by Kit Colter
They were fighting. The shadow and—and whatever the fire was.
Erin inhaled sharply as Sirian grabbed her by the wrist, edging around the thrashing shadow, then darted through the still-smoldering doorway. He dragged her down the hall at full speed, so fast Erin felt herself starting to stumble. Instead of trying to catch her balance, Erin braced her feet hard against the floor, twisting out of Sirian’s grip so forcefully that she fell. Erin scrambled to her feet and sprinted the other way as fast as she could. There was another stairwell. Just on the other side of the apartment complex. If she could get down the stairs, get to her car ... She didn’t glance back. She couldn’t.
When she reached the stairwell, she continued at full speed, taking three steps at a time, then leapt out, clearing the rest of the flight in one jump. Erin landed with a thud against the concrete on the last floor, bending her knees nearly to the ground and scrabbling forward. She leapt to her feet and took her first step, then gasped as something slammed into the back of her neck.
Sirian.
Erin twisted against Sirian’s grip as he dragged her over to a grey car, already running and parked on the sidewalk.
“NO!”
Sirian ripped open the door and hurled her inside, then slid into the driver’s seat. Erin pushed open the passenger door and started to climb out, then felt a hard yank on her ankle. Her whole body lurched backward. At the same time, Sirian reached past her and jerked the door closed, then slammed the shifter into drive and hit the gas. When Erin reached for the door again, Sirian knotted his fingers tightly into the hair at the base of her skull.
Erin sat perfectly still for several minutes, her neck craned at an odd angle with Sirian’s hand knotted into her hair. Pulling away ever so slightly, she tried to measure how hard she’d have to jerk to free herself. She glanced at the speedometer. He was already up to eighty. Jumping out at that speed would be fatal.
Erin pressed her feet against the floorboard and braced one arm against the passenger door, struggling to steady herself as Sirian weaved through traffic. He was still accelerating.
Eight-five. Ninety. Ninety-five.
Erin glanced at the rearview mirror, then surveyed Sirian out of the corner of her eye. In the time it had taken Erin to run to the stairwell on the opposite side of the complex and sprint down three flights of stairs, Sirian had cleared the staircase, retrieved his car, and had it parked on the sidewalk.
It wasn’t possible.
Apprehension rattled up Erin’s legs and into her chest. She was in serious trouble.
Just then, Sirian veered onto an exit ramp and pulled a sharp left at the bottom. He sped through two red lights, then turned right. The back wheels broke loose, fishtailing, and found traction once more. Erin breathed in shakily as Sirian skidded the car to a stop in the center of a massive parking lot, empty and illuminated only by the frail gleam of streetlights some distance away. She glanced from side to side, wondering if he had done so specifically so that, even if she did get out of his grip, she’d have nowhere to run. He sat still for a few seconds, his features sharpening in concentration. Almost like he was listening for something. Then he shut off the engine.
Sirian gently freed his hand from Erin’s hair. “What are you?” The menace in his voice was unmistakable.
Erin paused, certain she hadn’t heard his words correctly. “Huh?” she asked.
Sirian got out of the car, grabbed Erin by the jacket collar, and ripped her out of the vehicle through the driver side door. He pushed her against the car and glared down at her face.
“Tell me. Now,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Erin asked, a little more sharply than intended.
“What are you?”
“What—I’m Erin Stone!” she cried in confusion.
“What was going on back there?” Sirian demanded.
“You tell me!” Erin said.
“You could see them,” he said.
“So could you!”
Sirian tightened his grip on her jacket collar. Erin shrugged out of the jacket, breaking his grip, and took several steps back. Sirian tossed the jacket back into the car without taking his eyes off Erin, reading every move, every glance, every breath.
“You’re trying to help me, then, aren’t you?” Erin asked. “You didn’t save me from those things just to drive me out here and ...”
“That might have been the thought at the time,” he said.
Erin inched back.
“I’m not going to hurt you tonight,” he said.
Erin took another step.
“You can’t outrun me,” Sirian said.
“I can try,” Erin said.
“Be my guest.”
Erin whirled around and ran. Two steps. Three. Four.
Sirian’s hand knotted into the back of her shirt and yanked. Erin used the momentum to turn herself around, throwing a fist into his throat.
Sirian grabbed Erin by the neck, opened the trunk, and hurled her inside. Erin felt her face collide with something—the spare tire—then flipped over just in time to see the trunk slam closed. She listened as Sirian climbed into the car and started the engine. Erin searched the darkness for a weapon and tried to estimate how far and how fast the car was traveling. After a few minutes, she realized it was impossible to guess. She also realized there were no tools of any kind in the trunk.
So, she waited.
Eventually, the car came to a stop and the engine died. The driver side door opened and closed. The trunk creaked open.
Erin pushed through the crack and tried to jump out, but Sirian shoved her back into the trunk, placed one hand on her knee, and sat down on the rear bumper. Then he stared at her face with an unbearably focused expression. Erin realized her cheek was bleeding again. He was staring at the wound.
Sirian freed one arm from his jacket and ripped off his shirtsleeve. He put his jacket back on, then folded the torn fabric, leaned forward, and pressed the material to Erin’s bleeding face.
“Stop,” she said.
He ignored her. His touch was gentle, but his expression was something else. Detached—almost surgical.
Erin assessed her surroundings. Darkened buildings towered at all sides. Pale light shone against the quiet asphalt, its black face softened with a thick layer of filth and disintegrating trash. Downtown Phoenix. She spotted the Compass Arizona Grill, a spinning glass restaurant at the 24th floor of the Hyatt Regency Hotel, and guessed she was somewhere near Monroe Street. Sirian had parked in an alley next to a dumpster.
“What happens now?” Erin asked.
Sirian’s mouth curved at one side. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
Erin took the fabric from his hand and pressed it to the side of her face. “If you’re not going to kill me, then why don’t you let me go?”
“What gives you the idea I’m not going to kill you?” he asked.
“You are going to—?” Erin stammered.
“Not tonight.” Sirian grabbed Erin’s wrist and dragged her out of the trunk. He reached through the driver side window, grabbed Erin’s jacket, and handed it to her. She pulled on the jacket, then reached into the left pocket for her knife as casually as possible. Sirian held up the stiletto blade, his mouth angling ever so slightly, then tucked it into his pocket without taking his gaze off of her.
Erin suppressed another rush of panic. She needed to get away. But what if Sirian disappeared after that? He was her first and only clue about what was happening. He was the only proof that she wasn’t insane.
“Are you going to try to run again?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
Sirian grabbed Erin’s shoulders and pulled her toward him. “I’m not going to make you trust me,” he said. “You shouldn’t trust me, but you have to.”
Erin pushed away, but he held firm.
“I can promise I won’t hurt you tonight,” he said slowly. “That’s it.”
Erin jerked out of his grip, but almost the
second she’d freed herself, his hand knotted into her hair. She inhaled sharply and froze.
“Much better,” he said.
She said nothing.
Sirian walked Erin down the alley a short distance, then reached up with his free hand, grabbed a short strand of rope, and pulled down an emergency staircase. The metal squeaked as he lowered it. Erin gazed up at the dilapidated building. It looked like an abandoned hotel.
Keeping Erin pinned to his side with his hand fisted into her hair, Sirian started up the stairs. Erin fumbled a little since she had to climb the stairs slightly sideways, searching for an escape with each step. She had to get herself out of this. She didn’t know where to go, but she didn’t have time to worry about that until she escaped this guy.
Four stories up, Sirian stopped, pulled the knife from his jacket, and slipped the blade between a brick window sill and a piece of sheet metal that had replaced a broken glass pane. He pried open a crack, then used his fingers to slide the metal aside, dragged Erin inside, and pushed the metal back into place.
Erin glanced around the room. Tattered bed. Trash and wreckage everywhere. Dust.
Sirian walked Erin through the open doorway and into the hall, strode past six doors, and entered another room. On the door was the number four, followed by an empty space, and then the number two. The middle number was missing. Sirian pushed Erin through the door and straight into a closet.
Erin squinted against the darkness, trying to understand why he had dragged her inside a small, dusty, rather unremarkable closet. Sirian stabbed the left wall of the closet with the knife. In the dim light, she hadn’t realized that it was just black cloth. He tore a long hole in the fabric, then dragged her through. It was completely dark on the other side. Erin walked blindly through it, her senses reaching desperately for walls, staircases, anything but the sensation of Sirian’s fist knotted into her hair. She heard the sound of a doorknob turning.
Light.
Erin stared as Sirian pushed her into the strangest room she had ever seen. The floor, ceiling, and walls were smooth, glossy black, and there wasn’t a single corner in sight. Not completely round. More like an off-balance oval. White leather furniture stood in a semi-circle. To the right, there was a matching white bar and table. Strange abstract art speckled the walls, mostly red and violet.
Erin stepped back by instinct, accidentally leaning into Sirian. She felt his chest expand against her back, his fingers untangling from her hair and slipping to the base of her neck as he steered her deeper into the room. Then Erin heard the short, clipping sound of heels against the floor.
“Mmm, Sirian, tell me you haven’t been using the back door again.”
A feminine silhouette appeared from the other side of the room, coming around a slight bend in the wall.
“All that dust. Really, when the front door—”
The woman stopped mid-sentence when she saw Erin. “Giving her the scenic tour?”
“You know Dega’s men are watching the main entry,” he said.
“And Dega’s guys would care about her?” the woman asked, walking steadily forward again.
“Maybe,” Sirian said.
As she came closer, Erin’s expression shifted in astonishment. The woman was tall, lean, and dressed from head to toe in tight-fitting, shiny black leather. She wore glossy stiletto boots, and the black leather melded so that Erin wasn’t quite sure where the boots stopped and the body suit began. Perhaps even more striking, the woman’s hair was died candy red, cut several inches beneath her jaw in the front and several inches above in the back, giving it the illusion of fanning forward. The style reminded Erin of something Egyptian, though she couldn’t have said why.
“I gather she’s not a present,” the woman said, looking at Erin.
“No.” Sirian turned to Erin. “Stay,” he said, sliding the knife back into his jacket.
Erin looked at him, but made no response. She simply watched as Sirian took the woman aside. Erin wondered if she could make it back through that black hole before Sirian caught her. If she could somehow get back to the car. If, by some miracle, Sirian had left his keys in the ignition. Erin took a very small step backward.
Sirian lowered his voice. “I need a favor.”
“What’s with the bird?” the woman asked.
“I want you to keep her for a while,” Sirian said. “Just for a couple hours.”
“Really? I thought you were done with all this.”
“Someone’s after her.”
“So?”
“Demons,” he said. “They were fighting over her.”
“Hmm.”
“One was an Elemental,” Sirian said.
“Weird,” she said in clear disinterest.
“It had a body,” Sirian said.
The woman looked at him for the first time during the conversation. “No shit?”
“There was something else. In Las Cruces.”
“You followed her to Cruces?” the woman said, nonplussed.
“It looked like some kind of projection.”
“Of a psychic?”
“No. A demon.”
“Demons don’t project,” the woman said. “There’s no reason.”
“Unless it’s trapped somewhere,” Sirian said.
“They’re all trying to kill her, and you’re leaving her with me, then?”
“Not trying to kill her. She’d be dead already if that’s what the Elemental wanted. Capture her. Possess her maybe.” He gave Erin a once over. “Just a few hours.”
“Alright,” the woman replied with a sigh.
“Don’t let her get away,” Sirian warned. “She’ll try for it.”
The woman shed a sideways smile. “Don’t worry.” Her gaze caught on the metal cross hanging from Sirian’s neck. “Why do you wear that thing?”
Sirian stepped up to Erin and gazed down at her face for a moment. “I’m leaving you here.”
Erin didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.
Sirian slid closer. “Don’t give her a reason to hurt you.” He glanced at the woman with the candy red hair. “And be here when I come back.” Sirian turned and disappeared through the door. Erin stared after him, thinking this couldn’t be real. Nothing this strange could be real.
“Don’t worry about him,” the woman said, the sound of her heels causing clipped little echoes as she walked toward Erin. “He’ll be back.” Her voice was soft and dark and heavy, like black velvet or fresh asphalt.
Something about the woman—some hidden quality—made Erin more than uncomfortable. Something that wasn’t her clothes or her hair or her bizarre apartment. It was something in her walk. Something in her eyes. Something in her voice that told Erin the woman had listened to that echo, the echo of her heels against the glistening black floor, for a very, very long time, and that she’d never once been bothered by it.
“So, tell me your name,” the woman said.
“Uh, Ann,” Erin said.
The woman laughed. “Well, Ann, would you like a drink?” She strolled over to the bar.
“No, thanks,” Erin said.
The woman retrieved something from the drawer in the bar, then traipsed along the wall to the door. A flash of silver. A key. Erin listened as the door locked. The woman turned to face Erin, smiling, and tucked the key into the neckline of her bodysuit.
“Come on, Ann, have a drink,” the woman said, putting an arm around Erin’s waist and leading her to the bar. “You look like you need one,” she said. “Must have been a mean punch. Sirian can be such a prick.”
Erin took the drink she offered, momentarily distracted by a red scorpion tattoo branded into the woman’s right hand.
“He says you’ve got a demon problem,” the woman said, easing Erin into the sofa and sliding down beside her.
Demons?
“You don’t say much, do you, Ann?” the woman asked.
“Rough day,” Erin mumbled.
“Mmm, tell me about it,” the wo
man purred, then took a drink. “I spent the last four hours ... Well, never mind that.” She grinned at Erin. “You’re in the right place then. Really, it’s a pity just looking at you, Ann,” the woman said, standing up and retrieving a napkin from the bar. She sat down next to Erin and pressed it to her wounded cheek. “You’re still bleeding.”
Erin felt her body tense.
“Go on, now, take a drink. I can imagine how it must hurt. I wish I had some aspirin around here, but I’m an alcohol woman myself. Nothing a shot of vodka won’t fix.”
“I’m sure,” Erin replied, scanning the room for an exit. She wasn’t waiting around for Sirian to get back and take her hostage all over again. She needed to get that key.
Erin turned to the woman. “This is an interesting place you have,” she said, trying to act relaxed.
“Do you like it?” the woman asked, giving the room a cursory glance.
“A little black, but still nice,” Erin said. “Very interesting.”
“I like black,” the woman said.
“You know,” Erin said, “I’m really not much for vodka. You wouldn’t have any bourbon, would you?”
The woman sat up a little, lips curving slyly. “I would,” she said, then traipsed over to the bar and poured Erin a fresh glass of honey-toned liquid. Erin watched carefully, then took the drink with the best smile she could muster.
“Thanks,” Erin said.
“No problem at all,” the woman purred, sliding back into the white sofa beside her. “I thought you looked like a dark liquor woman. Should have followed my gut.”
Erin smiled, laughing a little, then took a drink. Not very much. Just enough to pass it off as drinking. She had to get to that key.
“How’d you meet Sirian?” the woman asked, though she didn’t sound interested.
Erin took another tiny sip, trying not to stare at the woman’s chest, where the key had disappeared in a swell of flawless white cleavage. “Long story.”
“I’ve got time,” the woman said. “And, from the look of things, so do you.”