Page 128 of Prodigal Son

The Pretend-Statham lifted his head, and paused in his gum-chewing, mouth half-open, listening.

“What was that?” Cass said.

He ignored her, and got to his feet. Turned toward the door, but hesitated, hand on the lever.

More shouts. A thump. And then a sound like an explosion.

Cass ducked her head with a gasp. She felt the vibrations through the floor, and thewhuffof rolling pressure slapping against the door.

“Shit,” her captor said.

She heard lots of yelling, and the squawk of radios, and lots of running feet. A hoarse male scream, as if someone was in pain. The cracks of gunshots.

And a softer sound, just above her. Pretend-Statham hadn’t heard it – he stood at the door, shaking, debating whether he ought to go out and see what all his friends were yelling about. But Cass heard it; a scrape.

She tipped her head back, and saw a demon.

Her breath lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t have screamed if she’d wanted to.

One of the white acoustic ceiling tiles had been pulled aside, and in the darkness above it, a face stared down at her. Well, a pair of eyes did. Pale, vivid blue; icier than her own, than any of her brothers’. They were human eyes, but the look in them was anything but. And the face surrounding it was nothing but a glimpse of chin, and nose, the skin mostly smeared with some kind of black paint. If it weren’t for the tangled blond hair curling around the figure’s ears, she wouldn’t have thought it was anything alive looking down at her.

And itwaslooking at her –rightat her. That blue gaze fixed on her face, and, slowly, a thin pale finger came to rest across black-painted lips.Be quiet. And then the demon dropped down out of the ceiling and landed lightly on its feet before her, straightening up from its impact-absorbing crouch to reveal itself as a young, thin man, in tight black pants, and a black vest, his arms and hands bare, a gun slung over his back. He carried a knife in his hand, and it glinted under the harsh office lights.

He hadn’t made a sound.

He made the gesture again, finger across his lips. Up close like this, she could see that his face was narrow and angular. That his slender torso, under the vest, was nothing but lean, sculpted muscle.

He held her gaze, unblinking, terrifying, until she nodded. Then he whirled – graceful, like he was dancing – and slipped the knife into the side of her captor’s neck.

Cass bit back a scream.

The man brought his free hand up and slapped it across her captor’s mouth, muffled the awful gurgling sound he made, and then laid him down on the carpet. The knife was still in the man’s neck, and once he was flat, the stranger pulled it out. A gush of blood, a fast spray that hit the wall, the carpet, and then settled into regular spurts that would form a large puddle in a matter of seconds.

Pretend-Statham clutched at the carpet, kicked, and gasped, and flopped like a landed fish. Death throes, she thought, and felt the coldness of shock sweep through her. Her horror was a fast spike that began to fade in the span of a heartbeat.

The stranger wiped his knife clean on the twitching man’s suit coat and straightened, turned to face her again.

“Are you Cassandra Green?” he asked, and his voice was as eerily unemotional as the rest of him.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Y-yeah.”

His gaze tracked across her face, touching every feature, his own gaze impossible to read. Then he nodded. “Follow me.” Turned to the door.

Beyond it, she heard more shouts. She really, really didn’t want to go out there. “But–” she started.

“Stay behind me,” he said. He unslung the gun from his back – her brothers had taught her enough that she knew it was an AK-47 – and opened the door.

~*~

“Ha!” Mercy said after Reese radioed in with his location. “Eighth floor, east side of the building, Plaza Industries’ wing.”

Walsh paused on the stairs. They were between the seventh and eighth floors now. “He’s there now?” Some of the tightness left his voice, replaced by something like awe. As close as Kingston Walsh ever got to awe, anyway.

“In the ceiling,” Mercy said with a laugh. He wasdelighted. “Man, if only I was smaller, I would be, too.”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t hold you, dear,” Ian said dryly.

“I know. Shit.”

---