No Humans Involved (Otherworld 7)

DEMONS AND WEREWOLVES

I RUSHED OVER and dropped to check Hope's pulse. There was a muted jangle at the door, as if someone was turning a lock.

I sprang to my feet.

Light filled the tiny room. I stumbled back, blinking after straining so long in the dark. Then I followed the light up and saw a panel inset in the high ceiling.

Ringed around the room was a high shelf dotted with what looked like stuffed animals. The taxidermy types, not the toys. That caught me off guard and I stared at a crow for a moment before yanking my gaze away.

Another click. The door was opening. I looked around frantically, hoping I'd see some weapon missed in the darkness. There was nothing. Shoes! My heels. I could use them as I'd planned to with Botnick, to stab or--

I stared down at my sneakers. Oh, goddamn it!

"Hello, Jaime."

May Donovan walked in, dressed in a blazer and skirt, as calmly professional as if we were meeting in her office. Even smiled and extended her hand.

"I trust I won't need to use that spell again," she said, stopping before me. "You're a bright woman. You know when you're outnumbered." Her gaze dropped to Hope. "Still unconscious? I suppose that's just as well."

A click as the door closed. I looked past May and saw four others crowding into the tiny room. Three men, one woman, all on the far side of forty. At a gesture from May, two of the men walked to Hope and carried her into the middle of the room.

Something was etched into the concrete--a symbol they'd found in a book, presumably. As the men laid Hope on it, her hand flopped onto the stainless steel drain, sparkling and spotless, no sign of its purpose evident. Of course there wasn't--the point of having a concrete room with a drain was to wash away all the evidence.

I swallowed.

One of the men retrieved the gas can he'd left by the door and set it down on a lock of Hope's hair. The other woman held the matches, flipping them in her fingers, not nervous, just toying with them. I glanced at their faces, relaxed, unworried and unhurried, as if they were preparing the room for yet another dull but necessary business meeting.

I opened my mouth to stall them, but my mind and gaze stayed caught on Hope, on that gas can carelessly laid on her hair, on her graceful fingers and chewed nails stretched over that immaculate drain.

"You really can talk to the dead, can't you, Jaime?"

I jumped, startled, and looked at May. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were fever-bright. The eyes of a fanatic spotting proof of the divine.

The other woman harrumphed. "She's a good actress, that's all. Just like the rest of them."

"I don't think so. Someone--or something--led her to those bodies."

In her voice was the longing I'd heard so often from the bereaved, those desperate to believe. In May, it was magnified a hundredfold.

"I can," I said. "I see them, hear them, speak to them."

"May, don't let her--"

"You don't believe me? There's a ghost right next to you. A seventeen-year-old named Brendan, though you may not have bothered asking his name before you dowsed him with gas and set him on fire. May, you picked him up at--" I glanced at Brendan, who told me the place and I relayed it. "You tricked him into your car, you and Don--" Another look at Brendan, who pointed to a tall balding man with a cleft chin. I nodded to him. "Over there."

Expressions ranged from May's exultation to incredulity to grudging acceptance.

May smiled. "You and I have a lot to talk about, Jaime."

In other words, I'd just bought myself a temporary pass. I tried not to let my relief show.

"First, though..." May continued.

She waved to Don, who held the gas. He uncapped it and stepped over Hope's body.

"No!"

I leapt forward, but May grabbed my arm.