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I grabbed the phone and thumbed it on. "Kind of busy right now!" I said, before the novelty of my cell phone actually working dawned on me. "Who is this?"
"Moses," came the breathless reply. "We've got Shane. Heading for the truck. Claire and Eve are pinned down on the main stairs. Go get them."
I was about to confirm all that when I heard the draug start shrieking. I wasn't prepared for it; the noise went through me like an arrow through the head, and I almost dropped the phone, but I managed to hang it up and get it back in my pocket. I didn't know what had happened to hurt them that badly, but even though the screaming hurt, it made me savagely happy, too.
It would damn sure keep them busy.
I raced back over the catwalk that led through the safe pool, and broke the lock on a door to the inside of the building. There were more pools in here, just a couple, with more catwalks, and I saw that one of the pools was a thrashing, shrieking mess of silver and black that, even as I watched, quieted into stillness.
There were open canisters of silver nitrate discarded nearby. And blood. Lots of fresh human blood.
Shane's.
The blood trail went off to the left, but I plunged straight ahead, for the stairs that went up a floor into the main lobby. I caught sight of the truck outside the doors, and figures moving around it-Hannah's distinctive form was standing guard, so they were all safe, for now.
I ran upstairs, toward the smell of burned gunpowder, rot, and fear.
I met Claire and Eve coming down. Claire was supporting Eve; she seemed to be limping and cursing a lot. Claire still had her shotgun, but Eve's hands were empty. Unarmed.
I didn't think, I just took Eve in my arms and lifted her. The scent and warmth of her wrapped around me, and she leaned her head wearily against my chest. "Hannah found him," she said. "Shane's okay. He's alive."
I kissed her forehead. "I know. You're safe now." She wasn't bleeding, which was a relief; the limping must have been from a twisted ankle. Tenderness flowed through me, relaxing muscles I hadn't even known were tense; her fingers crept around my neck, and even though she didn't lift her lips to mine, she didn't flinch. "I swear, you're safe, Eve."
"They had us," Claire told me. "The draug had us cornered. But they ran."
"Yeah. Looks like Hannah threw a bomb in their party pool," I said.
"Shane-"
"I know, she's got him. You were right. He's okay." I knew, but didn't say, that he'd lost a lot of blood; she could probably figure that out on her own. The important thing was that Shane had come out of this alive.
We all had, as far as I could tell.
Win.
Claire took a deep breath, racked her shotgun like a professional, and said, "I've got your back. You just take care of her."
I escorted her, or she escorted me and Eve, to the truck. I opened the back to find Shane sitting in the cushy throne chair, covered in painful draug stings, his whole body seeping blood all over the upholstery. He looked paper-pale and shaky, but he raised his hand and said, "Hey, bro."
"Hey," I said. It was all I could manage. I realized, looking at him, that we'd been maybe a minute or two away from all this being utterly useless. He couldn't have held out much longer.
It scared me.
Richard and Monica were standing, though Monica looked mutinous; her expensive shoes were broken, and her dress was smeared with blood. She glared at me as if daring me to make some kind of comment.
"Thanks," I said to her, and I meant it. "Both of you."
Richard nodded. Monica frowned, as if she'd never had anyone thank her before and didn't know exactly how to handle it. That seemed likely.
Claire shoved past me, jumped in, and headed straight for Shane. He put his arms around her when she hugged him, but there was something odd in his face, something ... tentative. As if he wasn't sure all this was real. If she was real.
No time to sort it out. I slammed the back door and jumped in the front with Eve and Hannah, and we got the hell out.
Fast.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CLAIRE
The entire ride back to Founder's Square, Claire kept telling herself that Shane was all right. His skin was slick with blood from the bites, and he was pale and weak, but he was alive. And anything else could be fixed. Had to be fixed.
It had been only twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, that he'd been in the draug's power. Michael had survived a whole lot longer than that, and he was just fine.
He's going to be all right.
But the way he was holding her felt ... strange. Tentative. It was more than the weakness.
"Hey," she said to him, resting her head against his chest. His heart was beating fast, but it sounded strong and regular. "What happened in there?"
"Where?" he asked. He was with her, but he sounded ... empty. Or at least, very far away.
"Where you were." Still are.
"I'm fine," he said, which didn't answer her question at all. "You smell like gunpowder."
"New perfume," she said, straight-faced. "Do you like it?"
"Edgy," he said, which was almost his old self, but phoned in, again, from a long way off.
"Shane-"
"I can't," he said, very softly. "I can't talk about it right now, okay? Just-leave it."
She didn't want to, because the look in his eyes, the way he was holding her ... It made her anxious all over again. It felt, somehow, as if they hadn't found him, or at least not in time. As if part of him was still trapped.
She just curled closer to him, willing him to be all right, and said nothing else all the way back. His body was there, solid and living, but there was something else that just wasn't there, and when she looked up into his eyes, she didn't see ... didn't see Shane. Not completely.
"He okay?" Of all things, it was Monica asking that question, crouched awkwardly on her broken heels with her brother standing silently behind her. She looked as if she was actually, momentarily, interested. "I mean, Jesus, that's a lot of blood."
"He's okay," Claire answered, when Shane didn't. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't unconscious; he was holding on to her tightly and shivering. "Just-he needs to heal, that's all." Her voice shook when she said it, and Monica shot her a swift, mercilessly piercing look. There was blood in her hair, Shane's blood, drying in a stiffened patch.
"News flash, preschool, nobody's okay right now, and most of us didn't have that happen." She stood up suddenly, her expression hardening, and tugged at her dress. "I came back here to get help, not to get dragged off to rescue your lame, limp ass, Collins. So you could be a little grateful."
Shane slowly raised one hand, and ... flipped her off. It was weak, but it was so very him that Claire almost cried.
Monica almost smiled. Almost. "Yeah," she said. "That's what I thought. Truce over, ass**le. Next time I see you bleeding on the side of the road, I back up and run you over again."
"Monica," Richard said, in a tone that said he'd had enough. More than enough. She shut up and pressed herself against the wall of the armored truck as it bumped and shuddered along. "Claire, is he still bleeding?"
"Some," she said. She could feel the slow trickle of it soaking through her clothes. "But not as bad." That might have been wishful thinking, which was the only kind of thinking she could do right now. "Thank you. If you hadn't come with us ..." I'd be dead. And Eve. And Shane. Maybe Michael, too, because he'd have tried to get us all back.
Richard nodded, not refusing the thanks but not making a big deal out of it, either; he just let it roll off him without really registering. "He's strong, Claire," he said. "He held on. That means a lot."
"I never should have left him," she said. "Oh God, this is my fault, my fault." She started crying, heavy, aching tears that pushed up from the core of her body. They tasted as salty as Shane's blood when she kissed his cheek and buried her face in the hollow of his neck.
She felt Richard's gentle touch on her back. "Sometimes things just happen," he said. "It's not right. It's not fair. But it's nobody's fault, Claire. So don't do that. Don't take it all on yourself. I promise you, it's the last thing he wants you to do."
She nodded, but she didn't really feel it.
"About my sister," he said. "She was a sweet kid, you know. When she was little. Used to come home crying every day in first grade. Everybody hated her, because her dad was the mayor. So by second grade, she gave it right back. She started fighting back when nobody was coming at her."
