Chapter Twenty-Four

Ky jogged up countless flights of stairs, pausing to catch his breath a few stories up. Their office was located beneath the Underground. Being winded was a new weakness, the product of weeks of malnutrition and the recent blood loss. Yet, he pushed himself to move faster. The elevator was an option, but the thought of dying in a metal box nixed that.

He stretched his hand toward the exit but paused to listen for hearteats. His rental car would be a short walk once outside. Three. Two focused and unmoving. One moving. Did they possess the concentration of assassins?

Damn it, he was so muddled, he couldn’t tell. Normally, he just knew their intents. He could push through and shoot his way out if necessary, but that risked rupturing the vials in the bag. Bad idea.

Going on his gut, he backed away from the door and wound through a maze of hallways toward a different exit. He’d find the exit into an Underground station and surface from there. Risky to have the relics near humans when some had acute sixth-sense instincts that might make them panic. There was also the chance he might run into a nonhuman. But there, in the crowd, was less chance an assassin would try to target him.

He tamped down his aura so as not to scare humans and emerged into the swarm of five o’clockers rushing home on a Thursday. Instinct pressed him to flinch left. A bullet struck the wall, shattering tile near his ear. Suppressed fire. No humans seemed to have picked up what happened, though a couple looked around at the sound of the bullet’s impact.

Whoever wanted him dead didn’t care about humans. Not good.

As he dodged behind a swarm of people and ducked low to ride a down escalator, he tried to deduce who was behind the shooting. Who would go to such lengths to eliminate him?

Slate was the clear leading contender, not that he’d be doing any dirty work himself. Alternatively, the shooter could be someone who wanted the magical items. Perhaps the same someone who stole the Curmsun Disc. No one should know what was in the bag unless someone put monitoring cameras in the depository.

That last made the most sense.

What if it was Slate on both counts—who wanted him dead and wanted the relics?

Shit.

He intoned a protective spell and slipped the duffel to ride against his chest, hugging it tight to his body with one arm. Too bad he wasn’t as talented as Roman at spell casting, which meant magic worked only marginally for him. It wasn’t his strength, but he needed to use anything and everything in his arsenal to protect this bag.

With his free hand, he palmed the handgun in his jacket pocket, not that he could pull it on the stairs. The ensuing panic would be hell.

Most of the items in the bag wouldn’t do well with being shot. They had protective containers, but those were huge and heavy. He needed stealth now, so he’d left them behind, gambling that one lone lycan who appeared human thanks to full glamour wouldn’t draw too much attention.

As Ky stepped off the escalator, he sensed the pfft of a bullet. Since he was surrounded by humans, if he moved out of its way, the two behind him were at risk. He shifted his weight to the right and dropped the bag several inches to ensure the bullet hit his shoulder, the one opposite his previous strike.

Fuck. That hurt.

Direct into his shooting arm. Questionable if he could use it now to target efficiently.

People screamed. Panic ensued. But no human had been hit, which was good.

A stampede of wild people rushed toward a cluster of stores. Allowing the crowd to carry him along was easy. Bullets struck the wall in front and behind him as the shooter got sloppy out of desperation. More human screams insulted his ears. He didn’t smell human blood. Whoever shot was good enough to hit only him. Very good.

He ducked behind a flower cart with a solid bottom in front of a store. If he relinquished the bag, he could kill all the shooters using his non-injured hand. He couldn’t sling the bag over the injured shoulder. Okay, he could, but the pain would distract him.

After a slow inhale, he isolated the shooter…no, shooters. Four of them.

If he dropped the bag, someone else might grab it. That might be what they hoped. Far safer if he didn’t release his grip. He needed to protect the contents from bullets with his body.

A bullet headed his way. He ducked in time to dodge it as it tore through flowers.

Head needed to be in the game.

His mind wouldn’t focus. Too much worrying about losing Vivi, protecting the relics, and insecurity over escape routes. He could die here. But the relics…

He removed a handgun from his jacket. He could do this and protect the bag. Couldn’t he?

When had he ever second-guessed himself? Never.

He picked up on the bullet one second too late as it tore into his right forearm, his dominant shooting arm.

He was going to die.