The truth.
My stomach heaved.
“She’s in a janitor’s closet,” Marsten said. “Restrained with her own handcuffs, which I thought was appropriate. I can take you there, if you’d like.”
“You’ll wait here. I’ll come back for you when I’m finished with her.”
Finished with me?
As Marsten gave Tristan directions to the closet I’d used to hold him earlier, I scrambled for an escape plan. Yes, escape. Marsten’s life was in danger. And I’d put it there.
Tristan left with one guard. When he was gone, the second one backed onto the desk, gun still trained on Marsten.
I eased the vent cover out. Marsten looked away and flicked his fingers, telling me to stay where I was.
As quietly as I could, I moved the cover into the shaft and laid it down under me. Marsten’s gaze met mine and he shook his head.
When I grabbed the edge of the vent, he threw me one last glare. Then he cleared his throat.
“You do work for the Cortez Cabal, I presume,” he said to the guard, his voice loud in the small room, covering me as I eased forward.
“I’ve heard the Cabals frown on employees taking outside jobs,” Marsten continued in that same too-loud voice. “Yes, I know, Tristan is a Cabal associate vice-president, so one could argue it’s not truly moonlighting, but I suspect Mr. Cortez wouldn’t be so quick to see the distinction.”
I braced myself at the edge of the opening.
Marsten continued. “An AVP using Cabal resources for a personal vendetta? I’ll wager Mr. Cortez would richly reward—”
I pushed from the ventilation shaft and hit the guard in the back. An oomph as he fell forward. Marsten snatched the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off guard, as I was awkwardly trying to right myself. I scrambled for it, but my hand knocked it flying, and the gun ricocheted onto the desk, tumbling down behind it.
Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The man flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard’s body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”
The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten’s brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.
“Are you sure?” I said. “He looks—”
“He’s fine.” Marsten knelt beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. “Though I do hate to waste these on him.” Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the knob, but Marsten yanked me back.
“I was going to look first,” I said.
“You don’t need to. I can hear them coming.” He looked around. “You take the vent.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. “Go headfirst this time, and you’ll be able to squeeze through.”
“After you,” I said.
“No time. Go.”
“After you.”
He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself. Then, with a soft growl, he hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.
“It’s very narrow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can—”
“Try,” I said, and gave him a shove.
He wriggled through as I climbed up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, and followed him.
EIGHT
In the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as that museum.
We crept along. The passage widened enough to crawl, but our sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as I scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.
Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?
I smacked face-first into Marsten’s ass.
“Warn me when you stop,” I muttered. “Please.”
A low chuckle. “At the next branch you can take the lead, so you won’t have that problem. I will … but I suspect I won’t complain about it.”
“You won’t bump into me. Werewolves have enhanced night vision.”
“Mine’s been a little rusty lately.”
I head-butted him in the rear. “Move.”
The first vent we hit, he hit, driving his fist into it and knocking it clattering to the floor. Apparently I wasn’t the only one getting claustrophobic.
Marsten crawled out. I started to, then my dress snagged on a rivet, and I tumbled out headfirst, floor flying up to meet me—
Marsten grabbed me and swung me onto my feet. I regained my balance and took a deep breath of clean air.
“Well, there goes two thousand dollars,” he muttered, looking down at himself.
Both elbows of his jacket were torn, and the front of his shirt was streaked with dirt, as were his face, hands, and pretty much every exposed inch of skin. Cobwebs added gray streaks to his dark hair. His shoes were scuffed, as were his pant knees. While he surveyed the damage, he looked so mournful that I had to stifle a laugh. Well, I tried to stifle it. Kind of.
“Don’t snicker,” he said. “You’re just as bad.”
“The difference? I don’t care.”
As he brushed himself off, I looked around. We were in some kind of laboratory, with microscopes and steel tables and what looked like pots of bones in the midst of de-fleshing. At any other time, curiosity would have compelled me to take a closer look. Tonight, only one thing caught my attention: the exit door.
As I strode to it, Marsten grabbed my arm.
“You can’t go out like that,” he said.
“Oh, please. My life may be in danger. You really think I care how I look? You stay here and pretty up if you like, but I’m bolting for the nearest exit.”
His grip tightened as I tried to pull away. I yanked harder. He squeezed harder.
I glared at him. “That—”
“Hurts. Yes, I know. But you’ll hurt a lot worse if Tristan catches you. He wasn’t heading to that closet to congratulate you on a job well done, Hope. He wants me dead, and to do it safely—without risking his own life on the repercussions—he needs to clip off his loose ends. That includes you and, later, those guards.”
“Kill four people because you embarrassed him?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“What did—?”
“Whatever I did, it came after he retaliated because I turned down his job offer. But that doesn’t matter. To a man like Tristan Robard, killing four people to avenge his ego is perfectly reasonable.”