“I asked you a question,” Bianca said.
Her voice was sharp. I felt her anger ripple through me as I peered around the club.
“You have five seconds to tell me who the hell you are, or I’m escorting you to the front door. After I call security.”
A man’s laugh, then a voice, unfamiliar. “There’s no one here but us, Bianca.”
“Do I know you?”
“Don’t you?”
The voice grew closer, and a dash of fear seeped into her anger. I closed my eyes and circled, stopping when I felt a mental twinge that said “this way to the chaos buffet.” When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the door to the stockrooms.
“What do you want?” Bianca said.
“Uh-uh. Keep your distance, babe. Third-degree burns aren’t on my agenda.”
I slid my gun from my purse and hurried to the hall door.
HOPE: TASTE OF DEATH
I slowly turned the knob, then opened the door a crack. Light flooded out. I listened. All was silent. A peek through. Four doors, all closed. If I remembered right, the first two were for janitorial supplies and technical equipment, and the last pair for bar stock.
“One last time,” Bianca said. “What do you want?”
Her voice echoed, simultaneously heard in my head and, muffled, from down the hall. I raised my gun and took a slow step forward, testing the floor against my shoes, seeing how easily they’d squeak on the painted concrete.
“I want you to take a message to your boss,” the man said. “From Benicio Cortez.”
I broke into a jog, moving as quickly and silently as I could.
“What is it?” Bianca asked.
“Here, catch.”
I stumbled back, hit by a lash of chaos so strong it left me blinking, blinded.
I squeezed my eyes shut, brain screaming, knowing what was coming and fighting to stop-
Bianca’s face. Her horror. Reduced to pants-wetting terror as she saw the gun lift, the gunman’s finger on the trigger, and knew she couldn’t escape, couldn’t scream, wouldn’t have time. The bullet spit from the gun, near silent, hitting her square in the forehead. I heard her last thought, a mental scream of defiance. No! Not me! Not now! Then…silence.
I could see Bianca’s horror, recognize her horror, be horrified by it and yet, I felt none of it, consumed as the chaos flooded me, leaving me trembling and panting and…Oh, God. Wanting more.
The first time I’d felt someone die, that night I’d met Karl, it had been too strong, like my first shot of hard liquor, leaving me reeling, no pleasure to be taken. And I’d been relieved. So relieved. However screwed up my lust for chaos, at least I was never going to enjoy that. I’d soon realized I’d been wrong. Like liquor, it was only the first hit that stung.
As the vision dimmed, I saw a man bend over Bianca’s body. Average height, dark-haired, late thirties, Latino, with a heavy jacket and loose pants.
The gunman checked Bianca’s pulse. No chaos vibes emanated from him. With nothing to keep the vision going, it continued to fade.
The door swung open. The gunman strode into the hall and, for a second, I couldn’t move. Then the man wheeled, gaze going to mine, eyes widening in shock and I realized, with an oddly calm clarity, that I was standing twenty feet from the man who’d just shot Bianca. Chaos still buzzed through my head, numbing my reflexes. If he had lifted his gun and fired, I don’t know if there’d have been anything I could have done about it.
But he just stared at me, as if in shock himself. I felt the weight of my gun in my hand, but before I could unthinkingly lift it, I realized he had the advantage. My gun hung at my side, fingers grasping it awkwardly, my readiness thrown off by the chaos blast.
I wheeled and ran.
The door was only a few steps away, but I zagged to it rather than taking a straight path, recalling my defense lessons against spellcasts. My brain tripped ahead, laying out a memory map of the club and showing me places to hide.
Hide was what I had to do. All the exits were at least fifty feet away, and no amount of zigging and zagging would get me that far without a bullet through my back.
Escape wasn’t on my mind anyway. I had a gun, and I wasn’t letting Bianca’s killer walk away.
I slammed the door behind me. Then I ducked and ran around the bar. A flash of light told me the gunman had opened the hall door. I dropped to the floor and gripped the gun. When I closed my eyes, I could feel his vibes, not anger but anxiety, his thoughts a mental loop of “Shit, where’d she go?”
My target was in place. All I had to do was peek over the bar, raise the gun and shoot him. At the thought, my heart tripped faster, but not from excitement.
I’d never killed anyone.
I could have laughed at the thought, almost a guilty admission, like saying I’d never driven a car. In the normal world, not having killed people is a perfectly acceptable “missed life experience.” Desirable, in fact. But in the supernatural world, at least in the type of work I did, it’s a given that at some point it will come down to kill or be killed.
Karl told me once that he couldn’t remember the faces of every man he’d killed. It wasn’t that there were scores of them, but enough that they no longer stood clear in his mind. He hadn’t said it with regret, but nor had he been bragging. He was simply making a thoughtful statement during a discussion of risk and death in the supernatural world.
I could look on this the same way: kill or be killed. But was I in danger? The gunman hadn’t fired at me in the hall. Now he wasn’t putting out any vibes of anger or threat.
Could I justify leaping from behind the bar, gun blazing, taking down a stranger who hadn’t made a move on me?
Still crouching, I retreated into the shadowy corner between the bar and the wall, my back protected, gun raised. I wasn’t letting him walk out of here. He had answers, and Karl could get them from him.
While it would be nice to take the gunman down alone, I stood a better chance of success if Karl helped. I reached for my panic button, then stopped. Push it and Karl would come running-into a room with an armed killer.
I flipped open my phone and began a text message. I got as far as “bar gunman” when a rubber sole squeaked on the floor. I glanced at the glowing cell phone, shut it quickly, then scrunched back against the wall.
I was too exposed. I saw that now. I was relying on dim lighting, a shadowy corner and dark clothing, which was fine for a casual glance, but if he walked around that bar, searching, he’d see me. To get to either exit, he had to walk around the bar.
He slid into view. Less than twenty feet from me, gun up, gaze sweeping the room with every step.
Heart hammering, I readied myself. If he saw me, I’d have to-