He came up beside her, standing close enough that his sleeve brushed against hers. “There probably is more. If not right here, then somewhere along the trail.”
“Booby traps, you mean.”
Nodding grimly, he said, “He needs to slow me down enough that meeting him on the twenty-first is my only option. He’ll want to call the shots and set the scene.”
“Do you know what kind of a spell he’s planning on casting?”
“He can’t do magic. That’s why he needs me.” It was an answer of sorts, but she was keenly aware that he was avoiding her eyes.
Damn it. More disappointed than she should have been, she turned back to surveying the site. “If there’s a trap down there, I can’t see it.”
“I’ll keep my senses wide open.” He shrugged out of his desert-camo jacket and hooked it over her shoulders. His eyes were unreadable behind dark, frameless sunglasses. “Stay up here and watch my back.”
Until she was surrounded by his secondhand body heat, she hadn’t really realized she was cold—her jacket was fine for A-to-B-ing it in the city but not much else, which meant that the weight of his coat was a major improvement.
Not wanting to examine her sudden flush of warmth any further, she nodded. “Will do.”
As he headed down the narrow trail that led to the road, she folded back the sleeves and tried not to think that once upon a time, his simple gesture would have made her weak. Now it just made her hope they found Keban quickly, and that Dez’s secrets would turn out to be no big deal.
A few minutes later, her armband gave a faint crackle on the short-range channel. “You reading me?” He was well back in the trees down at the base of the overlook.
“I’m here.”
“I’m not sensing anyone else, and I’m not seeing or smelling anything that screams ‘booby trap.’ How’s the traffic looking?” They had agreed it would be best for them to stay out of sight. Two totaled cars with no bodies or identifiable owners would have made local law enforcement curious, if not downright twitchy.
She scanned the road. “There are two cars coming toward you from the south and a smallish box truck coming the other way. Once they’ve gone past, you’ll have a gap.”
“Ten-four.” He waited out the traffic, his shadow-dappled body so motionless that he practically disappeared into the tree line, even though she knew exactly where to look.
When the box truck had lumbered past with a gear-jamming belch and rattle, he slipped out of concealment and ghosted over to where shattered glass glittered blue-white in the sun. From there, he walked careful parallel tracks back and forth, searching.
She kept up a constant scan, watching not just the road, but also the forest and the sky, because Keban wasn’t their only potential problem. The Nightkeepers were also fighting rearguard actions against Iago and his makol, and the missing villagers raised the gruesome possibility that a Banol Kax could already have slipped through the barrier. The sum total of it all made her feel very small.
Catching movement on the horizon, she straightened. “You’ve got company coming,” she told him. “Three pickup trucks, matching paint jobs, orange bubbles. DPW, maybe? They’re not cops, but it’d be a good idea for you to make yourself scarce.”
“Ten-four.” He headed for the trees, but stopped halfway there and crouched down near a small trio of stones at the edge of the parking area. “Wait. I’m getting something. I think he—Fuck. Reese, run!”
Vapor puffed up, and he went down hard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dez!” Reese screamed. Fear and adrenaline hammered through her in a terrifying fusillade as she raced down the trail, scrambling, stumbling, moving as fast as she could and deathly afraid of what she would find at the bottom.
When she hit level ground, she clapped an arm across her mouth and breathed through the heavy jacket sleeve, hoping to filter out whatever had taken him down. He lay in a heap, motionless. Heart pounding, she dropped to her knees beside him; sharp gravel dug into her shins, but she barely felt the pain as she clamped her free hand around his wrist, right along the tattoo-covered scar.
His pulse throbbed beneath her thumb. Thank Christ. But then a strange, spicy musk filtered through her makeshift face mask, coating her throat and putting a foul taste on her tongue.
She went light-headed, and fear kicked, hard and hot—but she didn’t collapse, didn’t convulse. And after a moment, the symptoms passed, though the smell remained. Either the gas was dissipating or it was Nightkeeper-specific. Risking it, she dropped her arm and took a shallow breath. Nothing happened. But it was one thing for her to breathe the tainted air, another for him. She had to get him out of there, but how?
“Dez?” She shook him, but didn’t get a response, pulled off his sunglasses and cracked an eyelid, but didn’t see anything but rolled-back white.
The ground beneath her picked up a faint vibration, followed seconds later by an engine hum. Shit. Even if nobody connected her and Dez to last night’s accident and the untraceable Jeep, a trip to the ER would raise way too many questions. But if he’d been gassed, the ER might be the best place for him. Her throat tightened as she thought of Anna wandering the halls of Skywatch with her eyes unfocused, her mind far away.
She shook him harder, fingers digging into the heavy muscles of his upper arms. “Come on! Wake up. We’ve got to move.” The trucks were getting closer.
He stirred. Groaned.
Relief slashed through her. “Dez!”
White gleamed through cracked eyelids; his mouth worked. “Son of a . . . fuck.”
“That about covers it,” she said as the trucks rounded the corner and the first one did a wheel waggle of surprise and slowed down. There were forest service markings on the doors of all three, tools in the back of the first two and a big generator-compressor combo in the third.
“I told you to run,” Dez slurred, cracking an eye to glare at her.
“I did. Just not in the direction you meant.” She grinned at him. Logic said she should have been terrified, which she was. But suddenly, on another level she felt more alive than she had in a long, long time. Maybe she was reacting to the gas after all. Except that instead of being foggy, she suddenly felt functional.
The techno-magic armbands picked up some static of radio traffic, reminding her to strip them off. She snagged his gun, too, just as truck numero uno turned off and rolled in their direction. The other two rumbled past and accelerated away. Working quickly, she safetied her .38 and dumped it in one of the big inner pockets of Dez’s jacket, which was too warm now, making her sweat. The heavy weight of the weapon pulled the coat askew until she balanced it off with his .44 on the other side.
“Come on.” She crouched, grabbed him under one arm and around the back of his neck and helped him sit up. His body was heavy, his skin smooth and warm. “I need you to play pukingly hungover for me. Got it?”
“No problem,” he slurred. “Son of a bitch left a trip wire, and . . .” His eyes rolled again and his head lolled to rest between her breasts.
New fear spurted through her as she realized that whatever the winikin had used this time, it was hitting harder, lasting longer. Keban doesn’t want him dead, she reminded herself, just slowed down for a few days. Then again, the winikin had also spent nearly a decade in a mental hospital.
“Are you okay?” The guy who got out of the truck was in his late twenties, sandy haired and fine boned. Wearing a gray-buff uniform with black stripes at the shoulders and pockets, and with a quick, jerky way of moving, he looked like a sandpiper picking its way across a beach.
Thinking fast, she dropped into fluttery female mode and gave him a wide-eyed, you’re-my-hero look. “Oh, thank you so much for stopping!”