Spellbound (21 page)

 

 

Two minutes later, I was inside the service center, hiding in a fast-food line as I peered out the window and watched Severin. He filled the tanks. He paid. He got back in. He drove off, without ever realizing I'd escaped.

Now I had to get out of here. For that I needed cash.

Being dinner hour, the travel center was packed full of tired, hungry travelers. The thing about being tired and hungry? You're focused on getting through the lines, getting a burger, and getting back on the road. You put one of your kids or your coat at an empty table to reserve it.

I snagged a jacket from a table, and yanked it on to cover my bloodied wrists. Then I stole a purse someone left on a chair while she went to grab napkins.

I'd feel bad about the purse. Later. For now, it contained cash and it had a cell phone. I took both and left the purse in a bathroom stall. Then I called a cab.

My plan was to call Paige on the cell. But as I got into the cab, I realized the obvious: Freedom had come altogether too easily.

They'd let me escape.

Or had they?

I wasn't sure, but if they
had
let me escape, the reason would be obvious. They wanted me to lead them to the others.

I couldn't call Paige or Lucas. Probably shouldn't call anyone who might be even peripherally on their captive list. Or their hit list. But I did need to warn Elena and Hope.

I dialed a number.

“Prevail Aluminum Siding,” a voice chirped. “How may I direct your call?”

“Is Mr. Prevail in today?” I asked. “He's doing a quote for my condo, and I gave him the wrong measurements.”

“May I ask who's calling?”

“Tell him it's the nasty girl.”

“I'll put you right through.”

Code words are cool. I keep telling Paige we really need to use them at the agency. She fails to see the value. Or the sheer awesomeness factor.

I was calling Rhys Vaughan—Hope's boss. One of them, that is. She has her job at the tabloid, and she occasionally helps out with the council, but in the last couple of years, she's shifted her extracurricular focus from the council to Rhys's organization. As a chaos demon, she needs more of the dark stuff than the council can provide.

Rhys is a mercenary. He doesn't like the word. I don't see why. For me, it's right up there with secret codes. I think his problem is that the term conjures up images of hardened killers who will do anything for a price. Rhys's supernaturals are guns—and spies—for hire, but only for the right cause. You can hire him to assassinate a Cabal goon on your tail; you can't hire him to assassinate your boss to free up the position.

Rhys was a clairvoyant. Just like that baby the group had its sights on . . . a baby who just happened to be his grandchild. His disabled teenage son impregnated another clairvoyant, who died before giving birth. He got custody of his son. The Nasts got the dead woman.

For years, rumors had been floating around that the Nasts had kept the woman—Adele Morrissey—on life support until she had her child. I'd asked Sean about it once. He'd given me an answer that I'd taken to mean the rumor wasn't true, but thinking back, he hadn't actually said that. As honest as we tried to be with each other, there were Cabal secrets I couldn't expect him to share.

It took a while for me to be connected to Rhys. Long enough for the cab ride to end. I was walking along a downtown street, looking for anyone following, when Rhys finally came on the line.

“Hello?” His tone was cautious.

“Hey, it's me.”

A pause.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question, Savannah?”

“Actually, I'm kind of pressed for time here—”

“What was the name of the first pet you had as a child?”

“Um, never had a pet. What's with the security quest—?” I stopped. “Hope called when I went missing, so you could put out feelers. And now someone's calling from a strange number claiming to be me. It is me, Rhys. I escaped, and I have a feeling I got away too easily, which is why I'm using this stolen cell phone to call you instead of Paige and Lucas. My mother's maiden name is Levine. My first school was Hill's Park. My—”

“Okay, okay. And for the record, those are lousy security questions because they're based on publicly accessible information. Now, look around, as if you're trying to find a street name, and make a note of every person you see.”

“Already did that. The most likely suspect is a guy in his twenties reading lamppost flyers advertising band gigs from last summer.”

“Okay, stop looking at him. Are there restaurants or coffee shops nearby?”

“Yep. I'm in downtown Kingston. Small city in Indiana, though I've never heard of it.”

“I'll look it up. Now hang up and find the busiest restaurant on the block. Go in and get a table surrounded by people. Sit facing the door. Then call me back. If the cell phone dies, use a pay phone and call my answering service collect.”

I did as he asked.

 

 

“Okay,” he said when I called back. “You need cash. I'm going to wire you some.”

“I don't have any ID—”

“I know a way around that.” Of course he did. He gave me instructions. “First thing you buy is a prepaid cell phone. Dump the stolen phone down a toilet. Then go here.” He rattled off the name of a hotel and an alias. “The room is already reserved and fully covered. Once you're in there, stay there.” He paused. “I take it your spells haven't come back?”

That startled me for a second, until I realized that Adam would have told everyone as soon as they realized I was gone.

“They haven't,” I said.

“And I suppose these people know that.”

“Actually, they don't. I hinted that my spells were on the fritz after I was poisoned, but that's all.”

“Good. It'll make them less likely to confront you in a hotel room. They'll wait for you to come out. But you're not going to come out. You're going to buy food and drink before you arrive, hole up, and watch movies until I get there. That won't be until morning, so you'll have to stay awake. Stock up on coffee and cola. Also, visit a pharmacy. You're probably exhausted. You'll need caffeine pills.”

“Can I talk now?”

A pause, as if he really wasn't sure why that was necessary.

“It's about the group. The ones who took me hostage. They—”

“We can discuss all that later. For now—”

“They think Adele Morrissey's child is alive. In fact, they're sure of it, and they're planning to get him.”

That made him shut up and listen.

I
managed to get out the main parts of my message—protect Hope, protect the twins—before the line went dead. I headed to the restroom and flushed the cell. Then I left.

I got the money. Got a new cell phone. Made my tails. There were two of them—the flyer guy and a young couple that appeared when I left the restaurant.

Didn't take me long to lose them. I knew the basics and Rhys had given me extra tips. By the time I got my new phone, they were gone. To be sure they stayed gone, I went shopping. Bought a hoodie, new shoes, and khakis. Then I trashed my clothes, in case they'd planted tracking devices. To avoid supernatural methods of detection, like clairvoyance, I stayed away from signs that would reveal my location. A lot harder to do that in a hotel, where everything seems to be branded, but I tried.

I'd picked up some food and the caffeine pills, but I really didn't think I'd need them. I was wired. Yet after I'd eaten and laid on the bed for a couple of hours, my body and brain started begging for a break, and I almost drifted off. So I popped pills and I found a loud action movie, and I set my bedside alarm clock for fifteen minutes, resetting it every time it rang, just in case I drifted off.

When the fire alarm went off at two A.M., I thought it was the movie. Even when I realized it was real, I dismissed it. I'd had alarms go off at hotels before, to the point where I just stayed in my room and waited to smell smoke. Well, I did if Paige wasn't with me—you could sound an alarm five times in one night and she'd still insist we clear out for each one.

I didn't think anything more of it until I looked out the window and saw police cars and an unmarked van that might as well have had BOMB SQUAD plastered on the side. Then I realized this was a trap.

I'd locked myself in a hotel room. I wasn't coming out. Wasn't even ordering room service. As Rhys said, if my pursuers thought my spells worked, they wouldn't want to confront me here where tight quarters gave me a tactical advantage.

They needed me out. What better way to get me out than a bomb scare.

Like I was falling for—

An explosion. Someone outside the building screamed so loud I heard it on the top floor. I cracked open my window as a second blast hit, blowing out windows I couldn't see. More screaming—both in the parking lot and the halls.

Okay, not a bomb scare. Actual bombs were involved.

The blasts were small and localized. If it was me, that's what I'd do—plant small ones to convince everyone there was a real danger.

A key card whooshed in my lock. I backed into the bathroom. The door swung open and hit the chain.

A man swore. Then, “Hello? Ma'am? We are evacuating the building. You need to come out now.”

I didn't answer.

“Ma'am, this is a serious threat. There are bombs on the premises.”

A radio clicked. The man said, “I've got a chained door on twelve. Get someone up here right now. Room twelve-oh-four.”

A woman's voice on the other end told him to continue searching for more sleeping guests.

Made it all sound so easy . . . which was why I was certain it was a trap.

When he'd gone, I crept to the door and peered through the keyhole. No sign of anyone. As I cracked open my door, the man pounded on another farther down.

“Sir? Ma'am? You need to leave the building now.”

Muffled voices replied in a language I didn't recognize. The man swore and radioed it down, asking what were the chances of getting an interpreter.

If it was a setup, it was an elaborate one. Still, that didn't mean my pursuers weren't waiting right around the corner.

I opened the balcony door. Slipped out, being careful to stay out of sight of anyone watching from below. Looked down. Looked up. Went back inside.

Balconies can be useful escape routes, if climbing down wouldn't leave you exposed to a growing mob below. And if climbing up wouldn't put you on the roof of a building possibly rigged with explosives.

I stuffed the money from Rhys in my pockets, and eased open the hall door. The guy checking the rooms was gone. Down the corridor, a middle-aged couple leaned out their door, trying to figure out what was going on, chattering in what I now realized was French. I knew some French. Well, very little—just what I'd picked up from shopping trips to Paris—but that gave me an idea.

I hurried to their door, pointed up, toward the still-ringing alarm, then at the stairwell. I picked a few words from my meager vocabulary—ones like
partir
and
mal
and
maintenant
, having never had cause to learn the French term for “bomb threat,” surprisingly. When they figured it out and headed for the stairs, I “closed” the door behind them, making sure it didn't shut all the way.

I bustled them into the stairwell, then pretended I'd forgotten something and waved them on ahead. Now to slip back inside their room. Leave the chain off and hide so when someone checked, the room would appear to be empty, as would mine, meaning they'd give the all-clear for the floor, then I could figure out—

“Hey!” a voice called behind me.

I turned to see a guy in a cop uniform coming through the stairwell door.

“Are you twelve-oh-four?”

“
Je ne parle pas anglais.
”

He swore. “Twelve-ten, huh. Okay, just . . .” He pointed at the stairwell, then raised his voice, as if I'd understand English if it was louder. “You need to leave now! Go! Downstairs!”

I considered my options. I could circle around the next floor and slip back into 1210—

He noticed the door ajar and pulled it shut. Then he looked at me and waved emphatically, shooing me away.

I feigned confusion, jabbering in a mix of French and nonsense words. Then I motioned for him to show me the way out. A few flashes of my big blue eyes and my best helpless look did the trick. He sighed, but radioed down that he needed to help the “French girl.”

Outwitting my foes by having a human cop escort me from the building. My ego might never recover. In a way, though, I was pleased with myself. It was a sensible and mature choice.

So we descended twelve stories through an empty stairwell. I stayed close, in case anyone swung out of a doorway behind me. No one did.

At the bottom, he tried to wave me out, but I feigned more confusion until he escorted me through the lobby to the front doors, where more cops were ushering stragglers into the mob gathered outside.

As I moved into the heart of the crowd, I got a few dirty looks and sniffs from the housecoat- and pajama-clad hotel guests. One woman said, “It's a bomb threat, honey, you aren't supposed to get dressed and do your makeup first.”

“Not everyone wears”—I surveyed her cotton pj's—“those to bed.” I shuddered and glanced at her husband. “My condolences.”

People ignored me after that, as I'd hoped. I continued through the mob until I was deep in the middle of it, then lowered myself to the pavement beside a couple of teens who'd brought their pillows with them and had already drifted back to sleep.