A door opened.
"It didn't work, did it?" Clay's angry drawl, not from the doorway, but here, from the bed.
Jeremy shut the door behind him. "No, Paige wasn't able to make contact. She thought she did, but something went wrong."
"And aren't we all shocked to hell. You're entrusting Elena's life to a twenty-two-year-old apprentice witch. You know that, don't you?"
"I know that I'm willing to use any tool possible to find Elena. Right now, that apprentice witch is our best hope."
"No, she's not. There's another way. Me. I can find Elena. But you won't believe it."
"If Paige is unable to reestablish contact--"
"Goddamn it!" Clay grabbed a book from the nightstand and whipped it across the room, denting the far wall.
Jeremy paused a moment, then continued, voice as unruffled as ever. "I'm going to get you something to drink, Clayton."
"You mean you're going to sedate me again. Sedate me, shut me up, keep me quiet and calm while Elena is out there--alone. I didn't believe it was her talking through Paige and now she's gone. Don't tell me that wasn't my fault."
Jeremy said nothing.
"Thank you very much," Clay said.
"Yes, you're to blame for us losing contact that time, though it probably doesn't explain why we can't recontact her. We'll keep trying. In the meantime, perhaps we can discuss this other idea of yours in the morning. Come see me if you change your mind about that drink. It'll help you sleep."
As Jeremy left, the dream evaporated. I tossed and turned, thrown back into the channel-surfing world again. Snap, snap, snap, bits of dreams and memories, too scattered to make any sense. Then darkness. A knock at the door. I was seated at a desk, poring over a map. The door was behind me. I tried to turn or call out a welcome. Instead, I felt my pencil move to scratch a few words on a pad. I looked at the writing and, with no surprise, recognized Clay's scrawl.
The room swirled, threatening to go dark. Something tugged at me with the gentle insistence of the tide, reaching out to pull me back. I fought it. I liked where I was, thank you very much. This was a good place, a comforting place. Just sensing Clay's presence made me happy, and damn it, I deserved a bit of happiness, illusory or not. The tide grew stronger, swelling to an undertow. The room went black. I wrenched myself free and slammed back into Clay's body. He'd stopped writing now and was studying a map. A map of what? Someone knocked again at the door. He didn't respond. Behind him, the door opened, then shut.
"Clayton." Cassandra's voice, butter-smooth.
He didn't answer.
"A grunt of greeting would suffice," she murmured.
"That would imply a welcome. Don't you need to be invited into a room?"
"Sorry. Another myth shot to hell."
"Feel free to follow it."
Cassandra chuckled. "I see Jeremy inherited all the manners in the Danvers family. Not that I mind. I've always preferred honesty and wit over polish." Her voice drew closer as she crossed the room. "I noticed your light on and thought you might care to join me in a drink."
"Love to, but I'm afraid we don't share the same taste in fluids."
"Could you at least look at me when you turn me down?"
No answer.
"Or are you afraid to look at me?"
Clay turned and met her eyes. "There. Piss off, Cassandra. How's that?"
"She's not coming back, you know."
Clay's hand clenched around the pencil, but he said nothing.
I felt the tugging at my feet again and braced myself against it. Somewhere in my head Paige called my name. The undertow surged, but I held firm. This was one scene I definitely wasn't leaving.
"They won't find her," Cassandra said.
"According to you, we should stop trying."
"I only mean that it's a waste of our time. Better we concentrate our efforts on stopping these people. Save all our lives, not just Elena's. If, in stopping them, we rescue her, that's wonderful. If we don't ... it's hardly the end of the world."
The pencil snapped between Clay's fingers. Cassandra stepped closer. When the undertow threatened again, I kicked and fought with all my might.
Cassandra took yet another step toward Clay. I felt him tense and start to step back, then stop and hold his ground.
"Yes, you love her," Cassandra said. "I can see that and I admire that. Really, I do. But do you know how many men I've loved in all these years? Loved passionately? And of those men, do you know how few names I remember? How few faces?"
"Get out."
"I'm asking you to join me for a drink. One drink. Nothing more."
"I said, get out."
Cassandra only smiled and shook her head. Her eyes gleamed now with the same look I'd seen her give the server at the restaurant, only stronger. Hungrier. Her fingers grazed Clay's forearm. I wanted to scream for him to look away, but I was powerless to do anything but watch and wait.
"Don't pull that shit, Cassandra," Clay said. "It doesn't work on me."
"No?"
"No."
Clay looked Cassandra squarely in the eyes. She went completely immobile, only her eyes working, glowing brighter as she stared at him. Several minutes passed. Then Clay stepped toward Cassandra. Her lips curved in a triumphant smile. My heart stopped.
"Get out, Cassandra," Clay said, his face only inches from hers. "Ten seconds or I throw you out."
"Don't threaten me, Clayton."
"Or you'll do what? Bite me? Think you can sink your teeth into me before I rip your head off? I hear that's a good cure for immortality. Five seconds, Cassandra. Five ... four ..."
The scene went black. No swirling, not tugging. Just a sudden stop. I blinked. Harsh light blinded me. I squeezed my eyes shut. Through my lids, I saw the light swing away. Fingers gripped my shoulder and shook me.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."
A voice. Unfortunately, not Clay's voice. Not Cassandra's voice. Not even Paige's. This was worse. Ten times worse. Ty Winsloe. From pleasant dreams to unsettling visions to outright nightmares. I clenched my eyes shut.
"Whaddaya think, boys?" Winsloe said. "Does our sleeping beauty need a kiss to wake her up? Of course, in the original fairy tale, she needed more than a kiss ..."
My eyes snapped open and I bolted upright. Winsloe chortled and beamed a flashlight in my face, then skimmed it over my body.
"You always sleep with your clothes on?" he asked.
"This isn't exactly a private suite," I said, snarling a yawn. "What time is it?"
"Just past three. We need your help. There's been a breakout."
I sat on the edge of my cot, blinking, brain struggling to get past visions of Clay and Cassandra. Three o'clock? In the morning? Breakout? Did he mean someone had escaped? Who? Why did they need my help? Had there been an accident? Did Carmichael want me?
"Huh?" I said. So much for intelligent and articulate questions. What do you expect at three A.M.?
Winsloe prodded me from bed. "I'll explain on the way."
CHAPTER 29
BLOODHOUND
Armen had escaped. When Winsloe told me, my breath caught, and for a long moment I couldn't breathe. Armen had escaped ... without me. On the heels of my panic came a flash of hurt, then the realization that Armen must have been presented with an opportunity that he couldn't ignore. Could I blame him? Of course not, though that didn't make things any better. My escape partner was gone, taking our plan with him. Worse still, Winsloe wanted me to stop him.
"You want me to track him down?" I said.
"That's what I said. Use your nose. Sniff him out."
"Like a bloodhound."
Winsloe glanced over sharply at my tone. "Yes, like a bloodhound. Is that a problem?"
Of course that was a problem. I was a person, not an animal, not a sideshow attraction. I didn't perform for anyone's amusement. I wanted to say so, but the edge in Winsloe's voice dared me to defy him. I didn't have the guts. Or, more accurately, my instinct for self-preserv
ation was too strong. I remembered Winsloe's reaction when I'd slapped his hand away in the shower and knew I couldn't afford another show of defiance. That didn't mean I'd betray Armen. I might have to track him, but I didn't have to find him.
Flanked by guards, I followed Winsloe downstairs to the cell block. Two more guards waited outside Armen's cell. Inside, Tucker knelt beside a guard, who sat on the floor, cradling his head. The guard looked familiar, but I couldn't put a name to him. The only time I ever bothered to note a guard's name was when he'd done something to distinguish himself from the others. Most hadn't.
"Did you find out what happened?" Winsloe asked, in a voice that implied he didn't give a damn what had happened, he only wanted to get on with the hunt.
"Seems like Haig made himself a weapon," Tucker said. "Something sharp, like a knife. Caused a commotion when my men were doing their rounds, then pulled this weapon on them when they opened the door. Knocked Ryman here out cold. Must have taken Jolliffe along to get past security. Ryman's okay, but we'd better move if we want Jolliffe alive. We'll need to track him. I've sent Pendecki to get the tracking--"
"No need," Winsloe interrupted. "I've got a world-class tracker right here."
Tucker looked at me and frowned. "That's one of my men out there, sir. With all due respect, I don't think we should fool around--"
"Fool around?"
Tucker's jaw clicked as if biting something back. "I didn't mean it that way ... sir. I'm concerned about--"
"Of course you are. So am I. That's why I brought Elena. Ryman, feeling up to joining us?"
Ryman struggled to his feet. "Yes, sir."
"I think--" Tucker began.
"Don't think," Winsloe cut in. "That's not what I pay you for. Come on, Ryman; we'll see if we can't get this bastard. Maybe get you a little payback for that goose egg on your head."
Outside the compound, Winsloe dismissed the two guards accompanying me, leaving only the injured Ryman. I wondered at this, knew it wasn't a good sign, but was still too sleep-drugged to make sense of it. Other thoughts clogged my tired brain. Armen had made a weapon? He'd attacked a guard? Knocked him unconscious? Was this the same Armen who'd been looking to me to provide the brute force for an escape?
As we headed into the woods, someone shouted "Hey!" behind us. Ryman whirled, gun poised, reflexes unhampered by any lingering effects from his head injury. No one was there. Dead grass crackled farther up the path, and we all spun back around to see Xavier twenty feet away.
"Easy, soldier," Xavier said, hands in the air. "Don't be shooting the friendlies."
"I should," Ryman muttered. "Teach you a lesson."
"What's up?" Xavier asked, sauntering toward us. "I hear Haig made a break for it. We doin' the search-and-rescue thing? Or the search-and-destroy thing?" He saw me and stopped. "Whoa, what's wolf-girl doing out of her cage?"
I glowered at him. He sidestepped fast, as if ducking my glare, then bobbed back grinning.
"That's one lethal look you have there. Deadlier than Ryman's bullets." He turned to Winsloe. "So what's the deal? Fun and games time? Can I play?"
"Maybe next time," Winsloe said.
"Oh, come on. Don't be a spoilsport. I wanna play."
"Yeah?" Ryman said. "How about you be the practice target?"
Winsloe waved Ryman to silence. "That's enough. Back inside, Reese. I said, next time."
"Fine." Xavier rolled his eyes, then vanished. Obviously someone else who knew enough not to push Winsloe.
"Are we still on track, Elena?" Winsloe asked.
"Hmmm? Oh, right." I sniffed the air. "Yes, Ar--Haig was here. With someone else."
"Jolliffe," Winsloe said. "Good. Tucker will be pleased. Lead on, then. Ryman, stay behind her."
We headed into the woods.
"Are you sure this is the way?" Winsloe asked ten minutes later.
It wasn't. I'd branched away from Armen's true path ten yards back. Winsloe shone his flashlight on my face. I swallowed a quick assertion and made a show of sniffing the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him, gauging his credulity, and decided to test the water before making a potentially fatal leap.
"I thought it was," I said slowly. "The trail seemed to turn this way."
"Undergrowth looks pretty dense," Winsloe said.
Did it? It appeared passable to me, but maybe I was looking as a wolf, not a panicked human running for his life, captive in tow. I hunkered down and inhaled close to the ground. Behind me, Ryman snickered.
"You're right," I said. "They didn't come this way. I must have been picking up their scent on the breeze. Better retrace our steps."
"Maybe you should stay on all fours," Ryman said. "Keep your nose to the trail." He smirked.
"That's okay, Elena," Winsloe said. "Take it slow. Don't feel pressured."
Me? Feel pressured? Why on earth would I feel pressured? Just because I was being asked to hunt down a fellow captive, with a loaded pistol at my back and a psychotic megalomaniac calling the shots?
"Maybe I am a little nervous," I said. "Sorry."
Winsloe beamed a magnanimous smile. "That's okay. Just take it easy."
Sure, boss. No problem. I inhaled, backtracked to the real trail, and started again. About fifty yards farther along, Armen's trail veered east. I decided to keep heading south. I didn't get three steps.
"You sure that's the right way?" Winsloe called from behind me.
I froze.
"Seems to me they went east," he said. "There's some bent branches here."
I turned to look at the bushes surrounding the wide gap Armen had gone through. Not a single twig was broken. There was no way Winsloe could tell Armen had turned here. Unless he already knew. The warning tingle I'd felt since we'd begun this expedition surged to an Arctic chill. Winsloe knew exactly where Armen had fled to, probably had him tracked and captured before he even came to the infirmary. He was testing me--my abilities and my honesty. Had I already failed?
Quelling the urge to stammer excuses, I looked from the bushes to the path I'd chosen, pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to look exhausted, which wasn't much of a stretch. I crouched and sniffed the ground, crept over and smelled the bushes, then stood and sampled the air. With a sigh, I rubbed the back of my neck.
"Well?" Winsloe said.
"I'm smelling a trail both ways. Give me a sec."
I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath of chilly night air. Then I got down on all fours, ignoring Ryman's snickers, and followed both potential paths for several yards.
"That one," I said, pointing at the real trail as I got to my feet. "He took a few steps the other way, then backed up and turned down that gap between the bushes."
Plausible, and impossible to refute unless you had a werewolf's nose. Winsloe nodded. It worked for him. Good.
As I followed the trail, I wondered how Winsloe planned to end this charade. They'd obviously recaptured Armen already. Would we bump into the troop of guards holding him? Or would the trail loop back to the compound? What was the point? To amuse himself by making me perform like a circus dog? Humiliate me while testing my trustworthiness? Was he hoping I'd screw up or make a run for it, giving him an excuse to hunt me? I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. If he wanted a loyal two-legged hound, that was exactly what he'd get.
I didn't try to trick him again. What was the use, if he already had Armen? We trekked another half-mile into the forest. The scent grew stronger, until I could pick it up in the wind.
"They're close," I said.
"Good," Winsloe said. "Slow down then and--"
Ahead, a clump of bushes exploded with crackles and curses. Two figures flew out of the shrubbery, Armen atop a guard, hands grappling against the man's throat. Winsloe raced forward, yanking a gun from under his jacket. Ryman fired a warning shot. Armen froze. Winsloe launched himself at Armen and knocked him off Jolliffe.
Anger flared in my gut, white hot. I clenched my fists to keep from acting on it. I wanted to screa
m at Winsloe, denounce his "tracking exercise" for what it was. A game. Another juvenile game choreographed right down to leaping on Armen after the poor man was paralyzed by the sound of gunfire. You trying to impress me, Tyrone? Oh, I'm impressed. I'd never seen such a pathetic performance.
"There," I said, barely able to unhinge my jaw enough to force words out. "You have him. Good job. Can we go now?"
Everyone ignored me. Winsloe had Armen spread-eagled on the ground and was patting him down looking for weapons. Jolliffe sat in the shadows, as if too stunned to move. Ryman walked over and extended a hand, helping his partner to his feet.
"What happened here?" Winsloe said.
"He had a weapon, sir," Jolliffe said. "He forced me from the cell, took my gun, and made me open the doors, then dragged me into the woods. He tried to kill me. I escaped a ways back, followed, and caught up to him here."
At which time you held him until we arrived, I thought. After having probably been in radio contact with Winsloe since you escaped from Armen.
"He was hiding in those bushes," the guard said, continuing his story. "He shot at me. I disarmed him and we fought, then you showed up."
"Wh--what?" Armen said, struggling to lift his head from the ground. "I didn't--you came to my cell. You brought me out here. You--"
Winsloe slammed Armen's face back into the dirt. Again, it took every ounce of restraint not to fly at him. Then the impulse vanished and I couldn't move if I'd wanted to. My legs turned to cold lead as I saw the look on Armen's face, the confusion and disbelief beneath a layer of blood and bruises. Jolliffe said something. My gaze swiveled to him. I saw his face, really saw it, and recognized it, as I'd earlier recognized Ryman. Watching them together, I knew where I'd seen them. At the hunt. The two nameless men with Pendecki and Bryce the night we'd hunted Patrick Lake. That wasn't the last time I'd seen them, either. They'd been the two who'd accompanied me into the shower with Winsloe. His pet guards. Handpicked for another special mission.