Dusk had come and gone, and the night was cold. The wind blustered around me, its touch icy, as if it had come directly from the Antarctic. Shivering, I rubbed my arms, and wished I'd put on something warmer than a long-sleeved cotton top. At least I could be thankful I'd chosen jeans and sneakers rather than the skirt and sandals I'd originally intended. But what I wasn't thankful for was the premonition that had told me I'd need something tougher - that a skirt and sandals wasn't up to what I had to do tonight.
I didn't want another psychic talent - especially one that popped in whenever it pleased. But that same intuition said my choice in this mattered as little as my choice in other areas of my life. I was becoming something more than just a dhampire. What that something was, not even a blossoming new talent could tell. One thing was certain - I wasn't about to let Jack know. Not until I was totally sure this clairvoyance thing was a developing talent, and not some weird mutation of the fear that sat like a weight in my gut.
The restaurant came into sight across the other side of the road. I paused, gaze raking the old, Victorian-style building, searching for a glimpse of my quarry in the corner windows. Only one woman sat alone, and she was positioned at the far end of the building.
After looking around to ensure no one was near or watching, I wrapped myself in shadows and moved toward the foreshore. Streetlights cast pools of yellow across the empty pavement, and the headlights of passing cars ran across the nearby darkness, threatening to tear the shadows from my side. I stashed my clothes and shifted shape, released the veil of darkness, and in wolf form wove my way through the scrubby tea trees until I was directly opposite the window in which the lone woman sat.
She was nothing special - dark hair cut into a severe bob, a roman nose that was accentuated by a gold ring, and a large, almost manly chin. Her hands, clasped in front of her on the table, also looked more male than female. The man who'd been Mrs. Hunt hadn't been the image of female perfection, either. Was that a telltale sign of shifters who could take either male or female form?
I sat on my haunches, and wondered what the time was. It had been close to eight when I'd parked the car, and it had probably taken me five minutes or so to walk here. But if the woman at that table was worried by Roberta Whitby's lateness, it wasn't showing yet.
The wind shook the branches of the trees around me, showering the ground and me with tiny gray-green leaves. I was about to shake them from my fur when I caught two sounds - the first, a twig snapping lightly. The second, the brush of nylon against sharp leaves.
Someone was sneaking through the trees, headed my way.
I flicked my ears forward, but otherwise didn't move. Given the darkness and the gnarled trunks that surrounded me, it was unlikely that even the red of my coat would be seen. Besides, whoever was sneaking up ahead was human - or at least, in human form - and most humans took no notice of a dog, especially if it wasn't moving or threatening. Even if it was a wolf up ahead, the wind was in my favor, carrying my scent toward the ocean rather than the stranger.
Oddly enough, it didn't offer me the stranger's scent, carrying no more than the night, the ocean, and the multiple layers that spoke of the nearby restaurants, shops, and exhaust fumes.
If he was so close that I could hear him, I should certainly have been able to smell him. Unless, of course, he had no scent.
Hackles rose at the thought. Everyone had a scent - unless it had been deliberately erased.
No more careless sounds rode the wind. The man up ahead - though why I was so sure it was a man I had no idea - had either stopped moving or disappeared. Why was he sneaking through these trees? Was he spying, surveying the area like me, or were his intentions all together darker?
I wanted to move, but with all the crap on the ground, he'd hear me. But if I wanted to find out what was going on, what he was doing, then I might have to take the chance.
Sound whispered along the wind, cutting off the thought. Something scraped lightly against nylon again, and a second later, the unmistakable click of a safety coming off a gun.
The fear in my gut crystallized.
The woman waiting for Roberta Whitby was about to get shot. I leapt to all fours, but it was already far too late to do anything to save that woman.
A muffled report rode the wind. My gaze shot to the window. It shattered. The woman with the roman nose jerked, then slumped forward onto the table.
Dead.
And so was my chance at answers if I didn't move right away.
But as much as I wanted to charge in and attack, I knew such actions would earn me nothing more than a bullet. I had no idea who - or what - was ahead, but the mere fact he had no scent suggested that he was either a professional hit man or another of those creatures from the labs.
I looked ahead, judging the length of spring needed to clear all the clutter under the trees. Then I crouched and launched forward, clearing the undergrowth with inches to spare.
I'd barely landed when the sense of someone approaching had the hackles along the back of my neck rising. I looked over my shoulder. Only cars could be seen moving through the night - yet something unseen was there, crossing the road, approaching faster than the wind itself.
A vampire.
Jack had said he'd have people here, so it was more than likely a guardian.
And if that guardian saw me and reported my presence back to Jack, I'd be in deep shit. But I resisted the urge to throw my shields to full and disappear into shadow. That would only be asking for a deeper inspection. The approaching vampire had to believe I was nothing more than a wolfy-looking dog, and to achieve that, I had to let him skim surface thoughts.
So I blanked everything from my mind, lowered a shield, and thought of nothing more than the thrill of hunting the scent of cat, then stuck my nose to the ground and sniffed around. After a second or two, I actually did catch the spoor of a cat, and my wolf soul stirred excitedly. I trotted along, following the trail while keeping an eye in the shooter's general direction.
Heat touched my mind, a needle-sharp probe that got no further than surface thoughts. It snapped away quickly, moving on, searching the night. A second later, air ran past my nose, filled with the scent of pine, underlain with the richness of sage.
It was Jared, one of the newer recruits to guardian ranks.
He moved on, running for the end of the trees. Nose to the ground, I padded along after him.
Another muffled report bit across the wind. The patch of deeper darkness veered sharply, and the metallic smell of blood tainted the air. The shooter had to have infrared sights - or was a vampire himself - if he was able to see Jared. A third report came, followed by a grunt that was abruptly, chillingly, cut off. The shadows concealing Jared fell away and he slumped to the ground, what was left of his thin features showing surprise.
A growl rumbled up my throat before I could stop it. I halted, hackles raised, trying to act like an everyday dog when every instinct in my wolf soul begged me to run, to bring down the quarry, to tear his flesh and his life from his body. My lips drew back into a snarl, my whole body vibrating with the force of it.
The trees moved, and a man stepped out. He was as black as the night itself, and almost as invisible as a vampire. Yet he wore no shadows, nor did he wear clothes. He was little more than an outline, a figure who had a basic shape but no distinct features.
Just like the man - the creature - who'd attacked me in the hotel room in the Blue Mountains.
Misha had once suggested that a man who leashed the secrets of genetics to make the perfect killing machine could rule the world - or make a fortune creating purpose-built assassins for those who wanted the power to take out the opposition swiftly and easily. Maybe that nightmare wasn't as far off as we'd all thought.
I didn't move, watching the specter of a man, watching the gun he held. He moved to Jared's body, kneeling carefully and feeling for a pulse. Why he bothered I had no idea - not even a vampire could survive having half his brain shot away. As he checked, he kept an eye on me, but not in a suspicious sort of way. His behavior was more that of a man who simply didn't trust - or didn't like - dogs. And the rifle - one of the new runt rifles, which had the power and the range of a rifle, but were only a little bigger than a handgun - was pointed more at the ground than me.
I stuck my nose to the dirt again, sniffing around as I checked who else was in the area. In the restaurant, people were beginning to realize something was wrong. A waiter approaching the corner table stopped abruptly, and even from where I stood, I could see the dawning horror on his face.
A sharp, almost barked, laugh bit through the night, and a rumble of anger rose up my throat again. The shooter rose, his amusement evident in the brief flash of teeth - teeth that were gray rather than white. His gaze met mine, and, for an instant, death stood before me, deciding whether I was worth killing or not. Then the stranger blinked, and the moment was gone.
The relief I felt was almost frightening. As much as my wolf spirit might want to tear this man from limb to limb, the biggest foe I'd tackled with the intention of bring down was the occasional rabbit or fox in the "back to nature" sessions Rhoan and Liander liked to drag me along to. But killing a wild animal as an animal was far different from hunting - and killing - a humanoid. That was a milestone I never wanted to reach - and the major reason for my reluctance to join the guardian ranks.
Then I remembered Genoveve. I'd maimed there, more than once, and could so easily have killed. I knew it, even if I hadn't admitted it at the time.
The shooter took the small pack from his back, broke the runt rifle into several pieces, and shoved them inside. Then he slung the pack back over his shoulder and walked away. Just another man out for a Monday night stroll.
Only this man was a shadow most wouldn't see.
I padded along after him The urge to do more than simply haunt his steps still vibrated through my muscles, but attacking him here, on a main street, simply wasn't an option. The cops had undoubtedly been called by the restaurant, and the last thing I needed was interference from them. This killer was mine to question.
He headed toward the crowded, street-cafe rife environment that was Fitzroy Street, but thankfully didn't turn into it - probably because there was no place for shadows in that brightly lit place He headed for the gardens instead, avoiding the streetlights and paralleling Beaconsfield Parade I looked past him, studying the layout. Up ahead was a rotunda - the perfect place for an ambush. Better yet, there didn't seem to be anyone close, a fact backed up by the lack of human scents on the wind But the wail of sirens could now be heard I was running out of time to do this before the cops got here and started searching the area for evidence.
I shifted shape and wrapped the shadows around me hiding my form and my nakedness The stranger glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Maybe he was a sensitive, and able to feel the caress of magic. Or maybe he was simply ensuring that he wasn't being followed.
When he neared the rotunda, I ran at him Though I made no sound, he somehow sensed my approach, because suddenly he was facing me with a knife in his hand. His growl would have made any wolf proud, and the blade cut through the night so fast it was little more than a blur I slid to a halt and sucked in my stomach. The tip of the knife burned through flesh. Only one metal had that effect on wolves. The blade was made of silver.
I dropped and pivoted, sweeping with one foot, trying to knock him off his feet. He was every bit as fast, leaping over my leg then launching himself at me. He could see me, I realized then, even though I was wrapped in shadows. I rolled under his leap, and cast the cover from me, unable to see the point of wasting energy when it wasn't helping. I lashed out again, and this time he wasn't fast enough, the blow taking him high in the thigh. He grunted, but slashed with the knife. The blade scoured my jeans, nicking my knee. I swore softly, heard his chuckle of amusement. Obviously, his makers had failed to explain that laughing at a wolf in this type of situation was never a good idea. Anger rose in a red rage, and I threw myself at him.
The move caught him by surprise, and we went down in a tangle of arms and legs. He hit the ground first, cushioning my fall, his wheeze of breath whispering dead things and sour milk past my nose. I caught the wrist holding the knife with one hand, forcing the blade well away from my body as I tried to catch his other hand. His almost featureless face stared into mine, his eyes and mouth little more than thin slashes through which only gray was evident. There was no forehead bump, no cheek definition, and no nose. Only two holes that sat in the flat of his face.
His fist thumped into my side, and breath exploded from my body. But I ignored the haze of rising pain, bringing my knee up hard and fast. Like most men, he didn't appreciate a blow to the balls, and that brief moment of utter pain was long enough to hit him unhindered - and as hard as I could - across the jaw to knock him out.
I wrenched the knife from his nerveless fingers, and threw it as far as I could from the both of us. Then I rolled off him, and maneuvered him about until I got the pack off Inside were the various rifle bits. I reassembled it, loaded the chamber, then sat on his chest, my knees pinning his arms as I held the gun at his throat. If he knew who I was, then he'd know I was with the Directorate and more than capable of firing a weapon. And if he didn't know, then the mere fact that I'd assembled the weapon should warn him I knew how to use it.
What he wouldn't know was the fact that I had no real desire to actually use it.
He stirred. I pressed my free hand against his chin, forcing it back, thrusting the point of the rifle harder into the soft flesh of his neck.
He groined, and the thin, almost lizardlike coverings over his eyes flickered open.
"Don't move," I warned, jabbing with the weapon.
Death was back in his gray gaze. "I can't tell you anything."
I raised an eyebrow. "And I'm so believing that."
"I want a lawyer."
"Do I look like a cop to you? Do I actually look like someone who really cares what you do or don't want?"
He didn't answer Just glared.
"Why did you kill that woman in the restaurant?"
No response.
"Who paid you to kill the woman in the restaurant?"
Again with the silence. The wail of sirens had stopped, and though I was upwind of the restaurant, I could still hear the babble of voices, the rush of confusion. I didn't have all that much time to question this man.
I moved the rifle barrel down, and dug it into his Adam's apple. His grunt came out gargled.
"Tell me, or we do it the hard way."
"I know nothing."
Spittle sprayed my face as he spoke. I didn't have a free hand to wipe it away, and the small droplets stung. They also stunk... or was it him? For a man who had no odor, there sure was a God-awful stink coming from his body. And I doubted he'd shit himself. He was a professional, for heaven's sake, and despite what my brother said about my appearance in the mornings, I wasn't that scary at other times.
"Do your worst," he said.
I thrust the rifle point hard enough to break skin and draw blood. "You think I won't?"
"I think that soon it won't matter."
The amusement underlying his words sent chills down my spine. He was up to something, I was sure of it. But what?
Frowning, unease growing, I lowered a shield and psychically reached out. His mind was surprisingly unguarded, but maybe whoever had sent him here hadn't expected he'd be caught. I thrust deeper, capturing his thoughts, freezing both them and him.
He was telling the truth in one respect - he didn't know who'd sent him to kill the woman. He'd received his orders via phone, like he always did, the voice on the other end the same as it always was - deep and lacking inflections, as if the person behind it was somehow less than human, more a machine. The orders were simple. Kill the two women at table sixteen.
So why hadn't he waited for Roberta to arrive before he'd taken a shot?
The smell was growing stronger, becoming one more of boiling decay than shit. I wrinkled my nose, trying to ignore it, trying to disregard the fear itching at my skin.
The answers I had weren't enough, so I thrust further into his memory. Saw a large house surrounded by lush gardens. Here there more creatures like him - black ghosts, waiting for orders to kill. And locked behind stout cages, there were others as well. Blue things with rainbow wings. Men and women who had the faces of gryphons and the claws of demons. Mermaids and mermen and God knows what else.
There wasn't an army of them - not even a unit - but there was more than enough to suggest that in a few years there could be.
The labs behind these creatures had obviously found the secret behind successful crossbreeding of nonhuman races. And it didn't matter if their success rate was high or low. They were in the process of creating an army of abominations, beings nature had no intention of bringing into existence, and they were being developed for one reason only - to kill.
I tried to delve further, get more information, but the air was so thick and rich with the reek of rot that I was gagging, and couldn't concentrate.
I withdrew my thoughts, and met his gaze. Death roamed in his eyes, and it approached fast. It was then I realized his face looked gaunter, as if in the last few minutes he'd lost a huge amount of weight. The press of his skin against my shins and butt felt like the touch of fire.
Then it clicked, and the look of death in his eyes made sense.
Misha had once asked me to imagine the super soldier that could be built if the secrets of vampires, wolves, and other nonhumans could be unlocked. There'd be little you could do to stop such a force, he'd said. What he'd forgotten to mention was the added improvements - that if they did get caught, they could kill themselves, and therefore stop any efforts of getting information.
This man was growing hotter because he was about to spontaneously combust. Only there wasn't anything spontaneous about it.
I rolled away from him, the gun held at the ready should he try and move. He didn't. Couldn't.
His gray eyes were wide, and the death I'd seen earlier was all-consuming. Only this time it was his death I saw, not mine, and the realization of it had wiped away the faint amusement so evident only moments before. His thin lips were open, as if he were screaming, but no sound came out, only a gush of bloody liquid. Water was beginning to pool under his entire body and steam rose from both legs. He was melting, disintegrating, from the inside out. What a God-awful way to die.
I couldn't sit here and watch it. Couldn't sit here and just let it happen with such agonizing slowness. This wasn't death. This was torture, and no one - not even a lab-developed freak - deserved this sort of ending.
I touched his arm, flinching a little at the heat. His flesh rolled under my touch, as if it were molten fluid barely contained by skin. "Do you wish a quick ending?"
His gaze found mine. "It shouldn't be like this." His words came out hoarse, interspersed with shudders of pain. "They said it wouldn't be like this."
So they'd lied to their creations. No surprise there, really. The people behind all this had shown little in the way of morals so far, and lying was undoubtedly the least of their sins.
And Misha was one of them. I couldn't afford to forget that. Not ever.
The shadow creature's body was beginning to close in on itself, collapsing like a tent in extreme slow motion. Steam was rising from his torso now, and the stench of stewing flesh was thick enough to carve.
"Do you wish a quick death?" I repeated, swallowing bile and barely resisting the urge to run from this man and his death.
"Yes.'" It came out little more than a hiss of pain.
"Then tell me why you killed that woman." It was a horrid thing to do, but I needed at least one answer.
His gaze flayed me with his pain, and I briefly closed my eyes against it.
"Directorate too close," he gasped. "Chopping off limbs... to save head."
I didn't bother asking him to name the head. He was only a weapon, and a dispensable one at that. Instead, I rose and stepped away from his melting, steaming body. His gaze met mine, the gray depths pleading. I answered that plea and pulled the trigger.
His brains splattered, ending sensation. Yet still his body continued to disintegrate, until there was nothing left but scorched grass, damp earth, and the memories that would haunt my nights for months to come.
I grabbed the backpack, wrapped the shadows around me, and walked away before I lost total control over my stomach.
But perhaps the thing that revolted me most was not the stranger's death, but the ease with which I'd pulled the trigger. It was in me to kill - I'd proven that at Genoveve two months ago. Not that I'd actually thought much about the ease with which I'd used that laser. Maybe because it was simply a matter of me or them. This situation was a whole lot different. Even though I'd killed in mercy, I'd still pulled that trigger without qualms, and without hesitation. And more than that, I'd watched it.
The instinct to kill was a base part of every wolf, but one long controlled by the rules of civilization. With Rhoan and I, those controls seemed to have slipped. Rhoan had acknowledged it long ago, and channeled his desires into guardian duties. I'd ignored it.
But maybe not for much longer.
Or was I making mountains out of molehills again? Rhoan would probably say yes, I was, but I wasn't so sure. The sick sensation that I'd unleashed something two months ago that couldn't be retrieved would not go away.
I shivered, and thrust the thoughts away. Killing for the sake of mercy was completely different to killing because I was ordered to do so.
I had to believe that. I really did.
Blowing out a breath, I stopped, broke down the rifle and shoved the bits in the pack. Throwing it back over my shoulder, I looked around, searching for the nearest phone. I'd left mine in the car, and while it would only take me a few minutes to run back there, I needed to call Jack fast and warn him that the man behind all this was killing -
I stopped abruptly.
He was killing the main limbs of his organization in order to protect himself.
Misha was one of those limbs.
If I didn't get to him before they did, our last chance of discovering the name of the leader was gone. As dead as that woman in the restaurant. As dead as the man who had shot her.
I got my clothes then ran on to the car with every ounce of speed I possessed. Unlocking the door and grabbing the phone seemed to take forever, as did dialing Misha's number and waiting for a response. All I got was a recorded message.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I slammed the door shut, started the car, and threw the gears into drive. After planting my foot on the accelerator and taking off with a squeal of tires that undoubtedly had the nearby cops scrambling to note my plate number, I thumbed Rhoan's number into the phone, and hit the call button. His phone was engaged. I swore softly, and sent him a text message instead. Hopefully, he'd look at it before it was too late. Jack's number got the same response. I sent him a message, telling him what I was doing and why, then threw the phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated on driving.
It took me twenty minutes to get to Lygon Street, and to say I broke the land-speed record would be something of an understatement. I stopped in a loading zone, grabbed the backpack and my phone, then ran toward the Rocker.
The security guard glanced my way as I neared, one bushy brow raised in query. "You seem to be in an awful hurry."
I slid to a halt. "I need to find Misha Rollins. Is he inside, by any chance?"
"I've only just come on shift, so I can't - "
"Thanks," I cut in, then pushed past. The main bar wasn't full, though quite a few people were waiting for drinks. Misha wasn't one of them. Swearing softly, I pressed his number into the phone again as I made my way toward the back stairs.
Misha answered as I reached the top. "Riley," he said, voice filled with cold amusement rather than passion. He wasn't here, then. Or at least, not in the process of mating. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"Where are you?" I stopped on the top of the stairs and scanned the shadow-filled room. There were a good twenty wolves up here, but Misha wasn't amongst them.
"My, you sound awfully anxious - "
"Cut the crap, Misha. Your life is in danger. Where the hell are you?"
"At work." His voice was flat. "Why do you think my life is in danger?"
"What does Nasia Whitby look like?" I countered. "And is she one of the Helkis who can take male and female shape?"
"You have been busy."
I headed back down the stairs. "Just answer the goddamn question."
"She's tall, dark-haired." He paused. "I guess you can say she's very masculine to look at."
"Roman nose? Gold nose ring?"
"Yes. Why?"
Now out on the street, I glanced left and right then ran across the road to my car. "Because Nasia Whitby has just been assassinated in a St. Kilda restaurant."
There was a long silence, then he said, very softly, "Fuck."
"Precisely. I caught the killer - he was a black thing with suckered fingers."
"Spirit lizards, he calls them. The creature would have killed himself."
"He was disintegrating, but I offered him a quick death in exchange for the reason Nasia was killed. Your master is apparently chopping off the limbs to save the head."
"Then he knows the Directorate is closing in."
"But why kill everyone?"
"You don't yet know the location of the other lab. The only people who do know are myself, Nasia, and Rupert."
"Rupert being the man who played Mrs. Hunt?" The man Quinn was currently questioning? "And the man I'd known briefly as Benito Verdi?"
"Yes."
I glanced in the side mirror, then drove out of the parking space and did a quick U-turn in front of the oncoming traffic. Ignoring the ensuing blast of horns, I planted my foot on the accelerator and headed for the city.
"How come you're saying his name now, and not before?"
"My office is psi-shielded, and as an extra precaution, I'm also wearing a psi-shield. He can't get to me here."
"He can still shoot you. Keep away from the fucking windows."
"Riley - you care."
"Of course I care - you're my only source of information."
He chuckled softly. "You're on your way here?"
"Yes."
"I shall tell security to let you in."
"You'd better tell them to be extra vigilant. He's coming after you, Misha."
"I'm safe in this fortress."
"I'm sure there's many a dead man who thought the same."
"They probably didn't have the security layout I have."
But the man in charge probably knew the layout - after all, he apparently had free access to Misha's mind.
"I'll be there in five."
I hung up, then sent Jack another message, asking him to get people to Misha's office building as soon as he could, then concentrated on not crashing the car as I wove in and out of traffic. Misha's office building was at the Paris end of Collins Street. It was one of those gorgeous old buildings that was almost cathedrallike in design, the windows and doors soaring, archlike structures that allowed plenty of light but offered absolutely no protection when it came to bullets. At least modern buildings used plasti-glass, which, while designed primarily to withstand the onslaught of severe storms and flying debris, could also take the force of two gunshots before it shattered. Two shots gave targets time to run or hide.
I parked in a bus zone, grabbed the backpack, then jumped out of the car and ran across the road.
Two stern-faced security men were standing, arms crossed, at the door. "Riley Jensen?" one asked.
When I nodded, he held some sort of portable unit up. "Speak into this."
"We're wasting fucking time, Misha."
The guard didn't crack a smile, just looked at the monitor intently. When it beeped, he nodded at the other guard and the door opened. I wondered if these two men were part of Misha's vaunted security system. If they were, then he wasn't staying in this castle. I could have taken either of them out right at that moment, and had easy access to the building.
One guard followed me inside, and keyed a lift. When the doors opened, he leaned around the corner and pressed the sixth-floor button, then slid a keycard through the slot and gave me a smile. "This will take you straight to his floor. Mr. Rollins's office is the last one on your left."
I nodded my thanks and stepped inside. Once the doors closed, I took off the pack, reassembled the rifle, then put it back. Better safe than sorry.
The lift slid to a stop and the doors opened. I stepped out. The corridor was long, and rife with shadows. The light from the lift splayed across the gloom, flaring slightly, as if the shadows were a thick fog the light could not penetrate.
Down the far end of the hall stood a steel door. No light crept under the edges of that door. Indeed, there almost seemed to be no seam. And the shadows seemed more intense down there.
Unease slithered through me. I reached back and dragged the rifle from the backpack. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it wasn't, but I had the sudden feeling I wasn't alone in this corridor.
Yet I couldn't see anything. Only shadows and my silhouette.
The lift doors began to close, and as that bright patch of light dwindled, my unease increased. Then the light was gone, and I was left to the darkness and whatever it was hiding. Holding the gun toward the floor but ready, I walked toward Misha's office.
The shadows stirred around me. Wisps of night touched my skin, slivers of silky smoke that made my flesh crawl. If ghosts could caress the living, this was probably what it would feel like. But warmer, deadlier. Whatever hid in the shadows wasn't dead in the sense that ghosts were dead, because there was warmth in its touch. Warmth, and a vague sense of threat.
I had a suspicion that vague sense of threat would sharpen, and become deadly, if I so much as flinched the wrong way right now.
"Put the gun away, Riley."
Misha's voice seemed to come from the walls. I looked around, but couldn't see anything resembling a speaker.
"Not until you tell whatever is in this corridor to back off."
"You can see them?" Surprise was evident in his voice.
"No. But I can feel them."
"Interesting."
"I'm not putting the gun away until you tell them to move away." I stopped at the door and waited.
He chuckled. "T
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