"Obviously. Can it be done?"
"All things are possible," Lasciel assured me. "Though some of them are extremely unlikely."
"How?" I demanded of her. "This is not the time to get coy with me. If I die, you're coming along for the ride."
"I am aware," she replied, arching an eyebrow. "They are a crafting of faerie make, my host. Seek that which is bane to they who made it."
"Iron," I said at once, nodding. "And sunlight. Trolls can't stand either." I opened my actual eyes and glanced around the interior of the garage. "Sunlight's out of town for a few hours yet, but we've got lots and lots of iron. Rawlins has a free hand. If I get a tool to him, maybe he could shatter a link of the manacles' chain. Then I could break his cuffs or something."
"Point of logic," the fallen angel pointed out. "Given that you are not free to retrieve a tool, getting one to Rawlins seems problematic."
"Yeah, but-"
"In addition," she continued, "you are exhausted, and it is reasonable to assume that Crane will finish his negotiations shortly and turn you over to one of your foes. You have insufficient time to recover your strength."
"I guess-"
She continued in the firm tone of a schoolteacher addressing a stubborn child. "You have in the past expressed much frustration and doubt that your control of physical forces was precise enough to break handcuffs without breaking the person held in them."
I sighed. "True, but-"
"The only egress from this place is chained shut and you do not have the key."
"It isn't-"
"And finally," she finished, "lest you forget, you are being guarded by at least one supernatural being who will hardly stand gawking while you attempt escape."
I glowered. "Anyone ever told you that you have a very negative attitude?"
She arched a brow, the expression an invitation to continue the line of thought.
I chewed on my lip and forged another couple of links in the chain of thought. "Which isn't helpful. But your ass is as deep in alligators as mine, and you want to help. So..." My stomach sank a little. "You can offer me another option."
She smiled, pleased. "Very good."
"I don't want it," I said.
"Why ever not?"
"Because a freaking fallen angel is offering it, that's why ever not. You're poison, lady. Don't think I don't know it."
She lifted a long-fingered hand to me, palm out. "I ask only that you hear me out. If what I offer is not to your liking, I will of course support your efforts to form an alternate plan."
I upgraded the glower to a glare. She regarded me in perfect calm.
Dammit. The best way to keep yourself from doing something grossly self-destructive and stupid is to avoid the temptation to do it. For example, it is far easier to fend off inappropriate amorous desires if one runs screaming from the room every time a pretty girl comes in. Which sounds silly, I know, but the same principle applies to everything else.
If I let her talk to me, Lasciel would propose something calm and sane and reasonable and effective. It would require a small price of me, if nothing else by making me a tiny bit more dependent upon her advice and assistance. Whatever happened, she'd gain another smidgen of influence over me.
Baby steps on the highway to hell. Lasciel was an immortal. She could afford patience, whereas I could not afford temptation.
It came down to this: If I didn't hear her out and didn't get out of this mess, Rawlins's blood would be on my hands. And whoever was behind the slaughter around the convention might well keep right on escalating. More people could die.
Oh. And I'd wind up enjoying some kind of Torquemada-esque vacation with whichever fiend had the most money and the least lag.
When a concept like that is an afterthought, you know things are bad.
Lasciel watched me with patient blue eyes.
"All right," I told her. "Let's hear it."
Chapter Twenty-seven
We plotted, the fallen angel and me. It went fast. It turns out that holding an all-mental conversation gets things done at the literal speed of thought, without all those clunky phonemes to get in the way.
Barely a minute had passed when I opened my eyes and said very quietly to Rawlins, "You're right. They'll kill you. We have to get out of here."
The cop gave me a pained grimace and nodded. "How?"
I struggled and sat up. I rolled my shoulders a little, trying to get some blood flowing through my arms, which had been manacled together underneath me. I tested the chain. It had been slipped through an inverted U-bolt in the concrete floor. The links rattled metallically as they slid back and forth.
I checked Crane at the noise. The man kept speaking intently into his cell phone, and took no apparent notice of the movement.
"I'm going to slip one of these manacles off my wrist," I told him. I nodded at a discarded old rolling tool cabinet. "There should be something in there I can use. I'll cut us both out."
Rawlins shook his head. "Those two going to stand there watching while we do all that?"
"I'll do it fast," I said.
"Then what?"
"I kill the lights and we get out."
"Door is chained shut," Rawlins said.
"Let me worry about that."
Rawlins squinted. He looked very tired. "Why not," he said, nodding. "Why not."
I nodded and closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, and began to concentrate.
"Hey," Rawlins said. "How you going to slip your cuffs?"
"Ever heard about yogis, out east?"
"Yogi Berra," he said at once. "And Yogi Bear."
"Not those yogis. As in snake charmers."
"Oh. Right."
"They spend a lifetime learning to control their body. They can do some fairly amazing stuff."
Rawlins nodded. "Like fold themselves up into a gym bag and sit inside it at the bottom of a pool for half an hour."
"Right," I said. I followed Lasciel's instructions, sinking into deeper and deeper focus. "Some of them can collapse the bones in their hands. Use their muscles and tendons to alter tensions. Change the shape." I focused on my left hand, and for a moment was a bit grateful that it was already so badly maimed and mostly numb. What I was about to do, even with Lasciel's instruction, was going to hurt like hell. "Keep an eye out and be ready."
He nodded, holding still and not turning his head toward either Crane or Glau.
I dismissed him, the warehouse, my headache, and everything else that wasn't my hand from my perceptions. I had the general idea of what was supposed to happen, but I didn't have any practical, second-to-second knowledge of it. It was a terribly odd sensation, as though I were a skilled pianist whose fingers had suddenly forgotten their familiarity with the keys.
Not too quickly, murmured Lasciel's voice in my head. murmured Lasciel's voice in my head. Your muscles and joints have not been conditioned to this. Your muscles and joints have not been conditioned to this. There was an odd sensation in my thoughts, somehow similar to abruptly remembering how to tie a knot that had once been thoughtlessly familiar. There was an odd sensation in my thoughts, somehow similar to abruptly remembering how to tie a knot that had once been thoughtlessly familiar. Like this, Like this, Lasciel's presence whispered, and that same familiarity suddenly thrummed down my arm. Lasciel's presence whispered, and that same familiarity suddenly thrummed down my arm.
I flexed my thumb, made a rippling motion of my fingers, and tightened every muscle in my hand in a sudden clench. I dislocated my thumb with a sickly little crackle of damaged flesh.
For a second, I thought the pain would drop me unconscious.
No, Lasciel's voice said. Lasciel's voice said. You must control this. You must escape. You must control this. You must escape.
I know, I snarled back at her in my mind. I snarled back at her in my mind. Apparently nerve damage from burns doesn't stop you from feeling it when someone pulls your fingers out of their sockets. Apparently nerve damage from burns doesn't stop you from feeling it when someone pulls your fingers out of their sockets.
Someone? Lasciel said. Lasciel said. You did it to yourself, my host. You did it to yourself, my host.
Would you back off and give me room to work?
That's ridiculous, Lasciel replied. But the sense of her presence abruptly retreated. Lasciel replied. But the sense of her presence abruptly retreated.
I took deep, quiet breaths, and twisted my left hand. My flesh screamed protest, but I only embraced the pain and continued to move, slow and steady. I got the fingers of my right hand to lightly grasp the manacle on my left wrist, and began to draw my hand steadily against the cold, binding circle of metal. My hand folded in a way that was utterly alien in sensation, and the screaming pain of it stole my breath.
But it slipped an inch beneath the metal cuff.
I twisted my hand again, in exactly the same motion, never letting up the pressure, working to encompass the pain as something to aid me, rather than distract.
I slipped an inch closer to freeing my hand. The pain became more and more intense despite my efforts to divert it, like an afternoon sun that burns brightly into your eyes even though they're closed. Only a moment more. I only needed to remain silent and focused for a few more seconds.
I bore the pain. I kept up the pressure, and abruptly I felt the cold metal of the cuff flick over the outside of my thumb, one of the few spots on my fingers where much tactile sensation remained. My hand came free, and I clutched tightly to the empty cuff with my right hand, to keep it from rattling.
I opened my eyes and glanced around the garage. Crane paced back and forth in conversation on his phone. I waited until his back was mostly turned to move. Then I rose and slipped the chain through the U-bolt on the floor, until the circle of the cuff pressed against the bolt. I was still tethered by a chain perhaps a foot long, but I moved as silently as I could and reached out with my throbbing left hand for the wheeled tool cabinet.
I had trouble getting my fingers to cooperate, but I slipped the cabinet open. The tools inside it had been there for a long time-several years, at least. They were spotted with rust. I could only see about half the cabinet from where I crouched, and there wasn't anything there that could help me. I hated to do it, but I felt around the unseen portion of the cabinet with my clumsy fingers. I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to feel a tool even if my fingers found it, and even more frightened by the knowledge that I might knock something over and draw attention.
My hand shook, but I felt through the cabinet as quickly and lightly as I could, starting at the top and moving down.
On the floor of the cabinet, I felt an object, the handle of some kind of tool. I drew it out as quietly as I could, and found myself holding a hacksaw. My heart leapt with excitement.
I returned to more or less my original position, with my captors seemingly none the wiser, and took a grip on the saw. My distorted thumb hurt abominably, so I took the hacksaw in my right hand, took a deep breath, and then began slicing at the chain link immediately below the empty manacle.
I could only cut in strokes eight or nine inches long because of the chain still attached to my right wrist, and it made a low, buzzing racket that could not be mistaken for anything but but a saw. I was sure I would not have time to cut myself free-but the heavy-duty steel of the hacksaw's blade ripped into the silvery metal chain as if it were made of pine. Three, four, five strokes of the hacksaw and the link parted. I jerked hard with my right hand and the chain slid through the U-bolt, the broken link snapping as the cuffs struck the bolt. a saw. I was sure I would not have time to cut myself free-but the heavy-duty steel of the hacksaw's blade ripped into the silvery metal chain as if it were made of pine. Three, four, five strokes of the hacksaw and the link parted. I jerked hard with my right hand and the chain slid through the U-bolt, the broken link snapping as the cuffs struck the bolt.
I rose, free.
Crane let out a sudden, startled sound, dropped his cell phone, and went for his gun. There was no time to free Rawlins, so I tossed him the hacksaw and then threw myself to one side as Crane let off a shot. Sparks leapt up from the rolling cabinet's surface, and a rush of adrenaline made the pains of my body vanish. I kept my head down as low as I could and scurried to one side, attempting to put the bulk of an old, rusted pickup truck between Crane and me. I reached for my magic, but the cuff still attached to my arm reacted with that same burst of agony, splintering my concentration.
I caught a glimpse of movement. Crane circled to one side, looking for a clear line of fire. I maneuvered like a squirrel, keeping the truck between us and crouching low to deny him a clean shot. I went for the passenger door, hoping to find something, anything I could use to defend myself in the truck.
Locked.
"Glau!" Crane shouted. His second shot shattered the truck's passenger window, the bullet passing within a few inches of my head.
I reached up, unlocked the truck's door, and swung it open. The cab was cluttered with empty cigarette packs, discarded fast-food wrappers, crushed beer cans, a heavy-duty claw hammer, and three or four glass beer bottles.
Perfect.
I clutched the hammer's wrapped steel handle in my teeth, scooped up the bottles, and threw one at the far side of the garage. It shattered loudly. I rose at once, another bottle ready, and hurled it with as much force as I could.
The first bottle had caused Crane to snap his head to one side, looking for the source of the sound. He looked away from me for only a second, but it was distraction enough to allow me to throw.
The bottle tumbled end over end and smashed into the work lamp with a crash of breaking glass. Sparks showered up in a brief cloud of electric outrage, and then heavy darkness slammed down upon us.
Now, I thought to Lasciel. I thought to Lasciel.
Darkness vanished, replaced with lines and planes of silver light that outlined the garage, the truck, the tool cabinets and workbenches, as well as the doors and windows and the bolt on the wall where Rawlins was chained.
I was not actually seeing the garage, of course, for there was no physical light for my eyes to see. Instead, I was looking at an illusion.
The portion of Lasciel in my head was capable of creating illusory sensations of almost any kind, though if I suspected any tampering I could defend myself against it easily enough. This illusion, however, was not meant to deceive. She'd placed it there to help me, gleaning the precise dimensions and arrangements of the garage from my own senses and projecting them to my eyes to enable me to move in the dark.
It wasn't a perfect illusion, of course. It was merely a model. It didn't keep track of animate objects, and if anything moved around I wouldn't know it until I'd knocked myself unconscious on it-but I wouldn't need it for long. I ran for Rawlins.
"Glau!" Crane screamed, no more than ten or twelve feet away. "Cover the door!"
I flung the third bottle to the floor at my feet. It was an exceedingly odd sensation, for the bottle was outlined in silver light until it left my hand. It vanished into the darkness, and shattered on the floor near me.
There was a moment of frozen silence, broken only by the rasp of a hacksaw against Rawlins's cuffs. Crane took a couple of steps toward me, then hesitated, and though I could not see him, I could sense the hesitation. Then he moved again, away from me, probably assuming I was attempting another distraction. My lips stretched into a wolfish smile, and I padded to Rawlins, my steps sure and steady even in the total darkness.
I reached the bolt on the steel beam, and found Rawlins standing beneath it, breathing hard, sawing as fast as he could. He jumped when I touched his shoulder, but I took the hammer in hand and whispered, "It's Harry. Get your head down."
He did. I looked up at the silvery illusion of the bolt, steadied my breathing, and drew the hammer back very slowly, focusing upon that movement and nothing else. Then I hissed out a breath and struck at the bolt with every ounce of force I could physically muster.
I'm not a weightlifter, but no one's ever accused me of being a sissy, either. More importantly, years and years of my metaphysical studies and practice had given me considerable skill at focus and concentration. The hammer struck the bolt that held the other ring of Rawlins's cuffs. Sparks flew. The bolt, as rusted and ruined as the rest of the building, snapped.