First, I examined the mattress, not that I expected much. It couldn't hide belongings like mine could. It could, however, hide rats and God only knew what else underneath it. I gingerly lifted a corner, knowing I must be grimacing, but there was nothing underneath - alive or otherwise. My next target was a small, disorderly pile of clothes. Going through someone's dirty laundry (because I assumed it was dirty, if it was sitting on the floor) wasn't much better than looking at the mattress. A whiff of fabric softener told me that these clothes were, in fact, recently washed. They were ordinary guy clothes, probably a young guy's clothes, which fit with Marcus's profile. Jeans. T-shirts. Boxers. As I sifted through the pile, I nearly started folding them and had to remind myself that I didn't want to leave any sign of my passing. Of course, the melted window was kind of a dead giveaway.
A couple of personal items sat nearby, a toothbrush and deodorant with a scent inexplicably called as "Ocean Fiesta." Aside from a rickety wooden chair and the ancient TV, there was only one other form of comfort and entertainment in the barren room: a battered copy of The Catcher in the Rye. "Great," I muttered, wondering what it said about a person who owned no other personal possessions. "Marcus Finch is pretentious and self-entitled."
The studio's bathroom was claustrophobic and barely had enough space for a single shower stall, toilet, and dripping sink. Judging from the mildew on the floor, a good deal of water sprayed out when the shower was used. A large black spider scurried down the drain, and I hastily backed out.
Defeated, I went to investigate a narrow closet door. After all my work, I'd found Marcus Finch but hadn't actually found him. My search had revealed nothing. I had limited time to wait for him, and honestly, if I were him and returned home to a melted window, I would promptly walk out the door and never return. If he ran, I'd have no choice but to keep scrying and -
"Ahh!"
Something jumped out at me as I opened the closet door - and it wasn't a rat or a roach.
It was a man.
The closet was tiny, so it was a miracle he had even fit inside. I had no time to process the spatial logistics, however, because his fist shot out and clipped me on the side of the face.
In my life, I'd been slammed up against brick walls and bitten by a Strigoi. I'd never been punched, however, and it wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat. I stumbled backward, so surprised that I couldn't even react right away. The guy lunged after me, grabbing my upper arms and shaking me as he leaned close.
"How did you guys find me?" he exclaimed. "How many more are coming?"
Pain radiated through the side of my face, but somehow, I managed to gather my senses. Last month, I'd taken a self-defense class with a slightly unstable Chihuahua breeder who looked like a pirate. Despite Malachi Wolfe's unorthodox behavior, he'd actually taught us some legitimate skills, and they came back to me now. I kneed my attacker in the stomach. His blue eyes went wide with shock as he released me and fell to the ground. It didn't keep him down for long, though. He scrambled back to his feet and came after me, but by then, I'd grabbed the chair and was using it to keep him at bay the way a lion tamer would.
"Back off," I said. "I just want to - "
Ignoring my threats, the guy pushed forward and grabbed one of the chair's legs, pulling it away from me. He had me backed into a corner, and despite some tricks Eddie had taught me, I wasn't confident in my own ability to throw a punch. Nonetheless, I put up a good fight when my attacker tried to grab me again. We struggled and fell to the floor. I kicked and clawed like crazy, making things as difficult as possible. It was only when he managed to pin me with his entire body that my flailing got stifled. I had enough freedom to reach a hand into my pocket, however.
"Who sent you?" he demanded. "Where are the others?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out a small vial and flipped the cap off with one hand. Immediately, noxious yellow vapor with the consistency of dry ice spilled out of it. I thrust it toward the guy's face. He recoiled in disgust, and tears sprang into his eyes. The substance itself was relatively harmless, but its fumes acted as a kind of pepper spray. He let go of me, and with strength I didn't even know I had, I managed to roll him over and hold him down. I drove my elbow into his wrist, and he made a small grunt of pain. With my other arm, I waved the vial with as much menace as I would a machete. This wouldn't fool him for long, but hopefully it'd buy me some time to reassess my situation. Now that he was still, I was finally able to get a good look at him and was relieved to see I'd at least achieved my goal. He had a young, handsome face with an indigo tattoo on his cheek. It was an abstract design that looked like a latticework of crescent moons. A faint silver gleam edged some of the blue lines.
"Nice to meet you, Marcus."
Then, the most astonishing thing happened. Through his watering eyes, he'd been trying to get a good look at me too. Recognition appeared on his face as he blinked me into focus.
"Sydney Sage," he gasped. "I've been looking for you."
I didn't have any time to be surprised because I suddenly heard the click of a gun, and a barrel touched the back of my head.
"Get off him," a voice demanded. "And drop the smoke bomb."
Chapter Seven
I MIGHT HAVE BEEN DETERMINED to find Marcus, but I certainly wasn't going to argue against a gun.