by Lisa Shearin
All in all, Vlad was considering our exile as an adventure vacation.
We didn’t have an ammo shortage yet, but if we couldn’t get out of this dimension soon, it would race to the top of our problem list real quick. Sandra had estimated that if the incidents remained at their current level, we’d have only three days of ammo left.
We’d nearly run out of liquor.
Things were going to get even uglier in short order.
When Gremien Pivaine came downstairs for his meeting with goblin ambassador Dakarai Enric, he was as nervous as a pig newly arrived at a bacon factory. Goblins typically hid their feelings, but it seemed the governor had passed the point of bothering.
Dakarai Enric had exchanged his kindly goblin grandfather persona for stern disciplinarian.
The governor wasn’t hiding his feelings, and the ambassador had dispensed with concealing his intentions.
Someone was in trouble.
I had the impression this meeting was gonna be about more than making any potential goblin refugees feel welcome.
I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall, but I wasn’t invited. And to tell you the truth, the less time I spent in the presence of Gremien Pivaine, the less time I’d need to spend in a shower afterward.
The goblin governor spotted Vivienne Sagadraco and made a beeline for her. I couldn’t hear what was being said.
I did what any good SPI agent would do—I got closer to make eavesdropping easier.
Gremien Pivaine was demanding additional protection.
“Do you have reason to believe that you are being targeted?” the boss asked mildly.
“Reason? My lieutenant had a knife sticking out of his chest!”
“Our resources are spread thin, as you can understand. However, I will ask Agent Byrne and Lord Danescu to—”
“He’s the one trying to kill me!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Lord Danescu, Rake, that bas—” The governor stopped himself and took a breath. “I demand to choose who is assigned—”
Ms. Sagadraco frowned. Not a human frown, her dragon version.
“Demand, Governor Pivaine?”
Gremien Pivaine’s eyes widened and he shrank a little into himself. He knew what she really was.
He began backing away. “Any additional guards you assign to me will be welcome.”
I couldn’t tell whether it was a trick of the light, or if there was the daintiest wisp of smoke rising from Vivienne Sagadraco’s patrician nostrils.
Yep, my boss rocks.
I’d heard enough.
Elven ambassador Mago Benares—excuse me, Mago Nuallan—came downstairs for his meeting with the elven colonial governor armed and grim. Ian had assigned two of our best commandos to the elf ambassador as bodyguards. In addition, Ian had asked Vlad Cervenka for two of his vampire mercenaries to help protect Mago. He’d done the same for the goblin ambassador.
Elven colonial governor Fyren Balmorlan had his lieutenant governor and three guards, though the lieutenant governor looked tougher than the guards.
Mago and his four guards were on one side of the lobby, with the governor and his men on the other. They were sizing each other up. Should things get ugly at some point, my money was squarely on Mago, our commandos, and Vlad’s vampires.
In addition to personal bodyguards, SPI was providing security for the elf and goblin meetings. So if trouble came from anywhere today, it shouldn’t be from there.
Ms. Sagadraco had decided to consolidate the actual summit meetings into a smaller location that was more easily defensible if necessary. Where last night’s reception had been held may have looked like a Gilded Age ballroom, but in a concession to modern times, it could be divided into smaller meeting or party spaces. What had been one ballroom was now six meeting rooms. That way the summit could get started, and the delegates would be as protected as possible under the circumstances.
Kenji had emerged once more from his temporary lodgings in the hotel security department, and was doing what he’d come here to do—officially roll out his new delegate identity and tracking system. At least something was working again around here.
As he checked in the last two delegates, Kenji glanced up and saw me. Once they’d passed his security checkpoint, the elf tech gave me a big grin and thumbs-up with the hand that wasn’t holding the badge scanner. As a testament to Kenji’s geek pride, the scanner bore more than a passing resemblance to a Star Trek phaser.
The summit meetings had been divided into two sessions. The first session had just started, so the delegates for the second were still having breakfast, hanging out and talking in the lobby seating areas with other delegates, or they hadn’t come down from their rooms yet. A lot of the major events that had happened so far had involved the lobby, so I stopped, stood still, opened my seer vision, and did some people-watching.
The delegates were who and what they were supposed to be. The visual distortion I got when seeing a heavily glamoured supernatural didn’t bother me when it was a single individual, but in an environment like this, numerous glamours would have been overwhelming. I let my eyes peruse the crowd . . .
. . . and saw a blur on the other side of the lobby.
A goblin wearing the sleek black uniform of a hotel staffer stood with his back to me in front of one of the elevators.
At least, that’s what he wanted everyone to see.
I didn’t have a straight line of sight. Delegates, lobby furniture, and the concierge’s desk were between us, leaving me with a view of the goblin from the waist up. The torso had no visual distortions, meaning it wasn’t blurry around the edges.
It was his entire head, most notably the ears. I couldn’t see his face, at least not from here, but if the glamour covered the back of his head, that meant it covered his face as well.
I tried to hurry through the crowd without being obvious about it. “Excuse me, pardon me, coming through.”
Naturally a group of delegates picked that time to exit en masse from the coffee shop, momentarily blocking my view of my quarry. I briefly considered ditching subtlety and just shooting him in the back of the head with a paint pellet. He might get away in the chaos that’d be sure to follow, but he’d be marked for later. That green dye did not wash off.
I cleared the crowd, and got to the bank of elevators only to see the door of the car he’d been standing in front of close.
I bit back a few choice words and watched the counter. Rake had left as much of the original hotel intact as he could. I was grateful that had included the bronze dial above each door indicating where the elevator stopped. I hadn’t seen anyone get on the elevator with him, but that didn’t mean that someone hadn’t.
The car went without stopping to the twelfth floor.
Bingo.
A hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.
My elbow embedded in a stomach.
I got a pained oof for my effort, and spun to confront my attacker.
Kenji. Doubled-over-and-wheezing Kenji.
“Why did you grab me?”
“Didn’t . . . grab.” Wheeze.
Okay, maybe I’d overreacted.
“Sorry.” I glanced up at the dial while trying to help Kenji stand up straight.
The elevator was on its way down.
Look casual, Mac.
I didn’t have time to explain myself to Kenji. I got my arm around his shoulders. “Stand up and breathe,” I whispered urgently.
He did it. Slowly. With a grunt. “That’s easy for you—”
The door opened and the car was empty.
I smiled, and gave Kenji’s shoulders a squeeze.
Yes!
The twelfth floor it was.
Ian was going to kill me, but there was nothing I could do about it.
I had to follow this guy now. With our comms and phones not working, I had no way of even knowing where Ian was. I couldn’t risk the fake goblin getting away.
Kenji had his Star Trek pha
ser/badge scanner in an honest-to-God holster on his right hip.
I pulled him toward the open elevator. “Come on, we’re going huntin’.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elevators were bad. SPI taught you that during the first day of orientation.
For regular New Yorkers, in a city full of skyscrapers, elevators were a godsend. The ability to ride smoothly up or down a couple dozen floors in less than a minute might occasionally be taken for granted, but it was never unappreciated.
Veteran SPI agents called elevators a coffin on a cable, a take-out box for whatever wanted to eat you. Either way, you were trapped and likely to die horribly.
SPI agents were taught to take the stairs whenever possible for that very reason.
Unless you were after something and needed to be able to fight it—or defend yourself—when you got there. In that case, you needed all the wind you could get. Then you took your chances with an elevator.
I didn’t have a choice. At least, not much of one. Yes, I could’ve run twelve flights of stairs. I was in good shape. However, what I was hunting was glamoured. He didn’t want to be found, especially not by a seer. I needed to have some wind left when I caught up to him.
He wouldn’t be hard to find. The twelfth floor was home to The Dunmor, the Regor Regency’s fine dining restaurant. It was open only for lunch and dinner. Rake had taken me there twice before, so I was familiar with the layout. Swanky place. The only people there this early would be the restaurant staff. No delegates.
As members of SPI, Kenji and I had been cleared to go anywhere in the hotel we felt we needed to be. In the interest of public safety and all that. Unless the glamoured goblin had gone up to the twelfth floor and then taken the stairs back down to another floor, he would be there—and we would find out who he was.
I pushed the “12” button and turned to Kenji as the elevator doors closed. “What’s the range on your scanner?”
“Normally less than a foot.”
“Normally?”
He smiled. “For the summit, I’ve juiced it up to thirty feet.”
That was more like it. “Moving target or stationary?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
I nodded in approval. “I think he’ll be moving.”
“Who’s he?”
I told him.
Kenji’s response? “Ian’s going to kill you.”
“Which is why I’ll call security from the phone at the maître d’ station as soon as we get up there. I’m not opposed to backup, just delays.”
The elevator stopped with a jerk.
Great.
From below us came the clang of steel cables knocking together.
I froze. “Is that a normal stopped-elevator sound?” I whispered.
“No.”
“Shit.”
“Agreed.”
Rising above the clanging was a low hiss.
That was definitely not an elevator sound.
Kenji quickly reached past me and pushed the emergency phone button.
Nothing but crackly static came from the little speaker.
We both looked up at the tiny surveillance camera in the corner. The little green light that indicated it was working wasn’t working.
I went for the alarm button. Repeatedly.
Silence. At least from the alarm. The hissing and clanging from below were getting louder because both were closer.
“Oh, this is bad,” I said to Kenji.
The display above the control panel read “11.” I didn’t know if we were at the eleventh floor, or just above or below. The only way I’d know for sure was to open that door.
Elevator shafts were narrow, at least that’s what I’d seen in movies. Whatever was climbing up that cable was coming from below. Opening the door wouldn’t put us in danger from the whatever-it-was, at least not yet, and it’d give us a chance to get the hell out of here in one piece, one unchewed piece.
I pushed the OPEN DOOR button.
Nothing.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I pushed it again, and the door remained closed.
I repeatedly jabbed the button like a maniac.
“Open, open, open, open!”
Kenji tried to wedge his fingertips in the crack between the doors. I stopped pushing the useless button and got with his program. The elf was a little taller than me, so he took the section of elevator level with his chest, and I took the section below. We coordinated our efforts, putting everything we had into pulling those doors apart, even adding grunts that would have done Serena Williams proud.
Nothing.
Something slammed into the car from below, the impact knocking both of us off our feet and against the nearest wall.
I scrambled to my knees, desperately looking for a button or switch on the control panel that would get our dead-in-the-water elevator going again.
“Can’t you pop the plate off this thing and—”
Kenji looked at me like I was nuts. “No. Elevators are not computers.”
After two more slams, I could swear the floor was going to crack wide open.
I’d seen plenty of horror movies where the heroes had been trapped in an elevator with the creature of that particular feature trying to pry them out like sardines from a can.
The heroes had always gone out through the roof.
I looked up.
On TV, the elevator ceiling always had those cheap tiles that just popped up, letting the hero climb out of the death trap, grabbing the cable just seconds before the monster tore the elevator car apart from below or the elevator plummeted to the bottom of the shaft. Then the hero (however scrawny) would shimmy up that cable like a spider monkey on speed to the first available (and always open) door to a monster-free floor.
Right now, I’d settle for a quarter of that luck.
The ceiling of this elevator was covered in what looked like freakin’ Tiffany glass. Damn Rake and his good taste.
Screw it.
“Kenji, boost me up there.”
“But there’s no—”
“Cheap tiles. Yeah, I noticed that, too. Which is why I’m gonna break that glass to see what’s above it. There has to be an access panel.”
“There doesn’t have to be.”
“There are in the movies. Don’t stomp on my hope here. At this point, if there isn’t one, I’ll make my own.” I was talking fast. Raw terror would do that to you.
Kenji bent and interlaced his fingers, and I stepped up with my right foot. Kenji boosted me to the ceiling easier than I thought he would. I knew that elves were stronger than they looked, but Kenji was only half elf. Thankfully, that half was the one doing the lifting. Maybe he was having a “dad lifting a car off his kid” moment.
I used the grip of my paint pistol to break the glass.
Behold, one elevator roof access panel. Hallelujah.
I used my fist to pop it open. The elevator shaft was pitch dark. I went for my penlight, fumbling with the strap next to my paint gun holster, and miracle of miracles, I managed not to drop it. The beam was small, but bright. I shined it up and around, and saw a beautiful sight.
Elevator doors, and a small metal sign with “12” on it.
“Thank you, baby Jesus,” I breathed.
“What is it?”
“The twelfth floor’s right above us. Can you boost me up a little more?”
He did, and I pulled myself through the opening and onto the top of the elevator car. Problem was, my hands didn’t want to release their death grip on the access panel frame.
Come on, Mac. If you stand up, you can pry those doors open and we can escape this viper pit.
Viper.
My subconscious had decided to let me in on the badly kept secret.
There was a gargantuan snake determined to crack our elevator like an egg.
I knew it in my gut, and my lizard brain confirmed it.
“Can you get them open?” Kenji asked, the panic in his voice incre
asing.
I couldn’t scramble to my feet fast enough. “Damned skippy, I can.”
“I’m coming up.”
An instant later, Kenji clambered up beside me.
We worked together to pry open the doors to the twelfth floor, having about as much luck as we’d had with the elevator’s doors, which would be none.
The thing slammed into the bottom of the elevator, sending the car—and us—up a good two feet. Kenji and I had instinctively grabbed the cable, which was all that’d kept us on our feet.
Then the car kept creeping upward, as if pushed from beneath, thumps and hisses coming from all around us.
Holy crap.
I did not want to look, but I had to.
I shined my penlight against the elevator shaft.
Snakes. Plural.
Not just two, but half a dozen snakes, maybe more, trying to squirm their way up from below, pushing against each other, each one the size of my thigh and plenty big enough to crush and eat us. They were eagerly squeezing themselves though the space between the elevator car and the shaft like a Play-Doh Fun Factory of Evil.
Kenji and I were in total agreement on what to do next.
We screamed.
Mere seconds later, with a decorous “ding,” the elevator doors opened on The Dunmor and we looked up into the disapproving gaze of its maître d’.
And the snakes had vanished, as if they’d never been there.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kenji and I climbed up and out of the elevator shaft. Standing on top of the elevator car had put the open door waist-high on Kenji, chest high on me.
The Dunmor’s maître d’ made no move to assist us.
Yeah, it was rude. But I couldn’t really blame him.
Our arms and hands were covered in elevator-cable grease, and the rest of us was sporting a thin coat of giant snake spit—or whatever it was those things put out to let themselves wiggle through tight spaces. I told myself it was just spit, and I’d keep telling myself that until I believed it.
