Four of the dire wolves were approaching the elevator at a run. Hotel guests were throwing themselves out of the way and hammering on the doors of the nearest rooms. And the page was just standing there, slack-jawed and in shock.
Irene cursed mentally and grabbed for the lever the page had been going for, yanking it with all her strength. The door slid smoothly across, slamming itself in front of the wolves’ oncoming muzzles. Their baulked howling shuddered through the closed door.
The page had turned white. “We’ve got to call the cops,” he stuttered.
Irene was more concerned with her immediate safety. She had to assume that what the wolves knew, Qing Song knew. Which meant that he knew she was in the elevator. Qing Song wouldn’t turn the wolves loose on random civilians. But she didn’t want to find out exactly how a pack of wolves would stop her from getting away. She suspected that, depending on Qing Song’s mood, hamstringing might be the least of it.
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” the hotel page said, managing to pull himself together. He pulled the other big lever next to him and the elevator began to glide slowly downwards. Above the door, a wide indicator like a clock-hand with a hole in the middle slid across an arc of floor numbers. “Too frightened to speak? Well, there’s only one way to go. Once we’ve got you down to the ground-floor, we’ll get the police in. My granny, she’s from the old country, and she said that once wolves get a taste for flesh, the only answer is a bullet . . .”
Irene nodded silently as she watched the indicator overhead slide across the floor numbers one by one. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
And then the elevator stopped dead and the lights went out.
Panic clutched at Irene’s throat in the sudden silence. The darkness seemed to close around her. She reached out to the wall, stupidly relieved to find it was still there, and forced herself to think through the fear. The elevator wasn’t going to drop out from under her. Really it wasn’t. Well, probably not.
She thrust her hand into her coat-pocket. The one thing she’d managed to hide while the gangsters were searching her had been an eyebrow pencil—a woman’s make-up tool, beneath their notice—but it gave her something to write with. If only she could see to write.
There was a scuffling noise from where the page was standing, and a click. Then the light of a torch cut through the darkness. The circle of luminescence lifted to the arc of floor numbers, and Irene could see that the indicator was stuck between six and seven.
What’s going on? she scribbled on the elevator wall, and pulled the page round to see the words.
“There . . . there must be some sort of problem with the mechanics, ma’am,” he stammered. “But don’t worry, I’m sure the management will have someone sort it out in no time, and then they’ll be lowering us to the next floor down and letting us out . . .”
Irene found herself almost as annoyed by the repetitions that she shouldn’t worry as by the situation. She made herself focus. If she assumed the worst—which she did—then one of her pursuers on the higher floor had stopped the elevator between floors. Then all they’d have to do would be to wait for the elevator to be opened, to collect her.
Which meant that she had to leave the elevator first. Where’s the emergency exit? she scribbled on the wall.
The page’s eyes flickered betrayingly up to the ceiling. “That really isn’t necessary, ma’am. It’s much safer for us to stay here. Really it is. You needn’t worry about it crashing or anything.”
That was the last thing she was worried about. Although it might provide certain people with a very convenient way out. Dead Librarians tell no tales. She’d have died in a tragic elevator accident. Such a pity, but accidents do happen . . .
The mob is after me, she wrote on the wall. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. Assessing the page’s morals, she tried a word that was supposed to have its own sort of magic. Please.
The page’s reluctance was visible in his face, but he nodded slowly. “All right, ma’am. There’s a hatch up there in the ceiling; we’re supposed to be able to climb through it, but I’m not sure how either of us can reach it—”
Irene didn’t stop to ask for permission. She stepped forward, got a firm grip round the page’s waist as he squeaked and tried to back away, and hoisted him up towards the hatch. Fortunately he caught on fast, and in a moment she could hear him undoing catches.
“It’s real heavy, ma’am . . .”
Irene heard him panting, then a thud. She looked up to see that he’d worked the panel loose and had pushed it up. There was now a dark hole in the elegant panelled roof, haloed by the shaking light of the torch. Dust drifted through it, and the smell of oil thickened the air.
The page dragged himself up as she supported him, his feet scraping Irene’s shoulders and leaving smears on her coat. He took the torch with him, of course. “I’m not sure that I’ll be able to pull you up, ma’am . . .” he babbled.
She jumped for the edge of the hole in the ceiling, grabbing hold of it, and, with some gasping and straining, she pulled herself up and through. Her old gymnastics coach might give her a few marks for effort but would take several thousand off for lack of elegance. But she was through.
The dark lift-shaft was full of oily cables and dust. Six feet above where they were standing, the torch-light faintly illuminated the elevator doors. It must be the seventh floor, the one they’d just passed.
She pointed up at it meaningfully.
“We’re not supposed to open the elevator doors if there isn’t an elevator there,” the page whispered. He looked miserable.
Irene patted him on the shoulder. Then she began to climb. There were enough handholds in the twisted cables for her to pull herself level with the closed doors in the wall. She had time for a quick prayer to any deities that might be listening and at all interested, as she reached towards the doors, eyebrow pencil in one hand, hanging on to the cables with the other. Please let my pursuers be on the floor below this . . .
Door, open, she scrawled in the near darkness.
With an agonized noise of metal against metal, the door obeyed.
There was nobody on the other side.
“Holy Mother of God and all his angels,” the elevator page muttered. But he didn’t complain, and he scrambled up the cables and through the open door after Irene. “Ma’am, I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but . . .”
Irene nodded. She gave him a quick thumbs-up, then ran for the stairs.
The ground-floor was a seething mob of people running in all directions and demanding answers. Irene used her elbows to get through it. She could hear the wolves upstairs. It was only a matter of time until they picked up her scent. If she could just get a cab or steal a car, she could break her trail. But were Kai and Evariste prisoners? And exactly how much of New York would she need to take apart if they were?
The wolves were getting louder. Irene staggered onto the sidewalk and looked for a taxi.
There weren’t any.
But there were police cars.
A small posse of policemen, or whatever the current collective noun was—troop? squad?—were organizing themselves into a flying wedge, with Captain Venner at their head. Some malign coincidence prompted him to look up just as Irene came into view, and he pointed a finger at her. She could hear his yell of, “Grab that woman!” quite clearly.
Irene weighed re-entering the hotel against being dragged off to the police station. The police station won, hands down. She raised her hands.
“Anything to say for yourself?” Captain Venner demanded sourly.
Irene shrugged.
“Well, lady, we’re keeping you in one of our hurry-up wagons here until we’ve sorted out this little trouble with the wolves, and then you’ll be going along to the station with us. And this time you’re going to be answering all my questions.”
Irene backed away. She wasn’t
keen on being locked in a police car and kept within range of the wolves, or their master.
“Cat got your tongue?” Captain Venner asked. “You’ve not been shy about talking before.”
Irene touched her throat, and tried to make gestures suggesting that she was suffering from temporary but severe laryngitis. She looked as pathetic as she could possibly manage.
Unfortunately it didn’t seem to be working. Captain Venner had clearly already been fooled too many times in one day. “Bitters, Johns, you handcuff her and sit with her—” he started.
Then the wolves burst out of the hotel. People scattered in all directions, screaming. There were only four of them now, but their muzzles and coats were marked with blood.
Captain Venner was a good enough cop to recognize that incoming wolves were the more significant threat. “Open fire!” he shouted.
Irene took advantage of his distraction and ran down Fifth Avenue.
The wolves parted around the police like the sea around a breakwater—following her.
Traffic streamed down the street in a rush of metal and rubber and fumes. Others ahead of her, fleeing the rampaging wolves, were cramming themselves through the nearest open doors. The buildings of this New York rose above her like distant mountains, leaving her deep in their shadow. She cast around desperately for a way out. The traffic was an impassable barrier down the centre of Fifth Avenue, and all the doors she’d passed had been closed.
Irene was heading towards Museum Mile and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and she knew she might be leading the wolves right towards Kai and Evariste. She needed a place to hide. But shop doors were slamming in front of her as the wolves howled, and no taxis answered her desperate waves.
The wolves howled again. The noise seemed just behind her. Irene fought against the temptation to turn round and see how close they were.
Then something slammed into her from behind. She went crashing down, and only her training made her roll with the fall and bring her elbow round in a counter-blow. It hit something—probably wolf—but then a pair of jaws had her forearm in a firm grip. It wasn’t enough to pierce the skin, but it let her know that option was definitely on the table.
One of the wolves was half on top of her, eyes watching her with an inhuman intelligence, its jaws clenched on her arm. The others were grouped around, waiting.
Irene fought for the ability to speak. Even normal language would have been sufficient. She could have tried to argue, to lie, to promise, to cajole, to beg—she might even have tried saying please. But nothing came.
Traffic flowed past. None of it stopped.
Irene looked up at the night sky above and let herself relax. A certain morbid curiosity made her wonder if the wolves would drag her all the way back to the St. Regis Hotel and, if so, whether they’d do it by the legs, the arms, or the scruff of the neck. Or perhaps they’d expect her to walk. In that case, they were going to have quite a wait.
“There they are!” someone yelled from the direction of the St. Regis Hotel. Question answered. If the wolves couldn’t drag her, then human servants could, and nobody was going to interfere . . .
There was a screech of brakes as a car came to a stop, and a wild hooting of horns as every other vehicle objected. Evariste’s voice cut through the noise. “Wolves, get off her!”
The wolf that had Irene’s arm in its jaws released her, drawing back from her with a growl and shaking its head in frustration. The others withdrew a pace or two, moving with the slowness of creatures fighting against their orders. Irene scrambled to her feet, looking around with sudden wild hope.
Evariste and Kai were scrambling out of a taxi. Evariste was in his shirtsleeves, and had several large rectangular objects bundled in his arms, wrapped in his coat. Kai was striding towards her, wrath in every line of his body, and at the sight of him the wolves all put back their ears and snarled.
“Down,” Kai said. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground.
The wolves ignored his command and moved to circle Irene again, growls throbbing deep in their throats.
“Are you threatening what is mine?” Kai’s eyes glinted like rubies under the street lamps. Patterns of scales ran like frosty ferns along the blue-tinged skin of his hands and face, and his nails caught the light and gleamed like jewels. “Are you challenging me?”
And that was it. Kai had publicly involved himself in the situation. Irene was grateful for the rescue—there were no words to say how grateful—but this was one of the things she’d most wanted to prevent.
“Your Highness!” Irene turned. That was Hu, together with two henchmen. Both gangsters had guns drawn. “This need not come to hostilities. You have meddled in my lord Qing Song’s private business, but he is willing to ignore that and return your property—if you will hand over the man with you.”
“He is under my protection,” Kai replied without a moment’s hesitation. “Your master will withdraw his wolves and return my colleague at once, or I will have his head for it.”
“That will do very little good if she is dead,” Hu replied. “And whether you would best him in a fight is open to dispute. I suggest that we negotiate, Your Highness. Otherwise both sides are likely to lose something to their advantage.”
Kai shot a glance at Irene. “Well?” he demanded.
By now Irene had a good estimate of how sharp Hu was: he wouldn’t be suggesting that they all sit down and talk unless he expected to get the upper hand. Unless he was buying time for Qing Song and Jin Zhi to arrive. And she was powerless to warn Kai.
But she wasn’t entirely helpless.
And equally important was the fact that the dragons were watching each other, like Siamese fighting fish, considering each other as their main adversaries. Even Qing Song’s wolves were watching Kai now, rather than Irene.
Irene touched her throat and did her best to mime I can’t speak.
“What have you done to her?” Kai demanded.
“What do you think?” Hu answered. “She’s healthy enough, as you can see. But if you want her returned to you as you left her, Your Highness, we need to discuss terms.”
Irene caught Evariste’s glance. He was a few paces behind Kai, still clutching his package. He returned Irene’s gaze, then raised an eyebrow. It said, as clearly as words, What do we do now?
If they removed the wolf threat, Hu couldn’t hold Irene—and couldn’t manipulate Kai. As Kai and Hu continued to exchange words, Irene pointed at the sidewalk, then indicated the wolves around her. Then she upturned her hand and brought her fingers together in a grasping motion.
Evariste nodded very slightly. As Kai was opening his mouth to speak again, Evariste said in a conversational tone, “Sidewalk, hold the wolves.”
The concrete flowed upwards as silently and smoothly as oil, rising to several inches high around the wolves’ legs and locking them in position. Irene was already moving, throwing herself between the animals with desperate haste as they whined in shock, before their jaws could get a grip on her.
She stumbled forward as the wolves howled in fury, and Kai stepped forward to catch her. He swung her behind him and turned to sneer triumphantly at Hu. “No terms.”
“No terms?” Hu said. “Can you stop bullets now, Your Highness? Because I think your Librarians are still vulnerable.”
“And I think you’re out of luck.” Evariste clung to his bundle of books so tightly that his hands were shaking, but he stepped forward to stand beside Kai. “You want to know what I can do to those guns? What I can do to you?”
And then the night split open with a sudden flare of light that tore through the sky. Street lamps flickered and went out. The top of the St. Regis Hotel broke open, stonework and balconies cracking like egg-shells, as two tangled dragons rose through it into the night sky: one burning gold, the other dark emerald, both tearing furiously at each other.
&n
bsp; Their mingled roaring ripped through the sky, shuddering through New York, and reality trembled.
CHAPTER 24
Irene had thought New York was noisy by night. Now she had an entirely new standard for comparison. People screamed and ran as the dragons clashed in the darkness above, with no idea of what to do or where to go, except to somehow get away: the ants’ nest that was New York had been stirred into panic. The stream of traffic down Fifth Avenue dissolved into a dozen flows and counter-flows as drivers leaned out to see what was going on. Brakes shrieked and metal crumpled as cars collided.
In a way the noise was almost too huge to be understood. Here at street level, their small group seemed to be surrounded by an egg-shell of temporary calm, one that might be broken by violence at any second.
Hu needed only a moment to pull himself together. He took a step forward. “Your Highness. You have to stop them.”
Kai looked at him in blank disbelief, his arm locked around Irene’s waist in a clasp that felt more possessive than protective. “What business is it of mine if they should want to kill each other? I’d say they both show excellent judgement.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Evariste said harshly. “Not my circus, not my monkeys. If they want to tear each other to bits, they can get on with it, and good luck to them.”
Hu ignored Evariste. His face was a stark white in the glow of the street lamps. “This may well draw the queen’s attention, and might even affect the balance of this world. Surely Your Highness doesn’t want to be reported as the instigator of this . . . situation.”
Irene knew his only concern was the battle between the dragons. All of this—all the gangs, the shooting, and now the growing confusion and damage, the city ripping itself apart—all of it was just a situation, insignificant when compared to the private politics of dragons. The thought burned inside her with a new anger. But fear mingled with it: Hu’s threat had teeth.
The Lost Plot Page 25