The Red saw him first, but it was too late. And their presence, both Red and Gold, meant Esmond was certainly present in this haunt.
Nemesis’s strategy was working so far, its beginning stages a success. Now all that remained was to eradicate every scion of the Blood in this building and burn it to the ground. The mortals could make shift for themselves.
I am glad she does not see this, the soldier thought, before the chill clarity of battle took him again. The blunting of his reflexes was worrisome, and he hoped to return to his leman’s arms quickly.
Unfortunately, that fond desire was in vain. For Esmond the Varangian knew Nemesis approached, and had a few plans of his own.
CHAPTER 17
“For fuck’s sake,”Layla hissed, glaring at the door. “You’vegotto be kidding me.”
Well, she wasn’t so much looking at the heavy wooden slab which probably weighed more than she did, with its brass hardware and a shiny, relatively new deadbolt keyhole sitting smug and prissy, well aware of its own importance. She was occupied with something else entirely.
Something invisible. Or rather justbarelyvisible, rippling in her peripheral vision like heat rising off faraway highway on a deadly dry summer afternoon. A sheet of near-shimmering force lingered along the wall, and now she knew what Max meant by ‘seals’.
How in the hell was such a thing even possible? The demimonde was full of weird shit, sure, but this was certifiablyinsane.
No fan-vent in the bathroom, though air had to be exchanging somehow because humidity wasn’t accumulating on the walls. The light fixtures were recessed, giving off a serene golden glow, and impossible to reach even if she clambered onto the pedestal sink. Attempting to climb on the toilet-tankattached to the wall was a no-go, there just wasn’t enough space to wedge herself atop it.
She landed on her feet after two attempts, clicking her teeth together painfully though catching her balance each time, and decided that experiment had used up most of her daily luck ration. She’d probably break her damn leg if she tried again.
Even the single chair didn’t help. There was simply nothing to grab, no way to get close to the fixtures, and bouncing said chair off the invisible curtain only got her a clatter and nearly falling on her ass when she dodged the backfire ofthatstupid plan.
The chifforobe was unscalable even if she pulled out the rolling shelves. Every attempt to monkey up its internal architecture and get near the ceiling was a dismal failure. The thing was either fastened to the wall or so heavy she couldn’t tip it despite the newfound sense of vital strength coursing through her entire body, and trying to climb on the bed’s headboard got her nowhere as well.
She could rip up the sheets and blankets, sure, but what the hell would that get her? Punishment? A funny shaky sensation went through her at the prospect.
He hadn’t precisely hurt her yet. Unless you counted… the bed. Which she avoided after her initial attempt to climb on the headboard, or settle the chair at the head of the mattress and get near the ceiling that way. Even looking at the rumpled woolen blanket and plain cotton sheets was uncomfortable, not least for the strange half-submerged thrill shooting through her entire nervous system.
Hormones, or fear? Both?
Layla stroked the invisible curtain, wincing slightly at the prickles racing up her arm. Poking tentatively with fingertips gave a slight uncomfortable zap like biting on tinfoil, andslapping the solidified air outright stung as if she’d hit a brick wall.
Well, she had in more ways than one, really. What dida short whilemean to someone who had lived two-thousand-plus years? All this nonsense about lemans and true death and captivity, and worst of all, Layla was thirsty.
That was an understatement. Her throat was impersonating all the world’s greatest deserts at once, parched as Death Valley, dry as the Gobi.
Cool water from the sink only made the burning worse. It didn’t feel like strep, but she couldn’t really check her tonsils because the bathroom had no real mirror. There was an oblong of burnished metal—looked like brass—fastened to the inner panel of the chifforobe’s left door, but its surface was too cloudy for details and anyway, she had to hop to get a glimpse of her face, because it was set for someone much taller than her.
Which essentially meantanyone, but still.
No windows, she couldn’t get at the door… some indefinable sense told her she was underground, though she couldn’t be entirely sure. There was a faint hum which might be HVAC, the light fixtures, or something else entirely. The strange slowka-thump,pause,ka-thumphad vanished when Max left, and her own pulse was uncomfortably loud in her ears along with the ragged working of her lungs.
Every once in a while she ran a fingertip over her teeth. No chance to brush them, but they didn’t seem any sharper. The taste lingering in her mouth was strange, almost spicy, and only made her fractionally more thirsty each time she swallowed. The lights seemed to be getting brighter, and all told she was as uncomfortable as it was possible to be.
Nah, if the power goes out you’ll find out it can get worse.
Wasn’t that a merry thought. She made a complete circuit of the two rooms, feeling along the invisible curtain as high—and as low—as she could reach.
And she ended up right back where she started. Staring at the door, again, her hands curling into fists and releasing.
Trapped. Helpless.
Of course, she wouldn’t have minded this invisible-seal trick while traveling with Dan and the guys. Sleeping with one eye open around a bunch of men was a recipe for perpetual exhaustion, and now Layla could admit she’d never quite trusted any of them.
Even Dan.
“But Ilikedhim,” she blurted, the words bouncing off bare walls. The weird shimmercurtain didn’t muffle her voice, though the air was so goddamn dead in here. She was going to end up a claustrophobic mess.
