Living With the Dead (Otherworld 9)

He watched the werewolf move through a room on the second floor, dropping to his knees by an adjoining door, trying to determine whether Colm had passed through it. The man straightened, brushing off his pant legs with a swipe of annoyance. Colm hadn't made the trail easy, setting a winding path that slowed him down.

If there were any other people in the building, Colm hadn't found them. That was okay. As long as he could see the werewolf, he could outwit him and escape. Or that was the mantra he repeated to keep the terror at bay.

The Cabals claimed they didn't hire werewolves, but the kumpania said that was a lie. Of course Cabal employees wanted to believe it. A werewolf made an ideal assassin, a hunting machine, and now the Cabal had set one on his -

He squeezed his eyes shut. A werewolf might be a cold killer, but they were stupid beasts - everyone knew that. He just needed to keep evading the monster until he could find a phone, call his mother and get help.

The next time Colm checked for a vision, though, he couldn't get a lock, and panic congealed in the pit of his stomach as he clenched the railing, straining to hear -

The werewolf's image popped into his head, so clear he could see the crease lines around his mouth. He was in a hall. Which one? Colm couldn't pick up any clues.

The vision vanished. Colm struggled to recapture it.

"I know you're up there." The man's low voice echoed through the empty stairwell.

Colm jumped and backed against the wall.

"You're above me," the werewolf said in that same calm voice. "You're standing just below the third-floor doorway."

How - ? Oh, scent. A dog couldn't just track by a trail on the ground; it could smell you. The werewolf could smell him up here, smell his fear, the piss dried on his legs, the sweat streaking -

He swallowed, shoulder blades rubbing the wall, desperately trying to get farther from that railing, from the werewolf. He glanced up at the door. Only three steps away. Three seemingly endless steps.

Colm shut his eyes, not trying for a vision now, concentrating solely on sound. He hadn't heard any footsteps or shoes squeaking on the steps. Maybe the werewolf didn't know for certain that Colm was here. Maybe he was guessing.

"Have you heard of the interracial council?" the man continued. "They help supernaturals in trouble. My - the woman you saw with me, she works for them. We're here to help you."

Werewolves were as stupid as everyone said. Or maybe he thought Colm was the stupid one, especially if he expected him to buy that old lie about the council.

"If you don't know of the council, perhaps you've heard of Lucas Cortez?"

The man's voice remained steady, volume unchanged, meaning he hadn't moved. The moment he did, Colm was up those three steps and through the door.

"Lucas Cortez is famous for fighting the Cabals. If you're in trouble with the Nasts, Lucas can help."

This guy just didn't know when to quit. If one lie didn't work, spew another.

"I can phone him right now," the werewolf went on. "You can talk to him. Or you can talk to his wife, Paige Winterbourne, one of the council leaders. Just tell me who you'll trust and we'll get in touch with them."

The only people Colm trusted were the kumpania.

"Tell me what I can do to make you feel safe. I only want to talk to you."

A movement flickered on the stairs below. Then the top of the werewolf's dark head appeared. Colm blinked, certain it was a vision caught at a weird angle. He should have heard him climbing, heard his voice getting louder.

The man looked up, eyes meeting Colm's. Colm scrambled up the steps, his feet barely catching the edges, shoes skidding, the stairs seeming to move under him like an escalator, those three steps to the landing an impossible distance.

"There's no place to go," the man called, his words barely piercing the pounding of blood in Colm's ears.

He finally hit the landing. As he dove for the door, the handle turned. He spun before seeing who was on the other side, stumbling to the stairs and tearing up the next flight, his feet remembering how to climb now. He glanced at the fourth-floor door, but didn't need to be clairvoyant to guess that if he opened it, someone would be waiting on the other side.

As he raced to the next floor, he glanced over the railing. The werewolf was still two flights down, taking his time. Why not? He could get Colm anytime he wanted. He was a werewolf; Colm was a skinny fifteen-year-old clairvoyant.

The werewolf was still climbing, still not rushing, letting the distance between them grow. He reminded Colm of the kumpania barn cats - overfed beasts slipped scraps by the kitchen staff, they didn't need t

o catch mice to survive, so they toyed with them, getting close, falling back, batting them around until they finally tired of the game and chomped through their little necks.

Colm missed the next step and fell, palms smacking the concrete, shins striking the step edge, the pain so sharp it blinded him, and he started crawling up on all fours, feeling his way. When his vision cleared, the pain shifted to his wrist, and he glanced down to see the odd angle, a protruding knob of bone that wasn't right. He'd broken his wrist as a child and the doctor warned him it could happen again. Not now, please not -