Living with the Dead (27 page)

  COLM  

Colm leaned over the stairwell railing, watching the second-floor door, ready to fly up the stairs if it opened. After a moment of listening, he closed his eyes and concentrated. The werewolf's image popped open like a computer window. Colm smiled.

Colm took this as a sign he was back in the gods' favor. He'd tried fixing on the Indian girl or Robyn or the man in the ball cap. But that was pushing his luck.

He watched the werewolf move through a room on the second floor, dropping to his knees by an adjoining door, trying to determine whether Colm had passed through it. The man straightened, brushing off his pant legs with a swipe of annoyance. Colm hadn't made the trail easy, setting a winding path that slowed him down.

If there were any other people in the building, Colm hadn't found them. That was okay. As long as he could see the werewolf, he could outwit him and escape. Or that was the mantra he repeated to keep the terror at bay.

The Cabals claimed they didn't hire werewolves, but the kumpania said that was a lie. Of course Cabal employees wanted to believe it. A werewolf made an ideal assassin, a hunting machine, and now the Cabal had set one on his –

He squeezed his eyes shut. A werewolf might be a cold killer, but they were stupid beasts – everyone knew that. He just needed to keep evading the monster until he could find a phone, call his mother and get help.

The next time Colm checked for a vision, though, he couldn't get a lock, and panic congealed in the pit of his stomach as he clenched the railing, straining to hear –

The werewolf's image popped into his head, so clear he could see the crease lines around his mouth. He was in a hall. Which one? Colm couldn't pick up any clues.

The vision vanished. Colm struggled to recapture it.

"I know you're up there." The man's low voice echoed through the empty stairwell.

Colm jumped and backed against the wall.

"You're above me," the werewolf said in that same calm voice. "You're standing just below the third-floor doorway."

How – ? Oh, scent. A dog couldn't just track by a trail on the ground; it could smell you. The werewolf could smell him up here, smell his fear, the piss dried on his legs, the sweat streaking –

He swallowed, shoulder blades rubbing the wall, desperately trying to get farther from that railing, from the werewolf. He glanced up at the door. Only three steps away. Three seemingly endless steps.

Colm shut his eyes, not trying for a vision now, concentrating solely on sound. He hadn't heard any footsteps or shoes squeaking on the steps. Maybe the werewolf didn't know for certain that Colm was here. Maybe he was guessing.

"Have you heard of the interracial council?" the man continued. "They help supernaturals in trouble. My – the woman you saw with me, she works for them. We're here to help you."

Werewolves were as stupid as everyone said. Or maybe he thought Colm was the stupid one, especially if he expected him to buy that old lie about the council.

"If you don't know of the council, perhaps you've heard of Lucas Cortez?"

The man's voice remained steady, volume unchanged, meaning he hadn't moved. The moment he did, Colm was up those three steps and through the door.

"Lucas Cortez is famous for fighting the Cabals. If you're in trouble with the Nasts, Lucas can help."

This guy just didn't know when to quit. If one lie didn't work, spew another.

"I can phone him right now," the werewolf went on. "You can talk to him. Or you can talk to his wife, Paige Winterbourne, one of the council leaders. Just tell me who you'll trust and we'll get in touch with them."

The only people Colm trusted were the kumpania.

"Tell me what I can do to make you feel safe. I only want to talk to you."

A movement flickered on the stairs below. Then the top of the werewolf's dark head appeared. Colm blinked, certain it was a vision caught at a weird angle. He should have heard him climbing, heard his voice getting louder.

The man looked up, eyes meeting Colm's. Colm scrambled up the steps, his feet barely catching the edges, shoes skidding, the stairs seeming to move under him like an escalator, those three steps to the landing an impossible distance.

"There's no place to go," the man called, his words barely piercing the pounding of blood in Colm's ears.

He finally hit the landing. As he dove for the door, the handle turned. He spun before seeing who was on the other side, stumbling to the stairs and tearing up the next flight, his feet remembering how to climb now. He glanced at the fourth-floor door, but didn't need to be clairvoyant to guess that if he opened it, someone would be waiting on the other side.

As he raced to the next floor, he glanced over the railing. The werewolf was still two flights down, taking his time. Why not? He could get Colm anytime he wanted. He was a werewolf; Colm was a skinny fifteen-year-old clairvoyant.

The werewolf was still climbing, still not rushing, letting the distance between them grow. He reminded Colm of the kumpania barn cats – overfed beasts slipped scraps by the kitchen staff, they didn't need to catch mice to survive, so they toyed with them, getting close, falling back, batting them around until they finally tired of the game and chomped through their little necks.

Colm missed the next step and fell, palms smacking the concrete, shins striking the step edge, the pain so sharp it blinded him, and he started crawling up on all fours, feeling his way. When his vision cleared, the pain shifted to his wrist, and he glanced down to see the odd angle, a protruding knob of bone that wasn't right. He'd broken his wrist as a child and the doctor warned him it could happen again. Not now, please not –

"You need to slow down," the werewolf called up. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He hit the fifth-floor landing, ignored the door and ran up the next flight. Just keep going.

There wasn't much farther he
could
go. This flight was the last. He lurched for the door. He tripped, his hands flying out, hitting the door. The pain that jolted down his arm was excruciating.

With his good hand, he twisted the knob, but it didn't budge. He yanked on it. Yanked and yanked and –

It was obviously locked. He needed to slow down and do something about it.

There was a deadbolt, but it was on his side, to keep people from breaking in. The lock on the knob was a simple one. He pulled out his fake ID card, pushed it into the jamb, wriggled it and...

The door opened.

Colm pulled open the door and flew through, then reeled back, blinded by the sun.

He was on the roof.

He spun, blinking hard, praying this was a vision that would disappear, leaving him with a cool dark hall and a red exit sign to safety. It didn't happen.

There had to be a fire escape. He jogged the perimeter. Nothing. The door stayed shut. If the werewolf had followed, he should be up here by now.

Colm's cheeks ballooned as he puffed, calming down. Where he'd exited there was a closet-size "room." He could get behind it and hide, then –

Stop planning and move. Act, don't think.

He circled wide to his goal. He needed to get downwind – No, upwind. Or was it downwind?

Stop thinking! Just –

The door swung open.

Colm twisted out of the way.

"Wait!"

A woman's voice. He glanced over to see the Indian girl standing by the open door, her hands up, genuine fear on her face. Fear that he'd jump off the roof and her boss would punish her for losing a clairvoyant slave.

"It's okay." She took a measured step toward him. "It's just me, okay? I only want to talk to you."

They kept saying that, as if by repeating it enough, they'd eventually hit the right note of conviction.

She took another step from the door, her hands still raised. Then she stopped. "I'm going to stay right here, okay? I'll keep my hands up. You can see I'm not armed. Now, I know you're scared..."

He bristled at that, shoulders squaring.

"You're nervous," she amended. "Concerned about your friend, Adele. She's okay."

So they did have her.

"I mean – We – She got away. Yes, we were following her. But she drove off, so we came back to talk to you."

Couldn't these people open their mouths without lying?

"She parked at the McDonald's a block south of the bookstore plaza, right? In the side lot, near the patio tables. We followed her trail that far, but she was already..." She trailed off, eyes studying his. "Look, I know you don't believe me. I don't blame you. You don't know me and you're sca – worried. But people have died. Maybe Adele has a good reason. I'm sure she thinks she does and I'm not saying she doesn't. But we need to stop it or we risk exposing all of us. You understand that, right?"

Oh, he understood. Understood that she'd talk and talk until she wore him down. Brainwashed him, like the rest of the Cabal slaves. Like she'd been brainwashed.

"We're not – " She stopped herself and eased back. "My name is Hope Adams. I work for the interracial council. Do you know what that is?"

He glanced around. If he could lure her away from that door before the werewolf found them...

"Do you want to talk downstairs? Or maybe at that McDonald's?" She took a step and he tensed, but she was moving sideways, away from the door. She squinted over her shoulder. "I think the cops are gone. They didn't stay very long."

She craned to see over the edge, but it was too far, so she took another step. Then another. Moving away from the door... He sent up a silent thank-you to the gods.

"I need to be sure," he said.

She started, as if surprised to hear him speak.

He cleared his throat, lowering his pitch a notch, hoping it made him sound older, more confident. "I'll go downstairs, but I need to be sure the cops are gone. Do you see any?"

"Hold on."

She headed for the edge. He counted her steps. At five, he'd run. Two, three...

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself to bolt for the door. An image flashed. The werewolf. Leaning against that exit door, hand on the knob, face tense with strain as he listened.

Colm backpedaled. The girl wheeled, hands flying up again.

"It's okay," she said. "I was just checking..."

He saw her lips keep moving, but the sound didn't penetrate. He was trapped. Well and truly trapped, and a fool for thinking otherwise. A coward, desperately trying to avoid the unavoidable.

He glanced toward the edge of the roof and he knew what he had to do. What the kumpania would want him to do. What Adele would expect him to do.

Take action. Be a man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl's face paling, her eyes going wide, mouth opening in a shout. He wheeled and ran.

He heard her then, a wordless shout, her shoes crackling in the gravel. He saw the edge of the roof, saw it, and threw himself forward.

Then... nothing. There was nothing under his feet.

His heart seized, shock ramming into his throat as he realized what he'd done. He twisted, arms flying out, praying he could stop this, that she'd save him. He didn't care if that made him a coward. This wasn't what he really wanted.