I hurried to their door, pointed up, toward the still-ringing alarm, then at the stairwell. I picked a few words from my meager vocabulary—ones like partir and mal and maintenant, having never had cause to learn the French term for “bomb threat,” surprisingly. When they figured it out and headed for the stairs, I “closed” the door behind them, making sure it didn’t shut all the way.

I bustled them into the stairwell, then pretended I’d forgotten something and waved them on ahead. Now to slip back inside their room. Leave the chain off and hide so when someone checked, the room would appear to be empty, as would mine, meaning they’d give the all-clear for the floor, then I could figure out—

“Hey!” a voice called behind me.

I turned to see a guy in a cop uniform coming through the stairwell door.

“Are you twelve-oh-four?”

“Je ne parle pas anglais.”

He swore. “Twelve-ten, huh. Okay, just . . .” He pointed at the stairwell, then raised his voice, as if I’d understand English if it was louder. “You need to leave now! Go! Downstairs!”

I considered my options. I could circle around the next floor and slip back into 1210—

He noticed the door ajar and pulled it shut. Then he looked at me and waved emphatically, shooing me away.

I feigned confusion, jabbering in a mix of French and nonsense words. Then I motioned for him to show me the way out. A few flashes of my big blue eyes and my best helpless look did the trick. He sighed, but radioed down that he needed to help the “French girl.”

Outwitting my foes by having a human cop escort me from the building. My ego might never recover. In a way, though, I was pleased with myself. It was a sensible and mature choice.

So we descended twelve stories through an empty stairwell. I stayed close, in case anyone swung out of a doorway behind me. No one did.

At the bottom, he tried to wave me out, but I feigned more confusion until he escorted me through the lobby to the front doors, where more cops were ushering stragglers into the mob gathered outside.

As I moved into the heart of the crowd, I got a few dirty looks and sniffs from the housecoat- and pajama-clad hotel guests. One woman said, “It’s a bomb threat, honey, you aren’t supposed to get dressed and do your makeup first.”

“Not everyone wears”—I surveyed her cotton pj’s—“those to bed.” I shuddered and glanced at her husband. “My condolences.”

People ignored me after that, as I’d hoped. I continued through the mob until I was deep in the middle of it, then lowered myself to the pavement beside a couple of teens who’d brought their pillows with them and had already drifted back to sleep.

I kept my eye out. No one seemed to be searching the crowd, and I began to wonder if I’d overreacted. My pursuers were probably staking out train stations, bus terminals, and car rental places, and this was exactly what it seemed—an actual bomb threat with actual bombs.

Once the building was completely evacuated, hotel staff came out with the bullhorns and announced that it was highly unlikely anyone would get back into the building that night. Buses were arriving to transport people to other hotels. Those who wanted to wait would not be readmitted to retrieve their belongings until the building was cleared.

Having left nothing in my room, I was free to go. The safest course of action, though, seemed to be to climb on one of those buses. When they arrived, I wedged myself into the thick of the crowd, and took an aisle seat beside a big guy so I couldn’t be seen through the window.

When we reached our destination, I again jostled with the crowd, fighting to get off, so I’d be surrounded by others as I disembarked. I let the mob carry me into the hotel, then slipped out the back door.

From the loading dock, I called Rhys. His answering service told me he was unavailable. He’d call when he could.

I looked around. It was four in the morning. This loading dock seemed as good a place as any to hang out for an hour or two. A little too open, though. I’d be better in an enclosed space where I could watch the door.

I poked around the dock and the valet parking lot until I found a door. I tried the handle. Locked, but it seemed a simple enough one to pick. I found a paper clip that did the job nicely.

The door led into a storage room no bigger than my bedroom, and contained nothing more valuable than empty cardboard boxes. I stepped through and—

A blow to the back of my head knocked me to the floor. I tried to scramble up, but another sent me down for good.

twenty-one

Cold fingers slapped my cheek. When I snarled, they slapped me again, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, and I jolted awake to find myself staring at Sierra. Severin stood at the door.

“Nice choice,” she said, waving to the room. “I was thinking you seemed ready to sit down in that big, open parking lot, and that really wasn’t suitable at all.” She bent in front of me. “You aren’t nearly as good at hiding as you think. Not enough practice at it, I think. Normally, you can rely on your spells but . . . they aren’t quite up to snuff these days, are they? And it isn’t the poison.”

I tried to hide my reaction, but her laugh told me I failed. She glanced at her brother.

“Yeah, yeah,” Severin said. “I owe you a hundred bucks.”

She turned back to me. “See, we’d heard that rumor from a source. But you know demons. Notoriously unreliable. Which is why we weren’t taking any chances.”

“If you’re waiting for my friends to show up, you’ll be waiting a long time,” I said. “I figured you’d let me escape so I could lure them in. So I haven’t contacted them.”

“Maybe not, but you have contacted someone.” She waggled my cell phone. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask who. Not interested. We know where your pals are—holed up under maximum Cabal security in Miami.”

“Right, which is why you are trying to lure them out.”

She bent again. “Got it all figured out, haven’t you? You think Giles and his bunch let you go in hopes your friends would send help, preferably a werewolf or Hope Adams.” She straightened and turned to Severin. “Good plan, huh? Kinda genius in an underhanded way.”

“Which is why you can be damned sure Giles never thought of it,” Severin said.

They both laughed. I thought back to my escape. Who’d tied me up? Severin. Who’d locked the door? Severin. Who’d stopped for gas and not bothered to check on me? Severin.