shook his head, in case the waving hadn’t been understood.
When I grabbed the edge of the vent, he threw me one last glare, then cleared his throat.
“You do work for the Cortezes, I presume,” he said to the guard, his voice loud in the small room.
The guard said nothing.
I gauged the distance between us, then pulled my legs forward, moving into a crouch.
“I’ve heard the Cabals frown on this,” Marsten continued. “Employees taking outside jobs. Yes, I know, you’re working for a Cabal AVP, so one could argue it’s not truly moonlighting, but I suspect Mr. Cortez wouldn’t be so quick to see the distinction.”
I braced myself on the edge of the opening.
Marsten continued. “An AVP using Cabal resources for a personal vendetta? I’ll wager Mr. Cortez would like to know about that, and would richly reward—”
I jumped. Marsten leaped to the side, out of the range of the gun. I hit the guard in the back. An oomph, and he fell forward. Marsten snatched the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off-guard, and I scrambled for it but was too late, and my hand knocked it flying. The gun ricocheted onto the desk, and tumbled down behind it.
Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The guard flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard’s body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”
The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten’s brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.
“You’re sure?” I said. “He looks—”
“He’s fine.” Marsten kneeled beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. “Though I do hate to waste these on him.” Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. “Since you did such a good job tying this earlier . . . ”
We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the knob, but Marsten yanked me back.
“I was going to look first,” I said.
“You don’t need to. I can hear them.” He looked around. “You take the vent.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. “Go headfirst this time, and you’ll be able to squeeze through.”
“After you,” I said.
“No time. Just—”
“After you.”
He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself, then, with a soft growl, hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft, and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.
“It’s very narrow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can—”
“Try,” I said, and gave him a shove.
He wriggled through, then reached back between his legs, and helped haul me up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, scrunched down on my hands and knees, and followed him.
Chapter 8
I n the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go all, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as the museum.
We crept along, shoulders whacking the sides with every few steps. The sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as they scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.
Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust, as it coated my tongue. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?
I
When I grabbed the edge of the vent, he threw me one last glare, then cleared his throat.
“You do work for the Cortezes, I presume,” he said to the guard, his voice loud in the small room.
The guard said nothing.
I gauged the distance between us, then pulled my legs forward, moving into a crouch.
“I’ve heard the Cabals frown on this,” Marsten continued. “Employees taking outside jobs. Yes, I know, you’re working for a Cabal AVP, so one could argue it’s not truly moonlighting, but I suspect Mr. Cortez wouldn’t be so quick to see the distinction.”
I braced myself on the edge of the opening.
Marsten continued. “An AVP using Cabal resources for a personal vendetta? I’ll wager Mr. Cortez would like to know about that, and would richly reward—”
I jumped. Marsten leaped to the side, out of the range of the gun. I hit the guard in the back. An oomph, and he fell forward. Marsten snatched the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off-guard, and I scrambled for it but was too late, and my hand knocked it flying. The gun ricocheted onto the desk, and tumbled down behind it.
Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The guard flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard’s body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”
The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten’s brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.
“You’re sure?” I said. “He looks—”
“He’s fine.” Marsten kneeled beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. “Though I do hate to waste these on him.” Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. “Since you did such a good job tying this earlier . . . ”
We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the knob, but Marsten yanked me back.
“I was going to look first,” I said.
“You don’t need to. I can hear them.” He looked around. “You take the vent.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. “Go headfirst this time, and you’ll be able to squeeze through.”
“After you,” I said.
“No time. Just—”
“After you.”
He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself, then, with a soft growl, hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft, and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.
“It’s very narrow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can—”
“Try,” I said, and gave him a shove.
He wriggled through, then reached back between his legs, and helped haul me up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, scrunched down on my hands and knees, and followed him.
Chapter 8
I n the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go all, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as the museum.
We crept along, shoulders whacking the sides with every few steps. The sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as they scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.
Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust, as it coated my tongue. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?
I
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