The car park loomed, dark and cavernous. No sunlight filtered in past the entrance—it was almost as if a curtain of night had been drawn across it. Might as well be entering hell itself, she thought and had a horrible feeling that might be the case.
Thunder rumbled, closer than before. She looked up one more time at the blue skies, and hoped she lived to see them again. Taking a deep breath, she stepped past the curtain and entered the car park.
***
There was something on Doyle's back, pressing down hard, squashing him. Every breath hurt—the air burned, scorching his throat and his lungs. Heat licked at his feet, his legs. He groaned and tried to move. Fire twisted down his side, a living thing that threatened to consume his consciousness. He groaned again and tried to open his eyes. Couldn't. Something seemed to be gluing them shut. He sniffed the air and regretted it almost instantly. It was pungent and gaseous, and seemed to burn through his entire body. He coughed so hard it felt as if he was tearing apart.
"Doyle!" Russell's shout seemed to be coming from a great distance.
"Here." The word came out harsh but little more than a whisper. The weight pressed deeper. He fought to breathe, to stay conscious. The heat of the flames danced across his feet, and the smell of burning leather joined the junket of toxic odors surrounding him.
"Doyle! Answer me, damn it."
Here, he wanted to say, here. But the words lodged somewhere in his throat and refused to budge. Sounds reached through to his prison—the scrape of metal against concrete, a grunt of effort, the sharp sound of swearing. He smiled. Camille had never been much of a
lady-Dirt showered him. The weight on his back shifted, and pain shot through his leg, reflecting across his entire body. A scream tore at his throat, but came out little more than a hiss. Swearing filled the air, as colorful as the smoke surrounding him. He coughed again, harsher and longer, until spasms shook his body, and it felt like he was going to throw up.
The weight lifted from his back and leg, and suddenly he could breathe again. Only the fresh air sent him into another spasm of coughing and made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. The world blurred, and then he was out in bright light, with the warmth of the late afternoon sun glaring down on him. That was quickly replaced by cool darkness. The van, he thought vaguely, looking around. But hadn't that been blown up?
Moisture dribbled across his lips. He licked at it quickly, desperate to ease the burning in his throat.
"Easy with that," Camille said from his right. "Not too much or you'll have him throwing up."
"I know, I know." Russell's voice sounded impatient and worried. I'm okay, he wanted to say, but his vocal cords still refused to work. Something cool and moist touched his face, wiping the stickiness from his eyes. He blinked and opened them. A man knelt in front of him, his head and hands swathed in bandages that were covered in soot and dirt. He blinked, but the vision refused to go away.
"Russell?" His question came out little more than a harsh croak. The bandaged face nodded. Doyle looked to his left and saw the bright sunshine peeping past the black plastic covering the van's back windows. He realized then that Russell was wearing the bandages for protection. It was the only way he could have possibly ventured out into the sunlight without burning up.
"Keep still a while," Russell said. "Camille's fixing your leg." Russell lifted the cup, dribbling more moisture into his mouth. He swished it around then swallowed. The fire in his throat began to ease. He looked down, but couldn't see anything beyond Camille's back. Couldn't feel anything beyond an odd sort of numbness in his right leg.
Fear stirred his gut. "What's wrong with my leg?"
"A large chunk of metal has speared your thigh. It missed bone, but that's about all it missed," Russell said. "Camille's plastered the area with a numbing salve and has cut off what she could, but basically, that's all we can do beyond getting you to a hospital. If we try to take it out here, you'll bleed to death."
At least that explained the numbness in his leg. He drank a few more drops of water and rolled his neck, trying to ease the ache. It felt as if someone had played baseball with his entire body.
Russ sat back on his heels. "Why in hell did you detour for that damn knife? It almost cost you your life." Anger edged his words. Doyle glanced down and realized he was still clenching the silver blade. He released it, flexing his fingers to ease the cramps. "It's silver, and the only one I have with me."
"So? Steal another. It wasn't worth almost losing your life over."
"Russ, silver is the one thing immune to magic. We may yet need it." Especially if the witch went after Kirby. He went still, and in that moment knew beyond doubt that she was in trouble and needed help.
"Kirby," he said urgently, struggling to rise. "We have to get back to her."
Camille swore at him, and Russell held him down. "Don't move, damn it."
"You don't understand—"
"No, you don't understand," Russell said vehemently. "Unless we get that leg tightly bandaged, you're in serious danger of bleeding to death. How is that going to help Kirby?"
He relaxed a little and closed his eyes. Tension rode him, as sharp as the fear stirring his gut. "Okay. But once that leg is bandaged, we go get her." Russell glanced at Camille. "I don't think—"
"I don't care what you think, my friend. She's in danger, and it's far more important we save her than get me to a hospital."
"As much as I hate to say it," Camille said into the tense silence, "he's right. We can't let the witch get her hands on her."
She shifted slightly, revealing the massive blob of bandages on his leg. What was left of his jeans below the wound was soaked in blood. No wonder he felt lightheaded. "How come the van survived the explosion?"