Play with Fire

chapter Thirty-One

QUINCEY MORRIS WHIRLED, gaped, and found he had just enough air in his lungs to say softly, “Motherf*cker!”

The biggest werewolf he had ever seen was already halfway down the long aisle, its claws scratching on the concrete. The creature’s shoulders were so wide that they were actually brushing against the bookcases on either side. That had slowed it down a bit – otherwise Morris would be dead already.

Being part man, part wolf, a werewolf combines the best (or worst, depending on your point of view) qualities of each: the man’s intelligence and ability to walk upright, and the wolf’s acute senses and furry cunning, combined with teeth, claws and musculature that are native to neither.

Morris was fumbling in his pocket for the switchblade. Against this thing, it might be as useful as a slingshot against a battleship, but the blade was coated with silver, deadly to werewolves. It was also the only weapon that Morris had.

Then an arm was pushing him aside desperately while Libby Chastain cried, “Move!”

Morris scuttled aside as Libby extended the first two fingers of her right hand in the direction of the werewolf, and pointed high over its head. Then, fingers spread wide, she lowered her hand until it was pointing at the floor, chanting, over and over, “Atqarab b’loa!”

Morris had heard her use that one before, and knew the words were ancient Aramaic for “Do not pass!”

The werewolf was only twenty feet away when it slammed into an invisible wall, bouncing off with a howl of pain and frustration to land on its back.

“Barrier spell?” Morris asked.

“Yes, but it’s only in the space between these bookcases, and it won’t hold for long,” she said tightly. “Give me my bag!”

Morris scuttled back to the vault, where Libby had left her big leather purse. As he grabbed it, he saw that Adelson was standing with his back pressed against the wall, eyes huge and mouth hanging open. He was making a sound that sounded like “Wha-wha-wha?”

Morris didn’t take time to explain. Even with Libby’s spell in place, none of them had a lot of time.

“Come on!” he called to Adelson, then turned away.

He could have tossed the bag to Libby, but the way their luck had been running lately, she’d probably catch it upsidedown, spilling the contents all over the place. So Morris took an extra few seconds to reach Libby, who was still facing the invisible barrier she had created, pointing the same two straightened fingers to maintain the spell.

Coming up behind her, Morris snapped “Here!” Without turning away from the shield, Libby reached behind her and he slapped the bag into her hand. She immediately dropped to one knee, spilled the bag’s contents on the floor, and began sorting through them with her free hand. Morris had the switchblade out now, the silvered blade glinting in the harsh light from the ceiling bulbs.

The werewolf had been stunned by its impact with the invisible shield, but it didn’t stay that way for long. It came to its feet smoothly, growling in rage and frustration. Then Morris realized, with a sinking feeling, that they had a smart werewolf on their hands. Instead of clawing at the barrier in futility, the creature did something more appropriate for an ape than a species of lycanthropus sapiens – it began to climb the bookshelves, and within a few seconds was out of sight.

“Can he get around us?” he asked Libby.

Without looking up from her systematic rummaging, Libby said, “Damn straight. The barrier’s high, but narrow. I can make something that’ll surround us, but I can’t do it quickly.”

Morris turned until his back was just touching Libby’s. With one of them facing in each direction, they couldn’t be taken unaware. It was suddenly quiet in the basement – except for the continuing sound of “Wha-wha” coming from near the vault. Morris had forgotten about Adelson. He hadn’t followed Morris, but had remained where he was. Adelson’s brain must be befuddled by the remnants of Libby’s spell, combined with the sight of something that his forebrain told him couldn’t possibly exist. But his reptile brain, a far more primitive structure, had seen, and believed, and was terrified.

Morris knew he should run out there and drag the man back to relative safety, but he was torn between reluctance to leave Libby’s back unprotected and the sure knowledge that Adelson was an innocent bystander in this struggle. Whatever a werewolf was doing down here in the bookstore’s basement, it almost certainly hadn’t come after Adelson. And Morris also knew that an innocent bystander is always one short step away from becoming collateral damage.

“Adelson!” Morris called softly, in a pathetic attempt at a stage whisper. “Come over here! You’ll be safe with us!”

That last was an outright lie, but what was Morris going to tell him – the truth that joining him and Libby might increase Adelson’s safety marginally, at most? As a motivator, the truth left something to be desired, as it often does.

Morris’s internal struggle was abruptly cut short when it started raining books. The bookcases down here were so crammed full that someone had been stacking books on the top of the cases, and it was a number of those that were being dumped on them from above. Whether the werewolf intended this as a distraction, or a mere venting of its fury, Morris didn’t know. He was looking up, one arm raised to protect his face from further literary incoming, when a three-pound First American Edition of War and Peace came sailing out of nowhere and fell on Libby Chastain’s head.