Broken (Otherworld 6)

So it was impossible. Even when I glimpsed a figure darting between the rigs in the southwest lot, and caught another whiff of that distinctive scent, I knew it couldn't--shouldn't--be him. But follow logic too far and it can lead right into the jaws of folly.

Jeremy had asked me to wait for him or Clay, and I hadn't meant to ignore him. But after fifteen years of being able to walk through deserted parking lots without a spark of fear, I was ill-accustomed to needing an escort.

Someone was following me, possibly hoping to cut me off when I was far enough from the service center, and from my male companions. At the very least, I should stop and wait for Jeremy and Clay.

Yet, the moment they showed up, my pursuer would run. So I kept going slowly and concentrated on picking up some sense of Clay. No luck. I stopped to tie my shoes and scope out the playing field.

Swamp to the right. A good place to throw my pursuer off-kilter, but the stink and the water would make tracking difficult. The field in front of me was too open. Behind it was a forest, which screamed "pick me, pick me." My ideal environment. But it was too far away, and I risked losing him on the trek across the open field. The parking lot had lots of places to hide, and that's where he was now. But the noise, the stink of diesel fuel and the possibility of bystanders would complicate matters. The best choice was also the closest--that thirty-foot-wide storage silo to my right.

Rotten

I WALKED SLOWLY PAST THE SILO, STILL STRAINING FOR A sense of Clay. When I reached the other side I felt that little twinge of relief and anticipation that told me he was nearby. As for where exactly he was, I had no idea. But he'd be looking for me.

With a half-dozen strides, I was close enough to touch the silo, and I started circling toward the back. Quick steps pattered over the pavement--someone running across the parking lot, footfalls too heavy to be Clay or Jeremy, the slightly awkward clomp of one unaccustomed to silent hunting.

I caught a whiff on the breeze, heavy with rot. On that same breeze came a more familiar--and certainly more pleasant--smell. Clay was getting closer. I smiled and picked up my pace to lure my pursuer farther behind the silo.

The clomping footsteps sped up, closing the gap. Closing in fast. Waiting for Clay wasn't going to be an option.

I spun around and found myself a hairsbreadth from being skewered by a butcher's knife. It was probably more like two feet away, but any time a knife that big is pointed at you it seems a whole lot closer.

I roundhouse kicked...and flew off my feet as my new center of gravity took over. My foot barely brushed my attacker. The ground sailed up to meet my stomach. My hands shot out to break my fall, but I managed to twist around and find my balance.

As I veered up, the man rushed me. I kicked again, this time low, snagging his calf and yanking. As he fell, the blade veered my way, but I skated out of the way--not nimbly or gracefully but unscathed. I pounced onto his back and he crumpled, arms flying out, knife pinging off the side of the silo and tumbling to the grass.

A shadow crossed over my head, but I stayed where I was, on all fours on the man's back.

"You want me to take that for you, darling?"

"Please."

Clay put his foot onto the man's neck and pressed down until he let out a strangled grunt. I recovered the knife--the sort that graces gourmet home kitchens everywhere, and rarely carve anything more than takeout rotisserie chicken.

"Impressive." I gave it a trial swing and made a face. "Unwieldy, though."

I knelt beside the man. It was definitely him--though he'd gotten rid of the bowler hat. He'd shaved his whiskers and changed into modern dress--ill-fitting slacks and a golf shirt that looked expensive enough to have come from the same house as the knife.

He tried to stay facedown, but Clay booted the other side of the man's head and kicked his face toward me. Then he pressed harder on the man's neck so he couldn't turn away again.

Sweat beaded on the man's forehead, but he only curled his lip. I adjusted my grip, lifted the knife, then plunged it down a handbreadth from the man's face. After a second, he opened his eyes. He stared at the knife, buried to the hilt in the ground.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Where'd you come from?"

His lips pulled back, showing blackened teeth and the missing incisor I'd noticed the night before. "From hell."

"Good," Clay said. "Then we'll know where to send you."

Jeremy rounded the silo, walking fast, then saw us and slowed.

We spent the next few minutes interrogating the man. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he find us? Why did he come after us? He wasn't talking. A more thorough "interrogation" was out of the question here, in midday. Finally, Jeremy eased back onto his haunches.

"Let's see if we can get him someplace better." He looked around, then nodded at the swamp. "Down there."

As Clay yanked the man to his feet, I stood, brushed myself off and turned to walk around the silo. A shadow leapt behind me, splayed on the sunlit side of the tank. I wheeled to see the man in Clay's grip, caught in midlunge, his gaze on Jeremy. I leapt forward to knock Jeremy out of the way, but Clay already had his forearm around the man's neck.