Of course it was a trap. Bea clutched the navy-blue cotton blanket tighter, pushed the heavy oak door open another few inches.
Outside, a softly lit hallway carpeted with thick blue pile ended at what looked like a quasi-familiar, brightly polished elevator. Was it the one she’d been in last night? Possible, but she couldn’t be sure yet, since staking the monster had occupied her entire attention.
Two recesses halfway down the hall held matching floral arrangements, just imperfect enough to be real instead of artificial; also, two doors on the left, one on the right.
Not only that, but on a row of decorative iron hooks mounted to the left-hand wall hung a black blot, her backpack looking very small and shabby indeed. Bea’s heart thundered, a strange light sensation filling her skull.
Oh, what the hell. Might as well go down fighting. She tried not to open the door any further than absolutely necessary for a skinny monster-hunting bitch to slip through, almost catching the blanket on an inside knob. If she could get down to the lobby, even the sheer outlandishness of wearing a makeshift toga might not matter. And she would absolutely take hypothermia outside over a monster holding her down on a bed and biting her.
If he thought she’d sit still and wait to become Lady Dracula, he had another think coming. Bea grabbed her backpack, unzipping it as her legs trembled and she sank into a crouch.
No clothes, no ID, that figured. The rolls of emergency cash were still tucked under the patented false bottom-flap, though. A few thousand in good old greenbacks, plus the switchblade with silvered flats she’d ordered from a gun shop in Pittsburgh where the bespectacled, suspenders-wearing proprietor kept a back room stocked with things like experimental ammo, crucifixes blessed by a local priest, ampoules of holy water, and other stuff guaran-goddamn-teed to work.
Beatrice had her doubts, but the knife was a comfort. And there was the rosewood box, too, opening with a click.
Silver herringbone chain, an ornate setting of curlicued metal too light to be sterling—Jare had thought titanium—holding a thumb-sized rectangular-cut emerald, alive with its own inner light against a pad of grey watered silk.
Happy birthday, Bebe.
A gaudy antique piece, all she had left. The family photo albums were probably moldering in a landfill somewhere, she’d hunted down and erased her own digital footprints, done what she could to make sure no trace of Beatrice Dunlevy ever surfaced again. Even visiting family graves was out of the question, since each time she got close to where Jared was buried the high piercing whine began, inaudible to others. Then, inevitably, the little bulbous-eyed henchmen showed up to rattle doors or peer through windows in the dead of night.
Her ears were ringing like hell at the moment, though that could just be stress. Bea fumbled with the chain’s catch—if she was going to die, she’d do so wearing Jare’s last gift. If she escaped, well, she could call it a lucky piece and probably get mugged for its gleam in some city far away from here.
That’s a great thought, actually. Hold onto it.
She dropped the emerald down the front of her halfass blanket toga, settled the backpack straps on tense aching shoulders, and pressed the switchblade’s button. The knife sprang free, and she definitely wasn’t imagining it—the drilling, piercing noise going straight through both temples and eardrums was what happened right before the henchmen showed up.
Maybe that was the reason for the unlocked door—why bother keeping it fastened when any prisoner desperate enough to try leaving would be torn to pieces by the childlike, darting things with their bulbous black eyes and malformed paws? It had a certain efficiency, Bea could admit.
“All right, assholes,” she whispered, and used the wall to drag herself fully upright. “Let’s tango.”
She padded down the hall, moving quietly as possible. Of course, she was barefoot and the carpet was thick; the closer she got to the elevator the more her heart rose, pounding with hope as well as terror.
No keycard access, just a regular old up-and-down button pad. It did look a little familiar.
Awesome. Doing really great, Bebe. Don’t fuck it up.
It wasn’t her blinking, the hallway lights were actually stuttering. Bea snapped a glance over her shoulder and swallowed, hard.
Mist. Greasy yellow fog, rising in tendrils. Knee-high near the double oak doors, spreading with tiny rasping sounds, little tongues dragged across carpet fibers.
Stairs might be better, even if they’re not the ones I want. To her right, a recessed doorway with a small set of lights overhead. Did she want to be trapped in a stairwell or a metal box when the little green men came for her? She could pull a fire alarm, though it would be better to set off the sprinklers—Jare swore the things didn’t like running water, maybe that would be enough? If she had a cigarette lighter…
She’d play it by ear. The elevator might distract them while she ran for the stairs, that was a good plan. Bea punched both elevator buttons, exhaling shakily when their margins lit. A soft sliding sound of displaced air moved behind blank, shining metal.
A mellow chime. She had never been so glad to hear an elevator ding in her life. Bea rose onto bare toes, bouncing slightly in preparation, and snapped another glance back at the fog.
As if it had waited for her attention, the clinging vapor shot down the hall. Electric bulbs in heavy brass Art Deco sconces died as the mist slithered past, and Bea bolted for the stairs even though the elevator was opening, burnished metal drawing aside with majestic slowness.
The fire door shuddered as something outside banged against it, hard; she skidded to a stop, bringing the knife up. Oh hell, they’re down there too. Crap, what do I?—
A skittering, the high babylike chuckles behind her, hatefully familiar as the mist.
Bea threw herself aside, her back meeting the wall with a heavy thump that didn’t matter because they were boiling out of the fog, chittering and champing small, sharklike yellow teeth. Their big black eyes held neither iris nor pupil, but she sensed the wet, nasty gazes focusing on her. The knife jittered in her hand, backpack pressed hard against the wall.
Crunch. A snap, a pop, a spattering sound like sand dislodged from high crevices. The mist cringed, flushing crimson instead of vile greasy yellow, and the things halted, piling against each other Looney-Tunes style, ones in front nearly going down under the weight of crowding as they backpedaled. More than a dozen had scurried out of the mist, however-many were still in the fog, plus reinforcements on the other side of the fire door.
The visible henchmen reversed, crawling over each other in skinnyshamble haste, several with loincloths askew and small gleaming-green buttocks working as they scrambled.
