Chapter Twenty-One

The Siren

Even after Colt’s feet disappeared from view and the smaller footsteps ascended to the ceiling above, I kept the pocket knife to my throat.

My hands were back to shaking. The blade tip pricked my skin again, but I hardly felt it.

Eventually the heat of the werewolf’s fur and the stench of his breath—like Dijon mustard mixed with blood—became overpowering. He was so close now.

I swallowed the impulse to run away. This is working. If I could save those three children by threatening my own life—which I knew they wouldn’t risk—then it was worth my freedom.

A furry claw pried my fingers from the knife’s handle. I could no longer hold on. If I’d been stronger, maybe I could’ve bought them a little more time to get away, but I could feel my own body betraying me. My knees were weak, and every limb I had was trembling.

“All right, bitch,” the werewolf growled, gripping my upper arms. “You’ve caused us enough trouble.”

As I forced myself to meet his piercing yellow pupils, I thought I saw a whole door fly through the air.

No. I hadn’t imagined anything.

The large slab of wood came flying down the steps, slamming into the two werewolves standing near the foot of the stairs. They stumbled into the brick wall and shook their heads, disoriented.

Colt barreled down the steps. Hooking his hands on a wooden beam from the ceiling, he swung himself forward, feet first, and landed on the door that lay on top of the smooshed werewolves. Using it as a diving board, he sprang off and went for the next two monsters.

Unfortunately, the other henchmen had managed to quickly recover from their shock and attacked Colt with just as much fervor. Claws and fangs against legs and fists.

But I wasn’t able to see much more of the fight.

The werewolf holding my arms picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of coffee beans, and in the next second, I found myself staring at a stained shirt pulled tight against a bulging back with layers of fur. With a grunt, I was able to lift myself up enough to reach a crate right in front of my face.

It was open.

I threaded my arm through and pulled out a bottle of bourbon—coincidentally, Marv’s favorite—and using all my strength, smashed it against the man’s head.

He dropped me and I fell to the floor with a squeak of pain.

“Eris!”

I only had enough time to roll out of the way when a great furry body crashed into the spot on the floor where I’d just been.

A hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet, and I came eye to eye with Colt.

For a moment, I considered hitting him myself. What had he been thinking coming back for me? Where were the children?

But before I could do anything, he tucked my face into his neck and pulled me down with him as gunshots went off overhead.

Not again.

Under his arm, I could see two werewolf bodies—if not dead, then unconscious—lying on the floor.

“Stay down.” Colt’s voice was gruff and labored and when he moved away from me, I could feel something warm and sticky on my shoulder. My fingers came away red.

He was bleeding.

Again.

I prayed it wasn’t the same wound reopened.

Struggling to my feet in a blatant disregard for his orders, I took in the scene. Two werewolves were on the ground and the one I’d smashed with a whiskey bottle leaned heavily against the stack of crates, groaning and blinking, trying to not pass out.

Colt hid behind a pyramid of barrels as gunshots went off right and left. The two werewolves that had been pinned to the wall by the door had freed themselves and now had revolvers, burning powder. A few shots hit the barrels and dark liquid frothed, bubbled, and poured out onto the floor in big splashes. More bullets hit wine bottles and crates, spraying glass, liquid, and flecks of wood into the air. One shot hit a lightbulb and glass and sparks exploded, throwing the cellar into a world of shadows and flashes of light off flints.

I bit my bottom lip and glanced around. How could we get out of here in the midst of all this deadly chaos?

Another stray bullet found a barrel and it trembled and shook, brown, foul-smelling liquid pouring onto the floor. The whiskey just flowed, gallons and gallons lost… And then an idea hit me.

Praying to God I wouldn’t catch lead, I dove from my hiding place toward Colt’s, which was still behind the pyramid of whiskey barrels. He looked at me questioningly as I pressed my palms against the barrels. The next second, he caught on, and then the next, we were both pushing. Pushing as hard as we could.

One after the other, the six barrels rolled forward. Without waiting to see the damage of over two thousand pounds of whiskey against the remaining wolves, Colt seized my hand, and we climbed the cellar steps. He swerved us to the left and we ran down the dark hall to the door at the end.

“The kids went this way,” Colt panted as we ran.

The kids knew how to get out thanks to Raymond Harold Fitzpatrick. And because of me, Ray was dead.

The guilt made me cringe with physical pain, but Colt held me upright, supporting me as we burst through the door into a small storage closet.

It was as Ray had described, but Colt clearly hadn’t been expecting a closet. He fumbled and slammed into the side of the wall. Pushing away left a smear of red on beige. I couldn’t tell exactly where he was bleeding, only that the wound wasn’t shallow.

I extracted myself from his side and ran my hands along the opposite wall and down the base boards. Feeling something loose, I kicked at it with the toe of my shoe and the hidden door creaked open. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Colt threw his weight against the door and we burst into a dark office space.

The room was fairly large, double the size of the Dragon—or maybe it just felt that way because of the sparse furniture. Laid out on the thin, rough carpet were eight desks lined in four rows, by two columns. Rolling chairs were tucked into each one with filing cabinets towering next to them. There were typewriters and in-and-out cubbies with papers and pens. The lamps on the desks were all dark.

Except one.

At one of the middle desks was a woman leaning against the wooden edge, her silhouette illuminated by the light of that one gold lamp. At her feet were three small figures, and in her hand…was a revolver.

Sniffling came from their dark shadows and I praised God the children were alive. For now.

The woman was blonde with a lavender flapper dress. It was the woman from the cellar. The one who had poured the drink down my throat. Except the only difference now was that there was a third eye in the center of her forehead. Blue and unblinking.

She turned to us, her blue eyes a dark cobalt in the gloom. “Took you long enough.”

Colt stepped forward. “Millie, let them go.”

The cyclops girl raised her hands, the gun’s trigger guard looping around her thumb so the revolver hung loose and dangling.

Colt and I remained where we were, unsure. Was this a trick?

In five quick steps, she crossed to us and flipped over the gun in her palm, holding the muzzle in her hand and extending the grip to where Colt could easily seize it and point it at her.

“Take it. You have maybe two minutes before the rest come.”

“The rest?” Colt asked, taking the revolver.

“Of course. Gin always has more,” the flapper said calmly. Her gaze was far-off and her third eye stared straight ahead at nothing. It was unnerving. “The werewolves and minotaurs are on their way. I stopped the children because they’d never make it out of the city alone with a horde of monsters combing the streets. But you can lead them to safety. There’s a boat. A dingy with a ferryman by the wharf. If you can get there he can take you up the lake to a church. The monsters won’t be able to follow you.”

“Why are you helping us?” Colt asked just as calmly, though my own heart was beating a mile a minute.

“Because you now owe me a favor.”

“A favor? Not likely. How can we even trust you?”

“Why would I lie about this? I could use my eye to communicate to Gin telepathically right now and tell her where you are and it would be all over, but I’m giving you an out.”

“But why?”

“Because I want an out.”

“You want to come with us?” I asked.

“No, I want you to shoot me. With that gun.” She pointed to the revolver in Colt’s hand.

I lifted my fingers to my mouth as horror washed over me.

“No,” Colt said.

“Do it, or I will call them all here now.”

“You can just come with us—”

“No! That won’t stop the pain.” It was the first time her voice broke. Her calm exterior fell away as a crazed look entered her eyes. She reached trembling hands into her curls, tugging at their roots. “My head…hurts all the time. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.” She dropped to the floor. “I can’t stand Gin’s voice in my head. And I can hear her all the time. What she thinks about. What blood tastes like. There are others that I can hear, each thought and desire louder than the last. It’s like a constant foghorn in my head. Like a train whistle. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

She continued to mutter and shake and rock back and forth as if the clasp on her sanity had finally snapped.

Colt’s jaw tightened. “Eris, go take the kids outside. Don’t wait for me. Keep walking.”

I was reminded of the time I’d found a sick kitten in the alley and took it to Dr. Boursaw. He was a veterinarian. He could help her. But instead, he told me that it had contracted an infection and it was too far gone. It kept mewing and mewing in pain. In the end, he stuck a needle into the kitten and it went quiet.

I cried for a week afterward.

“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop,” she whispered over and over again.

Colt leveled the gun at the girl hunched over the office floor, moaning and trembling.

With numb legs, I ankled over to the children and guided them up with gentle hands. I ushered them outside through the front door of the telegraph company.

We got ten steps when the sound of a gun pierced the still night air, and a howl quickly followed.