First, though, I needed clothes.
It took a while, but I put on my bra and jeans, a sweater of Zay’s, and a pair of his socks too. While I was at it, I borrowed a stocking hat out of the half dozen he had in his sock drawer and put that on.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and indulged in my new hobby of breathing heavily and waiting for the room to stop spinning.
C’mon, Allie. Suck it up and get moving. I bullied myself to my feet, waited for the vertigo to pass, and walked out into the living room.
Blood. Everywhere. Blood covered the carpet in a wide, wet pool. Blood painted the wall and the side of the couch.
Holy shit.
I pressed my hand over my side, couldn’t feel the pressure, but could feel the edges of a scar. So much for wearing a bikini again.
Okay, I’ll be honest. I wanted to cry. There is nothing so freaky as seeing your own blood poured out like spilled cans of bargain-basement paint. There is nothing more sickening than realizing that your world has changed so much that people have actually tried to kill you. It made me feel vulnerable, and threatened to freeze me with fear. Where could I go that I would be safe? There was nowhere in this world I couldn’t be found. Not here. Not my apartment. Not even Nola’s. At any moment, around any corner, there could be someone with a gun pointed at my head.
I stared up at the ceiling and inhaled and exhaled, fighting down panic. I was good at fighting panic—I rode elevators—and had a healthy aptitude for denial.
When panic stopped squeezing my throat and I could breathe more evenly, I looked away from the ceiling. I refused to look at the floor or walls or furniture covered in my blood.
I was light-headed but I walked over to where the coat I had borrowed from Nola hung, checked it to make sure it was clean and that it had my little book in the pocket, then put it on.
I buttoned it up and went around the other side of the couch to avoid getting my shoes wet. I paused at the door. Zay had cast a hell of a spell. It practically vibrated out of the walls. He’d walked through it. There had to be a way to unweave it enough so I could get through it without breaking it, because if I broke it, I’d be a kill-me-now neon sign.
The very idea of drawing on magic, even a thin tendril of it, made my stomach turn. Every inch of me felt raw and empty. I was pretty sure the ability to cast magic had been blown out of me. I didn’t know how long it would take me to recover from that.
Using magic to unlock the glyph was out of the question. Maybe he had it set so that anyone crossing it from the outside in would be stopped, but anyone crossing it from inside the room to outside would be okay.
Nothing to do but try. I put my hand on the doorknob, unlocked it, slid the dead bolt. Turned the handle. The door opened. I couldn’t sense a change in the spell. I put my fingertips in the doorway, didn’t feel any changes, put my whole hand, then my arm through so my hand was over the threshold. Nothing.
The ward was set outside in, bad. Inside out, good.
Thank you, Zayvion Jones.
I stepped through to the hall and shut the door behind me. The building didn’t smell so good anymore; the heavy odors of people living too close together hit my sinuses and made me feel like choking. It was probably just an aftereffect of channeling so much magic—my senses were blown open. The lights in the hall seemed too bright, and a moth in the ceiling light sounded like a jumbo jet.
Of course, for all I knew, I could be running a fever, or bleeding internally from the wound. Just because the hole had closed didn’t mean the healing had worked any deeper. I pressed my arm against my side, trying to decide if it felt squishy, or in any way like there was more fluid under the skin. Swollen, which, I supposed, was to be expected. Internal bleeding?
How the hell should I know? I was not a doctor.
But I was walking okay, tired, dizzy, but not in excruciating pain. That had to count for something, right?
The doors on either side of the hall were shut and I didn’t hear any noise through them. Even though I couldn’t remember the moment I was shot, I figured gunfire would stir a few people out of bed. Unless they had all gone to work already. Or maybe Zay had fancy noise-dampening spells too.
Possible.
There were two doors at the end on the hall. The stairwell and the elevator. I had to pick one. I wanted to go down the stairs. But I didn’t want to wear myself out. Hells. Elevator, for the win.
I could do this. I’d done elevators a lot lately. I was great at elevators. And not one had sent me plummeting to my death. Yet.
I pressed the button and walked to the side of the doors, so I could see someone getting off the elevator before they saw me. The bell dinged and the doors opened. I waited for someone to step out. Listened for movement. The door started to close again, so I got moving and stuck my hand against it to hold it open. The door reopened and, sure enough, the elevator was empty.
I stepped in. The coffin closed down around me.
Strange how it never mattered how badly you hurt, you could still feel another pain—like the morphine needle when you’d broken a bone. And no matter how tired I was, I could still manage enough adrenaline to freak out in an elevator.
I pressed L for luck and leaned against one wall, the brushed bronze of it cool against my cheek. I stared at the numbers as they slowly blinked downward, broke out in a sweat, inhaled through my nose, exhaled out my mouth. The sound of my breath was accompanied by a high, panicky moan. I thought about calm rivers, summer days, soft sunlight. It didn’t work.
I wanted to run out the doors when the elevator opened to the lobby, but I couldn’t move that fast. Like wading through a bad dream, I pushed myself to walk across the elevator floor and finally, finally made it into the lobby.
My heart pounded too fast for so little exertion. Panic probably had something to do with it. I gritted my teeth to keep from making any sound. I could do this. I just needed to get outside. To get some fresh air.
I heard sirens and didn’t care. I just wanted to get to the door and get outside. The door was glass and iron and let in the cool gray light of a slate-sky morning. Seeing that cloudy light made me feel better. The world—the real world with sun and wind and cars and people who didn’t break into apartments with guns—was right out there. I pushed through the door, out into the cold, out into the wind, out into spaciousness with no walls and no ceiling and no guns I could see, and took deep, gulping breaths. I shivered and wiped the sweat off my face. Eventually I realized the sirens were growing louder.
The sirens were real. There were more than one. There must have been a bad accident. I glanced around to get my bearings, and checked out the name of the apartments: Cornerstone. The building and street weren’t familiar. Sirens kept getting closer, louder. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was the gunfire and somebody had reported it. Maybe they were coming for me.
I kept my hands tucked in my pockets and my head down as I walked toward the street corner. The cross street was Stark, and that helped some. I knew which side of town I was on—the east, on the other side of the river from my apartment and downtown.
But I wasn’t planning on going to my apartment. I was planning on Hounding Cody. I just needed to sit for a couple of minutes and get my strength back.
I waited on the corner, watching traffic go by as sirens grew louder. I did not want to be standing on a corner if those sirens really were out looking for me. I either needed to get walking, duck into a building—all of which looked to be shops, offices, or apartments—or I needed to catch a ride.
I dug in the coat pockets. Nola had stuffed some money in them, bless her heart. I hailed a cab, got one to stop on my third try, and ducked in just as the blue and red lights of a police car—two, no, three—came down the street. The cab waited for the police to pass before pulling away from the curb.