Game of Cages

No. They knew I was out here. And even if they weren’t going to chase me, they were probably watching from the windows. It’s what I would have done.

I really wished I’d killed that tattooed bastard.

I jogged along the base of the slope, watching the treetops for any trace of the reddish light I’d seen the floating storm give off. The ground was covered with moss, fallen branches, and a few scattered ferns. I made a lot of noise, but it was better than pushing through brambles. After a few minutes, my head had cleared. There was still no sign of the creature.

Predator, I reminded myself. That old man had summoned a predator out of the Empty Spaces. And the Twenty Palace Society existed to kill people like him.

I had bought into that mission. Not an hour ago, I had wondered if I could bring myself to kill again. Now I had a list.

I thought about the people caught up in this mess: Regina and her staff, the Fellows, the old man and his dangerous little crew, and the well-dressed Chinese gunmen. The society was just another gang after the same prize, and Catherine and I were the only ones here to represent. Maybe that should have bothered me, but it didn’t. I had bought in. I knew what predators could do, and I was ready to do whatever it took to destroy them.

And God! This was what I’d missed since Hammer Bay. I’d thought it had been the excitement and the danger, but it was really this feeling. I had a clear purpose. I had important work. I would do whatever I had to do to stop these people.

But no. That wasn’t true. If I’d done to Ursula what Annalise would have done—if I’d killed her—I wouldn’t have been trapped in the basement and I wouldn’t have fought Tattoo. Hell, the old man wouldn’t have summoned the floating storm. That maid’s death was partly my fault. Annalise was ruthless but she wouldn’t have gotten herself into this situation. It was something to think about.

The wind had picked up, and my wet pants and sleeves were leaching body heat. I wished I’d kept my jacket. I moved forward, scrambling over uneven ground and fallen wood, hoping I was headed toward the long asphalt drive.

I came across a trail of footprints in the mud and stopped. Was someone out here hunting me? I couldn’t see anyone. There were actually three pairs of footprints. Two headed toward the house, and the third went back the other way.

They were mine, Catherine’s, and Catherine’s again. Perfect. At least I was on her trail. I followed the footprints to the long drive and then down the hill.

A thunderclap echoed from somewhere up ahead. Had I failed Catherine already? Had the floating storm killed her? I kept running. I wasn’t going to give up on her until I saw her corpse.

That little thought prompted a quick series of ugly mental images that didn’t do anything but slow me down.

I reached a steep part of the hill and crouched at the base of a tree. The crashed truck lay on the road below. The Acura was close, and I couldn’t see anyone.

I fell once going down the slope. My pants were already as wet as they were going to get. No one shouted or shot at me. A few minutes later, I came to the stand of trees where Catherine’s car was hidden.

It was still there. I approached cautiously. Catherine wasn’t around. Damn. I peered inside. Nothing.

I circled the car, hoping to find a second trail of footprints to follow. Something moved out from behind a tree. I jumped and cursed before I realized it was Catherine.

“Sshh!” she hissed. “There are still men out here, hunting around. I saw you coming but couldn’t tell who you were. So I hid. I sent the license plate photos already, and I’ve been waiting for you. What did you find out?”

“Stuff,” I answered. “But the most important thing is that one of the bidders in that house summoned a predator.”

“What?”

“They stuck a lightning rod through an old woman’s heart and there was this flash of light and … the old man sent it out to kill everyone on the property.”

“Well, let’s get out of here then.”

She unlocked the car and we climbed in. My flannel jacket was lying on the front passenger seat. I put it on, getting mud on the lining; my shoes and pants smeared mud on the car seat. “I’m sorry,” I said.

She clipped her seat belt and turned the key. “You’re wearing wet clothes on a winter night? Not smart. You’d last longer with nothing on.”

I imagined myself lying out in the bramble, shot to death and wearing only smears of mud and underwear. To hell with that. I’d rather freeze.

She backed toward the road, taillights glowing. When all this was over, maybe I’d install a kill switch on her lights so they wouldn’t light up the mountainside.

At the driveway she turned toward the gate and hit the gas.

We came around a twist in the road and saw two men blocking our way. Both were Asian, dressed in dark, expensive suits, and held pistols. Yin must be desperate, if he was having his men search every vehicle leaving the estate.

The taller one had no hat; maybe he didn’t want to muss his high, moussed-up hair. He held out his hand like a traffic cop, expecting the weapons to make us obey.

Catherine gunned the engine and flicked on her headlights. The men scurried aside. The taller one shouted something to the other and fired two quick shots into the grille.

“Shit!” Catherine shouted. “Those bastards shot me!”

They didn’t fire again. It took a moment to realize Catherine hadn’t really been hit, just her car. The engine