The Masked City

Although they were all pointing guns at her, cluttering up the room and backing into display cases, they didn’t look as if they’d actually expected her to emerge from the cupboard. Maybe she could use that to her advantage.

One of the men snorted in surprise, choking off a laugh behind his hand. ‘So here she is, after all. No wonder someone had this bunny tucked away in his cupboard,’ he grunted. His gun wavered as he looked her up and down, taking in her anachronistic, inappropriate, short-skirted clothing. ‘Ain’t hard to guess what all them professors round here like keeping under their desks, innit?’

Irene let herself sag back against the wall, lowering her eyes tremulously, trying to guess what was going on. They’d clearly been waiting for her, and there were only two people in this alternate who knew about the Library entrance. Vale. And Silver. No, make that Silver and any Fae he’d told. And she could assume that Vale wouldn’t be sending cheap thugs after her …

‘Now don’t you make any trouble for us, duckie, and you won’t get hurt,’ another of the men said. Like the rest of them, he had thick brows, hairy palms and unsettlingly yellow eyes. Wonderful. Yet more werewolves. ‘We’re just going to take you for a little walk. There’s a gentleman as wants you to stay out of his affairs for a few days. You behave yourself, keep quiet, and nothing bad’s going to happen to you.’

Irene mentally cringed at the dialogue, lifted straight from Plots Involving Heroines Too Stupid to Live, Unless Saved by the Hero. She must have looked unconvinced, as the man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t want us to do this the hard way, duckie,’ he snarled.

‘No,’ she said, attempting helpless meekness. ‘I’ll behave … please don’t hurt me.’

‘And no saying none of them spells,’ another said. ‘We’ve been told as how you can do sorcery.’

Ah, so clearly they’d been warned about the Language, in a way that would make sense to them. But it looked as if she could get away with some speech. Irene let her lower lip wobble pitifully, blinked in a way that suggested imminent tears and did her best to look helpless. The men relaxed. Unfortunately, they didn’t stop pointing their guns at her. What a pity. She could think of half a dozen ways to use the Language, but didn’t want to compete with a speeding bullet.

But she was still clutching the handbag containing the electronic tablet. Making it look as casual as possible, she shifted her grip, bringing it up to her chest in a mock-terrified cower. Her fingers slid past the clasp of the handbag and inside. She could feel the edge of the tablet, the power-on switch.

‘Drop the bag,’ the evident leader demanded. ‘No trying to pull a gun on us, dearie.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she quavered. Flicking the tablet’s power on, she let the bag slip from her fingers to the ground. It landed with a soft thump. The men’s eyes followed it, before looking back to her.

Three, two, one …

The power-on chime sounded bright and clear through the thin fabric of the bag.

The tablet was a lovely piece of technology, set to look instantly for local wireless communications and check for messages. In a world where there were no wireless communications, and where instead broadcast radio signals attracted demonic interference, it had absolutely no chance. A garbled squeal came from the bag, rising abruptly to a roar of inhuman voices shouting something in a language that Irene was grateful she didn’t recognize.

The men reacted as she had hoped. All the guns swivelled away from her to point at the bag at her feet, and a succession of bullets thudded into it. There was a muffled explosion from inside, and smoke came pouring out.

Perfect. Irene was already moving, dodging behind the nearest display case. ‘Smoke, increase to fill the room, and stink!’ she shouted in the Language.

The smoke obeyed even faster than she had expected. The small column of fumes bloomed into a thick white cloud, swelling out in all directions till it touched the walls and ceiling, and carrying an odour of burning plastic that brought tears to Irene’s eyes. And she wasn’t even a werewolf. The sudden chorus of swearing made her smile viciously. A couple of the men were shouting for her to come back - how stupid did they think she was? But the rest, with their superior sense of smell, were really suffering from the odour, if their swearing was any indication.

Irene sidled quickly through the gloom towards the exit, so familiar with the layout that she could have done this blindfold - which was pretty much what she was doing now.

Unfortunately, the smoke that hid her from the thugs also hid them from her. Five steps from the door she collided with one, surprising both her and the werewolf. He recovered slightly faster than she did, and she felt his hand fumbling at her shoulder.

She didn’t have time for this. Irene stepped in closer and brought her right hand forward in a straight-palm strike to where his throat should be. She felt something crunch under her hand as he groaned in pain, and brought her knee up hard into his groin. His grip loosened and she wrenched herself free, dashing the remaining few steps towards the door.

Behind her, the mauled werewolf found the voice to yell, ‘The bitch is over here!’

Fortunately the thugs hadn’t locked the door. She dragged it open and stumbled into the clear air of the corridor beyond, as unseen feet thundered towards her. Voice raw from the smoke, she snapped, ‘Door close and lock!’

All the open doors within earshot slammed shut with echoing booms. Locks clicked shut, spinning their tumblers into place. And from beyond the heavy wooden door behind her she could hear yells and howls, and the crashes of large men throwing themselves against it.