Death answered by flicking Shadow toward a dank heap of cardboard.
“It’s only a rat,” the other man said. But they both stared down the alley, eyes squinting for signs of movement.
Rats would be fitting. Death organized the darkness into a swell of vermin, a river of scrabbling claws and gleaming eyes, and then sent them coursing toward the men.
“Fuck!” one shouted, shrill, rearing back, and landed on his backside when the woman gave him a hard kick to his chest. Then he fled, swatting at the Shadows scampering over his body.
The other had already ducked out of the alley and was running down the street, glancing over his shoulder, with no care for his friend.
Done.
When both were gone, the woman slowly sat up, squinting into the dark.
A long moment passed, her fear and anger dissolving into an acute sense of isolation and vulnerability. She pulled her shirt down, drew her limbs in, and made a ball of her body, hands gripping her head. Visible shivers wracked her. Tears streamed down her face, and she wiped her nose with a knuckle.
She snorted at herself. “Ty was right. What the hell am I doing?”
Hell, indeed. The gate went kat-a-kat.
“I swear this story is going to kill me.”
She rested her head against the brick. Black smudges winged from her eyes.
It was time for the woman to go home. To see her loved ones. To make the most of the hours or days he’d won her with Shadow. The only other person for whom he’d held back Twilight had been Kathleen. How fitting that he should do it again on the eve of Kathleen’s liberation.
The woman examined her skinned palms, then used the wall to stand. After stepping to the end of the alley, she peeked around the corner. Shadowman noticed her gaze drop to her discarded coat. A lick of anger had her straightening. She glanced both ways, then walked resolutely to the fallen material and picked it up. She retrieved her dropped keys as well, refashioning the spikes between the fingers of her shaking, fisted hand.
She couldn’t possibly be thinking of continuing on, could she? Was she deranged?
But she seemed frozen in front of the building, eyeing the facade.
Perhaps the hellgate had her in its grip.
The woman put her free hand on the knob and tried the broken door, bitterly muttering, “Thanks for opening it for me, guys.”
Shadowman waved a hand and compelled darkness to hold it shut again.
But she effortlessly pushed the door open anyway.
Layla swallowed hard and opened the busted door. The cold knob soothed the skinned heat of her palm, but it didn’t ease her fear-cramped stomach or get rid of the deep ick of the men’s touch. That would take a long shower. Or ten.
At least she’d be able to hide in there if those assholes came back. Not smart about her gun, though, which was still in the woods somewhere around Segue. There had been no wraith attacks near the docks, but she hadn’t considered normal violence, everyday predators. Not smart at all.
She dabbed at her chin. It wasn’t bleeding, but it sure stung. And if those guys hoped she hadn’t gotten a good look at their faces for a police report, they’d picked the wrong girl. Noticing details was her job. She could and would give a description down to the mole above one guy’s unibrow and the tat on the other’s hairy forearm.
The memory of his hand on her mouth made her nauseated. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be there, especially not alone.
If I get through today alive, I promise to get therapy.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Maybe the shrink could help with that, too.
Light from the street fell into the interior, but it wasn’t enough to get an impression of the space. The air smelled faintly smoky. She swiped her hand on the walls near the door, felt a kind of humid griminess, but no light switch.
Good thing she had a backup. She fished in her jacket pocket, produced a small flashlight, and pressed the button. The flashlight had a strong but narrow beam, so she had to cut the darkness to get a hint of what was around her.
Her immediate vicinity was dusty and bare. Rope. Some chain. Rotted wooden pallets stacked in a corner. Whatever had been there once had been cleared out long ago. Except for the kat-a-kat in her head, the warehouse was silent.
According to Zoe, she was supposed to be looking for a person. A he, in particular.
He who? Another disgusting street thug? Layla doubted it.
Research hadn’t helped and Zoe was nowhere to be found for further questioning. This dockside warehouse was the nearest of Thorne’s considerable assets to New York City. If this wasn’t it, she could try a couple other places farther away, but she wasn’t hopeful. The lead was simply too vague.