Omega The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,55
hear him. “Sienna and Reed, take the far stairwell, Clary and Parks, keep overwatch down here after you tell management what’s about to go down. Parks, you do the talking. Clary,” Bastian’s voice got tight, “don’t say a word while he’s talking to them.”
“And as for exit?” Eve said under her breath.
“We have an escape route,” Bastian said, slowing his pace for just a tick. “Hold up our FBI IDs and walk her out the front.”
“This is not gonna be subtle,” Parks said in a gravelly whisper.
“More subtle than having Eve fly her out a window,” Bastian replied. “Let’s go.”
Reed and I split from them, Clary and Parks making their way to the front desk while Eve and Bastian made for the nearest staircase. I cut across the courtyard, making my way toward open-air stairs built into the far corner.
“Couldn’t he have assigned us the elevator?” Reed asked.
“Precautionary,” I said. “What if today is the day the elevator breaks down while we’re in it? Control is the name of the game, and you want to retain all the control over the situation you can at a moment like this, even if it’s avoiding an astronomically small risk like elevator failure.”
“What about spraining an ankle taking eleven flights of stairs?” Reed asked with a smile. “What’s the risk on that?”
“You know, that’s probably not a bad point, if you were a clutz. We’re metas. We make Olympic gymnasts look clumsy by comparison.”
We took a couple rounds of stairs without speaking. Reed broke the silence. “How come I’ve never seen Bastian use his power?”
“You see him use his meta strength,” I said, trying to outpace my brother but not make it look like I was.
“Yeah, I didn’t mean the passive powers,” Reed said, “I meant his main one. I don’t even know what he is.”
“He doesn’t use it at all, that I’ve seen.” I let my hand ride the rail as we made our way up, enjoying the tactile feeling of support and the gentle slap of the leather on the metal to coincide with each step. “I’ve heard the whispers though, that he’s a Quetzalcoatl-type, whatever that is.”
“Oh,” Reed said. “Well, that would explain it.”
“Why?” I asked. “I mean, the rumors don’t exactly cover that, since I don’t think anyone’s ever seen it.”
“You know who Quetzalcoatl was?”
“Sure,” I said, “the feathered serpent. Mesoamerican god.”
“Right,” Reed said. “Walk among the beasts of the ground, fly among the birds of the air. He can transform.”
“Kinda like Parks and his animal forms?”
“No,” Reed said with a smile. “I’ve seen pictures. Think demon-from-hell type stuff. The Mesoamericans who named them feathered serpents might have a talent for understatement.”
“Oh,” I said. “Probably why he doesn’t use it. I asked him once, and he told me he prefers to use weapons—a control thing, of course.”
“Of course.”
We reached the eleventh floor and emerged into the hallway, separated from the yawning maw of the courtyard by only a high railing. “Majestic,” Reed said as he looked down.
Far below, I could see Clary standing next to the coffee stand. “Oh, yeah, it’s a great view. Just once, I’d like to fight in a wide open field rather than in a mall, or a house that collapses on my head, or where I could be dropped eleven stories—or fifty—to a splattering end. Somewhere boring.”
“How about a basement?” Reed asked with a half-smile.
“Keep it up, wise guy, and I’ll throw you off myself.”
Eve and Bastian approached from the other side, converging with us upon the door of Eleanor Madigan’s hotel room at a very casual pace. We all stopped, wordless, outside, halting on either side of the frame so there wouldn’t be any chance for her to see us through the peephole. Bastian held up his hand and gestured to indicate we would be breaking down the door in seconds. I steadied myself and drew the replacement pistol I’d pulled from the quartermaster and took a deep breath, pressing my shoulder to the door next to the frame. Eve stood across from me, Bastian behind her. It was understood that I would be second through the door, and I pulled my gloves off, wiping my hands on my jeans, ridding myself of the excessive sweat on my palms.
I tried to concentrate, tuning out the faint warbling sound of music being piped in over speakers, the scent of lilac pumped into the air conditioners to give the place a nicer smell, the feel of the crosshatching of the gun’s grip in my hand