One of the heavily laden supply racks gave way with a horrific wrench. The metallic din scraped its way through my ears as Archer finally stopped shooting. Damon Harrison vanished under a mountain of steel framing, wooden crates, and a veritable avalanche of machine tools. A massive cloud of dust rose from the collapse, billowing out and filling my mouth with the foul taste of propellant, making me cough and spit.
Archer lowered his weapon. He didn’t spare a glance at me or the massive slab of ruby in the room. Instead, he strode right on by me through the settling cloud of debris, the muzzle of his weapon trailing acrid fumes. My hands shook as my jangled nerves did their best to do my bidding. Finally, I managed to scoop up my gun and get to my feet.
“All…all right,” I stammered out. My ears rang and I could hardly hear myself speak. “What just…I mean…”
Again, Archer ignored me. He turned to search the shelves off to my left, just beyond the end of the ruby slab. He swore, then began tossing errant pieces of equipment off the shelf with his free hand.
“Where is it? Where is it?” he muttered to himself. “It has to be here, where else would he keep it?”
I took a deep breath, hit a mental ‘reset’ button, and finally managed to force my words out in something close to a normal rhythm. “Look. I don’t know what you’re up to, Archer. But I guess I owe you for killing Damon Harrison.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “I didn’t kill him. I bought us maybe twenty, thirty seconds.”
A hideous creak of flexing metal came from under the nearby heap of debris. The same heap which had collapsed on Harrison’s body. A body that should have been nothing more than gobbets of raw meat after being repeatedly hit by large-caliber bullets.
“Dammit,” Archer cursed. Sweat slicked his hands as he clicked a button on the side of his assault rifle. With a slap, he gave the drum magazine a quarter-turn. “Maybe less than twenty seconds. This weapon’s been modified, but it’s no Demon. You’ve got to get out here. I can’t protect you from him. Not anymore.”
I stared at the man, trying to comprehend what he was saying.
“Wait, you were trying to protect–”
Another metallic creak, followed by the bone-jarring crunch of splintering wood. Grayson Archer’s face turned pale as the heap of rubble began to come apart. His voice cracked like a whip in my ear.
“Get out of here, Dayna! Now!”
Chapter Forty-One
Get out of here, Dayna! Now!
Even now part of me cried out to stay. To find out why Grayson Archer had just turned on his former partner. Why he’d been…what? Protecting me from him? I could have screamed with frustration right then.
But another creak from under the heap of metal and wood convinced me otherwise. The mass of debris humped up, as if breathing. A box lying atop the mess split open, sending lengths of metal pipe as big around as my arm rolling down one side. The pipes clanged dolefully like chimes of doom.
Looks like Archer’s hand-cannon didn’t finish off Harrison after all, my brain helpfully observed. So what good is our 9mm pistol going to do? Besides get us killed?
I moved past the ruby slab as fast as I could on unsteady legs. I headed away from where Archer faced down his foe and towards the far door. The one that Archer come out of at the start of all this madness.
The dark mass remained inert where it stood, or lay, inside the ruby’s inner chamber. I prayed that it wouldn’t choose just this moment to pop out like a horrifying jack-in-the-box. Meanwhile, I used my free hand to dig frantically in my pocket for the lump of enchanted crystal given to me by Magnus.
My fear-slicked fingers couldn’t get a grip on the thing. I slowed, half-turned, and redoubled my efforts to grab it. I finally pinned the crystal with both thumb and index finger. Another groan of tortured metal, and I glanced frantically back the way I came. A void had opened under the debris pile.
The gleam of pale, hateful eyes peered from the darkness inside.
Okay, that was enough for Dayna Chrissie.
I made a flat-out sprint towards the door as I heard Grayson Archer start shooting again. The crystal threatened to slip from between my fingers yet again. Jamming my entire hand into my pocket, I thought desperately about escaping from this horrible place. My mind latched on to the memories of using Galen’s medallion to travel from Andeluvia back to my house.
A flash-bang, and the walls of the warehouse melted away. The eye-frying whiteness of transport was welcome, the stench of ozone had never felt quite so comforting.
Arrival came with a stomach-turning jolt, and my feet kept on moving as they touched the floorboards of my living room. My eyes blinked reflexively to clear away the retinal flashes that blinded me.
Then, a second bang as I slammed into my living room wall.
Pain shot through my face, my knees, and my forearms as I let out a startled yelp. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell. I even managed to keep a grip on my gun.
Groaning, I turned and sat against the wall for a moment until I could see clearly again. Then, ignoring my aches and pains I slipped my gun back into its holster. The bottom of my chin felt damp. I touched it and came away with a smear of blood. Between hitting the warehouse floor and my wall, I must’ve scraped it good.
It took another minute to get up. My knees throbbed, and I had to wait for their shakiness to subside. Finally, I managed to hobble over to the bathroom. A quick visit to the toilet and a dab of antibiotic ointment below the point of my chin took care of my two most pressing problems.
My hair cried out for a washing, and my Andeluvian clothes were coated with dust from the collapse of Crossbow Consulting’s shelves. The hair would have to wait. Cloak and doublet went into my closet hamper, to be replaced by slacks and a new top. I picked out a khaki windbreaker to wear over the top and help cover my shoulder holster.
I couldn’t stop my mind from racing while I dressed. I’d gotten confirmation on a couple of my hunches. Technically, I’d even extracted a confession from Damon Harrison as to what happened to Maxwell Cohen and the Hakseeka.
He’d murdered one man in cold blood, then followed that up with an act of genocide by smothering an entire race of beings with chlorine gas.
All that led to what happened in the warehouse, and brought along with it a brand-new set of questions.
What was Damon Harrison’s end game here?
While I was on the subject, what was Grayson Archer playing at?
It was obvious that his betrayal had surprised his henchman/partner in crime. Harrison had evidently survived after being shot multiple times by a large-caliber weapon. And then being buried alive in a metric ton of debris. Yep, no mystery as to why he’d been so cool when I had a mere pistol trained on him.
Who was he? What was he?
I could make an educated guess about one thing, at least. Based on my work at the Wainwright house, I knew that Harrison had gotten hold of a modified Helferich 262 ‘Demon’, a custom-made weapon that Archer had ordered from arms designer Karl Nystrom.
That’s what Archer had shown up looking for, and probably gotten himself killed for.
His words echoed in my ears.
You’ve got to get out here. I can’t protect you from him. Not anymore.
I took a moment to really consider what he had said. Archer was definitely an Andeluvian. Since Harrison understood the language of the Ultari, it was a safe bet that he was also from Andeluvia. One or both men knew magic well enough to set up wards, recognize wizarding symbols, corral demons, and work simple machines like firearms from a distance.
Based on my experience, Andeluvians experienced in magic also respected the idea of prophecy. Whether to fulfil it, or to block it, they accounted for prophecy in anything that they gave weight to in their lives.
So, what kind of ‘fate’ was Harrison talking about when it came to me? Was that the reason he’d left me alive until now? Or was that more of Archer’s doings?
My musings were
interrupted by a sudden grumble of thunder. Instantly, my hand leapt to my shoulder holster. I was still as jumpy as a frightened cat. I put my shoes on and headed over to the kitchen to look out the window facing my back yard.
Angry, anvil-shaped clouds boiled up from behind the ridge overlooking my house. An especially dark set framed the white domes of Griffith Observatory high above. It didn’t rain often in Southern California, but when it did, it could come down in buckets.
What I had seen so far made sense. Archer and Harrison operated out of Crossbow Consulting’s Los Angeles office, so that warehouse I’d found myself in must have also been in the foothills of Southern California. I’d glimpsed dark clouds above rolling hills outside the building’s window, and now, the sky was rapidly filling with thunderheads. A brisk wind ruffled the chaparral and undergrowth on the hillside above the house as the day grew unsettlingly dark, clouds engulfing the sun, turning the yellow orb into a flat gray disk.
A flash of lightning illuminated the horizon, thunder booming only a second or two afterwards. The lingering after-grumble faded away to be replaced by a sound I hadn’t heard since early yesterday.
The sound of my phone ringing.
I went over to where I’d left it charging, unplugged it, and looked at the screen. It showed a man with a lopsided grin and a haze of beard stubble. Under the face, the name came up: ALANZO ESTEBAN.
Immediately, I scooped up the phone and answered it.
The howl of a revving car’s engine cut across the line.
“Dayna?” Alanzo’s voice asked, breathless. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied, confused.
“Thank God! Vega and I will be there in a few seconds.”
The line cut out before I could say anything else.
What in the world was going on?
I heard a distant shriek of tires on pavement as I set the phone aside and hurried through the living room, fumbling with the knob on the front door for a moment before I dashed outside. Another rumble of thunder pounded my ears, the smell of cut grass and damp air greeting me. A sprinkle of raindrops pattered against my skin.
A police cruiser screeched up into my driveway, the front bumper jolting to a halt only a couple of feet from my garage door. Esteban shut the engine off and got out of the car as quickly as he could. He ran up to me, eyes wild and full of concern at the same time.
Detective Isabel Vega stepped out of the vehicle’s passenger side. She didn’t come around to join her partner. Her face wore the slightly pissed-off scowl that seemed permanently etched there now. Whatever. I didn’t have time to deal with her.
“Where are they, Dayna?” Esteban demanded. “If Archer or Harrison hurt you, I swear I’ll…”
“No, I’m not hurt,” I said. The words came out in a rush as I tried to calm Alanzo down. “Archer actually stopped him from–”
“From what? Tell me!”
I blinked. I must’ve had a classic fayleene-in-the-headlights look. My voice came out in a near-squeak.
“Wait…how did you know? About Archer and Harrison? It’s only been a few minutes since I saw them. Why are you here?”
That got a derisive snort from Vega.
“I’ve been wondering which of you two would start losing your marbles first. Looks like you just took the lead, Dayna.”
Esteban threw her a scathing glance. He turned back to me and explained, speaking slowly enough for a small child to follow. To be fair, he probably thought I was in shock.
“Vega and I got your call. You said that Archer and Harrison were on your front porch and trying to break in.”
“But…” I stammered, “I didn’t call…”
Memory leaped to the front of my mind in a fevered rush.
The memory of Damon Harrison standing before me, mocking my attempt to defend myself.
Now that you’re here, I suppose that it was a waste of time to set up your final lesson.
What final lesson? What had he set up?
With a click that rattled my teeth, my brain gave me the answer. Just a little earlier, when Harrison had been on the phone. Talking to someone. Giving them their final orders.
Stand by. The target will show itself in a few more minutes at most. You know what to do.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Gunfire erupted from two spots across the street. Bullets tore holes in the police cruiser’s side. With a spine-tingling kreeesh! the light bar atop the roof shattered, showering us with red and blue shards of glass.
Vega jerked her gun from her holster as I heard the flat crack! of a bullet impacting flesh and bone. She let out a breathless unf! as a bloody hole appeared in her bicep.
“Down!” Esteban cried. He grabbed my arm, ready to dive for cover.
Another crack!
I felt the impact of the bullet as it hit Alanzo square in the back. The blow traveled through his body, along his arm, and into mine. It felt like an electric shock. Esteban gasped.
Then he fell face-first onto the hard pavement of my driveway.
Vega cried out in pain as more bullets found their mark, her shouts drowned out by the near-constant thunder of gunfire. Her body jerked as she was hit several more times. Then, she slumped against the passenger side of the cruiser and slid down out of sight.
Esteban’s arms and legs twitched spasmodically, the final throes of a dying animal. I screamed his name and knelt by the front bumper as shots slammed into the cruiser’s sides and pockmarked the hood.
I hung onto the car’s grille and reached out for Alanzo as the wind blew stinging needles of rain into my face.
Chapter Forty-Two
Bullets whizzed by, burying themselves in the aluminum panels of my garage door with a succession of ear-rending rattles. One of the shots tore into the police cruiser’s left rear tire and the car slumped a little to one side with a sad hiss.
As if to emphasize how bad a spot I was in, the sky thundered again. Mid-afternoon grew even darker as more rainclouds rolled in. The street was empty of cars, empty of pedestrians. That was due to the bad weather, and the fact that no one in this neighborhood had come back from work yet.
The plus side was that no bystanders had gotten shot. On the other hand, there wasn’t anyone around to call the police. Nobody was coming to help us anytime soon.
The firing came in near-continuous bursts from concealed areas across the street to both the right and left. There was no way I could make a run for the front door. I was pinned behind the police car’s front bumper by a well-planned cross-fire.
The bumper gave me about six feet of space to hide in, so long as I didn’t stick my arm or head out, I was temporarily safe, but I wasn’t about to leave Esteban where he’d fallen. I heard him moan and saw him turn his head as he fought his way back to consciousness.
“Alanzo!” I cried. “Alanzo, if you can hear me, get ready to move.”
I got a low grunt in answer. His eyes flickered open, focusing on me. He put his hands palm side down on the pavement, ready to push off.
It was now or never. If one of the gunmen out there saw him move, then they’d finish him off for sure. I went for my own weapon, pulling it out and holding it high in my right hand.
I began shooting out into the street as I moved around to the driver’s side, not really aiming, just holding the weapon out and squeezing the trigger for all I was worth in the general direction of the incoming fire.
My left hand found the side of Alanzo’s collar and I grabbed it, pulling with all my might. Esteban pushed off with his hands, his shoes making a dull scraping sound against the damp driveway. The bad guys began shooting again as Esteban crawled and scrabbled alongside me.
The next salvo of shots punched into the side of the cruiser. With a spang, the driver’s side mirror shattered. Pieces of the reflective coating sliced across the top of my hand as I helped yank Esteban around the front of the car. He grunted as another bullet grazed him high up on his hip, tearing open the thick bl
ack leather of his duty belt.
One more pull, one more scrape of hands and knees, and he was out of the line of fire. Esteban didn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere, though the base of his palms had been scraped raw. He panted and heaved as if he’d run a fifty-meter dash.
My gun clicked empty. Esteban pulled his sidearm out as he levered himself into a kneeling position. I wanted nothing more than to grab hold of him, thanking the heavens that he was all right, but there was no time for that. All I could do was grasp his hand in mine as hard as I could.
“I’ll live,” he gasped, as he continued to gulp air. “Took the hit on the back plate of my vest.”
I looked up and down his chest, but didn’t see an exit wound. “Did it go through?”
“Vest stopped it. God, this hurts. Feels like someone took a baseball bat to my spine.” He felt his hip and winced. “They didn’t tag my leg. Bullet wrecked the radio I had on my belt, though.”
“Just our luck.”
I ejected my empty magazine and fished for its replacement. Blood ran freely from the open cut on the back of my hand. I’d barely felt the wound when it happened, but now it stung like someone had poured lemon juice on it. I ignored the pain as I finally slammed the magazine home.
The rain picked up into the steady patter of a heavy drizzle, but it couldn’t clear the acrid smell of gunpowder or the dense odor of hot metal and burnt rubber. More shots came our way, keeping us pinned down. Esteban spat off to one side and raised his voice.
“Vega! You okay?”
She answered in a troublingly weak voice. Her speech came in bursts, as if she were having trouble breathing.
“I’m here. Ain’t going…dancing for a while.”
“Hold on, I’ll get you.” Esteban threw me a glance. “Can you cover me?”
I nodded and followed Esteban as he moved to the passenger’s side of the front bumper. Alanzo dropped and looked under the car. He let out a curse.
“I can see her.” His voice was grave as he went on. “She’s slumped against the side of the car, down by the rear door. She must’ve fallen when they hit her. They got us pinned good. Who the hell are these guys?”
A Warrant of Wyverns Page 21
