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“I see you,” the thing with the explosives said from across the basement. “And I’m coming for you,lesser.”
“My n-n-name is Evan,” he called out. “I don’t know you—”
His free hand went down to the keypad, and against everything that made any sense, he punched in a seven-digit code. Or maybe it was eight? He didn’t know. Immediately, there was a hiss as a vapor lock released, and he found himself gripping a cool, vertical rod and leaning back with a sharp pull.
The vault-like portal was oval shaped, and it revealed a well-lit metal-walled corridor. Without missing a beat, he jumped over the lip, spun back around, and yanked the heavy weight behind him. The instant it was in place, there was a click and a whirring sound.
Tumblers falling into place.
He was breathing so hard he was wheezing, and as he contemplated a tunnel that seemed a mile long, he didn’t understand how he hadknown it was here and had gotten access. The autopilot had saved his life, however.
It would take a ballistic missile to get through that portal.
With a shaking hand, he touched the burnished silver wall. Then he knocked on it with his knuckles. Steel? Who made an underground tunnel out of—
His feet pulled another turn-and-burn, pivoting his body around and falling into a jog. As his arms started to pump and his strides became more sure, he wondered where the hell he was going—although clearly whatever was taking over had his survival in mind.
What was alesser? he wondered.
And what about this speed? He hadn’t had it last night when he’d been bolting around the city in the dark. Because he’d never been athletic.
So this running, as the tunnel continued on ahead of him, shouldn’t have been a thing. Yet he had no soreness in his muscles, and his heart rate and breathing slowed down as his fear lessened. It was like he had an engine inside of his body, and one that was a car, not an electric bicycle, his thighs and calves, his respiratory system, more machine than human.
And what was weird was that the harder he went, the stronger he felt—until he was sprinting, his heavy snow boots pounding down onto the steel floor, the impacts a thunder echoing around and reminding him of that freak snowstorm with the lightning.
Back when all this had started.
What thehellwas alesser… and who was his enemy?
He was still wondering all that when the end of the subterranean pedway finally presented itself. He must have run a mile or more and he could have gone a hundred more—he was breathing like he was sitting on a couch, and as for sweating? What sweat.
The awareness of his newfound strength was a kind of intoxicant, and he was so distracted by cataloguing his capabilities that he barely noticed as his forefinger square-danced with another keypad and another oval door was released from its locking mechanism.
Pushing things open, he peered out into…
A basement apartment, it looked like. And a shitty one at that.
Worn furniture and dust in the corners. Trash scattered everywhere. A dripping faucet in a kitchen sink that had probably been white, but was currently stained with mineral deposits and God only knew what else.
He was cautious as he stepped out. There were a couple of doors, one of which was open to reveal a closet with a splatter stain on the back wall and another showing a slice of a bedroom that had a dirty mattress on the floor and tapestries hanging in shreds from the ceiling.
Someone was in there.
He knew this not because he heard them moving around, but because there was a radar ping to the recognition, a like-to-like registry that was akin to seeing a reflection in a mirror:Oh, it’s me.
There was no following up on whoever it was.
Evan’s body turned to one of the doors and marched him over to it. As his hand reached out, he had a thought that he needed to close the tunnel entrance—but a quick glance back showed that it had shut and relocked itself, and talk about camouflage. There was a pretend crappy door tacked onto the front of the portal so it looked like it was just another part of what clearly was a stage set.
Turning his attention back to the knob he was gripping—
“Come on, we’re late.”
A woman strode out of the bedroom with all the command of a military sergeant. Short and built like a powerlifter, she had braids tight to her head, no earrings in spite of having holes that went up both lobes, and a switchblade in her hand. There were other munitions on her body, strapped and holstered on, but as she drew on a black duster coat, they were fully covered.
She stopped. “Where are your weapons and your clothes?”
He looked down at himself—and realized that all he had on were jeans and boots. Why hadn’t he been cold? And as for weapons, Mickey’d never let him have any.
