Witches' Waves (24 page)

No ladder up to the catwalk from the water. Of course not. It wasn't a swimming pool. The water level was high, though.

Maybe high enough he could jump for it.

Otters weren't natural leapers, but given sufficient motivation, they could launch themselves out of the water better than most humans would guess. Meaghan's safety was great motivation.

He jumped.

Not quite high enough. One more time, then.

Higher, but he couldn't make the catwalk platform and splashed down without any of his usual grace.

Once more with feeling. Almost…almost. This time his front paws touched the deck, but he slithered off.

He tried a swimming start this time. Promising, but didn't get the trajectory quite right. He knew what he'd done wrong, though, corrected for it next time.

He belly flopped onto the catwalk, skidded across, managed to twist to hit the slick stone wall with his shoulder instead of his head.

His already tender left shoulder.
Ouch
. He was just glad he was in otter form because the wordside shoulder must feel a lot worse.

He'd made it into the Agency's lair. Or at least close.

He panted on the cold metal deck until his head stopped spinning.

Time to shift. He'd need his humanoid hands to open doors, his wordy brain to think through human security measures.

His perspective altered. His body elongated, turned its fur inside, and his wordside took form.

Damnation and dry land, he hurt. He'd messed up his shoulders even worse than he'd realized. The right was swollen and scraped bloody, but he could move it. Tomorrow it would probably tense up and be a mass of bruises, but he'd worry about that once he knew he'd live until tomorrow.

The left was distorted and was rapidly discoloring. Best guess was he'd dislocated it. It hadn't carried over when he shifted to otter form because of the different joint structure, but the pain was back—and blinding.

Good thing otters were bendy. Also a good thing he had EMT training and knew what to do with dislocated shoulders. Even his own.

He sat up, wrapped his hands around his right knee, leaned back, back, back…and bit back a scream as the shoulder shifted back into place.

The pain immediately, blessedly, backed off. He'd have to favor that side, and he figured before long he'd kill, or at least maim, for painkillers. But at least he could move his arm without agony.

His body suggested a nap on the cold metal deck but he forced himself to his feet.

Time to find the main door to this crazy place. He had a Meaghan to save, and he couldn't do it alone.

Leaving the cistern proved as simple as turning a knob and heading up a flight of stairs illuminated by dim emergency lighting. He waited by the next door, hoping that the silence he heard really meant he was safe, then opened the door and stepped into an obvious basement storage area, full of clutter, but thankfully empty of people. He had no way of telling if the invisibility spell was holding—he'd always been able to see himself—so he snuck from shadow to shadow, moving silently on his bare feet across a cold concrete floor. Only one door out. So far his luck was holding.

Another flight of stairs led to white tile floors and fluorescent lights, and a faint but unmistakable smell of formaldehyde and death. He crept past a door labeled
MORGUE
—thankfully closed—and others tagged
NECROPSY 1
and
NECROPSY 2
.

Not even
AUTOPSY
, as if the sentients who died here were veterinary specimens. But the vets he'd met were good people who genuinely cared for their animal patients. Kyle doubted the same could be said for the “doctors” here.

The necropsy rooms were silent, and there was no light under the doors. He hurried past, said a quick, silent prayer for the dead. He could feel Meaghan's energy under his heart. But the Agency's other victims deserved the blessing of the Powers.

This floor had an elevator. Kyle didn't dare to use it, but he popped in long enough to see how many levels he faced. Five, plus the basement.

Back to the stairs, then, and climb, climb, climb. No point in wandering around a floor, hoping the magic held and no one caught ripples of the spell as he passed.

It was the smart thing to do. He was not only unarmed, but stark naked and injured. Get to the main door, open it and let Deck and the others in. Then maybe he could quietly pass out somewhere, or at least find a makeshift weapon. And some pants. Kyle didn't know much about fighting, but it seemed damn foolish to rush into a fight with your most vulnerable bits dangling free.

It hurt not to tear the place apart looking for Meaghan, but he couldn't rescue her alone and trying to was a great way to get both of them killed.

Kyle managed to maintain this resolve until he'd climbed three stories up.

He paused on the landing. Three flights of stairs wouldn't normally wind him, but he didn't normally have days like this one, either.

He smelled ocean and amber even through the heavy steel door.

He twisted the doorknob. Nothing happened.

Keypad. The damn thing needed an access code to open, even from the inside.

He threw himself against the door with a cry, not caring it jarred his shoulder, not caring who heard.

Let them hear. If some agent flung the door open to check it out, let him explain about an invisible animal darting between his legs. Kyle could shift to otter form and slink away before they had any idea what was going on.

And maybe in that form, he could reach Meaghan.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It took about thirty seconds to realize that was a bad idea. Even if he managed to get in, he'd need backup to get Meaghan out safely. He took a deep breath and kept going. Do what he'd been sent to do, pass on the information, go in with everyone else.

Thankfully the stairwell door to the ground floor was unlocked. Apparently they figured if you made it that far, you worked there. A quick glance showed an empty lobby.

With security cameras.

Kyle might be all right. Even if their tech could see through his magic, it was a quick run to the front door, and once the others poured in, there'd be relative safety in numbers.

Deck could fry the tech with his electricity magic. Probably. At least Kyle hoped so.

He shifted into otter form, on the theory that the security cameras might not notice him flat on the floor, figuring that he might be below camera level. And at least his shoulders didn't hurt so damn much.

It took forever to skitter across the slick lobby floor on paws meant for rock and sand and water. He made the last few feet sliding on his belly, with a dim thought that this might be fun under other circumstances.

He pulled off a shift at the last possible second, velocity sending him into the door, right shoulder first. At least it wasn't the left shoulder, but, Powers, it was not fun. If he'd had to depend on pulling himself up with either arm he might have ended up lying like a stranded turtle until someone tripped over him. Luckily, he surfed, so he popped onto his feet like he was popping up on a surfboard. It still smarted, letting him think he had a few injuries he hadn't found yet, but it worked. He opened the door and chittered as loudly as he could, not daring to yell but hoping the otterlike noise would get the point across.

Paul screwed up his eyes and looked a little to the left of where Kyle was, nodded and then said a few words in Gaelic. Kyle's skin tingled as the spell on him subsided. Maybe the invisibility spell had held him upright, or removing it took some of his scant remaining energy with it. He sagged against the open door.

Then Deck's arms were around him. Just a quick hug and a whispered, “I knew you could do it,” before he stepped aside for Paul and Tag to enter the facility.

They were all trying to be quiet, Kyle could tell, but their footsteps made some noise.

Not enough for most humans to hear, which made Kyle think that someone had a spell going to muffle sound, but enough to seem loud to the ears of an anxious dual.

“She's three floors down,” he explained quickly, quietly. “Right wing, I think. But you need a door code to get out of the stairwell.”

Tag chuffed a small, sardonic laugh. “Door codes I can handle. I'm a fox and they're locks. Show us where we're going, naked guy.”

“Now that I'm inside, I can feel her too.” Deck drew in a deep breath. “Kyle, get to the SUV and lock yourself in.” Deck sent forth a small burst of electricity that caused the nearest security camera to smoke. “May alert them there's a problem but at least they won't know immediately that
we're
the problem. Now
go
.” He gestured toward the front door.

Kyle tensed. “Sometimes I like it when you order me around. But this isn't one of those situations. I'm staying.”

“You're naked and bleeding.”

“And? Not like I was shot recently or anything.”

Deck nodded slightly, acknowledging Kyle's point. “But I have magic, at least. You have your body and it's injured.”

“I also have my brain, which, as you keep reminding me, is a good one. And I'm staying.”

Deck sputtered. “But…you have medical training. Wouldn't you tell someone else in your condition to sit down and get some rest? Or at least find some pants?”

“Yeah,” Kyle admitted. “But under the circumstances, I wouldn't expect him to listen to me. Wish you'd thought to grab my jeans, but didn't Celtic warriors go into battle naked? I can channel your ancestors.”

Deck seemed to be struggling for an answer. Kyle circumvented whatever he was about to say by heading toward the stairwell, gesturing for the others to follow.

Paul shrugged and grabbed Deck's arm. “Tag never listens to me either.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper that seemed deliberately pitched to allow both Kyle and Tag to hear. “And he usually turns out to be right. Just roll with it. For all you know, he's getting intel beamed into his subconscious straight from Trickster.”

Kyle had reached the stairwell door a few seconds before the others did. He was bouncing up and down with impatience by the time Deck caught up. That wasn't so unusual for Kyle, and under other circumstances, Deck would have teased him about his adorable impatience. This time, Deck shared his urgency. Meaghan was so close. All they had to do was open the door…

But the lock sparked fuchsia and gold when Tag touched it, like some kind of badly thought-out Mardi Gras decoration. “Never seen anything like this before,” Tag confirmed. “There's a normal lock mechanism and keypad, but obviously that's not all that's going on. I'm scared to fuck with it too much.”

“Deck,” Paul whispered, his voice intent and tight, but fascinated, “I don't understand this magic, but it's fascinating. There's witch magic and sorcery and some other component I can't identify, but I have no idea how to unravel it. I'd love to study it, but we needed it disabled five minutes ago. It involves electricity somehow, so I'm hoping you can make something of it.”

Deck didn't touch the lock, just hovered his hand over it and opened his witch-sight. Very tentatively, because if Paul didn't understand what he was looking at, the odds of Deck doing so were slim to none.

Except he did.

He'd seen something like this in his studies to understand his own freakish magic. Psytech, it was called, working off the low-level electrical impulses and low-level magic inherent in all life. The government used it, and some corporations, because it was damn hard to hack. This was probably keyed to specific people who worked here. Picking the lock would be impossible, and even trying would trigger the sorcery Paul had noted.

Blowing the lock up, though…that he could handle.

If you'd asked him even a few hours ago, he'd have said that calling lightning underground was close to impossible. Most of the time, it might be. But he carried a storm inside him, both its energy and its brute force. Combined with his own anger, his need to reach Meaghan, and the red magic he and Kyle had generated, the lock wouldn't stand a chance.

If he simply fried it the way a power surge fried a computer, he might weld the damn thing shut so no one would ever be able to open it without dynamite.

But if he directed a miniblast just right, and then applied a gentler touch right there…

His brain, never the most normal or cleanest of places, came up with the metaphor of sex with Kyle and Meaghan for the combination of force and delicacy.

And that ramped up the red magic he'd stored back on the stormy beach with Kyle. His body sizzled. His witch-sight overtook normal vision, which proved useful in the dim light. Stored power throbbed, and it felt like arousal without satisfaction. Felt like hopeless, unrequited longing. Felt like the long struggle to control his magic and still having it aching to burst out of control.

Then Kyle stood by his side, with one hand on Deck's left shoulder, the other at the small of his back. Through the cords of their bond, he felt Meaghan. She knew they were coming for her—how could she not, with her powers?—and her energy and magic surrounded him, even from a distance. The discordant energy balanced.

Frustrated desire became the pleasing heat of a long tease. Hopeless longing morphed to mutual love. And wild, dangerous magic…well, it still felt wild and dangerous, but in a useful way.

He could do this.

With Meaghan and Kyle on his side, he could do anything.

Donovan magic usually involved words and gestures. This was deeper, more instinctual. He opened to the power and let it flow through him to the complicated lock mechanism.

The air crackled and snapped around him. Sizzles of lightning played around the lock, zapping his hand. His hair stood on end, not just on his head but everywhere on his body, itchy and uncomfortable. The sharp smell of ozone filled the stairwell, with undertones of hot metal and a chemical burning. A red light flashed on a small box above the door. Kyle whispered, “Alarm about to go off,” and Deck sent another electrical surge to fry its circuits before it began to blare.

The door crashed open and boomed as it hit the wall behind it.

The good news, Kyle assessed quickly, was it knocked down the agent who'd been between the wall and the stairwell. The bad news was, though she looked pretty silly sprawled on her ass, she was sprawled on her ass with a gun trained on them. Her hands were shaking. Kyle wasn't sure if that made the situation better or worse.

“Hi, sugar,” Tag said as he aimed his own gun at her and took off the safety. “First night on the job?”

She nodded tightly.

“Might be a good time for you to consider new career options.” His Southern accent was thicker than usual, pure hillbilly. His gun was smaller than the agent's, but his aim was steadier. She looked very young, and her attention kept shifting to Kyle, as if the muddy, bloody, naked guy was more of a threat than two witches and an armed good old boy.

Great, he could distract her from the more dangerous members of the party. Kyle bared his teeth and growled.

Growling didn't come all that naturally to otters, but based on the way the agent was looking at him, she'd figured out
dual
but not what flavor other than
exceedingly pissed off
.

Still trying to hold her aim steady and failing miserably, the agent reached for her radio.

“I wouldn't.” Tag's voice dropped to a whisky whisper.

Her eyes were still on Kyle, and he had a feeling she hadn't figured out the blood was all his. So he said a quick, silent prayer to Trickster, took a step forward and made his voice as deep and menacing as possible. “Listen to him. We don't want to hurt you, but we will.”

She dropped the gun and crab-walked backward until she bumped into the wall.

“Radio too,” Deck said, also stepping closer. Deck might be a gentle guy raised to be nonviolent, but he looked, at the moment, like a particularly wild-eyed Viking about one annoyance away from completely berserk.

She obeyed, her eyes wide, and shrank even closer to the wall.

As the others ran past her, Paul said a few words in Gaelic, gestured with his left hand. Her eyes got even wider and she opened and closed her mouth without any sound coming out.

Silence spell, apparently. Deck flashed a thumbs-up in Paul's general direction as he ran.

Hang on, Meaghan. We're coming.
Deck didn't think Meaghan could hear his thoughts. As far as he knew, she was a visionary, but only mildly psychic in the reading-someone's-mind sense, and his own psychic abilities were practically nonexistent. But it made him feel better to make the attempt. More to the point, it helped him focus on the silver cord that connected him to Meaghan, helped him feel certain he was heading the right way in the dimly lit institutional maze.

Kyle found her first, though, by the simple means of saying, “In there. Room Fourteen A. I smell her.”

Tag's nostrils widened as he sniffed the air. “Maybe. I'll take your word for it. I'd think my nose is as good as yours or better, but all I know is there's a human female in there.”

“You're not in love with her. I trust Kyle.” Deck was already working on the lock. “Also the floor's wet here, like the sprinkler went off randomly and then just happened to stop, and there are wet footprints walking away.”

“Which means Meaghan bought us a little time. Someone was standing right here, only they decided they'd hang out somewhere dryer, maybe notify maintenance. Hopefully find a dry shirt and grab coffee while he was at it.”

“That's right, Kyle. But they may be back any second. Gotta concentrate. Gotta get Meaghan out of here.”

This lock was trickier than the one in the stairwell, shielded against magic.

Or at least some forms of magic. They'd thought of Angelini-style metal magics, and sorcery, and probably competing psytech and something kind of stripy that Deck figured had to be shamanic magic. His earth magic was shut out, and the kind of electrical magic most people would be able to use underground, the kind that drew on the building's wiring, was also blocked.

Deck's stomach lurched. Could they be this close and not able to get to Meaghan? Would they have to wait for a staff member to pass by and then force him or her to open the door?

The hair on the back of his neck and at his groin prickled, and the hair on his arms stood up.

I'm a Donovan and a Thorssen and the combination makes me unpredictable. I carry lightning inside me, and it's magic wild enough that one of my ancestors was called a god. These shields can't stop me, because they didn't expect me.

For a second, Deck hoped it was true.

Then he knew it was, as surely as he knew he belonged with Kyle and Meaghan.

This time he looked for the alarm first and detonated it.

Then he called a tiny, contained bit of lightning, a mere shard of a bolt, and sent it straight through shields that weren't anticipating it and into the lock.

Magic surged. The door jolted open.

And Meaghan, wearing institutional-looking pajamas and bright-red sneakers that fastened with Velcro, was waiting just inside. “I knew you were coming,” she said calmly, “and I even knew when, so I could try to get the orderly out of the way. But the vision didn't even begin to let me know how good it would feel to have you this close.”

Deck and Kyle, without saying a word, sandwiched her between them.