I jumped. Marsten leaped to the side, out of the range of the gun. I hit the guard in the back. An oomph, and he fell forward. Marsten snatched the gun. Then he tossed it to me. The move caught me off-guard, and I scrambled for it but was too late, and my hand knocked it flying. The gun ricocheted onto the desk, and tumbled down behind it.
Marsten grabbed the guard around the neck. The guard flailed. Marsten swung him off his feet and bashed his head against the filing cabinet. As the guard’s body went slack, Marsten looked over at me, still crouched on the desk, staring.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t kill him.”
The last licks of chaos rippled through me. I shuddered, eyes rolling in rapture. Marsten’s brows arched. I turned the shudder into a more appropriate shiver of fear.
“You’re sure?” I said. “He looks—”
“He’s fine.” Marsten kneeled beside the guard as he pulled my handcuffs from his pocket. “Though I do hate to waste these on him.” Another dig into his pocket and he tossed me my scarf. “Since you did such a good job tying this earlier…”
We secured the guard. Then Marsten waved me to the door as he double-checked my knot. My fingers brushed the knob, but Marsten yanked me back.
“I was going to look first,” I said.
“You don’t need to. I can hear them.” He looked around. “You take the vent.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the desk. “Go headfirst this time, and you’ll be able to squeeze through.”
“After you,” I said.
“No time. Just—”
“After you.”
He gave me a look, as if contemplating the chances of stuffing me in the shaft himself, then, with a soft growl, hopped onto the desk. He grabbed the edge of the shaft, and easily swung himself up and in, then paused in the opening, his rear sticking out.
“It’s very narrow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can—”
“Try,” I said, and gave him a shove.
He wriggled through, then reached back between his legs, and helped haul me up. The door clicked. No time to replace the cover. I pulled my legs in, scrunched down on my hands and knees, and followed him.
8
I n the movies, ventilation shafts are the escape route of choice for heroes trapped in industrial buildings. They’re clean and roomy and soundproof, and will take you anywhere you want to go all, like a Habitrail system for the beleaguered protagonist on the run. I don’t know where Hollywood buys their ventilation shafts, but they don’t use the same supplier as the museum.
We crept along, shoulders whacking the sides with every few steps. The sound reverberated through the shaft. I could feel skin sloughing off my knees as they scraped over the rivets, and imagined a snail’s trail of blood ribboning behind me. And the dust? I sneezed at least five times, and managed to whack my head against the top with each one.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Marsten whispered, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.
Sure, that helped the sneezing, but then I was tasting dust, as it coated my tongue. Would it kill the museum to spring for duct cleaning now and then?
I resumed crawling, and smacked my face into Marsten’s ass…again.
“Warn me when you stop,” I muttered…again.
A low chuckle. “At the next branch you can take the lead, then you won’t have that problem. I will…but I suspect I won’t complain about it.”
“You won’t have an excuse. Werewolves have enhanced night vision.”
“Mine’s been a little rusty lately.”
“You seem to be doing just fine.” I head-butted him in the rear. “Now move.”
After that, we did switch positions—three times—as we ran into three dead ends.
“I’m taking the next exit,” Marsten said on the fourth about-face.
“Not arguing.”
The next vent we hit, he hit, driving his fist into it and knocking it clattering to the floor. Guess I wasn’t the only one getting claustrophobic.
Marsten crawled out. I started to, then my dress snagged on a rivet, and I tumbled out headfirst, floor flying up to meet me—
Marsten grabbed me and swung me onto my feet. I regained my balance and took a deep breath of clean—reasonably clean—air.
“Well, there goes two thousand dollars,” he muttered, looking down at himself.
Both elbows of his jacket were torn, and the front of his shirt was streaked with dirt, as were his face, hands, and pretty much every exposed inch of skin. Cobwebs added gray streaks to his dark hair. His shoes were scuffed, as were his pant knees. While he surveyed the damage, he looked so mournful I had to stifle a laugh. Well, I tried to stifle it. Kind of.