not to shoot," I said. "The bullet's going to bounce and there are way too many people in the apartments around us."
At that, Andi took her finger off the trigger, though she left it extended and pressed against the guard. She exhaled slowly. "That's . . . more like what I would expect from . . . from you, Harry." She swallowed. "Is it really you?"
"Whatever's left of me," I said.
"We heard about your ghost. I could even sort of . . . sort of smell you, when you were near. I knew. We thought you were dead."
"Wasn't really my ghost," I said. "It was me. I just sort of forgot to bring my body along with me." I coughed. "Think you could maybe point that somewhere else?"
