Finally, Gwen murmured, “If they were gonna come for us, I think it would have happened by now.”
“Or they’re playing with us.” Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, the way her hand tightened around his. But if the man was here, and if he did indeed have a demon blade that acted as Mac’s did, then Gwen’s trepidation would be a fine and savory appetizer to what awaited them.
She needed to know. To think that way.
Together, they walked the interior of this main room, full of the usual warehouse detritus—pallets stacked over here, a few empty plastic barrels over there, the catwalk lining three walls and an oddball projection of structures for various smaller rooms or offices. The door through which they’d dragged the woman led to a warren of stumpy halls.
Mac backed out again, peering up at the catwalk.
“That’s what you really want,” Gwen murmured, pretty much reading his mind. “To see where that man was. Right where he stood.”
“Right where he stood,” Mac agreed. He loosened his grip on her hand—giving her an obvious choice—but she stayed with him as he followed his nose through those back halls. When he found the narrow wooden stairs, her hand slipped away—but she still rested her fingers at the small of his back. Just a small connection.
The stairway spilled out onto the catwalk. Plenty sturdy, good railings...the perfect vantage point from which to oversee the contents of a warehouse.
Or a killing field.
But the man had left nothing of himself here.
The blade slipped into his mind, into his body—lightning-fast, shredding nerves. The vast warehouse space wheeled around him.
“Mac?”
Because there he was, grappling with the handrail as if it was the only thing that kept him anchored to this world at all. “Still here,” he said hoarsely. “Probably not for much longer.”
And this time she said nothing. As if she’d seen enough to believe he was right. She lingered back by the door, watching him.
Back to the task at hand. His thumb slipped over rough wood. He glanced down—and then looked twice. The deep mark exposed pale new wood at the edges...a fresh wound. A single, plunging strike, gone deeper and cleaner than any ordinary blade.
“Yeah,” he said out loud.
“What?” She pushed close to see and squinted down at the mark. “How— No, never mind. We know how, don’t we? But why? Showing off?”
“Something like that.” Mac looked out over the empty space, tried to imagine himself in the man’s shoes—watching himself and Gwen...watching as he struggled with the blade, both winning and losing.
Satisfaction. Power. This view had given him everything—as well as the perfect vantage point from which to wield the blade he’d eventually thrown.
“Showing off,” he repeated. “And leaving me a message.”
“Leaving us a message,” Gwen told him. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” She rubbed her arms, looking around the space. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Something would be wrong if it didn’t.” Just a little too abruptly, he turned away from the railing, heading back down the stairs. No obvious clues here, but then...that would have been too easy.
A man with hate in his heart and the ability to wield it as he wielded his blade. Where had he come from? What did he truly want?
And how far would he go to get it?
Gwen was the one to nail the important question as she descended the stairs on his heels. “How are we gonna find out more about this guy? It’s not like we can search for him on LinkedIn.”
“Should’ve gotten the van’s license plate,” Mac said.
Gwen laughed, dark humor in the face of it all. “And done what with it?”
“Okay,” he said, acknowledging the flaw in that with his own dark humor. “Good point.” He stopped suddenly, turning around on the stairs; one step behind, she was now nearly of a height with him. “What we do,” he said, “is follow the hate. I let the blade back in, and I follow the hate. Right to the source.”
She scowled. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked away, a flush settling on her cheeks and her eyes bright in the dim light. So clearly wanting to argue it all—the part about letting the blade back in, the part about getting any closer at all to that hate. But without the blade, he couldn’t trace the hate—or feel it coming. And without the hate, he couldn’t figure out what was happening here...or how to protect them from it.
Finally, her voice no more than a strained whisper, she said, “One thing at a time.”
“Okay.” He passed a gentle thumb over her cheek, and when she leaned into it, ever so slightly, he let his hand travel around and under her bound hair, sweeping past her ear and behind her nape. “One thing at a time.”
He would have hesitated, a chance for her to say not here, not now—but she didn’t hesitate at all. She kissed him hard, full of unspoken words.
But only until an anguished, animal cry rang through the back warren of halls and rooms. They jerked apart and turned to it as one. “Stay here!” he told her, with little to no hope that she actually would.
She didn’t. She was right on his heels as he followed the sound, a series of hopeless wails that led him past closed doors and pretty much straight to the source, plunging into enemy territory without care or preparation.
That one door was open. Maybe it had been a lunch room. An unfinished counter and sink arrangement ran the length of one wall, complete with an empty cutout of refrigerator-width. Cheap, filthy industrial tiles covered the floor, and a stench filled the air.
“Ugh!” Gwen said as it hit her, coming up behind him and still unable to see the room. He blocked her way—wanting to warn her, wanting to make it less horrible.
Because he’d already seen the dog. Chained to the wall, both front feet crushed in leg-hold traps, and both of those nailed straight into the floor to keep it stretched out. The stench came from its own filth...its blood, its fear. It stopped wailing when it saw them, whining under its breath instead.
But Mac couldn’t fill the whole doorway. She ducked under his arm, her hand resting on his stomach—and then froze there. When she caught her breath, she swore resoundingly. “What is this supposed to prove?”
“It’s a message,” Mac said, barely able to say it around the cold sick feeling in his throat. “A gift. A last straw. He knew I’d be back.”
“But he doesn’t know you have the pendant,” Gwen realized. “He thought this would tip you over... Oh!” This last as the dog looked at her and wagged the very tip of its tail, hopeful beyond hope. Big, brawny black Labrador-type, no collar, no tags. In the wrong place at the wrong time. “Oh,” Gwen said again. “We have to—” And she looked at Mac, beyond determined.
Mac couldn’t muster the same determination...only grim reality. “It would be kinder to put him down. Right here.”
Gwen recoiled. “No!”
She didn’t see it. Not all of it. Not yet. What he would be, if he lost this fight. What he would do. “Gwen, I’ve got to get rid of this pendant. And once I do—”
She looked from him to the dog and back again. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You think you’ll do it.”
“I think,” he said, gritting the words out, “that I’m not going to be myself for a while. I think it’ll be hours before we can get him to help—or you, if it comes to that. I think circumstances could keep either of us from helping him at all.”
She shoved past him. “I think I’m going to be true to myself right up until something prevents it,” she said, walking right up to the dog. “How about you?”
He looked away from her for what seemed like a very long time. When he could talk again, he said, “I think you’re right.”
Chapter 12
Gwen washed her hands in the nasty sink and tried to pretend she couldn’t see them shaking.
She wasn’t very successful.
It hadn’t been hard to release the dog. He was chained so closely to the wall that they were in no
danger, and Mac’s strong hands pushed down the trap springs with brutal efficiency to free the animal.
Gwen had pretended she wasn’t crying, but that only lasted until the dog tried desperately to lick her even though she was out of reach.
And then she’d left him, and washed her hands, and said to Mac, “Let’s get this over with.”
It was a surprise when he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the handcuffs. Surprise enough that she just blinked at him, her hands dripping over the sink.
“Here,” he said, a gruff tone in his voice. Embarrassed, she might have said. She gave her hands a hasty swipe along her shirt and took the cuffs, if only to spare him the moment.
Except she then gave his horribly battered wrists a pointed look. “But...”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “If I get through this, it won’t matter. The blade will deal with it. If I don’t get through this...it won’t matter.”
Okay then. “Where—”
“Anywhere,” he said, closing his eyes—closing her out, or maybe closing himself in.
The visible ripple of pain through his body answered that one. Running out of time. “Find a support. Something that can’t be broken. Put me in one of these rooms, if possible—it’s not as exposed.”
Which is how Gwen found herself prowling around the stark, worn little rooms, kicking aside an empty box here or there, wrinkling her nose at the filth of it all. One room startled her with gleaming new office furniture, a couch, and a flat-screen television and wet bar.
The minion hangout. Nothing so prosaic for the man who owned them.
No, she knew his room when she saw it—when she found Mac in the doorway staring at it. A quiet, starkly clean Zen space of a single sleek-shaped metal chair, a large cushion on the floor. A huge U-bolt set into the corner.
“He doesn’t want any distractions,” Mac said quietly.
She didn’t ask him how he would know. She just asked, “This is the place?”
“There’s an irony to it,” Mac said, with that lift at the corner of his mouth.
Gwen muttered a distinct suggestion about what irony could do to itself and handed the cuffs back to him. “I’m here,” she said, “but I think this is something you need to do.”
Without a word, he took the cuffs—and her hands with them. Just when she thought he’d ravage her with a kiss to end all kisses, he wrapped his arms around her, so desperately tight it almost surpassed comfort, and buried his face in her neck and hair, breathing raggedly in her ear.
“Shh,” she found herself saying. “I’ll be here.”
Eventually he released her, pulling back just enough to offer her that kiss—tender and sweet and grieving. “Yeah,” he said, a strained voice. “I know. That’s who you are.” But when he stepped away from her, he’d turned brusque. All business. “If this goes bad, Gwen, you run. Run and don’t stop running. You hear me?”
“If this goes bad,” Gwen said, lifting her chin, “I know exactly what I’ll do.”
And she did.
* * *
Gwen stood in silence as Mac crouched at the corner, securing himself to the U-bolt. She didn’t need any signal to know when he was ready; she saw his deep breath, saw him settle into himself.
He’d left the blade on the floor in its folded antique pocketknife form; she reached for it.
She thought better of it, of course. Feeling more foolish than she could remember, she said sternly to it, “Keep your sharp edges to yourself—I’m going to give him back to you. If you mess with me, it’ll only delay things.”
And then, matter-of-fact, she picked it up, pulled open the biggest blade of the two and slipped it under the duct tape.
The tough material parted like finest silk. The pendant fell into her hand, and Mac stiffened, sending her one last panicked and desperate look, and half a word with it. “Gwe—”
The blade took him.
He threw himself against the cuffs with such abrupt viciousness that Gwen fell back, scrambling away—cursing a frantic streak of words even as she bumped into the chair, clawed her way to her feet and got her bearings. Mac’s arms bled freely; he snarled at her, threats and curses and vicious mindlessness.
And already, the drywall around the U-bolt cracked.
Mac, blood at his mouth, eyes streaming and sweat at his brow, grabbed the bolt and held on—not to yank it, but grounding himself. He grasped on to that thin control just long enough to look at her from desperate dark eyes and grate a single word. “Run.”
Gwen did just that.
* * *
She fled to the hallway, chased by the renewed sounds of his battle. She fled to the Jeep, leaving both man and dog.
She couldn’t go any farther.
Looking over her shoulder, endlessly listening for sounds that meant Mac had actually freed himself, she dug the business card out of her back pocket and grabbed Mac’s neglected cell phone from the cup holder between the front seats, and dialed.
“Fifteen minutes,” said the woman named Natalie upon hearing her voice, her cry for help. “It’ll take me fifteen minutes.”
“Alone,” Gwen told her, and then made sure the Jeep was ready to go. Ready to run on all counts, and knowing that she’d find Mac again if she had to. That she could.
But Natalie came alone.
Or as alone as she ever got, with a blade in her hand.
And she came on time. Her Prius swooped silently down the vaguely defined drive to the warehouse and braked to a stop. She exited the car with a folder in her hand.
“Did you tell him?” Gwen’s suspicion poked out everywhere.
“Devin?” Natalie shook her head, the sun-streaked glints of blond bright in daylight. “He knows I’m doing something I’m distinctly not telling him. I’ll pay my own price for that. Now, what am I doing here?”
“The blade,” Gwen blurted out, and then stopped herself. More controlled, she said, “He’s fighting it. In there. I don’t know if he’ll win. I need to be able to help him, and I don’t know how. You said you could help. Also there’s a dog and he’s hurt, so we need a vet. And this place might not be safe.”
Natalie absorbed it all without any visible shock. Her blue-grey eyes, a shade darker than Gwen’s, widened only slightly, glancing quickly to the warehouse and back. She said, “A dog.”
“We found him here,” Gwen said, not with any patience. “He’s hurt.”
“So you said.” As aware as she seemed of Gwen’s turmoil, as meaningful as her glance to the warehouse had been, Natalie stood fast. “And you both came to this place—that might not be safe—why?”
Gwen wanted to stomp her foot like a little girl. “He didn’t want to be in public for this.” But she didn’t mention how they’d first come to find this place, or any of the other details they’d discovered here.
Not yet.
Trust only went so far.
Natalie gave her an even look. Gwen had the sudden impression that she wasn’t fooling anyone—and suddenly she had no more patience for waiting. She stabbed a finger at the warehouse. “He’s in there! And he needs help!”
“He’s in there,” Natalie agreed, her gaze distant as if she could perceive something that Gwen couldn’t. “And he’s in agony. But he hasn’t lost yet.”
Gwen couldn’t stand it. She turned on her heel, heading for the warehouse—only to find herself restrained, a single slim hand on her arm.
Damn, the woman was fast.
Calling her might not have been such a good idea after all.
Natalie stepped back. “Did he send you away?”
Slowly, Gwen nodded.
“Then that’s what you can do for him right now.” She touched the pocket of her tailored slacks. Gwen suddenly thought to notice that for all the sleek lines of Natalie’s clothing, the cut gave her room to move. “Baitlia would tell me if he had lost his battle.”
“Would it?” Gwen wanted to know. “Why?”
Natalie’s expression was som
ber in the bright sunshine. “Because then he becomes a danger to us all. Including Baitlia.”
Gwen looked away. “Translated—because then you will try to kill him.”
In lieu of an answer, Natalie put the folder in Gwen’s hands. “Take a look.”
Gwen was surprised by how steadily she glanced at it, how casually she opened it. Like someone else’s hands, going about their own business. Finding, inside, a sketch of her pendant. Her gaze snapped up to Natalie’s; she touched the pendant, back at her throat. “How—”
“I told you I have resources.” Natalie responded quickly, but she’d taken a step toward the warehouse, her head lifted slightly. Her hand flexed, then slowly released—and then she was suddenly completely there again—with Gwen, outside the building. “Sorry,” she said, not pretending it hadn’t happened. “He has heart. I hope he stays with us.”
Then Gwen’s hands shook. She swiped an errant tear off the paper and held it out to Natalie. “Suppose you just tell me what this is all about. Because I never showed this to you.”
“I saw it,” Natalie said. “Baitlia saw it, too. Do you know what it is that you carry around?”
Gwen felt the stubbornness of her own chin. “My father gave it to me.”
“Did he?” Natalie studied her. “I don’t imagine he’s alive, then.” She held up a hand to fend off Gwen’s response. “Never mind. I won’t play this game with you. The information is yours to keep and study if you’d like, but this is what I know—the pendant is Demardel. Don’t ask me what that means—the language isn’t one I’m familiar with, and for the moment I’m cribbing off of other people’s notes. What I’ve gathered is this—that pendant started out as a medallion, and the medallion was made with power as much as it was with smelting—long enough ago that it should be copper or bronze or just some lump of star metal, because no one had the technology for that.” She nodded at the pendant, still hidden as it was. “There’s no indication that it binds a demon as the blades do, but there are hints of...well...something.”
Gwen resisted the urge to pull the pendant free and study it. She’d do that later...running her fingers over it, seeing it with new eyes...
Claimed by the Demon (Harlequin Nocturne) Page 14