by Eileen Wilks
If so, he was stupid. There were a dozen easier ways to go about it for a killer who could look like anyone. Unless the whole situation was an illusion? Was such a thing possible?
“Can you get it open?” the candy striper repeated, her voice rising. “They say to stay in the elevator if there’s a power outage, but I don’t want to. I don’t.”
He would have to proceed as if the fire, the stuck elevators, all of it was real. Otherwise he’d be frozen, more trapped than any stuck elevator could be. “We need to get out, yes.” Rule managed to keep his voice calm. His forehead was damp, but she couldn’t see that. “I’m going to open the doors and see where we are. I’ll want both my arms for that.”
“Oh. Oh, of course. The doors.” Her laugh was shaky, but she let go of him. “The doors will open, right?”
Was the smell of smoke growing stronger?
“I think so.” He gripped the edges of the doors and pried them open on darkness, smoke, and noise. With the doors open, he could hear people calling out—the stairs, over here, keep calm, where’s Maria, get the wheelchair, Maria!, hurry up, stairs, oh God, oh God, help me, please someone . . .
He looked up. Not that he could see anything, but his nose told him the smoke was coming from that direction. Looking down, he saw equally little. The electricity was out everywhere, then, and the gathering smoke didn’t help. He began feeling the wall exposed by the opened doors.
Yes. There were openings. He could get out.
Relief shuddered through him. His wolf calmed, willing to let the man handle this now that he knew he wasn’t trapped. Rule dropped to one knee, felt for and found an opening.
Both above and below, the doors opening on those floors had sprung open, while the interior doors to their cage hadn’t. In many newer systems—such as the one in Rule’s apartment building—during a power outage the elevator was delivered on battery power to the first floor, where the door automatically opened. That hadn’t happened, yet the doors on at least two floors had opened. And there should be emergency lighting, just as the girl had said.
In other words, the tech was fucked up. “Magic surge?” he murmured. Or something more intentional. Somehow the sorcerer had disabled the hospital tech.
And it was not illusion. Rule refused to believe any crafted simulation could be so detailed, even to the direction of the nonexistent smoke.
If all this was real, did that mean the killer was stupid, or that he was unable to disguise himself for some reason?
The attack on Cullen had been quiet, focused, perfectly executed. Not the work of a stupid man. He’d go with the idea the sorcerer’s illusions weren’t serving him today.
“What?”
“Nothing. We can get out,” he told the girl, rising and finding his companion by guess in the dark. He gripped her arms reassuringly. “We’ve stopped between floors, but the door’s open on the floor below, so we can get to it.” First floor or second? He didn’t think they’d reached the basement, but couldn’t be sure.
“There’s smoke. I smell smoke.”
“It’s coming down the elevator shaft. The fire is above us.” How far up? On the fourth floor? “It’s an awkward drop when you can’t see what you’re doing. I’ll go first so I can direct and catch you.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s get out. I need to help with the patients. They’ll need help getting all the patients out.”
“Good.” Her sudden bravery in the midst of deep fear surprised him into kissing the top of her head. “Good for you. You’ll do fine. Sit down now. I’m going to swing down, then I’ll catch you.”
Without further words, he dropped to the floor, swung his legs off and out, and landed lightly.
“I’m right here,” he said, taking in what he could with a quick glance. It wasn’t fully dark after all. The smoke had obscured the small amount of light available from the long, narrow window above the nurses’ station.
Second floor. He was on the second floor. Nurses and others bustled, called out, but in an orderly way. “I’m reaching up for you—yes, there you are,” he said as he found one sneaker-clad foot. “Shove off and let me catch you.”
With a little gulp, she did. He caught her easily, setting her on her feet. “You’re on the second floor,” he said. “Can you see? The stairs are at either end of this hall. I have to go.”
“Wait,” she cried as he turned, crouching to get a little spring. “You’re not going back in there? You can’t!”
“My friends are on the fourth floor. I need to be sure they’re okay.”
“But you can’t!”
He did, leaping so he could seize the bottom of the elevator cage. He pulled himself up, stood, and felt for the gap he’d found earlier. The angle was awkward, but it wasn’t hard to pull himself up.
Third floor. Here the smoke was thick enough that he saw little. It was hot. He didn’t see fire, but in the smoke and darkness, he might not, unless it was close. The voices here were more frantic. Someone still called for Maria. He heard coughing. He hesitated, torn—he could help, he could get people out—but his wolf had to get to the fourth floor.
He felt for the top of the elevator. The space was narrow, but he could fit. Quickly he hoisted himself, slithering to the roof of the elevator.
Darkness and smoke. His eyes burned. But the smoke seemed a bit thinner when he stood. Quickly he pulled off his shoes and socks, then seized the cables that held the elevator. He began climbing.
He went up fast, despite the grease that made the cables slippery. He’d climbed greased rope before. Cables were different, but not enough to slow him much.
Rule had decided on this course as soon as he knew the elevator’s position. The stairs would be mobbed with people going down. He had to go up. This was the fastest way . . . or it should have been. When he reached the level of the fourth floor he realized he’d included an assumption in his plan. One that hadn’t panned out.
The doors here hadn’t behaved the way the others doors had. They weren’t fully closed—but they weren’t fully open, either, dammit. There was a dim rectangle of light maybe a foot wide. His eyes were tearing from the smoke, but he could see that pale rectangle.
Like many hospital elevators, this one was deep enough to accommodate a gurney or hospital bed. Rule hung in the center of the shaft about five feet from that dim, tantalizing opening.
He’d intended to get above the opening and launch himself out and down. That would have worked if the doors had opened all the way. As it was, he thought he could have squeezed through sideways—if there had been anywhere for him to stand on this side.
There wasn’t.
He could go back down to the third floor, take the stairs up. That might make sense, but the urgency pounding through Rule kept him hanging there, staring at the opening, gripping hard with his legs to spare his arms, which were beginning to tire.
Same plan, he decided. He’d just have to twist as he fell so he could get an arm and a leg through that opening—and yank himself through. If he missed, well, falling one and a half flights wouldn’t kill him. Probably. Unless he was knocked out and the fire caught him—shut up, he told himself, but his mouth was dry with fear.
He did not want to burn. He really, really, did not want to burn.
So get it right.
That was Benedict’s voice, Benedict’s words, the sort of thing he’d said often enough when Rule trained under him. Rule found himself nodding, agreeing with that laconic inner voice.
He pulled himself higher, not thinking anymore. This was the body’s job, not the brain’s. The moment the arc looked right he stopped, shifted his grip to position himself—and flung himself out.
His right arm whipped out, reaching for that pale rectangle. The ball of his right foot struck the metal track with jarring force, but his knee flexed, absorbing the impact, as he shot his arm through that opening—and even as his weight tried to pull him away, his forearm slammed onto the other side of the door. He clung there, his heart
beat loud in his ears.
Damn. He’d made it.
Not done yet. Move.
He pulled his foot through first, then his body. The doors were completely inert, not sliding back as they should have, so it was a tight squeeze. By the time he emerged he’d noticed two things.
The smoke was much less here, and seemed to be coming mostly from the elevator shaft. And it was way too quiet. The hall that led to Cullen’s room was dark, probably too dark for human eyes—there was enough smoke to keep light from the single window from penetrating far—but he could make out two crumpled forms on the floor.
There were voices, people calling out in fear, but they were few—and they all came from the far west end of the hall. The east side, where Cullen’s room lay, was totally quiet.
“Help me,” said a male voice. “Help me. She won’t wake up. None of them will wake up.”
The voice came from behind the nurses’ station, which looked empty. When Rule moved closer, he saw over the high counter. A dark-skinned man knelt beside a woman who was sprawled on the floor. Another woman was sitting, slumped forward onto the counter.
“They’re still breathing?” he asked.
The man nodded, his eyes round with fear. “But they won’t wake up. Mr. Peterson in 330, he’s on a ventilator. The power’s out. I don’t know what to do, and they won’t wake up!”
How long had it been since the lights went out? Maybe five minutes, Rule thought. It felt like much longer, but Rule had been in enough crisis and combat situations to know how time stretched. “Can you ventilate your patient by hand?”
“I change the damned sheets! I don’t know how to do that other shit. I came here to get someone, but they’re all asleep!” His eyes were damp. He was ready to cry, scared out of his wits—but desperate to get help for the helpless.
A good man? Or a killer bent over the woman he’d just put to sleep?
Rule took a breath. He’d decided the sorcerer wasn’t using his illusions for some reason. He’d proceed on that assumption, which meant he was looking for a short Asian man, not a gangly African American. “I don’t know how to do that shit, either.”
“Then what do we do? What do we do, man?”
Whatever had knocked everyone out, it wasn’t gas. With the air-conditioning out, gas would have still been present. Rule might throw off the effects of such a gas much faster than a human, but it would still affect him. At the least, he’d be woozy. And he wasn’t.
A sleep spell, then, but not like any he’d heard of. Cullen’s sleep spell was delivered through touch, not broadcast like a bomb.
Cullen. Rule had to assume that he, Cynna, and Max had been knocked out. They’d be helpless, if they weren’t already dead.
Rule quivered with the need to move. He held himself still a moment longer. Action without information was too often disaster.
Vision was limited by darkness. Smell was hindered by smoke. He focused on hearing.
Silence. No air-conditioning, no monitors beeping, no voices from that dark hallway. He might already be too late. If—
Footsteps. Soft, barely audible—but he heard footsteps in the east hall. Someone walking, not running. Someone in athletic shoes or the rubber-soled shoes nurses often used . . . so it might be a nurse moving almost silently through the dark.
He didn’t think so. He looked at the orderly, still kneeling beside the fallen nurse, and held a finger to his lips. The man’s eyes widened even more. He couldn’t have guessed why Rule wanted quiet, but he gulped and nodded.
Rule gave him a quick nod and set off at a run.
A few paces down the hall he leaped over the first huddled form—and nearly landed on a second one, missing more by luck than skill. Could one of them be Cynna? Had she made it back to the room before the sleep spell hit, or was she collapsed along here?
He dodged a laundry cart—and the red EXIT sign over the stairs came on. Maybe the tech was coming back. Once the level of magic decreased, it usually did.
That glow made a difference. He could see the alcove that held Cullen’s room now—and the man who emerged from it. Short. Dark hair. It was too dim still to make out his features, but he wore scrubs.
The light was enough for a human, too, apparently. The man saw him and took off running.
Rule kicked it up to full speed. He reached the alcove—snarled in frustration—and skidded into a turn. He had to catch the enemy. He also had to see. Had to check on the others.
The door to Cullen’s room was still closed. A white plastic grocery sack sat in front of it, ghostly in the dark. Rule slid to a stop. The sack was knotted at the top. It bulged.
The enemy had left it here. His eyes couldn’t tell him what it held. Maybe his nose could. He bent. Froze. Snatched up the sack and took off like death itself was nipping at his heels.
He tried to run smoothly, keeping the impact down—but felt every footfall thud up through his frame, vibrating the package he held. Time collapsed instead of stretching. He hit the nurses’ station a blink or two after grabbing the package—vaulted over the counter, ignoring the orderly, and leaped onto the cabinets lined up along the wall.
Crouched high on those cabinets, he drew back his cocked left arm and smashed his elbow through the window. A sweep of his forearm sliced his skin as it cleared out the remaining shards.
He looked out. Parking lot. Yes. Thank you, Lady.
Rule hurled the plastic-wrapped bundle straight out as hard as he could.
It exploded in midair.
TWENTY-SIX
THE enchiladas were as spicy as ever, the air-conditioning just as frigid, but after a couple bites, Lily hardly noticed.
She tried to level with T.J., like she’d planned. She couldn’t. The damned treaty had her saying something vague about a pair of bad guys she was after, both of them with magic, one of them a hit man.
T.J. knew she was holding out on him. He looked wary and disappointed. “You’re not telling me much.”
“I . . . can’t. But your case is clearly connected to what I’m working on. We both want to find out who had it in for the Xings—or for one of them. I figure it’s better if the brothers don’t know we’re collaborating. You going to talk to big brother today?”
“I’m planning on it. Give him a friendly ride to the morgue, see if he can ID little brother.”
“Okay. When it seems like a good moment to shake him up, tell him I . . . You have to say this right. Tell him I am concerned for his health because I believe my grandmother’s enemy killed his brother.”
“That’s it? Your grandmother’s enemy?’
“He, uh, sort of knows Grandmother. Or knows about her.” Lily wasn’t sure if they really had some kind of history, or if Zhou had just heard rumors. Grandmother wouldn’t say. Zhou Xing was old-school, though. He believed things his Westernized younger brothers didn’t. Lily suspected he had a Gift of some sort, too, but had never managed to shake hands with him to confirm that. “Never mind. Just tell him that and to call me if he wants to know more.”
“Should I look inscrutable?”
“You might have to settle for clueless.”
He grinned around a mouthful of beans he’d raised to incinerator levels with the addition of extra jalapeños. “I can do clueless. You going to deal me in if he does call?”
“I will. As much as I can, anyway. Dammit, I want to say more,” she said, frustrated beyond words. “I can’t.”
“Guess the muckety-mucks have you muzzled.”
She grimaced. “You could say that.” Though the muckety-mucks responsible for her muzzling weren’t with the FBI, as T.J. assumed. She was afraid they were a lot bigger and badder than that.
Who could have crafted a treaty that was literally unbreakable even for dragons? One that could be passed down through blood or magical inheritance?
Old Ones. Beings who could pass for gods if they wished. Lily’s hands felt clammy. For the first time she thought maybe she shouldn’t push, shouldn’t figh
t against bonds placed on her without her consent. These waters were deeper and more turbulent than she could conceive.
But she didn’t know if she could stop pushing. Like an animal chewing off its leg to escape a trap, Rule had said. It was a good analogy. She just wasn’t sure she could do anything different.
T.J. dragged a bite of tortilla around his plate, mopping up the last of the sauce, ate that, and burped happily before wiping his face almost as clean as his plate. “Damn good enchiladas. Mine are better, but those were damn good.”
“I know you grill, but enchiladas?” She shook her head. “Pull the other one.”
“Naw, I’m not messing with you. Camille and me have a deal. After my time-out, I had to learn to cook. Got pretty good at it after a while.”
“Your time-out?”
He grinned. “You’ve still got the instinct. Yeah, about ten years in she gave me a time-out for bad behavior.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“You’re sure nosy all of a sudden.”
“I’ve always been nosy. Humor me, okay?”
He shrugged. “Mostly it was just stupidity, me trying to keep the job from touching her, thinking she couldn’t understand, all that crap most of us pull.”
“She moved out?”
“More like she handed me my hat and pointed to the door. She claims she had to get my attention. Guess she was right, but it took three months of cold suppers and a cold bed for me to stop being pissed long enough to start hearing what she said.” He tilted his head. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
“I’m just . . . well.” She drummed her fingers. What was it exactly she wanted to know? “You might say I’m gathering data.”
He snorted. “Pretty sure that isn’t what I’d say, but you can, if you want.”
“Why did you and Camille get married instead of just living together? Was it because that’s what people expected?”
“Helluva question. If you want kids, you want them to have your name, don’t you? Well, I guess that’s a man’s perspective, so you . . . shit. You’re not. You are not pregnant.”