Living With the Dead (Otherworld 9)

"You need to slow down," the werewolf called up. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He hit the fifth-floor landing, ignored the door and ran up the next flight. Just keep going.

There wasn't much farther he could go. This flight was the last. He lurched for the door. He tripped, his hands flying out, hitting the door. The pain that jolted down his arm was excruciating.

With his good hand, he twisted the knob, but it didn't budge. He yanked on it. Yanked and yanked and -

It was obviously locked. He needed to slow down and do something about it.

There was a deadbolt, but it was on his side, to keep people from breaking in. The lock on the knob was a simple one. He pulled out his fake ID card, pushed it into the jamb, wriggled it and...

The door opened.

Colm pulled open the door and flew through, then reeled back, blinded by the sun.

He was on the roof.

He spun, blinking hard, praying this was a vision that would disappear, leaving him with a cool dark hall and a red exit sign to safety. It didn't happen.

There had to be a fire escape. He jogged the perimeter. Nothing. The door stayed shut. If the werewolf had followed, he should be up here by now.

Colm's cheeks ballooned as he puffed, calming down. Where he'd exited there was a closet-size "room." He could get behind it and hide, then -

Stop planning and move. Act, don't think.

He circled wide to his goal. He needed to get downwind - No, upwind. Or was it downwind?

Stop thinking! Just -

The door swung open.

Colm twisted out of the way.

"Wait!"

A woman's voice. He glanced over to see the Indian girl standing by the open door, her hands up, genuine fear on her face. Fear that he'd jump off the roof and her boss would punish her for losing a clairvoyant slave.

"It's okay." She took a measured step toward him. "It's just me, okay? I only want to talk to you."

They kept saying that, as if by repeating it enough, they'd eventually hit the right note of conviction.

She took another step from the door, her hands still raised. Then she stopped. "I'm going to stay right here, okay? I'll keep my hands up. You can see I'm not armed. Now, I know you're scared..."

He bristled at that, shoulders squaring.

"You're nervous," she amended. "Concerned about your friend, Adele. She's okay."

So they did have her.

"I mean - We - She got away. Yes, we were following her. But she drove off, so we came back to talk to you."

Couldn't these people open their mouths without lying?

"She parked at the McDonald's a block south of the bookstore plaza, right? In the side lot, near the patio tables. We followed her trail that far, but she was already..." She trailed off, eyes studying his. "Look, I know you don't believe me. I don't blame you. You don't know me and you're sca - worried. But people have died. Maybe Adele has a good reason. I'm sure she thinks she does and I'm not saying she doesn't. But we need to stop it or we risk exposing all of us. You understand that, right?"

Oh, he understood. Understood that she'd talk and talk until she wore him down. Brainwashed him, like the rest of the Cabal slaves. Like she'd been brainwashed.

"We're not - " She stopped herself and eased back. "My name is Hope Adams. I work for the interracial council. Do you know what that is?"