niche out for herself. And how she’s managed to keep it. Jean nods and disappears down the hall, banging on doors.
“One of your ‘hidden homeless’?”
Gabriela nods. “Sort of the unofficial spokesperson for the rest. She used to be somebody, I guess.” She heads to the door. I draw the Browning from the holster at the small of my back, start to follow her out to the hallway. She freezes halfway through the door.
“Fire escape,” she yells. I don’t even bother looking, just turn and pop off a couple of rounds. Glass shatters, I hear a scream and clanging of metal as whoever I hit rolls down the stairs.
We dive low out of the room. I take up position at the doorjamb, ready to shoot. She ducks behind me. Return fire punches through the plaster walls over our heads. She’s got her eyes closed tight, deep in concentration. A moment later they pop open and she swears.
“You all right?”
“I’ve got wards on every door, window and fire escape for this building. If someone comes near I know it. And they just walked right through them like they didn’t exist,” she says. “None of my alarms tripped.”
More bullets blast through the open doorway. We’re going to have to get past it to get to the stairs or the elevator at the end of the hall. Some of Gabriela’s emaciated vampires stand at the end of the hallway, unsure what to do. I don’t blame them. I’m not entirely sure what to do, either.
“Kettleman,” I say. “The guy the Russian skinned the other night was Harvey Kettleman.” Every spell has a counterspell and a mage like Kettleman would know his shit well enough to take her wards down. So even if the Russian didn’t know how to deal with Gabriela’s magic before he sure as hell does now.
“Would have been good to know that before,” she says.
“Would it have helped?”
“No, but this gives me something to bitch about besides my own arrogance.”
There’s a sound of breaking glass from inside the office as someone brushes what’s left of it out of the window frame. Shoes crunch as the invaders start to step through.
I shove the Browning through the open door and fire blind. Screams. Bodies hit the floor. I pull my hand back in time to avoid the return volley.
“Any idea if they’ve come up through other rooms?” I ask.
“Not if they can just waltz through my fucking alarms,” she says. “Goddammit. This is going to take me weeks to clean up.” She digs into the pocket of her jeans, pulls out a red glass marble.
“Might want to cover your ears.” She reaches past me, flicks the marble through the open door with her thumb, turns away with her eyes closed, slams her hands over her ears.
I do the same as well as I can. I’ve got a gun in my hand and I’m sure as hell not going to drop it. A second later there’s a quiet pop and I think, well, that’s not so bad.
And then the whole office explodes. Glass and wood, bits of paper and insulation, chunks of bone, muscle, skin all blast through the open doorway, pepper the opposite wall. There’s no flame, no heat. Just an immense pressure that pulps everything in the office, blowing out the windows. I start to move and she grabs my hand, hard, yanking me backward.
Good thing, too. The show’s not over. The air, full of plaster dust and vaporized blood, pulls back into the office with a sound like a jet engine. Debris sucks back in, pulls the oxygen from the hallway. I can feel the pressure tugging at my clothes, my lungs straining.
An earsplitting shriek, a flash of bright blue and the walls of the office bow in. And then silence. Except for the high pitched ringing in my ears.
“Is it over?” I yell. I can barely hear my own voice. I haven’t been this deaf since I saw a Danzig show in the nineties.
“Yes,” she yells back.
“Tell me my hearing’s coming back.”
She pulls pieces of some kind of woody root from her pocket, hands one to me, pops the other in her mouth. “Chew this. You’ll be
“One of your ‘hidden homeless’?”
Gabriela nods. “Sort of the unofficial spokesperson for the rest. She used to be somebody, I guess.” She heads to the door. I draw the Browning from the holster at the small of my back, start to follow her out to the hallway. She freezes halfway through the door.
“Fire escape,” she yells. I don’t even bother looking, just turn and pop off a couple of rounds. Glass shatters, I hear a scream and clanging of metal as whoever I hit rolls down the stairs.
We dive low out of the room. I take up position at the doorjamb, ready to shoot. She ducks behind me. Return fire punches through the plaster walls over our heads. She’s got her eyes closed tight, deep in concentration. A moment later they pop open and she swears.
“You all right?”
“I’ve got wards on every door, window and fire escape for this building. If someone comes near I know it. And they just walked right through them like they didn’t exist,” she says. “None of my alarms tripped.”
More bullets blast through the open doorway. We’re going to have to get past it to get to the stairs or the elevator at the end of the hall. Some of Gabriela’s emaciated vampires stand at the end of the hallway, unsure what to do. I don’t blame them. I’m not entirely sure what to do, either.
“Kettleman,” I say. “The guy the Russian skinned the other night was Harvey Kettleman.” Every spell has a counterspell and a mage like Kettleman would know his shit well enough to take her wards down. So even if the Russian didn’t know how to deal with Gabriela’s magic before he sure as hell does now.
“Would have been good to know that before,” she says.
“Would it have helped?”
“No, but this gives me something to bitch about besides my own arrogance.”
There’s a sound of breaking glass from inside the office as someone brushes what’s left of it out of the window frame. Shoes crunch as the invaders start to step through.
I shove the Browning through the open door and fire blind. Screams. Bodies hit the floor. I pull my hand back in time to avoid the return volley.
“Any idea if they’ve come up through other rooms?” I ask.
“Not if they can just waltz through my fucking alarms,” she says. “Goddammit. This is going to take me weeks to clean up.” She digs into the pocket of her jeans, pulls out a red glass marble.
“Might want to cover your ears.” She reaches past me, flicks the marble through the open door with her thumb, turns away with her eyes closed, slams her hands over her ears.
I do the same as well as I can. I’ve got a gun in my hand and I’m sure as hell not going to drop it. A second later there’s a quiet pop and I think, well, that’s not so bad.
And then the whole office explodes. Glass and wood, bits of paper and insulation, chunks of bone, muscle, skin all blast through the open doorway, pepper the opposite wall. There’s no flame, no heat. Just an immense pressure that pulps everything in the office, blowing out the windows. I start to move and she grabs my hand, hard, yanking me backward.
Good thing, too. The show’s not over. The air, full of plaster dust and vaporized blood, pulls back into the office with a sound like a jet engine. Debris sucks back in, pulls the oxygen from the hallway. I can feel the pressure tugging at my clothes, my lungs straining.
An earsplitting shriek, a flash of bright blue and the walls of the office bow in. And then silence. Except for the high pitched ringing in my ears.
“Is it over?” I yell. I can barely hear my own voice. I haven’t been this deaf since I saw a Danzig show in the nineties.
“Yes,” she yells back.
“Tell me my hearing’s coming back.”
She pulls pieces of some kind of woody root from her pocket, hands one to me, pops the other in her mouth. “Chew this. You’ll be
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