Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,74
of rain, he could hear the clack of their rifles hitting gravel. None of them had bothered to catch themselves or slow their falls.
Gavin let out a low whistle.
“Shh.” Lance said, “Morgan?”
She swayed a moment; Rose caught her shoulder and steadied her. Then she sighed and opened her eyes. “That should keep them out for about twenty minutes, I think.”
“That’s a helluva trick,” Lance said. “Can you keep doing it?”
“She’s getting tired,” Rose cautioned.
But Rose squared up her shoulders and looked steadier on her next inhale. “No, I’m fine. I can do it. That’s why you brought me, after all.”
Rose’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue.
“Let’s go over, then,” Lance ordered, and they moved.
When they’d leaped over to the correct roof, he paused to nudge at one of the guards. The man’s head lolled, and his eyes stayed shut, his hands lax where they’d landed at his sides.
However she’d done it, it was a very useful skillset to have on hand.
“Bastard,” Gavin muttered, over the by skylight.
Lance joined him. Through the pollution-clouded glass, he caught a glimpse of a wide, high-ceilinged room cleaner and more decadent than any they’d set foot inside in recent memory. Gleaming hardwood floors, pale couches and chairs with dainty legs; gilt mirrors on the walls, and he spotted the intricate arms of a crystal chandelier. The room blazed with expensive electric light, and a woman in a white dress reclined across a chaise lounge, reading a magazine while a TV played to itself on the wall, unwatched.
“Nice to see he’s sparing no expense,” Lance muttered.
“That his girlfriend?” Gavin asked.
“One of them, at least. Morgan?”
She was already drawing up beside him, hands pressing to the glass. A moment later, the magazine hit the floor, and the woman slumped down on the chaise, eyes fluttering shut. A black-clad security thug hit the hardwood like a felled tree.
The door was locked, but easily jimmied; Shubert had been confident in his staff, and in his own power. A common mistake among this crowd, in Lance’s estimation. A stairwell led down into the beautiful room where the girlfriend and her guard lay unconscious. It smelled of chemical lavender, and spilled wine. The furniture all over, Lance thought, was mismatched. A rich man buying up things he thought looked lavish, without an eye for cohesion or style.
Morgan froze in the center of the room, stark still, head cocked at an angle. “There’s a conduit here,” she said, tonelessly. “Heaven-born. Like me.” A beat. “Not like me at all.”
“Okay,” Lance said, tension winding in his gut. “We can handle that. Stay behind us, help where you can, and keep clear if we have to deploy a Wraith Grenade, okay?”
Morgan didn’t seem to hear.
Rose went to her, touched her shoulder; he still marveled over the fact that Rose, his best conduit-killer, so readily made physical contact with this one.
“Where?” she asked.
“Ground floor. He’s – something’s – different.”
“Different how?” Lance demanded.
Rose shot him a warning look. “Different how?” she repeated, much softer.
“He’s…I don’t know.” Again, more faintly, “I don’t know.”
“Are we proceeding or not?” Tris asked.
Morgan shivered all over, and said, “I’m ready.”
“Proceeding,” Lance said. “Rose, stay in the back with her.”
Rose shot him a glare, but didn’t argue, for once, hand still on Morgan’s shoulder.
Lance drew his suppressed gun, and a knife. Tris did the same, took up the point position, and they went through a door. One that led out into a hallway.
A guard turned toward them, opened his mouth to shout – and went down, eyes closed. Men went down in great, limp tangles as they found a second stairwell, and went down two more floors, to the ground level.
That was when felt the unpleasant, electric tingles down the back of his neck that meant a conduit was near. He felt them in Morgan’s presence, but they had their own particular thrum, and he’d learned to ignore them.
This, though, this – pulse. A ripple like an unsteady heartbeat, a push and pull rather than a static humming. It set his teeth on edge.
They stood in a grand foyer, its slate floors polished to a shine. A clock on the wall chimed the hour, and through arched doorways he heard the murmur of voices, and the steady tread of unhurried feet. Someone laughed – loudly, and wildly. Crystal shattered with a bright, tinkling sound, but there were no screams or rushed steps. A normal occurrence, then: the breaking of things.
A glance toward Morgan revealed she was bone-white, and