DOREEN LOOKED UP, blanched, and joined me in staring at him. The first to move was Sam. The second he recognized me, his hand jumped to his overcoat pocket and smoothly pulled out a gun. It was another revolver, identical to the one I'd twisted in two. Maybe he got them in sets.
"No need for that, Sam," I said, taking a long step away from Doreen. If he planned to start shooting, I walked her to be well clear of me.
"Shut up and hold still."
I held still. His voice was even enough, but the short nose of the revolver trembled, and he was nearly as white as Doreen. IVI made quite an impression on him earlier, but it hadn't been as effective as I'd hoped. 'Hands up and out."
I complied. It gave him a shade more confidence, which gave me more time to think. I could risk things and try controlling him with a quick suggestion, but he looked too nerved up yet for anything fancy. The wrong word from me and we'd all end up feeling sorry for what happened.
"Thought you had me going, huh?" he finally said, with just the barest hint of desperation.
"Going?"
"With that crap you pulled earlier off that radio show. You think I don't know a con trick when I see one?"
"Can't blame a guy for trying," I said sheepishly.
Given half a chance, people have a remarkable capacity for self-delusion, and if I could tell anything from the relief on his mug, Leadfoot Sam was proving to be no different from the rest. He'd really needed me to say something like that. Never mind that my generality was pretty meaningless, I had vaguely agreed with whatever explanation he'd invented for himself, and now all was right with the world. He relaxed by a single degree and smiled a thin, superior smile.
"It was a good one, wasn't it?" I asked, as though I'd been caught fair and square.
"How'd you do it?"
"I'll show you sometime. It works better in the dark." .
He didn't take to that particular bait by obligingly turning off the lights, nor did he put away the gun. His eyes flicked away from me only once. "Hello, Doreen."
She'd sobered up quite a bit in the last minute and was probably wondering what the hell we were talking about. "Hi, Sam. What're you doing here?"
"I came to collect on a debt."
"What debt? I don't owe you anything. I don't owe anyone anything."
"Sure you do, sweetheart. You were partners with Stanley, weren't you?"
"I hardly knew-"
"Can it. I've just been over to Stan's room and found that sweet little racket the two of you had set up there. You must have raked in plenty. As I see it, partners are responsible for each other's debts."
"But, Sam..."
"Shut up. And you. Lament-if that's your name-were you holding out on me so you could have first crack at her?"
"Holding out?"
"You never told me about Stan getting knifed, or did you do it yourself? Is there a picture of your girlfriend somewhere in Doreen's photo collection?"
"You're full of beans."
"Maybe you forgot to tell Doreen about it like you forgot to tell me."
"I see you still managed to find out."
"Oh, yeah, after a ton of time and trouble. The cops don't exactly give that information away to the public, you know." He turned a sour face on Doreen. "And what kind of line has he been feeding you, sweetheart? What do you know about this guy, anyway?"
She said nothing, but he'd gotten the wheels turning in her head-in the wrong direction as far as I was concerned.
"He's not here to get his picture took, is he? What's he want from you?"
"He don't-doesn't want anything," she said.
Sam shook his head sadly. "The world don't work that way, Doreen. You oughta know that by now. Everybody wants something. What'd he come to you for?"
She licked her lips, her tone guarded. "He was just asking about Stan, is all. Who mighta killed him, like that."
"And you never thought he mighta done it himself?"
She hadn't, and turned her doubts full onto me.
Don't let him rattle you, Doreen," I said out of the side of my mouth. "Remember, I'm one of the good guys."
"Sez you," put in Sam.
"How about you tell us who did the redecorating here?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.
"I only just got here. Pin it on someone else, Lamont," He bent an eye on Doreen.
"Is that the name he gave you? Russell Lamont?"
Her answer was easy enough to read. I'd lost her trust, at least for the moment.
"And what makes you a better bargain, Sam?" I countered.
His attention switched back to me. "Doreen knows what to expect from her old friends."
"Like a shiv in the throat?" I ventured.
"We'll see." He backed up to the door and whistled. A moment later a man that I recognized as Sam's driver walked in. He was followed by Butler, who had to duck his head slightly to miss the lintel. He took in the wrecked room, Doreen on the floor by her suitcase, and finally focused on me. He then raised the kind of smile you don't want to see in your worst nightmares.
"You took Sam's car," he stated flatly.
I said nothing, since it's pointless to argue with facts.
"Where is it?" Sam asked him.
"Just down the street. It seems okay."
Sam glared at me. "You better hope it is, or that'll be another one I owe you." He nodded at the driver. "Take her back to the joint. We'll follow in the Cadillac."
Doreen balked. "Where?"
"Just a quiet place so we can talk, sweetheart. If you're good, I'll buy you an ice-cream soda. You and I are going to cut a deal over Stan's outstanding markers."
"I don't have any money, Sam."
"Not yet, you don't... but you will. I'm just gonna make sure I'm around for my share."
"Please," she said to me. "Don't let him."
Sam centered the gun on her. "All we're gonna do is have a nice talk, Doreen. You kick up a fuss and I'll show you how mean I can get if I try."
"It'll be all right," I said. "Go on, sit tight and wait for me."
She looked at me as though I'd gone crazy and only needed a straitjacket to make it official.
"I'll come for you." I hoped she'd believe me.
Sam and Butler laughed at this. The driver hauled her up and dragged her out the door. The laughter did wonders for her confidence, but I was at last able to relax.
With Doreen out of the way and relatively safe, my choices on how to handle the situation had increased considerably. The only thing I really had to worry about now was how to keep my suit in one piece.
"Ready to get down to business?" I asked once they were long gone.
Sam pretended to be impressed. "He still thinks he's a tough guy. Look him over, Butler, find out why he's so tough."
Butler approached, keeping out of Sam's line of fire, and slapped at me with big hands. I didn't quite fall over. He found Doreen's automatic right away. "This must be it." He grinned.
"Is that it?" Sam asked me.
"As far as you're concerned," I said.
He shot me a wary look and told Butler to continue. He pocketed the gun. My notebook, pencil, keys, and wallet were extracted and examined, the latter catching the most interest.
"It sez he's Jack R. Fleming." Butler squinted at my New York driving license.
Sam nodded, as though he'd known all along.
"He's rich, too." He held up Pierce's C-note.
"Put it back," I said softly.
With high good humor, Butler shook his head and stowed the hill away with Doreen's pistol. "Now what, Sam?"
"Now you teach him not to be so nosy. But go easy, Butler. I don't want to put him to bed with a shovel."
Butler looked me over, trying to decide where to start. He was a man with total confidence in his own physical capabilities and was probably taking my lack of fear for bravado. Right away I could tell he didn't like the smile I was showing him. He matched it with a nasty one of his own and followed it up with a fast punch.
He'd had some fight training in his past. Because of his height and massive build I'd been expecting a slow roundhouse-type swing that could be blocked with a raised arm. As it was, I only snapped my head out of the way just in time. His fist brushed my chin, but he caught me flat footed with a lightning follow-up left that went straight into my stomach.
I doubled over and staggered with all the talking breath knocked out of me, falling backward over the ripped-up pillows. It was a soft landing, more or less.
Butler stood away from the swirling feathers and waited for me to recover. I held a hand to the sore spot until it faded, and stood up, stepping clear of the mess. He totally missed the fact that I was not gasping for air or showing any of the other usual symptoms of such an attack. In fact, all I did was grin, and that really put me on his good side.
He had the height and reach on me, but the grin made him forget about those advantages and move in close. I let him back me up to a corner, left it till the last possible instant, and went transparent just as he struck. His fist tickled through my ghostly midsection and connected solidly with the wall behind me. The resulting howl of pain from him was almost deafening.
I immediately went solid again. If Butler had noticed me flickering on and off like a bad light, he was too occupied with his injured hand to think about it. Leadfoot Sam couldn't have seen much; I'd taken care to shift so that Butler's body blocked his view of the incident.
Butler tried another left. I was moving fast myself and his anger and pain were working against him. I caught his wrist in my right hand and returned his gut punch with interest with the left. He folded up like an old wallet. As soon as I let go of him he hit the floor and stayed there, gulping and gasping.
Sam knew his number was up because I was looking in his direction and still grinning. He showed his own teeth in a sticky grimace and raised his gun to fire.
"Aw, Sam, now do you want I should break this one in two as well?" I took a step toward him.
He made that sick little sound deep down in his throat once again and bolted for the exit. I flashed invisibly ahead of him and got to the entry first. He slid to a stop on his heels just inches away from me. While he was dancing to get his balance back, I popped him a light one on his chin. He dropped like a sandbag.
He was fairly stunned but made a halfhearted attempt to lift the revolver. I took it away from him, this time without puncturing my thumb. Grabbing a wad of his clothes in my free hand, I dragged him into the studio, dumping him on the floor next to Butler, who was still nursing his bruised gut. Sam's long bones thudded on the bare wood. His arms came up protectively.
"Sam?"
It took him a minute, but he eventually opened his eyes.
"Watch carefully, 'cause you musta missed something the first time around." I opened the cylinder, emptied out the bullets, got a good grip, and twisted as hard as I could.
Sam whimpered when it snapped.
"Next time it'll be your neck. You understand that now?"
He nodded a lot. I froze on his eyes and stepped up the pressure just enough for him to feel it. I wanted him good and scared.
"From now on you stay out of my way. You're gonna lay off on Doreen, too. You don't talk to her, you don't even think about going near her. You leave her completely alone. You got that?"
His jaw sagged. I knew I'd finally gotten through to him. I put the two pieces of his gun in each of his hands. Butler didn't fuss at all when I picked his pocket and retrieved my hundred-dollar bill and Doreen's automatic. I walked out, pausing long enough in the entry to flick off all the lights.
Somewhere behind me, Leadfoot Sam moaned miserably in the abrupt darkness.
Sam's remark about buying Doreen a soda hadn't been lost on me. Within a quarter hour I took the Caddy out of gear, cut the motor, and coasted to a stop across the alley entrance to the drugstore. A fresh-looking Ford stood next to it.
Doreen and the driver were probably waiting inside for Sam and Butler to return.
A dim light gleamed in a single rear window of the building. I set the brake and got out. The place was silent, which could be good or bad.
I slipped inside the back way and went solid, listening hard. The easy whisper of soft breathing finally drifted to my ears from the direction of the spiral staircase.
Sniffing instinctively like a hunting animal, I picked up a strong stench of booze and the heavy, familiar tang of bloodsmell.
The stairs led down to pitch darkness. I was reluctant to enter it and investigate; the hair on my nape was already on end. It was my own fault, since I'd shattered the overhead bulb myself.
I swallowed dryly, went transparent, and slowly coasted along the twisting metal rail into the basement. At the foot of the steps I was solid again with my nerves running on full. The breathing from a single set of lungs continued with the undisturbed regularity of sleep. I took a chance and lit a match. The burst of yellow fire flared and settled, revealing the room pretty much as I'd left it, except for the man sprawled senseless on the floor. He gripped a flashlight in one hand. It was on, but the batteries were exhausted.
His clothes were sprinkled with liquor and shards of brown bottle glass, and there was a hell of a bump and cut on his forehead. He was the driver who was supposed to be watching Doreen. She must not have expected me to return and had aced him herself when she got the chance. I couldn't blame her, but it was an unexpected nuisance. First Kitty and now Doreen... it was really my night for losing people.
I searched the rest of the store, but she was long gone. I left him to sleep it off, got in the Caddy, and drove quickly back to the studio. It was empty. Sam and Butler had pulled themselves together and left, hopefully for good. They were probably busy right now finding the driver in the drugstore basement.
Doreen's clothes were still scattered all over the place. I packed whatever I could find into her suitcase, then carried it away with me as I went to pick up Escott's car.
Before leaving, I left a note for her hanging prominently from a slightly dented tripod. Chances were that if she had the moxie to smash a bottle over a guy's head, she'd eventually return to pick up her things. My note had Escott's office number and directions to call him for the stuff. I still had some questions for her and no doubt so would Escott after he'd heard about the evening's events.
His Nash had come to no harm sitting on the street, but I decided to take it home and pick up my more expendable Buick later. Though his concern for the safety of his car had only been a blind to get me here in the first place, it could do no harm to follow through with the ruse. Lieutenant Blair was a detail-minded man and I wouldn't put it past him to check up on me. I wondered if Escott had managed to talk his way out of his spot. If anybody could, he was the one to do it. I'd find out later; I had an errand to run now that I didn't dare put off.
The Stockyards were cold and quiet. The cattle huddled in their small pens and only rarely did one of them vocalize their collective misery at this late hour. The time was ideal for me, with no human eyes to watch as I crouched by an animal and sucked blood from a vein I'd opened with my teeth. It sounds pretty bad, but as Bobbi had once pointed out, I didn't have to kill in order to feed myself.
What had happened tonight, though, had shaken me from that confident complacency. I was running scared. The fusion of desire and appetite that I'd experienced with Doreen had nearly been too much to handle. After all these months, I thought I knew all there was to know about being a vampire, but circumstance and opportunity had proved me wrong, almost dead wrong, as far as Doreen was concerned.
I was never going to place myself or anyone else into that kind of a situation again.
The emotional temptation was easily avoided; all I had to do was swear off hypnotizing people. The intimate bond required for such deep hypnotic control was a two-way trap. Breaking free of the one I'd fallen into with Doreen had been one of the most difficult things I'd ever done. The next time, I might not be able to do it, therefore, there would be no next time. I would stick with simple and direct suggestions, nothing more.
As for the physical temptation, I was taking care of that by drinking deeply from a safe source. Usually I had only to drop by the Stockyards once every three nights, sometimes four, depending how often Bobbi and I got together. That would be altered to every other night. My hunger was inescapable, but easily remedied. To ignore it was to take chances with other lives.
I drank as much as I needed and more until the hot strength surged through and filled me with its red tide of life. Appetite and a shadowy mental bond that I barely understood had contributed to the incident; both would be under sharp control from now on. I only hoped that it would work.
Escott's office by the Stockyards was closed tight and deserted, so I moved on and purposely took a route home that led past Bobbi's hotel. Her living-room window on the fourth floor was visible from the street. It was just after three A.M., but her lights were glowing. She always spent at least an hour winding down from her work at the Top Hat; this was an open invitation for me to drop in on her. Without thinking, I found a place to park and went inside.
I took the elevator up and exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the sleepy operator. He opened the doors and I walked out as I had done a hundred times before. The doors slid shut behind me and the thing descended back to the lobby again.
I was halfway down the hall when I realized I absolutely could not go in to see her, at least not tonight. The truth of it was that I was still uneasy and Bobbi was perceptive enough to be able to spot it. She would want to know what was wrong and this wasn't something I could talk about.
Especially to her.
What I was capable of doing and what I had done frightened me. but mixed in with the fear was a large chunk of guilt. It wouldn't matter much to Bobbi that I'd fed from Doreen as if she'd been one of the cattle in the pens. The simple fact was that I'd been with another woman. As I saw things, it was more than enough to destroy our relationship.
No, going in to see Bobbi tonight would be another big mistake. I needed time to settle down. Tomorrow night would be soon enough. I punched the button and waited for the elevator to return. The operator didn't ask questions about my change of mind, which was just as well.
The hotel lobby should have been deserted at this time of the morning. The night clerk often napped on the office sofa, and Phil, the hotel detective, usually hung out in the radio room when he wasn't making his rounds. Both of them were now at the front desk with two other men I didn't know and there was something about their collective posture that caught my attention.
Phil was a leaner. He leaned against pillars, chairs, tables, whatever was handy, and rarely put his weight on more than one foot at a time. Now he stood straight and alert with his hands at his sides and a look on his face that was no look at all. He'd blanked out all expression and not once did his eyes flick over to me, though he was certainly aware of the elevator doors when they opened.
The clerk was a slightly younger man whose name I'd never bothered to catch. He was also standing straight, with his hands in front of him on the counter as though he needed it to keep his balance. His eyes were wide and flashed briefly on me as I emerged into the lobby.
It was subtle stuff to pick up within the space of a couple seconds, but enough to make me pause.
One of the two strangers slowly turned his head in my direction. The other continued to face Phil and the clerk and didn't move. My pause became a full stop.
Something was wrong, but I wasn't sure what to do about it.
The one looking at me took his time. He had a dark, unpleasant face with an expression to match, and both his coat and overcoat were unbuttoned. It was very cold outside and I could think of only one reason why a man would not bundle up against it.
The hair on my nape began to rise as he broke away and walked over. I waited for him.
"That your Nash out front?" he asked.
He already knew the answer, so I nodded. "Who wants to know?"
"Come with me and find out."
"You a cop?" I knew he wasn't and he knew I knew, and so on. It was part of the game we were playing. He shook his head. I checked on his partner, who was still watching Phil and the clerk. No one had moved an inch. "He coming, too?"
"Yeah."
"Then call him off."
"Rimik."
"Okay, Hodge," the other man answered.
He broke away from the desk, never once turning until he had enough angle and distance to cover us all. He wasn't showing any gun, you just knew it was there. The clerk was freely sweating now. Phil threw a silent question at me; I shook my head.
"You boys get on with things," I said. "Business as usual."
I hey had their own skins to keep in one piece, so no one said a thing as I walked from the lobby door under escort. It was an armed escort, but we were busy pretending that everything was normal.
As we stepped outside, a Cadillac with smoked-over windows pulled up. Its motor was so silent that all you could hear were the tires rolling over the pavement. These guys liked the classy cars, all right, but I was getting a different feeling from this bunch. They were as far removed from Leadfoot Sam as a tiger is from a tabby cat, and proportionately more dangerous.
I got into the backseat and Rimik climbed in next to me. Hodge sat in front with the driver. The car was in top shape; I barely noticed when we started to move.
Rimik was focused on the back of the driver's neck, but I had no doubt he was more than prepared to deal with any fast moves on my part. I kept my hands in the open and watched our route through the front window. I couldn't see out the side ones. There was a divider between the front and back, which was probably also opaque, but they didn't bother raising it. That could be good or bad. I was assuming the worse, but too curious to take action about it just yet. First I'd find out what they were after, then I'd think about getting away.
We drove over the river and into a familiar neighborhood, though I hadn't been through the area since last August, when I'd first arrived in Chicago. Nothing seemed to have changed, it was only colder and more empty than before. The cheap hotels and pawnshops gave way to long blocks of warehouses and inadequate lighting. The drive was half an hour of total silence. The last leg of it took us along a narrow street running between two huge warehouses built out over the river. We stopped at a side door.
Hodge was out first to cover things. Rimik signed for me to move.
"What's this about?" I asked, because it was time I showed some curiosity. I was also genuinely uneasy.
"Later," said Hodge.
The driver was ahead of us and opened the narrow door into the warehouse, then hit the lights. The place was still gloomy.
It was full of crates of all kinds and the sharp odor of new wood, excelsior, and machine oil. It looked naggingly familiar. The stenciled labels on the crates identified their contents as machine parts. That tripped the final switch in my memory. I fought down an involuntary shudder that had nothing to do with the winter air.
Hodge sat on a crate, Rimik stood and stared at me, and the driver went to the office I knew to be out front. He returned several minutes later, nodded once at Hodge, then leaned against the far wall and fired up a cigarette.
I looked at Hodge. "It's later. What's this about?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"I'll find out now, or I'm walking."
"You can try, kid."
From out of nowhere, Rimik had produced a big bowie knife and polished it with a soft cloth. He was still staring at me.
"You take me out with that," I said, "and your boss might not like it."
"You'd like it even less, Escott," said Hodge.
That shut me up.
Their mistake was a natural one. While I'd been talking with Bobbi they'd searched the Nash and found its registration and Escott's name.
"Take off the coat," he told me after a moment.
"It's cold," I reminded him.
"We'll give it back."
Rimik put the knife within easy reach-his reach-and came forward. His action distracted me, so I hadn't noticed Hodge pulling out a forty-five automatic. These boys were moving as smooth as oil and I didn't like the kind of teamwork that that implied.
He leveled the gun at my gut. "Take off the coat."
I took it off. There was no sense in forcing them to put holes in it or the suit. A shoot-out might force me to do other things as well. I knew what they wanted and stood by for yet another frisk. Rimik found Doreen's gun right off.
"Deja vu," I said as he put it on the crate next to the knife.
"What?" asked Hodge.
"Nothing. Just French for 'here we go again."
Rimik didn't bother searching my wallet or they'd have realized their mistake about my identity. They were looking for weapons, not enlightenment. He turned it back over with the other stuff, and I was allowed to put my coat on again. Who's your boss?" I asked.
Hodge answered readily enough. "Vaughn Kyler."
If he expected a reaction, he drew a complete blank. "What's he want with me?"
He carefully stowed the forty-five into its shoulder holster and let the edges of his coat and overcoat fall back into place. Unbuttoned.
What does he want?"
He dug into a pocket for a cigarette and lighted it, paying no attention to my question. The temptation to make him answer was there, but I decided to wait. I had the time, and chances were his boss would tell me all about it. Right now they were playing a nerve game, but that only works if you can be intimidated. I sat on a crate and watched him smoke. Rimik picked up (he bowie knife and slipped it into some kind of a hip sheath. I caught a glimpse of the gun under his coat as well. He was prepared for all sorts of weather.
Hodge smoked his cigarette down to a butt and tossed it accurately at a drainage grate in the floor. He looked ready to light another when we all turned in response to a distant noise from the office out front. The driver broke away from the wall, went into the office, and returned a moment later to usher in a new addition to the party.
He walked in without hurry, a medium-sized man in a vicuna overcoat with his hat pulled low. He paused in the penumbra! area between the lights and checked things over before coming any closer. I had no problems making out his shadowed features, but he wasn't trying hard to conceal them. If he were really worried, he'd have taken more effective steps.
Every instinctive alarm God ever invented to help us survive the wide world had gone off inside me. The urge to vanish and whip out the door away from him was that strong; it was all I could do now to stay solid as he walked over.
His movements were as fluid and controlled as a dancer's. He had dark blue eyes and short black brows. His nose was long and fine lines led from it to a thin, hard mouth. His face was square, with dewlaps just starting to form, giving the illusion of a mournful look that was, indeed, only an illusion. The set of his mouth and stony eyes confirmed it. His pale skin was just a little puffy from soft living; he looked to be edging fifty. He had a fairly ordinary face, on the surface no different from a hundred others of the same general type. But there was something... abnormal... about the man behind it that made my flesh crawl.
My own mug was easy enough to read. What he saw there didn't bother him.
Maybe he was used to such reactions.
He looked me over good and close, then wandered past to see Hodge. I turned as he went behind me, wanting to keep him in full view.
"What?" he asked in a low voice.
"Spotted him going into her studio," said Hodge. "He came out with a suitcase, then drove to the Stockyards."
My spine turned to ice. I hadn't noticed anyone following me.
"He drove to a hotel off the Loop and went in. We got him coming out."
"Suitcase?"
"We searched it while he was in the hotel. Nothing inside but women's clothes.
Must be hers."
"Name?"
"Escott."
"No," I said.
They each looked at me as though I had snot on my face. I was to speak only when spoken to. Well, to hell with that.
"The name they took from the car is wrong. My name is Fleming." I'd thought of giving them a phony, but it would be too easy for them to frisk me again. "Are you Kyler?"
"Yes." He studied me. "Where's the woman?"
We both knew whom he was talking about. "I don't know."
"Why do you have her suitcase?"
"I'm keeping it safe."
"When do you expect to see her again?" His voice was low, almost gentle, and had a slight East Coast accent.
"I don't know. Why are you after her?"
He ignored that one. "What is she to you?"
"Just a friend."
"Where is she?" he repeated.
My mouth is dry. "I'd cooperate better if I knew more about what's going on."
He didn't answer right away. The silence stretched out as he focused on me. It was meant to make me uncomfortable and was working to some extent. If need be, I could handle him, but he gave me the cold creeps.
"Doreen Grey has something I'm looking for," he finally stated.
"What's that?"
"No one's business but mine."
"Why should I help you, then?"
"I need information, not help. I will pay for it, if that's what you want."
What I wanted was to know exactly why this ordinary-looking man was so frightening. I tried to read something, anything, Horn him and could not. Maybe that was the answer.
"How much?"
He assessed me, my clothes, and other details. "One hundred dollars," he offered.
"You must have spent that on the hired help just to bring me here."
"Two hundred."
"Save your money. Tell me what you're after and I might be able to do something about it."
Kyler wasn't used to such treatment. Rimik, who hadn't said a word since I'd come in, shifted restlessly, perhaps hoping for orders to start committing mayhem.
Hodge snorted. My nerves were acting up as well. My lips had peeled back just enough for the teeth to show.
"He thinks he's hot shit," observed Hodge. "We oughta show him better manners."
"You could try, gunsel." I didn't know if he went that way or not. It didn't matter, all I wanted was to make him mad and see which way his boss jumped.
Hodge jerked as though I'd touched him with a live wire. He closed the space between us in one step, his fist up and swinging. I blocked it by raising my arm then backhanding him, all in one move. He staggered bonelessly into a crate, bounced, and flopped to the floor. He stopped moving.
Rimik brought his knife out in the first second and swept it past me in a short arc to get my attention. He centered it with the blade at just the right angle to gut me like a fish. I held my ground and checked on Kyler out of the corner of my eye. He just stood there, watching the show, so I probably had a few seconds' grace.
His stooge was feeling playful. He tried an experimental thrust with the blade to get me to dodge back, only I didn't. I shot my hand out and caught Rimik's wrist, but the man was wise to that one and fast. He yanked his whole arm down, slipped away, and flicked the blade back up again.
White fire ran along my forearm. Now I did fall back, clutching the part just below my elbow where he'd neatly sliced things open. A few drops of blood splashed onto the concrete, the rest soaked into my shredded sleeve.
I wasn't badly hurt, metal wasn't as harmful to me as wood, but I had to pause a moment to keep from vanishing involuntarily to heal. The bleeding would stop quickly enough without such a complication and the pain would pass; at least I wasn't in the part of the warehouse that was over the river or I might not have had a choice.
What I couldn't stomach now was the uneven hiss of air between Rimik's teeth.
He was laughing at me. It got me mad enough that I made another start for him.
The knife flashed like miniature lightning just under my nose. He was still playing, trying to give me a scar to remember him by. And he was still laughing.
I lost my temper then, and picked up the first thing that was handy; it happened to be a crate the size of a small suitcase weighing about forty or fifty pounds. We were no more than six feet apart and he had no room or time to duck. The look of gawking surprise that flashed over his face just as the crate caught him full in the chest was most satisfying.
Two steps and I was standing over him, tearing the crate to one side. My fingers had just closed over the handle of his bowie knife when I felt something small and solid bump inarguably against my left temple. It was followed by a soft double click that I recognized all too well. My grip went slack; I stopped moving altogether.
"Stand still," Kyler ordered in his gentle voice.