He checked his mirror. It really was a shame that the Jag was going to have to be destroyed. Beautiful car—sexy, fast. It deserved better. But that was all he could do in this situation. Glashtin had to be eliminated, and Jack had no time for anything requiring long planning or finesse. It was all about math. This limo was built like a tank. It could stand a fairly heavy crash. Glashtin’s Jag couldn’t.
The smash would have to be soon, too; the limo’s engine was beginning to starve for oxygen. The cold air helped, but the limo wasn’t made for driving at high speeds for long distances and couldn’t cram in the fuel the way the Jag could.
Jack began to slow, not using his brakes so the goblin wouldn’t have any advance warning of his intentions. He watched the rearview mirror where Glashtin was coming up fast. The road in front of him was four lanes wide, empty, and as perfect as it was going to get for suicidal maneuvers. It was time for the coup de grâce, to plunge his vehicular knife home.
Now!
Jack killed his lights and hit the brakes, wincing as the limo’s tires howled a pained protest. He spun the wheel about, demanding the long car make as tight a turn as possible and accelerate back the way it had come.
As soon as Jack was turned around, he hit his brights and aimed the car straight at Glashtin.
The goblin panicked at the sight of the onrushing limo, just as Jack expected. He stomped hard on the brakes, making his Jag swing crazily from side to side. Each sway brought a frantic overcorrection, further eroding Glashtin’s control.
Jack watched with morbid fascination. Where would they hit? Right fore? Head on? Or would—yes! Glashtin’s nerves failed him and he tried to turn the car. A better driver might have coaxed the Jag into doing it, but Glashtin hadn’t the skill. Jack wasn’t back up to more than forty mph, but it was enough. He slammed into the Jag’s side door, tossing the lighter car into the air.
He saw Glashtin clap two hands over his eyes, the goblin’s mouth open in a scream as he rolled out of sight.
Then the impact threw Jack against the seat belt, cutting hard against his chest and giving him a mild concussion as he hit his head on the wheel.
No air bag. Bad goblin maintenance struck again.
The next few moments were a confusing jumble of lights and tearing metal, but Jack quickly stomped on the brakes and turned off the engine, doing his best to control the limo’s slide before he crashed again. He didn’t want fuel in the engine if he did hit one of the buildings.
The brake pads howled all the way, but the limo came to rest standing diagonally across the road, its tires sending up small plumes of black smoke.
Jack looked out the side window and watched Glashtin’s Jag roll twice more. He watched to see if Glashtin was somehow thrown clear, but the car was smashed flat, and a moment later burst into flame. Goblins could take a lot of damage, but not compression and incineration.
Exhaling slowly and feeling a bump rising on his forehead, Jack checked his watch. Two-thirty-eight. He had to get moving.
His fingers were not entirely steady as he reached for the keys and restarted the limo’s engine.
He liked cars, and he liked excitement, but it would be Hell in Antarctica before he ever tried something like that again. He was glad Io hadn’t been there to see it; she’d have had fifteen different kinds of fits.
Thinking of Io, he began to smile again. It was probably too much to hope that she liked fast cars, too. Feys just didn’t.
But on the other hand, she’d seemed to like guns. So, maybe his luck was better than he’d ever imagined.
Chapter Twenty-six
After the light of the fiery tunnels, the street above seemed as dark and empty as outer space, and about as cold. It took a moment for the afterimage of the magic inferno to fade from Io’s retinas and for night vision to reestablish itself.
Io prayed that there wouldn’t be any goblin goon squads getting between her and the perfume factory. It would ruin her bloodless record if she had to start shooting now. Nevertheless she pulled out her pistol and had it ready beneath her singed cloak. After all, she had just burned out the goblin hive, destroying their fall harvest and inflicting economic as well as social and psychological ruin. And Jack had killed their leader. She’d be welcomed as warmly as a dose of leprosy. Probably less warmly, because leprosy could actually be seen as a perverse form of beauty enhancement here in Goblin Town.
Io was tired and feeling debilitating cold creeping into her bones to spread its dulling ache, but she reached inside for the reservoir of will to make a quick sprint for the perfume factory. She had forty minutes before it went sky-high, and she had to be certain that Zayn and Chloe had gotten out—if that was what Jack had shouted at her.
In any event, Lutin’s was where Jack would be. It was time they hooked up and made their getaway. They had pushed luck as far as Io was willing.
The air was cold in her lungs, painful as she pulled in the long breaths needed to give oxygen to her fatigued muscles, but like all her other bodily discomforts it had to be ignored. The mission fuse had been lit, and it was heading surely and swiftly toward final detonations. There was no turning back or calling for time-outs now.
Io slowed half a block from Neveling’s perfume factory as alarm bells began to ring out in the darkness.
Someone had disconnected the lights in Lutin’s building.
Or perhaps the fire found a path upward and caused damage to the electrical system.
No. That wasn’t likely. There should be smoke alarms going off if that were the case—even the goblins were not so careless as to forget smoke detectors in a place of business. Also, the two adjacent buildings and the old church were lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Unhappy, Io looked about for Cisco—for anyone—but couldn’t find the slightest hint of movement on the ground, or even up on the roof where Lutin’s stone gargoyles leered down at her with life-like faces.
Io shivered under their stony gaze. In spite of everything she had known about gargoyle habits, until the night she had seen the gargoyles in action, she had thought of those statues as being cute—harmlessly amusing with their idiot doglike expressions. She would never feel that way again. They were a warning of actual danger that she and Jack should have heeded.
Not caring for the ants of fearful anticipation suddenly marching up and down her spine, Io nevertheless forced herself to continue on into the foyer’s cold shadow.
The main doors were standing open. Just inside the doorway was a dark puddle of what might be blood. A trail of tiny droplets led to the stairs.
The decor of a company’s lobby said a lot about what image the corporation wished the public to embrace. As often as not, the decor prevaricated a bit, shading the truth in the company’s favor. Lutin’s certainly did. The comfortable human-sized furnishings, plush carpet, and lush ferns were an out-and-out lie. There wasn’t a skull and crossbones anywhere on the first floor.
But danger was nearby. Io could feel it.
Her nerves shrilled. She had the urge to take out her nose breather and see if the blood smelled of Jack, but she squashed the notion before it could blossom and cause full-blown panic. It was just as likely that the puddle was some noxious substance of Lutin’s that should not be smelled or touched. She had seen the way the goblin fruit bled red sap.
Her muscles resisted, but Io forced herself to step over the mess on silent feet, being careful that her shoes sent up no betraying echoes as she crossed the ground.
She paused again at the front desk and listened carefully, but heard nothing on the first floor. Not happy with going any deeper into the building, she paced over to the twisting stairwell and looked up at the open space that led all the way to the skylight in the roof of the building. It was only thirteen floors, not a bad climb.
Of course, she couldn’t see if anyone was lingering in the stairwell’s shadows, flattened against the wall, waiting to pounce on her.
Those annoying ants reached her nape and b
egan erecting the small hairs there in case she had not received their earlier message of alarm.
The night was cold, but Io suddenly found her body slicked over with sweat. With her empty hand, she pulled down her sleeve over her fingers and then wiped her face with the smoky cloth.
She should leave the building. It seemed empty. And she had only half of an hour before fireworks time, and that was assuming that all went well and nothing exploded prematurely.
But what if that was blood on the floor? What if it was Jack’s? A cruel hard hand clamped down on her heart. The organ still hammered its loud alarm, but it felt as though it were bruising itself on the bars of a new cage.
Io tried for a magical connection to Jack, but could feel none. He was still closed to her, perhaps because he was too far away.
Or maybe because he was unconscious. There was only one way to know for certain.
Io switched her pistol over to her left hand and wiped her right one on her jeans. Both hands had developed a tremor. Apparently her body was running low on courage and blood sugar.
Time to go.
Taking a low, slow breath, she started up the stairs, watching the shadows with fearful eyes.
Jack turned off the headlights and the engine, allowing the limo to coast to a stop in front of the perfume factory. Reaching up, he popped the bulb out of the overhead lamp and then quietly opened the car door. He listened intently.
Nothing, not a sound, not so much as a dry leaf being tickled by the wind.
While he was relieved that the street wasn’t filled with throngs of drunken tourists or gun-toting trolls, the complete silence and desertion did not reassure him either. There should be addicts about.
Nor was the darkened interior of the perfume factory to his liking. Cisco hadn’t said anything about cutting power to the building as part of making it go boom. Why were the lights out? Who wanted the cover of darkness for their deeds?
And where was Io? She should have been here by now.
Jack glanced at his watch, confirming the time visually since his body clock was still not completely recharged and might cravenly be giving in to a growing sense of urgency. Feys didn’t like bombs any more than goblins did.
“Damn.” Jack wasn’t usually hesitant, but in this case, he didn’t know what to do. Should he backtrack to Io’s intended exit and make sure that she wasn’t trapped inside the Labyrinth? Or did he stay and find Cisco and Zayn and Chloe? If only…
Taking the risk, Jack inserted two fingers and pulled out the nose breather. He inhaled slowly, sampling the cold air.
Blood. Not Io’s, but female. Probably Chloe. Breathing the wounded scent a second time, Jack turned toward the old church. That’s where the woman was, still bleeding, though not at a life-threatening rate. Had the trolls gotten to her after all? She had to be pretty bad if he could smell her so clearly.
Where the hell were Zayn and Cisco? And Io? Where in the sweet now and hereafter was she?
Io’s muscles grew tighter with each floor she stopped to explore. Her hair felt as though it were completely vertical, and her heart was dancing to some funky seven-eight count music of dread. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into some sort of trap, and it kept her as silent as a ghost as she padded through the deserted factory. It would save time, and wear and tear on her nerves, if someone sang out the view-halloo, but she wasn’t going to be the one to do it. No, sirree.
Tenth floor. It was empty too. Not a soul, not a guard, not a loyal employee burning the midnight oil—and no Cisco, Zayn, Chloe, or Jack.
Io looked at her watch. Eight minutes left and three floors to see. She’d have to hurry now and risk blundering into someone—or something.
Back in the stairwell, Io laid a hand on the cold metal railing and forced herself to mount the stairs two at a time. Just three more floors, and then she’d be assured that the building was empty.
It wasn’t a friendly gesture, but Jack entered the church with his borrowed shotgun held at the ready. The interior was ablaze with candles, a sight that he might have enjoyed before that night, since he was not as disturbed by fire as many feys. But after Io’s destruction of the hive with her magical blaze, he’d never be able to see candle flames as anything other than mini-carnivores waiting for their chance to devour a magical world—for good or for evil.
“Where’s Io?” Zayn’s voice came from the dark nave.
“Good question,” Jack answered, looking away from the light and stepping toward the kneeling fey.
Zayn was busy binding up long wounds on Chloe’s arms and legs. He’d already been at work on her with some sort of healing spell, because the wounds were closing much too quickly for any human healing.
Jack’s eyes ran over the girl. Not trolls. Gargoyle attack. She was lucky to have survived. She was too tiny to have much padding between flesh and bone. Without immediate magical intervention, she would have bled to death. As it was, she would probably have scars no matter what Zayn did for her.
“Where did they get her?” Jack asked, frowning at the tiny, limp body. It was too easy to imagine that it was Io lying there. Jack tried to remain calm, but rage and horror made it difficult to think and started a sort of pressure building inside his skull.
“In the factory. Two of them. They broke into the office and attacked. We ran, fighting, the damn things on our ass the whole way. I’m glad we were only two floors up, or we’d never have made it.” Zayn’s voice seemed distant and droning, and Jack shook his head trying to clear it. He quickly reinserted his nose breather, wondering if he had inhaled something hallucinogenic. Drugs did odd things to feys.
Or maybe it was that lump on his head. He could have a concussion.
“Your friend, Cisco, barely got out ahead of another one,” Zayn went on, apparently oblivious to whatever was in the air, if anything was. “Hille’s pet. It ate one of his boots and a couple of toes. He’s next door getting ready to blow those things to kingdom come. Under the circumstances we didn’t have much time to chat, but I get the impression that he’s going to enjoy flattening the factory and everything in it.”
Zayn looked at his watch, then added.
“Five minutes to go. I don’t like fire, but I can’t wait to witness this. I hope I see those monsters cook. They were up on the roof last I looked, spying on something or someone down in the street. Damn! I wonder where Io is. She’s going to miss the show.”
Dread punched Jack in the stomach and a sudden fear burst open in his brain.
“The gargoyles are still loose in the factory? Cisco didn’t kill them? Bloody hell!” Jack spun for the door and raced for the street.
“Io!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Get out of the building!”
The answer that came wasn’t the one he wanted to hear. Gunshots exploded from far overhead before he could reach Lutin’s factory.
Some careless janitor had left out a pail of soapy water. Io jerked it over, hoping that it would serve the same role as the banana peel in a Laurel and Hardy film. She didn’t pause, though, to see whether the gargoyles actually hydroplaned in the puddle or not. Taking the time to look back would have been a colossal mistake. Those gargoyles were impossibly fast.
As it was, the scrabbling claws were gaining on her. She’d run out of hall, floors, and unlocked doors, and hadn’t any hair spray left—not that fire would necessarily deter the things.
That left bullets. Jack said the guns were real stoppers, and they had felt deadly when he took them out of the bag, but suddenly her handgun didn’t seem adequate for the task of punching holes in living stone.
Gasping for breath, Io turned at the end of the corridor and dropped to one knee. Using the other as a brace, she leveled her pistol at the lead gargoyle and started firing. It took four shots to shatter its stony head. Even with that, it didn’t stop running immediately. It lost direction and began trying to shove its body through an interior wall—which was better than eating her, but plaster and plasterboard beg
an to buckle under the assault, and the walls groaned ominously around Io. The building’s shoddy goblin construction wasn’t up to gargoyle assault.
The second beast, undeterred by its littermate’s demise, just kept on coming, its razor claws ripping into the tile floor as it ran. Though her nerves screamed at her to flee, to jump out the window and scramble along the ledge, Io remained still, aiming carefully and emptying her clip into the charging beast. Less than a dozen feet away, its snarling face and shoulders finally disintegrated and it collapsed on the floor in a pile of oozing rubble. Even in bits, the beast’s claws kept trying to run, and its black tongue whipped about looking for prey.
Repulsed, Io reloaded and emptied her pistol into the beast’s body a second time.
Scrrrape. Scrrrape.
For a moment, after the beast’s pieces finally stopped shuddering and the gun’s echoes died away, Io thought she was having an auditory discrimination problem. It seemed as though she could still hear gargoyle talons, running up the stairs and down the hall. Only they were getting louder with every galloping step instead of dying away with the other reverberations.
“Goddess, damn it!” she yelled, jumping to her feet and casting the empty pistol aside. “Jack!”
A third gargoyle rounded the hall corner and began hurtling at her with its jagged jaws held wide. It leapt over the first gargoyle, which was still digging its headless body between several two-by-six studs.
Jack watched in horror as a window burst open on the thirteenth floor, and Io scrambled out of it and began running along the ledge.
He had been almost certain that the gargoyles were dead. He’d heard her empty one magazine, have time to reload, and then empty a second one. She was a good shot, and those bullets were designed to knock the snot out of anything. She should have disabled them both.
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