by Lindsey Duga
Eris’s blue eyes suddenly snapped open and her grip on Gin tightened. Thrusting her hips back, Eris threw her upper half forward, planting down all her weight and heaving Gin over her back in a solid shoulder-throw.
The knife rolled across the carpet as Gin slammed into the floor on her back.
Eris kicked the weapon away and grabbed my hand. Together we ran out the door, Gin’s scream following us. “You can run from him, but you can’t hide!”
Our footsteps pounded against the wood floor, the light of the gaslit lanterns bouncing and jumping on the brick walls thanks to our shadows racing across.
As we ran, I let go of Eris’s hand and quickly dismantled the gun like I’d been taught at the Bureau, dropping the parts like breadcrumbs in our wake. We came to the entrance of the club, but instead of bolting out the door to the alley, she turned left toward the black-and-white checkered dance floor. Before she could enter the mass of writhing bodies, I grabbed her wrist.
“What are you doing? We have to go!” I yelled over the blaring jazz.
But she couldn’t answer. Whatever concoction they’d given her had rendered her voice useless. Instead, she just stared up at me with imploring, big blue eyes.
Trust me.
Easy to read.
Just as I’d made the decision to follow her into the unknown, a howl pierced the air. It broke through the cacophony of piano, sax, laughter, and tapping feet.
Five massive werewolves with ripped shirts and furry faces emerged at the top of the stairs. Millie must’ve run to fetch them on Gin’s telepathic orders. They’d probably be chasing us down the street by now if Eris hadn’t continued onto the dance floor. Out there, we might’ve had a chance in running. In here, I wasn’t so sure.
They scrambled over one another to get down the stairs as screams and shouts issued from dancers who ran to make way for Gin’s henchmen. Some even jumped behind the bar to hide.
Eris paid the beasts no mind. She seemed to be so focused on her mystery mission that nothing in the world—not even five bloodthirsty werewolves after her—could distract her.
I had to admire her guts.
We took off across the floor, now clear of bodies, and ducked into a back hallway. Eris stopped at the door to the right and grabbed its knob, rattling it.
I pushed her to the side and backed up. In three short but fast steps, I kicked the door. The wood splintered and shook as the lock dislodged and the door vibrated open.
We raced down the cellar steps and when we came to the tall liquor crates at the back, Eris pulled up short. It was so sudden that I almost lost my balance, but I managed to steady myself with a whiskey barrel that came to my waist.
Out from behind the crates emerged three small children—the oldest being maybe twelve while the others looked to be around nine and six.
The situation hit me like a five o’clock freighter. Gin’s experiments.
Eris had found them and now wanted to rescue them, because…of course she did.
There was no getting out of here without them, but I didn’t know how we could manage it. If Eris had her voice it’d be jake. But she didn’t. And as for my own strength…going up against five werewolves was going to be not only difficult, but impossible.
Gin had been right. Maybe once I’d been the most powerful monster in America. Now, I didn’t know what I was.
Eris beckoned the children to her side, and they hurried to her, clutching her white dress like she was their angelic savior, which she was, really, in more ways than one.
A werewolf howl ripped through the hall, quickly followed by thundering footsteps above.
I turned to Eris. “Did you have an escape plan for these kids?”
She pointed up the steps and then moved her hand to the left in a jerking motion.
The left. Did that lead to another way out? Unfortunately, it was still up the steps through the horde of werewolves.
My mind raced through one hundred possible scenarios and each one of them seemed to end with me dead, the kids back in their cage, and Eris in the hands of her creator.
Growls echoed as feet stamped on wooden planks down toward us.
Before I could make any kind of plan, Eris thrust a child into my arms. The smallest boy. The kid wrapped his hands around my neck and held on for dear life, as if he knew the plan better than I did. As I held him, Eris opened my jacket and slid her hands into the inside pockets.
I tried to ignore the heat of her arms and the feel of her soft hands skimming down my sides, but even with monsters hitting the middle steps and their claws scraping along the brick wall, she was difficult to ignore.
“Eris—what—”
But then she found what she was looking for. My pocket knife.
The first werewolf hit the floor of the cellar in a crouch, snarling. The two children clung to my jacket, whimpering. The little boy pushed his face into my neck, and I felt dampness spread across my collar.
Eris flipped open the blade, whirled around, and pressed the tip to the hollow of her throat. Threatening.
The werewolves froze, one by one. The last ran into the wolf right in front of him and caused a domino effect as they all edged forward.
I gaped at her. Dammit. She’d gotten the idea from Gin. She was holding her own body hostage and it was working.
Gin’s henchmen must be under strict orders that no harm come to her. Just how badly did this corporate giant of BKH want her? Enough to pay a fortune. Enough to give the Queen of the Netherworld anything her dark heart desired? Or had he threatened her to the point of true fear?
Eris glanced back at me with wide, urgent eyes. Go. Take the children. Leave me.
I shook my head. Not a chance.
The first werewolf bent slowly, on all fours. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his words garbled and difficult to understand through his mouthful of razor sharp teeth and long, lolling tongue.
But no one moved.
The little boy hiccupped and let out a sob into my neck. Eris shot me another glance—this one of anger. She was furious I wasn’t taking these kids and running while I had the chance.
But how could I live with myself if I left her to these dogs?
The werewolf inched toward her and Eris dug the knife down her skin, from the hollow of her throat to her collarbone, opening a long red cut. Blood trickled down and the werewolf shrank back, eyes wide. She didn’t flinch from pain or cry out. She merely raised the blade back to her throat and glared menacingly at them as if to say, next time it will be deeper.
My heart stuttered and jumped, then it shattered into a thousand pieces. She was making this decision for me. Whether I liked it or not.
The heat in my chest was building and building…but with the children here, I couldn’t let it free. Not now.
There was only one road to take.
Edging around the barrels and crates, holding onto the youngest boy and feeling the other two kids move alongside me, I came to the steps where the werewolves stood. They were unmoving, their attention divided between me, their prey, and the asset, Eris, whom they were supposed to retrieve and protect.
Eris grunted and pressed the blade once again, opening another minor incision. The werewolves stayed immobile while I mounted the steps with the children.
The monsters didn’t seem to care much at all. So what if I walked away with some orphans? There were hundreds in the city, and they could get more. But there was only one siren.
Hating myself, cursing God, Gin, and the devil pulling her strings, I made it to the top of the steps while Eris remained in the center of the cellar. She was bleeding all down her pretty cream dress, but she stood strong.
Strong and beautiful and brave.
This couldn’t be the end. We still had so much to talk about. So much I felt like I could learn from her.
But ho
w could I go after her with three kids to worry about?
“Mister.”
A whisper called to me, and I glanced down at the oldest child, the little girl. She was tugging hard on my jacket.
“The exit.” The girl pointed to the left, to a dark door at the end of the hallway, then she wrapped her hand around the small boy’s wrist in my arms, as if to show that she would take him and protect him.
This girl was just as easy to read as Eris. She wanted me to save their angel.
And I would, too.
I set down the small boy and met the little girl’s intense stare. “Run,” I said.
And they did.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Siren
Even after Colt’s feet disappeared from view and the smaller footsteps ascended to the ceiling above, I kept the pocket knife to my throat.
My hands were back to shaking. The blade tip pricked my skin again, but I hardly felt it.
Eventually the heat of the werewolf’s fur and the stench of his breath—like Dijon mustard mixed with blood—became overpowering. He was so close now.
I swallowed the impulse to run away. This is working. If I could save those three children by threatening my own life—which I knew they wouldn’t risk—then it was worth my freedom.
A furry claw pried my fingers from the knife’s handle. I could no longer hold on. If I’d been stronger, maybe I could’ve bought them a little more time to get away, but I could feel my own body betraying me. My knees were weak, and every limb I had was trembling.
“All right, bitch,” the werewolf growled, gripping my upper arms. “You’ve caused us enough trouble.”
As I forced myself to meet his piercing yellow pupils, I thought I saw a whole door fly through the air.
No. I hadn’t imagined anything.
The large slab of wood came flying down the steps, slamming into the two werewolves standing near the foot of the stairs. They stumbled into the brick wall and shook their heads, disoriented.
Colt barreled down the steps. Hooking his hands on a wooden beam from the ceiling, he swung himself forward, feet first, and landed on the door that lay on top of the smooshed werewolves. Using it as a diving board, he sprang off and went for the next two monsters.
Unfortunately, the other henchmen had managed to quickly recover from their shock and attacked Colt with just as much fervor. Claws and fangs against legs and fists.
But I wasn’t able to see much more of the fight.
The werewolf holding my arms picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of coffee beans, and in the next second, I found myself staring at a stained shirt pulled tight against a bulging back with layers of fur. With a grunt, I was able to lift myself up enough to reach a crate right in front of my face.
It was open.
I threaded my arm through and pulled out a bottle of bourbon—coincidentally, Marv’s favorite—and using all my strength, smashed it against the man’s head.
He dropped me and I fell to the floor with a squeak of pain.
“Eris!”
I only had enough time to roll out of the way when a great furry body crashed into the spot on the floor where I’d just been.
A hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet, and I came eye to eye with Colt.
For a moment, I considered hitting him myself. What had he been thinking coming back for me? Where were the children?
But before I could do anything, he tucked my face into his neck and pulled me down with him as gunshots went off overhead.
Not again.
Under his arm, I could see two werewolf bodies—if not dead, then unconscious—lying on the floor.
“Stay down.” Colt’s voice was gruff and labored and when he moved away from me, I could feel something warm and sticky on my shoulder. My fingers came away red.
He was bleeding.
Again.
I prayed it wasn’t the same wound reopened.
Struggling to my feet in a blatant disregard for his orders, I took in the scene. Two werewolves were on the ground and the one I’d smashed with a whiskey bottle leaned heavily against the stack of crates, groaning and blinking, trying to not pass out.
Colt hid behind a pyramid of barrels as gunshots went off right and left. The two werewolves that had been pinned to the wall by the door had freed themselves and now had revolvers, burning powder. A few shots hit the barrels and dark liquid frothed, bubbled, and poured out onto the floor in big splashes. More bullets hit wine bottles and crates, spraying glass, liquid, and flecks of wood into the air. One shot hit a lightbulb and glass and sparks exploded, throwing the cellar into a world of shadows and flashes of light off flints.
I bit my bottom lip and glanced around. How could we get out of here in the midst of all this deadly chaos?
Another stray bullet found a barrel and it trembled and shook, brown, foul-smelling liquid pouring onto the floor. The whiskey just flowed, gallons and gallons lost… And then an idea hit me.
Praying to God I wouldn’t catch lead, I dove from my hiding place toward Colt’s, which was still behind the pyramid of whiskey barrels. He looked at me questioningly as I pressed my palms against the barrels. The next second, he caught on, and then the next, we were both pushing. Pushing as hard as we could.
One after the other, the six barrels rolled forward. Without waiting to see the damage of over two thousand pounds of whiskey against the remaining wolves, Colt seized my hand, and we climbed the cellar steps. He swerved us to the left and we ran down the dark hall to the door at the end.
“The kids went this way,” Colt panted as we ran.
The kids knew how to get out thanks to Raymond Harold Fitzpatrick. And because of me, Ray was dead.
The guilt made me cringe with physical pain, but Colt held me upright, supporting me as we burst through the door into a small storage closet.
It was as Ray had described, but Colt clearly hadn’t been expecting a closet. He fumbled and slammed into the side of the wall. Pushing away left a smear of red on beige. I couldn’t tell exactly where he was bleeding, only that the wound wasn’t shallow.
I extracted myself from his side and ran my hands along the opposite wall and down the base boards. Feeling something loose, I kicked at it with the toe of my shoe and the hidden door creaked open. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Colt threw his weight against the door and we burst into a dark office space.
The room was fairly large, double the size of the Dragon—or maybe it just felt that way because of the sparse furniture. Laid out on the thin, rough carpet were eight desks lined in four rows, by two columns. Rolling chairs were tucked into each one with filing cabinets towering next to them. There were typewriters and in-and-out cubbies with papers and pens. The lamps on the desks were all dark.
Except one.
At one of the middle desks was a woman leaning against the wooden edge, her silhouette illuminated by the light of that one gold lamp. At her feet were three small figures, and in her hand…was a revolver.
Sniffling came from their dark shadows and I praised God the children were alive. For now.
The woman was blonde with a lavender flapper dress. It was the woman from the cellar. The one who had poured the drink down my throat. Except the only difference now was that there was a third eye in the center of her forehead. Blue and unblinking.
She turned to us, her blue eyes a dark cobalt in the gloom. “Took you long enough.”
Colt stepped forward. “Millie, let them go.”
The cyclops girl raised her hands, the gun’s trigger guard looping around her thumb so the revolver hung loose and dangling.
Colt and I remained where we were, unsure. Was this a trick?
In five quick steps, she crossed to us and flipped over the gun in her palm, holding the muzzle in her hand and extending the grip to where
Colt could easily seize it and point it at her.
“Take it. You have maybe two minutes before the rest come.”
“The rest?” Colt asked, taking the revolver.
“Of course. Gin always has more,” the flapper said calmly. Her gaze was far-off and her third eye stared straight ahead at nothing. It was unnerving. “The werewolves and minotaurs are on their way. I stopped the children because they’d never make it out of the city alone with a horde of monsters combing the streets. But you can lead them to safety. There’s a boat. A dingy with a ferryman by the wharf. If you can get there he can take you up the lake to a church. The monsters won’t be able to follow you.”
“Why are you helping us?” Colt asked just as calmly, though my own heart was beating a mile a minute.
“Because you now owe me a favor.”
“A favor? Not likely. How can we even trust you?”
“Why would I lie about this? I could use my eye to communicate to Gin telepathically right now and tell her where you are and it would be all over, but I’m giving you an out.”
“But why?”
“Because I want an out.”
“You want to come with us?” I asked.
“No, I want you to shoot me. With that gun.” She pointed to the revolver in Colt’s hand.
I lifted my fingers to my mouth as horror washed over me.
“No,” Colt said.
“Do it, or I will call them all here now.”
“You can just come with us—”
“No! That won’t stop the pain.” It was the first time her voice broke. Her calm exterior fell away as a crazed look entered her eyes. She reached trembling hands into her curls, tugging at their roots. “My head…hurts all the time. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.” She dropped to the floor. “I can’t stand Gin’s voice in my head. And I can hear her all the time. What she thinks about. What blood tastes like. There are others that I can hear, each thought and desire louder than the last. It’s like a constant foghorn in my head. Like a train whistle. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”