Angus turned to the corridor and the darkness that eventually swallowed it.
“They were right here a minute ago,” the sorcerer said.
“Damn it,” Francis snarled.
“Should we go back for them?” Angus asked.
The building trembled violently again, helping to shake loose his decision.
“No,” the former Guardian answered. “We’ve got to reach Chandler if we don’t want this all going to shit,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “That Squire is one tough puke. I don’t think he’ll have any problems holding his own.”
Francis pushed open the door, and they found themselves in a stairwell untouched by hungry shadows.
“Isn’t this nice?” Francis commented, already moving toward the stairs that would take them higher. “Too bad we couldn’t hang for a bit. Have some lunch; maybe take a nap.”
“I would love a nap right about now,” Angus said.
“You and me both, but we’ve got some shit going on up above that’s going to need our attention.”
On the next level they found another door, and another stairway that led up into a wall of solid shadow.
“Something tells me I don’t want to go to the next floor,” Francis said.
Angus had already pulled open the door, holding it for his companion.
“After you,” the sorcerer said.
“I would think you were being nice if it wasn’t for the fact that there could be some shadow beast just inside, waiting to eat my ass.”
“You wound me, sir,” Angus said, as Francis passed through.
“Looks pretty clear,” he said.
The office space was obviously a prime location, the walls of one entire side of the expanse covered in floor-to-ceiling windows. Francis found himself drawn to them, curious as to what might be happening outside the building.
“Holy crap,” the angel assassin gasped.
The streets below them were filled with chaos, crowds of people surging away across the expanse of plaza. He could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, as well as some that may have had a connection to the military.
A tendril of darkness flowed down from above, past the window, slithering to the streets below.
“What the fuck was that?” Francis asked, pressing his face against the cold glass to see what was happening directly below.
“The same thing that’s happening in here,” Angus answered. “The shadow realm is flowing into this world. By coming back here, Deacon must’ve somehow punctured a hole between realities.”
“And that’s bad because…,” Francis urged.
“That’s bad because the shadow realm could easily continue to flow into this one, eventually breaking down all barriers and flooding this world with total darkness.”
Francis watched through the window as more and more streams of slithering black rolled down the front of the skyscraper to the streets below.
“We’ve got to plug that hole,” he said finally.
“Is that all?” Angus answered.
Francis couldn’t stand to see anymore, leaving the window to find the next set of stairs that would take them closer to where they needed to be.
Just another thing added to his to-do list.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Squire didn’t care to be shot again; he was funny like that. His shoulder already hurt like hell, and now his upper thigh felt like shit.
The hobgoblin surged up onto his stubby legs, ignoring the pain, running to where he saw a particularly inviting patch of shadow.
“Where are you going?” the tattooed man asked, firing his weapon wildly.
How many fucking bullets does this guy have? Squire asked himself as he dove, his injured body hitting the pool of darkness, the substance of darkness swallowing him whole.
He emerged on the other side of this particular path. It looked as though he was in some kind of warehouse, the smell of the ocean close by making the hairs in his pronounced nose tingle. It had been a long time since he’d smelled a living ocean.
Squire crawled from the passage, using the moment of calm to check out his wound. The tattooed man’s bullet had hit him in the meaty part of his leg, but it looked as though it had passed through. He was lucky; if it had hit bone, he would have been a sitting duck. He would heal, but it would take a little time.
His attacker surged up from the pool of black.
“Bet you didn’t think I could follow you,” he said, aiming his weapon as Squire scrambled to his feet. “But it seems I’ve developed a knack.”
He got off one shot, and then the gun clicked once, twice, three times on an empty chamber.
About fucking time.
“Huh. Outta bullets,” the pale assassin said as he tossed the gun aside and pulled a nasty-looking hunting knife from his side. “Guess we’re gonna have to do this up close and personal…which is fine by me.”
Squire had lost his golf bag along the way, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. His eyes scanned the warehouse, and he sniffed at the air, getting past the salty goodness of the thriving ocean. What he was looking for…what he needed wasn’t to be found here.
He would have to take this conflict elsewhere.
“Up close and personal is good,” Squire said, limping on the injured leg, making it seem as though Paleface might actually have the upper hand. “Why don’t you start without me, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
The goblin was running again, eyes scanning the various shadows, searching out one that could give him what he needed, a nice, ripe patch, one with real potential.
The tattooed man was running full tilt, knife by his side.
“I can follow you wherever you go,” he growled. “And as soon as you get tired…oh man, the fun will start.”
The guy was a complete asshole, and Squire couldn’t wait until his piehole was shut for good, but he was gonna need to be very careful and play this just right, or he’d wind up with the shitty end of the stick.
The stink of a ripe passage was close by, and Squire stopped momentarily to tilt his head back. Down an aisle of shelves, behind a wooden crate spray-painted with the words MACHINE PARTS, he found what he’d been searching for.
“You mean the fun hasn’t started already?” Squire called out. “Thought we’d reached our full fun potential when I cut off your hand. Don’t know if my poor old constitution can take anymore.”
He dove at the shadow, waiting for the cold, enveloping sensation as he entered the passage to another place but feeling only the viselike grip close around his ankle.
Squire thudded to the floor of the warehouse with a grunt, the shadow path just beyond his reach. He flipped over to see that the tattooed man was on his belly, holding on to him with his one good hand.
“Look at that,” the pale man growled. “You made me drop my knife.”
Squire struggled to squirm free, but the man’s hold on him was ferocious.
“Guess I’m just gonna have to use my teeth,” the tattooed man said, smiling like a great white, beginning to drag his weightier bulk up Squire’s body.
Squire lashed out, bringing one of his legs up and kicking the pale man squarely in the face. He felt the sensation of something breaking through the sole of his boot.
“You fucking monkey,” the tattooed man groaned, letting go of Squire to clutch at his own broken face. He picked at some loose pieces of white skin, revealing what looked like some sort of wet stone beneath.
“Wonder how long I can keep you alive,” the pale man growled, then lunged for Squire.
Squire did a tumble, rolling away into the embrace of a shadow passage. He felt himself falling, then landed unceremoniously on something soft and rubbery.
The killer landed atop him with a grunt, and Squire took full advantage of the fact that his adversary was stunned by the landing. The goblin dug his stubby fingers into the man’s face and pulled wet chunks away.
The tattooed man screamed like a banshee, arms flailing wildly. There was a glint of something in the dark, and Squire realized that his foe had managed to find his knife again. Reaching down to the floor of their confined space, Squire grabbed at something-anything-that he could use to block the blade.