Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [138]
I stopped, dangling by my hands perhaps half a dozen floors above the ground. When I stopped, Adrian stopped, too.
“What?” he asked in a quiet hiss.
I looked up and saw nothing but the underside of the balcony. In the distance I heard police cars and fire engines; someone with a walkie-talkie had made it out in one piece.
Someone had found Cal, I assumed. Someone was looking for us.
My companion was straining to hold himself in position, balancing on the edge of a rail that looked too thin to hold him. “Raylene?” he asked, more urgently this time.
I told him, “Up.”
“You can’t be fucking serious!”
I looked down and over to where he was perched—not ten feet away. I said, “Yeah, I think I am. I think Ian’s up there. I think he’s on the roof,” I added, even though I had virtually nothing to back up that hunch. Just that warm, strange pull that leaned against me and made me want to climb.
“What is it with your kind and rooftops?” he muttered, not really expecting an answer.
I gave him one anyway. “Rooftops are a way inside,” I said, pulling myself up now, instead of lowering myself down. “They’re someplace where people tend not to go, and once you’re up there, especially at night, it’s easy to hide. And sometimes, if you need a way out, it’s the last stop and only way to run.”
Up, lift, and over the balcony.
Half a floor down and … I looked up, craning my neck around. We’d started from the fifteenth. We’d descended maybe seven. I thought there were twenty floors in total, so maybe twelve floors to the top from where we were camped out.
Adrian was struggling, and I wasn’t so far away from exhaustion myself. I looked back at him, teetering on that rail, trying hard just to make it to the ground. He’d never be able to take himself up another however-many-floors.
I told him, “Go down without me.”
He said, “No.”
“Yeah, seriously. You won’t make it to the top, and I promise,” I said, turning around and getting a better grip, “I won’t think less of you as a man or anything.” I tried to give it a wink and a grin.
Say one thing for him, say he wasn’t crazy. The sweat was shining on his forehead, dripping down his temples, and his arms were shaking. “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay, you’re right.”
“Meet me back by Lincoln, in … I don’t know. Another hour or two. I’ll meet you over there, soon as I can.”
“Got it,” he told me, and he gave me a head-bob that said good-bye and I’ll see you there, or possibly just whatever. Regardless, he began to descend again, a little more jerkily than before, but I was pretty sure he’d be all right. It’d been a long night for everyone, and he needed a break worse than I did.
But not much worse.
I scrabbled, clawed, and heaved myself up another few floors until I thought I couldn’t go even another foot, and all the while that pulse, or that warning, or that summons … whatever it was … it was still drawing me along.
With a sigh and an upturned nose, I reached into my satchel and drew out that god-awful little pouch of blood.
I gave it a disdainful squish, noting that although it was cold, it didn’t appear to be chunky with ice—which believe you me is fucking disgusting. And it’s not like my body heat would warm it up or keep it nice and gooey. Best I can hope for (unless I want to tote a hot-water bottle around with me) is Not Frozen and Totally Preservative-Laden Dribble of Sustenance.
God. Half a pint. Barely enough to bother with, and if I hadn’t been so busted and worn out by the evening’s activities I wouldn’t have done it. I would’ve sucked up my pride, wandered down to skid row, and taken a nibble off a bum like a civilized woman.
But I didn’t have such a homeless meat-sack handy, so it was just me and my pouch of goo. I scrunched up my nose and bit down on a corner, puncturing it and spilling a bit down my chin. Ladylike, yes. Also ladylike was the way I guzzled it