Chaotic (5 page)

I
n the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape
route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go all, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as the museum.

We crept along, shoulders whacking the sides with every few steps. The sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as they scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.

Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust, as it coated my tongue. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?

I resumed crawling, and smacked my face into Marsten’s ass . . . again.

“Warn me when you stop,” I muttered . . . again.

A low chuckle. “At the next branch you can take the lead, then you won’t have that problem. I will . . . but I suspect
I
won’t complain about it.”

“You won’t have an excuse. Werewolves have enhanced night vision.”

“Mine’s been a little rusty lately.”

“You seem to be doing just fine.” I head-butted him in the rear. “Now move.”

After that, we did switch positions—three times—as we ran into three dead ends.

“I’m taking the next exit,” Marsten said on the fourth about-face.

“Not arguing.”

The next vent we hit,
he
hit, driving his fist into it and knocking it clattering to the floor. Guess I wasn’t the only one getting claustrophobic.

Marsten crawled out. I started to, then my dress snagged on a rivet, and I tumbled out headfirst, floor flying up to meet me—

Marsten grabbed me and swung me onto my feet. I regained my balance and took a deep breath of clean—reasonably clean—air.

“Well, there goes two thousand dollars,” he muttered, looking down at himself.

Both elbows of his jacket were torn, and the front of his shirt was streaked with dirt, as were his face, hands, and pretty much every exposed inch of skin. Cobwebs added gray streaks to his dark hair. His shoes were scuffed, as were his pant knees. While he surveyed the damage, he looked so mournful I had to stifle a laugh. Well, I tried to stifle it. Kind of.

“Don’t snicker,” he said. “You’re just as bad.”

“But I don’t care.”

As he brushed himself off, I looked around. We were in some kind of laboratory, with microscopes and steel tables and what looked like pots of bones in the middle of being de-fleshed. At any other time, curiosity would have compelled me to take a closer look. Tonight, only one thing caught my attention: the exit door.

As I strode to it, Marsten grabbed my arm.

“You can’t go out like that,” he said.

“Oh, please. My life may be in danger. You really think I care how I look? You stay here and pretty up, if you like, but I’m bolting for the nearest exit.”

His grip tightened as I tried to pull away. I yanked harder. He squeezed harder.

I glared at him. “That—”

“Hurts. Yes, I know. But you’ll hurt a lot worse if Tristan catches you.”

“We don’t know—”

“That he plans to kill you? He wasn’t heading to that closet to congratulate you on a job well done, Hope. He wants me dead, and to do it safely, without risking his own life on the repercussions, he needs to clip off his loose ends. That includes you and, later, those guards.”

“Kill four people because you
embarrassed
him?”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“What did—?”

“Whatever I did, it came after
he
retaliated because I turned down his job offer. It doesn’t matter. To a man like Tristan Robard, killing four people to avenge his ego is perfectly reasonable.”

He studied my face, then shook his head. “You don’t believe me? Fine. But at least give me the benefit of the doubt by not strolling out that door and testing my theory. You don’t think he’ll have all the exits covered?”

“Uh . . . yes, of course, but there are plenty of other exits. I know my way around—”

“Good. But if we start wandering the halls looking like this, we’re going to raise alarms. If not Tristan and his men, then a security guard or a concerned guest—”

“Who will cause a fuss, which will alert Tristan. Okay. Let’s pretty up then.”

M
arsten declared his tux jacket a write-off. No big deal. It was nearing midnight, and jackets and ties would be coming off anyway as the party wore down. Under it, his shirt needed only a brisk wipe down. My dress had actually fared quite well, with only a rip under the arm and a smear of blood on the skirt. Take off my nylons, wipe down my dusty shoes and bloody knees with a damp paper towel, and I was fine . . . below the neck anyway. There were no mirrors, and my distorted reflection in the stainless steel table wasn’t very helpful.

“Here,” Marsten said. “I’ll get your face if you can clean mine.”

He wet a fresh paper towel in the lab sink, and walked over to me. I lifted my face. He raised the cloth to my cheek, then paused to brush cobwebs from my hair. When he finished, he smiled, took a stray strand, and wrapped it around his finger. As he did, I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that it was more than a “stray strand.” It was a huge hunk of hair, which thirty minutes ago had been battened down in an upswept twist.

I groaned. “How bad is it?”

“It’s a bit . . . tousled. Very sexy.”

I lifted my hand to my hair and swore. At least half of it had come free. Beyond repair without a brush and a mirror . . . and a half-hour of styling time. I yanked out a handful of bobby pins, and gave my hair a shake, letting it fall down my back.

“Mmmm . . . very sexy.”

“Down, boy. We’re fleeing for our lives here, remember.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “Any better?”

A wolfish grin. “Much. You look like you just crawled out of bed.”

“Damn it—
not
the look I’m aiming for.”

He caught my hands as I tried to smooth out the damage. “It’s fine. Tousled, yes, but it looks intentional.”

He put his hand under my chin and lifted the wet cloth again. Then he paused again.

“What now?” I said.

A low chuckle. “I was just thinking I’ve never seen a woman who looked so beautiful in dirt and cobwebs. Trouble suits you.”

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

“No, I’m sure I don’t, but I certainly hope I get the chance to find out.” He brushed his finger over my cheek.

“Fleeing for our lives, remember? Let’s save the flattery and soulful gazing until
after
we escape.”

“Is that a date?”

“Date!” I jumped so fast I knocked the paper towel from his hand. “Sorry. My date. Douglas. He’ll be looking for me. I need to tell him—”

“Tell him what? Don’t worry, I was held captive by a werewolf but I’m okay now . . . except for the deranged Cabal sorcerer on my tail?”

I glared up at him. “I’m serious. He’ll be worried—”

“Let him worry. From what I saw, it’s only . . . what, a first, maybe second date, and you didn’t seem very enamored—”

“He’s a nice guy. Kind of. He’s not evil.”

Marsten’s brow shot up. “That’s your dating criterion?”

“You know what I mean. He was worried, and I can’t just walk out on him. Plus, if my mother finds out I abandoned the guy she set me up with—”

“Your mother sets you up blind dates? With guys like that?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “She doesn’t like you very much, does she?”

“My mother—” I bit back at the rest, and started again. “My mother is just fine, which is why I won’t embarrass her like this. I do that enough as it is.”

His face softened. “All right. But, while I
do
understand, you’re forgetting—”

“The whole ‘fleeing for our lives’ part?” I took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll have to—I’ll work something out later. Apologize to my mother. Make it up to Douglas . . .”

“I don’t think you owe Douglas anything.” He paused. “If we need to go past the party, you can tell him. Make an excuse to leave, and call it even.”

I nodded and we finished getting ready.

I
was picking cobwebs out of Marsten’s hair when I remembered something else.

“The gun,” I said. “I should’ve grabbed the gun.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. In my experience, guns are only good for threatening. In combat? I’m as likely to shoot my own foot. Best to avoid them altogether.”

“Easy to say when you have super strength, super senses, fangs, claws . . . ”

He glanced up at me as I plucked out another cobweb. “You
are
a . . . What’s the word they use? A supernatural, aren’t you?”

“Sure, but not all of us come with built-in defense mechanisms. Why do you think I carry a gun?”

“So what is your—?”

“Speaking of my gun, it’s also still back there, in my purse . . . with my bracelet. Damn it.”

“The bracelet—an heirloom, I presume.”

“So you didn’t mistake it for a ‘cheap bauble’ after all. And you still didn’t try to nick it. I’m shocked.”

He glowered as he got to his feet.

“What?” I said. “I’ve offended you? I should be ashamed of myself. Those pieces in your pocket just fell in there, didn’t they? Damn museum displays. Stuff just drops off them—”

“Point taken,” he said as he stood and smoothed his hair. “But, no, your bracelet isn’t at risk. Valuable or not, it’s worth more to you than to me. These—” He reached into his jacket and transferred the jewels to his pants pocket. “Worth something only to an insurance company. Which I realize is no excuse but—” He shrugged. “As for your bracelet, considering it’s with your gun, and you’d probably feel safer carrying that, I suggest we make that office our first stop, presuming Tristan has moved on.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I want it back, but I have to trust my purse will still be there when all this is done.”

“I’ll make sure I get it for you later.”

Later? I hoped that didn’t mean he planned to come back and steal something else. No, he’d been leaving when I’d first stopped him.

He took my elbow and propelled me toward the door. “Let’s go before they find us.”

I
t took a few minutes to get my bearings. The laboratories weren’t part of your typical museum visit and thus were woefully lacking in directional signs. I knew we were on the first floor, which helped . . . except that most of the sprawling first floor
was
offices and labs, which didn’t help. Nor did the lack of windows. I’d never noticed it before, but, the building was window-free. Great for security and artifact preservation; not so great for those needing to end their visit in a hurry.

“There,” I whispered to Marsten. “That’s the media room. I was there last month for a story.”

“You’re a journalist?”

I nodded, not mentioning I’d been covering the story of an “ancient curse” that a former worker swore was responsible for his herpes outbreak. That thought pinged another. Did all this mean I’d never cover another silly curse story?

An unexpected pang of panic followed the thought. I liked what I did. Once I’d worked past the “I’m too good for this” phase, I’d genuinely enjoyed tracking down UFOs and Hell Spawn sightings, far more than I’d ever liked covering drive-by shootings and political scandals. But if I wasn’t working for the council and wouldn’t be plugging supernatural leaks . . .

Had I ever been suppressing leaks? Helping my fellow supernaturals survive under the cover of secrecy? Or had I just been covering up a Cabal’s messes?

My gut twisted.
Oh God, what had I done?
I thought I’d been—

Stop it. Not now.

I looked up at Marsten. “We’re in the northeast quadrant, closest to the main doors, which I know we can’t use, but there must be an emergency exit—”

“There’s one along the west side, probably fifty feet from the front.”

“Perfect. I’ll watch for exit signs; you listen for company.”

W
e found the exit. As Marsten strode toward it, I called, “It might trigger an alarm.”

“A chance I’m willing to take.”

I stayed at his heels, eager to be out of this place—

Every hair on my body leaped to attention, and I stopped short, lips parting in an involuntary hiss. Then I grabbed Marsten by the back of the shirt.

“It’s trapped,” I said.

“I said—”

“Not alarm-trapped.
Trap
-trapped. Magically. They must have a witch or a sorcerer—” I stopped myself. “Earlier, you said something about a Cabal sorcerer. You meant Tristan, didn’t you?”

As Marsten nodded, I winced. Another unforgivable faux pas. Tristan had let on he was half-demon, but I’d never seen a display of his powers or even asked what those powers were. If I’d known he was a sorcerer, I would have been suspicious of his “working for the council” story.

Witches led the interracial council, and witches and sorcerers had as little as possible to do with one another. The Cabals were the great sorcerer achievement—powerful corporations staffed by supernaturals and run by sorcerers. I knew little about Cabals—every half-demon I knew stayed away from them and had warned me to do the same, but if I’d realized what Tristan was, I’d have had a good idea who I’d
really
been working for.

“What kind of trap is it?” Marsten asked.

I shook my head. “No idea. I can just tell that it’s there, and it’s trouble.”

When I caught his frown, I said, “That’s my so-called power. Chaos detection. Like you said, trouble suits me.”

“Your ‘power’? So you’re a half-demon?”

When I nodded, his frown grew. “I thought—admittedly, my knowledge of demons is next to none, but I was under the impression that they were all chaotic. They feed off chaos or some such thing.”

“Demons, yes. Half-demons, no. Half-demons inherit their father’s special power without his affinity for chaos. Lucky me, I’m the one type that gets the reverse.”