Thirteen (Otherworld 13)

"I'm looking for my mommy. You've got her in here. I know you do."

"Get back here, you little--"

A growl. Then a gasp of pain.

"What the--?"

A crash. Then the patter of footsteps on carpet. The guard's cry, muffled, then garbled. Jaime yanked off her belt, wrapped it around her hand, and turned the knob slowly, her bare foot braced against the bottom. She eased it open, just enough to peer through and see--

Something flew at the door. It hit with a patter, like rain, some of it falling to the carpet. Bright red drops of blood sprayed across the wall and carpet.

Jaime shut the door fast and locked it. Then she looked around frantically for real weapons.

Weapons? Against something that was killing a trained Cabal operative? Her gaze rose to the window.

Was it big enough? It better be. She wrenched the towel bar, stumbling back in surprise when it actually came free in her hand. Thank God for shoddy construction. She wrapped the bar in a towel to muffle the noise, then smashed out the window. She managed to get most of the glass cleared, then someone--or something--began yanking on the door.

A quick sweep of the remaining glass and out she went, ignoring the slivers that bit into her stomach as she wriggled through. Had she been thinking, she'd have gone feetfirst. She didn't, and tumbled headfirst to the ground, managing to land in an awkward somersault and bounce back onto her feet. It wasn't exactly martial arts, but sometimes decades of yoga paid off.

The motel backed onto a field, with boggy forest about fifty feet away. To either side, the building stretched out at least half the distance. The forest was really Jeremy's domain, not hers. She took a few running steps along the back wall, then saw a shadow stretching out from the far end. Another joined it. She spun, her back going to the wall. Through the broken window, she heard the bathroom door give way with a crack.

She looked out across the weed-choked field to the forest. She took a deep breath, then she started to run.

NINE

We walked along the road, with Mom casting blur spells every time a car passed.

"Maybe a cello case," I murmured, eyeing the sword as she reappeared.

"Will I look like a cello player? Or an assassin hiding an automatic rifle?"

Valid point. My mother didn't look like an assassin, but she looked even less likely to set foot in a symphony hall.

"A hockey bag would work," Mom said as we continued on. "Once, just after I got the angel gig, I had to deliver a message to your dad at his hockey game, and we weren't exactly eager to share my new occupation with his teammates yet, so I hid it in his bag."

"My father plays hockey?"

"Plays might be an exaggeration. More like watches from the penalty box."

I laughed. "That, I can see. But, um . . ." I looked at the sword. "It's an angel sword, Mom. Stuffing it in a hockey bag just doesn't seem right."

"It's a tool, baby. One that come with some serious . . ." Her face clouded for a moment, then she shook her head. "Let's just say that while I've grown fond of wielding a four-foot hunk of metal, I don't have a problem with stuffing the damned thing in whatever does the job. Irreverent, yes, but the Fates expect no less of me."

"Okay. Well, a hockey bag might work, but your chances of finding one in New Orleans . . . ?"

"Mmm, you're right. A sports store is still our best bet, though."

It was. I left her outside, went in and returned with a bow case. We still weren't getting through any metal detectors, but Mom could walk around like a normal person, which meant--as Jaime warned--that she did bump into a few people before she got the hang of being corporeal again. I'd also bought myself a mock turtleneck tank top, which covered the cut on my throat.

We took a cab to the dead sorcerer's place, which we got from his ID, along with his name. Shawn Roberts. He lived in the French Quarter, in an apartment over a shop selling high-end masks.

He didn't live alone either. He had a wife. And a Rottweiler. Both figured prominently in his wallet photos. Both were home, as a quick call from a pay phone confirmed. No, I hadn't asked to speak to the dog, but I heard it barking. And barking. And barking.

"Who the hell keeps a Rottweiler in an apartment?" Mom fumed as we stood beside the building. "And it's two in the afternoon. Shouldn't she be at work?"

We stepped back for a couple of drunken tourists with pink drinks in plastic cups. Mom stared after them, then grabbed my wrist to check my watch. "Little early, isn't it?"

"We're a block from Bourbon Street."