Page 65 of Waifs And Strays
I jumped onto the windowsill and peered out: yes, it appeared quite a distance from this angle but I knew I could make it. I could feel the power bunching in my muscles as I calculated the trajectory. It would be fine.
‘What are you doing?’ the woman repeated in a high voice.
‘Two minutes,’ Thane told her. ‘Then we’ll be gone.’ As I eyed the leap he added in an undertone, ‘Be careful in there, Kit. I’m starting to like you. Don’t get yourself killed.’
I wasn’t planning to. I chirruped once then, because the longer I delayed the harder it would be, I jumped out of the window.
I sailed confidently across the two-metre gap and it was only when the open window was within touching distance that I realised there was a problem: the Umbra window had been propped ajar and there was only a gap of around four inches between the sash and the sill. I was about to smack into the glass and probably tumble down to the street below.
I twisted, intending to adjust my angle in mid-air, but I miscalculated. With my legs and tail flailing, I almost missed the window completely; only my front paws managed to make it and curl around the narrow windowsill, while the remainder of my body dangled. I was forced to dig my claws into the old wood and cling on for dear life. It was all rather embarrassing.
The woman in the office wasn’t any calmer now that I’d left the building. From my clumsy, precarious position, I heard her shriek at Thane, ‘What have you done? This is animal cruelty!’
Under any other circumstances, I’d have laughed but I had my paws full trying not to fall. My body writhed and I feltmyself slipping. That wouldn’t do. I sucked in air and scrabbled upwards. I was a cat. I could manage this.
My progress seemed painfully slow even though it was only seconds before I hauled my furry body up through the gap beneath the window. Thane was trying to hush the woman, clearly concerned that somebody from Umbra would hear her and investigate, but I wasn’t worried. The room I’d squeezed into was empty and the door was closed, so it was unlikely anyone inside would hear the shouts over the commotion the werewolves were making outside.
I shook out my fur and sniffed. I should have managed that jump better but at least I was inside and safe – for the time being. Unfortunately, though, now I knew why the window had been left open: it was because of the vile stench of faeces and urine coming from a tin bucket in the corner. Next to the bucket, attached to the wall, were a chain and a pair of handcuffs. Somebody had been held prisoner inside this room – and judging from the silver bound into the handcuffs it had been a werewolf.
My near-fall forgotten, I skittered towards the chains and bucket, claws scratching on the old wooden floor. If Nick had been held here, where was he now?
I avoided the bucket – I already knew what was in there – and I sniffed delicately at the handcuffs and the chain, trying to separate the different scents. My stomach tightened when I registered the familiar teenage smell. Nick had been tied up here.
I took several steps backwards and then I noticed the blood. There wasn’t a lot of it but there was a distinct trail of drops and small splashes leading from the corner where I was to the closed door. There were also a few faint scuff marks that suggested he’d been dragged. Nick had been here, his blood had doubtless been harvested and he’d been hauled away. Hisabsence meant that either he was dead or his captors had removed him to a safer place when MacTire and his unmerry band of werewolves had shown up at the door.
I prayed for the second option; the drops of blood were still wet enough to suggest it could be true.
With no reason to linger, I padded to the closed door. Its lever door handle rather than twisting knob meant I could open it without transforming back into human form. I jumped up and pushed it down with both my front paws. The door swung open and I slunk out.
At least this time there was a clear trail to follow. My nose twitched and I caught a glimpse of the next blood splash. I turned right down the hallway in soft, silent pursuit.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
At first sight the house seemed deserted and that troubled me. What if Umbra were running a bluff and had scattered the wolfsbane to make it appear as if they were inside when they’d actually taken Nick and made their escape? That would have been the smart move – depressingly smart.
I slipped through the corridors and empty rooms, searching desperately for any sign of life. There was nothing on the second floor apart from a small spider furiously spinning a web in one high corner.
When I reached the first floor, I was greeted by the same emptiness and my anxiety ratcheted up still further. It was only when I reached the ground floor that I finally – and thankfully – heard voices from behind a closed door.
‘How long till the witches get here?’
‘MacTire will want the best, so that means the Wicker Witches. They’re based at the other end of Coldstream. It’s one of the reasons why Brassick chose this place. The earliest the Wickers will get here will be forty minutes, and it’ll take themanother two hours at least to dismantle the magic that’s binding the wolfsbane to the ground. We’ve got plenty of time.’
My eyes narrowed. Both voices were male and both sounded calm; I didn’t hear even a quiver of anxiety about the lupine forces massing outside. It was as I’d expected: Umbra, whoever they were, had planned this. They weren’t afraid – and that meant they must have an escape route or they were as happy to die as Quack’s killer had been.
‘Will there be time to draw all the blood we need?’
My claws extended of their own volition.
‘Absolutely. Don’t worry about it. The demon will be ours soon.’ There was a pause followed by a satisfied sigh. ‘And when we have it, Coldstream will fall under our control. Victor’s sacrifice won’t have been in vain – we’ll make him proud. By Thursday evening we’ll be toasting his name with the finest whisky this city has to offer while every werewolf, witch and ogre bows down before us.’
They were delusional; these wankers believed they could control whatever damned demon they conjured up. And if Victor was the assassin who’d killed Quack, yes, they were clearly prepared to die for their cause. They must have had fish paste for brains.
‘What about the Church of the Masked God? They must suspect something by now. They know we want a demon.’
‘They can suspect all they like. We’ve been advertising our solstice event for days and everyone who shows up in Crackendon Square will be food for our demon. If any Masked God devotees or deacons appear, they’ll meet the same fate. It’s time we showed them what power really looks like. Coldstream needs a single, unifying leader if we’re going to get rid of those fuzzy-headed faith dealers. They think they own the hearts and minds of this community but our demon will eat the hearts andwe’ll take control of the minds. Thursday is D-Day, my friend. We’re going to change the world.’
