Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) by Elise Stokes Page A

onslaught of bullets that lay waste to the museum and the precious works of art adorning its walls.
    As I jetted into the next exhibit, the gunfire ceased. Mr. Phillips had likely emptied the weapon’s magazine. I tore around the corner to the balcony where I remembered the stairs were located and came to a screeching halt.
    Before me stood a hooded figure that appeared as equally startled as I was. Around five foot eleven, the man wore a Grim Reaper’s black cape, his face hidden deep beneath the hood. I say a man , but his snake-ish scent told me otherwise. He was definitely not human.
    Wary, we each took a slow step away from one another. Cold seemed to emanate from him, as if he were the walking dead. As he took another sliding step, something yellow flickered from the hood and disappeared back into the folds of fabric.
    Was that a tongue? I wondered, feeling a growl rumble deep in my throat.
    A bullet whizzed between us, sending us our separate ways. Mr. Phillips had reloaded and was coming after me. The hooded figure went over the rail of the balcony in a fluid movement as if he were flying.
    I ran for the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue, tucking my face to my shoulder. There was no time to mess with stairs. The glass shattered around me as I plunged through the window and fell to the sidewalk, landing in a catlike crouch. Car tires squealed as drivers slammed on their brakes, and shards of glass rained around me, erupting into particles against the cement.
    I lurched to my feet and ran blindly down the street with a belly full of bullets.

 
    Nine
    Failed Mission
     
     
     
     
    A police car screamed past me as I veered off Fifth Avenue and into an alley. Sirens came from every direction on their way to the museum. I ran until I was sure no one was pursuing me and slid into the shadows of a doorway to assess the damage. A small cry of panic tore from my throat when I saw the ravaged costume, spotted with blood. I had been shot so many times, it was a miracle I hadn’t been cut in half.
    “No, no, no, no,” I chanted, worming a trembling finger into a bullet hole. Due to the hardness of my skin, I couldn’t feel anything through my numbed fingertips, so I ripped away the costume and lifted the black tank underneath, exposing my stomach, which was peppered with bullets. They reminded me of corks lodged in wine bottles. Small amounts of blood burbled up around the bullets, as if they plugged a dam.
    Tears of relief smarted my eyes. This was one of those rare occasions when I was grateful to be a mutant.
    “It’s going to be okay. These can be removed. I’ll heal.” I dried my eyes with my forearm and suddenly realized I couldn’t hear Emery in the earpiece, nor the background noise of the coffeehouse. We had somehow lost our phone connection. I retrieved my phone and punched the speed dial.
    “Are you all right?” Emery answered. The sounds of sirens, the museum’s alarm, talking, shouting, and a police officer on a megaphone flowed through the receiver along with his voice. “Cassidy,” he said again when I didn’t answer.
    “I don’t know what to do.” I wiped back a sudden flood of tears with the tattered sleeve of my mummy costume. “My head’s scrambled. I can’t think straight.”
    “Do you know where you are?”
    “Yeah.” I glanced around. “No. I’m not sure. It’s weird that I can’t feel any pain. I should feel pain.”
    “Cassidy, listen carefully,” Emery said slowly and calmly, which meant he wasn’t calm at all. “You’re only four blocks from Riley’s office—”
    “How do you know—” I began to ask, then remembered GPS. I struck my forehead with my palm in an attempt to clear the haze.
    “You’ll be fine,” Emery soothed. “I’ll take care of you. Please concentrate.”
    He explained how to get to the back of Riley’s building through alleys, avoiding the main streets. I would have known this if I could think