Stories of the Otherworld: Chaotic Part 4

7.

Marsten jumped off the desk and was halfway to the door when it opened. Two men strode in, guns in hand. Part of the council security force. I recognized both from other operations.

I crawled forward, ready to push open the vent. Then I stopped, palms against the cover. I didn't need to eavesdrop to know Karl Marsten was full of s.h.i.t. I heard the web of lies he'd spun when I'd first confronted him with the theft. He'd say anything to get out of this-to use me to get out of it. Yet there was reason to stay up here, hidden and silent, the perfect position to watch Marsten, and make sure he didn't try anything. Or that's what I told myself.

A man strolled in. Mid-thirties, average height and slightly built, with light brown hair and a delicate, almost feminine face. Tristan, my council contact.

"Ah, Karl," he said. "I didn't know you were a patron of the arts."

"Tristan Robard," Marsten said. "I'd say I should have known, but I'd be lying. After the last time, I thought you'd have the sense to leave me alone. I guess I overestimated you."

Tristan's eyes narrowed.

"I should give you credit, though," Marsten continued. "You have quite a clever setup here. And your young agent. Well done. A beautiful young woman lays the most irresistible traps and, it seems, even I'm not immune." He paused. "Aren't you going to ask where she is?"

"Not terribly worried."

Marsten smiled. "Oh, but you should be. The one problem with using beautiful young women as bait? They make equally irresistible hostages."

"So you have her."

As Marsten nodded, I opened my mouth to call out and let Tristan know I was safe- Tristan smiled. "As I said, not terribly worried."

I blinked, but shook it off. Of course Tristan would say that. He was a skilled negotiator. He wouldn't let Marsten know he had leverage.

"I don't think your superiors will approve of that att.i.tude," Marsten said. "Oh, but your superiors have nothing to do with this, do they? This is personal. A little boy lashing out because the big bad wolf embarra.s.sed him."

Tristan's jaw set.

"I didn't embarra.s.s you, Tristan," Marsten continued. "You did it to yourself. You offered me a job. I turned it down-respectfully and politely. But that wasn't good enough, because you'd already promised them I'd do it. If I refused, you'd need to explain that you'd overreached, and there was no way you were doing that, so you came after me. I was happy to let the matter rest-a rejected business proposition, no cause for animosity-but you came after me. That was your mistake."

Tristan give a tight laugh. "My mistake? You're the one being held at gunpoint, and you're talking about my mistake? Delusional to the end."

Marsten only shrugged. "If you say so."

Marsten stepped forward, as if ready to go with them. Then he stopped.

"I'll suppose you'll want me to tell you where I hid that security guard you had killed. Backup plan, I presume?"

Tristan said nothing, only reached for his cell phone. Marsten's gaze flicked to the vent shaft, then back to Tristan.

"So you didn't trust your girl to do the job. If she failed, you'd still have a mauled security guard, found at the scene of a jewel theft, a little tale you could take to the interracial council."

Tristan only smiled, gaze still down as he checked messages on the phone. "I think the Pack would be more interested in that story."

"Ah, of course. The werewolf Pack. A clever plan, and one that might have worked... if I hadn't been part of the Pack myself for the past two years."

Tristan looked up.

Marsten laughed. "Not very good at doing your homework, are you? That's obvious from that preposterous story you told the girl. Working as an agent for the interracial council? I'm sure Aaron, Paige, Adam, and the other delegates will be thrilled to know they have a team of secret agents working on their behalf."

Marsten caught Tristan's look and smiled. "Surprised I know their names? Your story probably works much better on those who don't know the delegates personally. I could toss a few more names at you, including the werewolves, but I doubt you'd recognize them, and they wouldn't appreciate me filling that void for you."

He paused, head tilted, feigning deep thought. "Oh, but I do have another name, one you might find infinitely more interesting. You know who Paige Winterbourne's husband is, I presume. You can't possibly be that out of touch."

Tristan stiffened.

"Ah, you do know. A very nice young man. I did some work for him last year. Quite pleasant." Marsten frowned. "I hear his father isn't always so pleasant, though. A decent employer, I'm sure... unless he finds out one of his employees has been building his own little spy network behind his back."

"I haven't been doing anything behind Benicio's back. He knows all about my initiative. And he's very impressed."

"Oh? So this is a Cabal-sanctioned hit? Funny, I could've sworn it smelled like personal revenge. Well, what do I know? A Cabal kills a Pack werewolf... that shouldn't cause too much trouble. Or I suppose it won't if the Cabal doesn't know about it."

Tristan waved to the guards. "Get him out of here."

He turned, and Marsten started to follow. Then one of the guards spoke up.

"Sir? What about the girl?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about her," Marsten said. "She's quite resourceful. I'm sure she'll get herself free, if she hasn't already. But the security guard? Now that's a problem. You should-"

Tristan turned sharply. "Hope's still alive?"

"Is that her name? Of course she's alive. You didn't think I'd-" Marsten shook his head. "I suppose, considering who I'm talking to, I shouldn't need to ask. Oddly enough, I find the best hostages are the live ones. Yes, Hope is fine and, as I said, will almost certainly free herself, so there's no need-"

"Where is she?"

"The question is: where's the dead guard? The girl can take care of herself. That guard, sadly, is beyond-"

"Where is she?"

Marsten paused and rubbed his chin, as if realizing he wasn't going to talk his way out of handing me over. I'm sure he had some self-interested reason for not wanting to do so, but I was grateful for the effort nonetheless. I didn't know how I'd face Tristan, knowing the truth.

Oh G.o.d... the truth.

My stomach heaved. I've been tricked. The whole time I'd been up here, listening as the facts rolled out, I'd processed them without absorbing them. Without letting myself absorb them- "She's in a janitor's closet," Marsten said. "Tied with her own handcuffs, which I thought was appropriate. I can take you there-"

"You'll wait here. I'll come back for you when I'm finished with her."

Finished with me? What did he mean by-?

I pushed the thought away and, as Marsten gave Tristan directions to the closet I'd used earlier, I scrambled for an escape plan. Yes, escape. Maybe I was being paranoid, and Tristan had only meant he'd return when he'd finished freeing me. Yet Marsten's life was in danger. And I'd put it there.

Tristan left with one guard. When he was gone, the second one backed up to the desk and, gun still trained on Marsten, slid his rear onto it.

I eased the vent cover out. Marsten's gaze shot up, but he looked away before the guard noticed, then flicked his fingers, telling me to stay where I was.

As quietly as I could, I moved the cover into the shaft, and laid it down beside me. Marsten's gaze met mine and he shook his head, in case the waving hadn't been understood.

When I grabbed the edge of the vent, he threw me one last glare, then cleared his throat.

"You do work for the Cortezes, I presume," he said to the guard, his voice loud in the small room.

The guard said nothing.

I gauged the distance between us, then pulled my legs forward, moving into a crouch.

"I've heard the Cabals frown on this," Marsten continued. "Employees taking outside jobs. Yes, I know, you're working for a Cabal AVP, so one could argue it's not truly moonlighting, but I suspect Mr. Cortez wouldn't be so quick to see the distinction."

I braced myself on the edge of the opening.

Marsten continued. "An AVP using Cabal resources for a personal vendetta? I'll wager Mr. Cortez would like to know about that, and would richly reward-"

I jumped. Marsten leaped to the side, out of the range of the gun. I hit the guard in the back. An oomph, and he fell forward. Marsten s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off-guard, and I scrambled for it but was too late, and my hand knocked it flying. The gun ricocheted onto the desk, and tumbled down behind it.

Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The guard flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard's body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.

"Don't worry," he said. "I didn't kill him."

The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten's brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.

"You're sure?" I said. "He looks-"

"He's fine." Marsten kneeled beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. "Though I do hate to waste these on him." Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. "Since you did such a good job tying this earlier..."

We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the k.n.o.b, but Marsten yanked me back.

"I was going to look first," I said.

"You don't need to. I can hear them." He looked around. "You take the vent." He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. "Go headfirst this time, and you'll be able to squeeze through."

"After you," I said.

"No time. Just-"

"After you."

He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself, then, with a soft growl, hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft, and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.

"It's very narrow," he said. "I'm not sure I can-"

"Try," I said, and gave him a shove.

He wriggled through, then reached back between his legs, and helped haul me up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, scrunched down on my hands and knees, and followed him.

8.

In 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 a.s.s... 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-b.u.t.ted 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.