I lunged forward and smashed the claw hammer down onto Glau’s forearm. It hit with brutal force and a sound of breaking bone.
Glau let out a wild, falsetto, ululating scream, like that of some kind of primitive warrior. The hammer jerked out of my hands. I heard a whirr in the air, and ducked in time to avoid Glau returning the favor. I twisted, swinging the chain still attached to the remaining manacle along at what I estimated to be Glau’s eye level. The chain hit. He let out another shrieking cry, falling backward.
I dove for the hole and wriggled through it like a greased weasel. Crane’s gun went off again, punching a hole in the wall ten feet away. Running footsteps retreated, and metal clinked. I heard myself whimpering, and had a flashback to any number of nightmares where I could not move swiftly enough to escape the danger. Any second I expected to take a bullet, or for Glau to lay into me with the hammer or his sharklike teeth.
Rawlins grabbed my wrist and pulled me through. I got to my feet, looking around the little gravel lot wildly for the nearest cover-several stacks of old tires. I didn’t have to point at it for Rawlins to get the idea. We ran for it. Rawlins’s wounded leg almost gave out, and I slowed to help him, looking back for our pursuers.
Glau wriggled out of the hole just as we had, rose to a crouch, and threw the claw hammer. It tumbled end over end, flying as swiftly as a major-league fastball, and hit me in the ass.
A shock went through me on impact, and my balance wavered as half of my lower body went numb. I tried to clutch at Rawlins for balance, but the hand I’d distorted wasn’t strong enough to hold, and the force of the blow threw me down to the gravel. The impact tore open all the defenses I’d rallied against my body’s various pains, and for a second I could barely move, much less flee.
Glau drew a long, curved blade from his belt, something vaguely Arabic in origin. He bounded after us. It was hopeless, but Rawlins and I tried to run anyway.
There were a couple of light footsteps, a blurring figure running far too swiftly to be human, and Crane kicked my functional leg out from underneath me. I dropped. He delivered a vicious blow to Rawlins’s belly. The cop went down, too.
Crane, his face pale and furious, snarled, “I warned you to behave, wizard.” He lifted the gun and pointed it at Rawlins’s head. “You’ve just killed this man.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
A dark figure stepped out of the deep shadows behind the stacks of tires, pointed a sawed-off shotgun at Glau, and said, “Howdy.”
Glau whirled to face the newcomer, hand already lifting the knife. The interloper pulled the trigger. Thunder filled the air. The blast threw Glau to the gravel like an enormous, flopping fish.
Thomas stepped out into the wan light of a distant streetlamp, dressed all in loose black clothing, including my leather duster, which fell all the way to his ankles. His hair was ragged and wind-tossed, and his grey eyes were cold as he worked the action on the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell and levering a fresh one into the chamber. The barrel of the shotgun snapped to Crane.
Son of a bitch.
Now I knew who’d been following me around town.
“You,” Crane said in a hollow-sounding voice, staring at Thomas.
“Me,” Thomas agreed, insouciant cheer thick in his voice. “Lose the gun, Madrigal.”
Crane’s lip lifted into a sneer, but he did lower the pistol and drop it to the ground.
“Kick it over here,” Thomas said.
Crane did it, ignoring me completely. “I thought you’d be dead by; now, coz. God knows you made enemies enough within the House, much less the rest of the Court.”
“I get by,” Thomas drawled. Then he used a toe to flick the gun over to me.
Crane’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed.
I picked up the revolver and checked the cylinder. My distorted left hand functioned, weakly, but it hurt like hell, and would until I could get enough quiet and focus to get everything back into its proper place. My headache intensified to a fine, distracting agony as I bent over, but I ignored that, too. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of trauma, I will fear no concussion.
Crane’s revolver held freshly loaded rounds, all six of them. I put them back and checked on Rawlins. Between the pain of his recent injuries and the strain of our flight and recapture, the big cop did not look well.
“Isn’t bad,” he said quietly. “Just hurts. Tired.”
“Sit tight,” I told him. “We’ll get you out of here.”
He nodded and lay there, watching developments, his eyes only half aware.
I made sure he wasn’t bleeding too badly, then rose, pointed the gun at Crane, and took position between him and Rawlins.
“How’s it going, Dresden?” Thomas asked.
“Took you long enough,” I said.
Thomas grinned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. His gaze never left Crane. “Have you ever met my cousin, Madrigal Raith?”
“I knew he didn’t look like a Darby,” I said.
Thomas nodded. “Wasn’t that a movie with Janet Munro?”
“And Sean Connery.”
“Thought so,” Thomas said.
Madrigal Raith watched the exchange through narrowed eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler now, his features almost eerily fine. Or maybe now that Thomas had identified him as a White Court vampire, I could correctly interpret the warnings my instincts had shrieked at me during our first talk. There was little but contempt in Madrigal’s eyes as he stared at my brother. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself involved in, coz. I’ll not surrender this prize to you.”
“Oh, but you will,” Thomas said in his best Snidely Whiplash villain voice.
Crane’s eyes flickered with something hot and furious. “Don’t push me, little coz. I’ll make you regret it.”
Thomas’s laugh rang out, full of scorn and confidence. “You couldn’t make water run downhill. Walk away while you still can.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Madrigal replied. “Do you know what kind of money he’s worth?”
“Is it the kind that spends in hell?” Thomas asked. “Because if you keep this up, you’ll need it.”
Madrigal sneered. “You’d kill family in cold blood, Thomas? You?”
There are statues that don’t have a poker face as good as Thomas’s. “Maybe you haven’t put it together yet, Madrigal. I’m banished, remember? You aren’t family.”
Madrigal regarded Thomas for a long minute before he said, “You’re bluffing.”
Thomas looked at me, a quality of inquiry to his expression, and said, “He thinks I’m bluffing.”
“Make sure he can talk,” I said.
“Cool,” Thomas said, and shot Madrigal in the feet.
The light and thunder of the shotgun’s blast rolled away, leaving Madrigal on the ground, hissing out a thready shriek of agony. He curled up to clutch at the gory ruins of his ankles and feet. Blood a few shades too pale to be human spattered the gravel.
“Touche,” grunted Rawlins, a certain satisfaction in his tone.
It took Madrigal a while to control himself and find his voice. “You’re dead,” he whispered, pain making the words quiver and shake. “You gutless little swine. You’re dead. Uncle will kill you for this.”
My half brother smiled and worked the action of the shotgun again. “I doubt my father cares,” he replied. “He wouldn’t mind losing a nephew. Particularly not one who has been consorting with scum like House Malvora.”
“Aha,” I said quietly, putting two and two together. “Now I get it. He’s like them.”
“Like what?” Thomas asked.