He did not want to burn. He really, really, did not want to burn.
So get it right.
That was Benedict’s voice, Benedict’s words, the sort of thing he’d said often enough when Rule trained under him. Rule found himself nodding, agreeing with that laconic inner voice.
He pulled himself higher, not thinking anymore. This was the body’s job, not the brain’s. The moment the arc looked right he stopped, shifted his grip to position himself—and flung himself out.
His right arm whipped out, reaching for that pale rectangle. The ball of his right foot struck the metal track with jarring force, but his knee flexed, absorbing the impact, as he shot his arm through that opening—and even as his weight tried to pull him away, his forearm slammed onto the other side of the door. He clung there, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Damn. He’d made it.
Not done yet. Move.
He pulled his foot through first, then his body. The doors were completely inert, not sliding back as they should have, so it was a tight squeeze. By the time he emerged he’d noticed two things.
The smoke was much less here, and seemed to be coming mostly from the elevator shaft. And it was way too quiet. The hall that led to Cullen’s room was dark, probably too dark for human eyes—there was enough smoke to keep light from the single window from penetrating far—but he could make out two crumpled forms on the floor.
There were voices, people calling out in fear, but they were few—and they all came from the far west end of the hall. The east side, where Cullen’s room lay, was totally quiet.
“Help me,” said a male voice. “Help me. She won’t wake up. None of them will wake up.”
The voice came from behind the nurses’ station, which looked empty. When Rule moved closer, he saw over the high counter. A dark-skinned man knelt beside a woman who was sprawled on the floor. Another woman was sitting, slumped forward onto the counter.
“They’re still breathing?” he asked.
The man nodded, his eyes round with fear. “But they won’t wake up. Mr. Peterson in 330, he’s on a ventilator. The power’s out. I don’t know what to do, and they won’t wake up!”
How long had it been since the lights went out? Maybe five minutes, Rule thought. It felt like much longer, but Rule had been in enough crisis and combat situations to know how time stretched. “Can you ventilate your patient by hand?”
“I change the damned sheets! I don’t know how to do that other shit. I came here to get someone, but they’re all asleep!” His eyes were damp. He was ready to cry, scared out of his wits—but desperate to get help for the helpless.
A good man? Or a killer bent over the woman he’d just put to sleep?
Rule took a breath. He’d decided the sorcerer wasn’t using his illusions for some reason. He’d proceed on that assumption, which meant he was looking for a short Asian man, not a gangly African American. “I don’t know how to do that shit, either.”
“Then what do we do? What do we do, man?”
Whatever had knocked everyone out, it wasn’t gas. With the air-conditioning out, gas would have still been present. Rule might throw off the effects of such a gas much faster than a human, but it would still affect him. At the least, he’d be woozy. And he wasn’t.
A sleep spell, then, but not like any he’d heard of. Cullen’s sleep spell was delivered through touch, not broadcast like a bomb.
Cullen. Rule had to assume that he, Cynna, and Max had been knocked out. They’d be helpless, if they weren’t already dead.
Rule quivered with the need to move. He held himself still a moment longer. Action without information was too often disaster.
Vision was limited by darkness. Smell was hindered by smoke. He focused on hearing.
Silence. No air-conditioning, no monitors beeping, no voices from that dark hallway. He might already be too late. If—
Footsteps. Soft, barely audible—but he heard footsteps in the east hall. Someone walking, not running. Someone in athletic shoes or the rubber-soled shoes nurses often used . . . so it might be a nurse moving almost silently through the dark.
He didn’t think so. He looked at the orderly, still kneeling beside the fallen nurse, and held a finger to his lips. The man’s eyes widened even more. He couldn’t have guessed why Rule wanted quiet, but he gulped and nodded.
Rule gave him a quick nod and set off at a run.
A few paces down the hall he leaped over the first huddled form—and nearly landed on a second one, missing more by luck than skill. Could one of them be Cynna? Had she made it back to the room before the sleep spell hit, or was she collapsed along here?
He dodged a laundry cart—and the red EXIT sign over the stairs came on. Maybe the tech was coming back. Once the level of magic decreased, it usually did.
That glow made a difference. He could see the alcove that held Cullen’s room now—and the man who emerged from it. Short. Dark hair. It was too dim still to make out his features, but he wore scrubs.
The light was enough for a human, too, apparently. The man saw him and took off running.
Rule kicked it up to full speed. He reached the alcove—snarled in frustration—and skidded into a turn. He had to catch the enemy. He also had to see. Had to check on the others.
The door to Cullen’s room was still closed. A white plastic grocery sack sat in front of it, ghostly in the dark. Rule slid to a stop. The sack was knotted at the top. It bulged.
The enemy had left it here. His eyes couldn’t tell him what it held. Maybe his nose could. He bent. Froze. Snatched up the sack and took off like death itself was nipping at his heels.
He tried to run smoothly, keeping the impact down—but felt every footfall thud up through his frame, vibrating the package he held. Time collapsed instead of stretching. He hit the nurses’ station a blink or two after grabbing the package—vaulted over the counter, ignoring the orderly, and leaped onto the cabinets lined up along the wall.
Crouched high on those cabinets, he drew back his cocked left arm and smashed his elbow through the window. A sweep of his forearm sliced his skin as it cleared out the remaining shards.
He looked out. Parking lot. Yes. Thank you, Lady.
Rule hurled the plastic-wrapped bundle straight out as hard as he could.
It exploded in midair.
TWENTY-SIX
THE enchiladas were as spicy as ever, the air-conditioning just as frigid, but after a couple bites, Lily hardly noticed.
She tried to level with T.J., like she’d planned. She couldn’t. The damned treaty had her saying something vague about a pair of bad guys she was after, both of them with magic, one of them a hit man.
T.J. knew she was holding out on him. He looked wary and disappointed. “You’re not telling me much.”
“I . . . can’t. But your case is clearly connected to what I’m working on. We both want to find out who had it in for the Xings—or for one of them. I figure it’s better if the brothers don’t know we’re collaborating. You going to talk to big brother today?”
“I’m planning on it. Give him a friendly ride to the morgue, see if he can ID little brother.”
“Okay. When it seems like a good moment to shake him up, tell him I . . . You have to say this right. Tell him I am concerned for his health because I believe my grandmother’s enemy killed his brother.”