Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,104

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 to 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—

“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