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FIVE
We crept down the hall. There were two doors at the end. The left one headed to the interrogation room; the right to the main office.
I cracked open the door on the right and listened. A week ago, I'd have been ashamed of myself for being so cautious, called myself a frightened little witch mouse. A week without powers has taught me that the only reason not to take that extra second was ego.
When we heard nothing, I eased open the door and went through first.
Everything was silent and still. I turned to give Jaime the all clear. Then I stopped.
Silent and still. In a police station that's just been ravaged by a werewolf.
"What's up?" Jaime whispered.
I lifted a finger to my lips and pivoted, straining to hear.
Jaime tapped my shoulder and I jumped.
"Let's just go," she whispered.
She was right. If losing my powers had made me careful, it had also nudged me to the edge of paranoia. A werewolf had just rampaged through an isolated police station where I'd only seen four officers, including Medina and Holland. The other two must be long gone. Or dead. Judging by the blood on the werewolf, I suspected option two. That would explain the silence.
We passed a quad of cubicles. Something crunched underfoot and I looked down to see a broken pencil. Pens were scattered off to my left. Papers blanketed the floor around the desks. Crimson blood dotted the pages. Only drops, though. Someone wounded and getting the hell out, scattering office supplies in his wake.
I took another step and heard the slam of a car door. I pictured a survivor sitting in the parking lot, gun drawn, waiting for someone--or something--to come out those front doors.
I turned back to Jaime.
"We should look for a side exit," I whispered.
She nodded. In front was the reception area. To our right, another door hung partially open. As we headed for it, I noticed more blood streaked on the linoleum. Still wet. From the werewolf, I presumed. I steered around it and ke
pt going.
More blood ahead. Lots more. Smeared in front of the partly open door. Lines ran through it. Drag marks. Was the werewolf the only thing responsible for those blood trails? I wasn't sure enough to go through that door.
"Other way?" Jaime whispered behind me.
I nodded. As we crept back in the direction we'd come, I kept glancing back at the blood smears by the door. What if someone was in there, wounded?
I shook it off. As I'd said, I was done playing hero. While I was sure that Paige-and-Lucas-fostered self-sacrificing side of me would erupt again, it wasn't popping out while we had a dead werewolf in the back room. We had to escape. This was Medina's mess. Let her deal with it. Or let the Pack do it--after we got to safety.
"Hello?" a man's voice called from the reception area. "Is someone here?"
Jaime stopped and looked back at me.
"I want to file an accident report," he called. "Hello?"
I motioned for Jaime to follow and we backed up to a block of filing cabinets. As I tugged her behind them, I caught a flash of something across the room. Jaime gasped. I wheeled.
There was nothing there.
Jaime had her eyes half closed and was taking deep breaths.
"What'd you see?" I asked.
"Just a ghost. Some kind of--" Another deep breath. "A residual, I think. It startled me. Sorry."
A residual was a spectral image, usually the replay of a gruesome death, meaning Jaime had every right to look like she was five seconds from puking. But why had I caught a flicker of it?
