Four of the dire wolves were approaching the elevator at a run. Hotel guests were throwing themselves out of the way and hammering on the doors of the nearest rooms. And the page was just standing there, slack-jawed and in shock.
Irene cursed mentally and grabbed for the lever the page had been going for, yanking it with all her strength. The door slid smoothly across, slamming itself in front of the wolves’ oncoming muzzles. Their baulked howling shuddered through the closed door.
The page had turned white. ‘We’ve got to call the cops,’ he stuttered.
Irene was more concerned with her immediate safety. She had to assume that what the wolves knew, Qing Song knew. Which meant that he knew she was in the elevator. Qing Song wouldn’t turn the wolves loose on random civilians. But she didn’t want to find out exactly how a pack of wolves would stop her from getting away. She suspected that, depending on Qing Song’s mood, hamstringing might be the least of it.
‘Don’t you worry, ma’am,’ the hotel page said, managing to pull himself together. He pulled the other big lever next to him and the elevator began to glide slowly downwards. Above the door, a wide indicator like a clock hand with a hole in the middle slid across an arc of floor numbers. ‘Too frightened to speak? Well, there’s only one way to go. Once we’ve got you down to the ground floor, we’ll get the police in. My granny, she’s from the old country, and she said that once wolves get a taste for flesh, the only answer is a bullet . . .’
Irene nodded silently as she watched the indicator overhead slide across the floor numbers one by one. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
And then the elevator stopped dead and the lights went out.
Panic clutched at Irene’s throat in the sudden silence. The darkness seemed to close around her. She reached out to the wall, stupidly relieved to find it was still there, and forced herself to think through the fear. The elevator wasn’t going to drop out from under her. Really it wasn’t. Well, probably not.
She thrust her hand into her coat pocket. The one thing she’d managed to hide while the gangsters had been searching her had been an eyebrow pencil – a woman’s make-up tool, beneath their notice – but it gave her something to write with. If only she could see to write.
There was a scuffling noise from where the page was standing, and a click. Then the light of a torch cut through the darkness. The circle of luminescence lifted to the arc of floor numbers, and Irene could see that the indicator was stuck between six and seven.
What’s going on? she scribbled on the elevator wall, and pulled the page round to see the words.
‘There . . . there must be some sort of problem with the mechanics, ma’am,’ he stammered. ‘But don’t worry, I’m sure the management will have someone sort it out in no time, and then they’ll be lowering us to the next floor down and letting us out . . .’
Irene found herself almost as annoyed by the repetitions that she shouldn’t worry as by the situation. She made herself focus. If she assumed the worst – which she did – then one of her pursuers on the higher floor had stopped the elevator between floors. Then all they’d have to do would be to wait for the elevator to be opened, to collect her.
Which meant that she had to leave the elevator first. Where’s the emergency exit? she scribbled on the wall.
The page’s eyes flickered betrayingly up to the ceiling. ‘That really isn’t necessary, ma’am. It’s much safer for us to stay here. Really it is. You needn’t worry about it crashing or anything.’
That was the last thing she was worried about. Although it might provide certain people with a very convenient way out. Dead Librarians tell no tales. She’d have died in a tragic elevator accident. Such a pity, but accidents do happen . . .
The mob is after me, she wrote on the wall. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. Assessing the page’s morals, she tried a word that was supposed to have its own sort of magic. Please.
The page’s reluctance was visible in his face, but he nodded slowly. ‘All right, ma’am. There’s a hatch up there in the ceiling; we’re supposed to be able to climb through it, but I’m not sure as how either of us can reach it—’
Irene didn’t stop to ask for permission. She stepped forward, got a firm grip round the page’s waist as he squeaked and tried to back away, and hoisted him up towards the hatch. Fortunately he caught on fast, and in a moment she could hear him undoing catches.
‘It’s right heavy, ma’am . . .’
Irene heard him panting, then a thud. She looked up to see that he’d worked the panel loose and had pushed it up. There was now a dark hole in the elegant panelled roof, haloed by the shaking light of the torch. Dust drifted through it, and the smell of oil thickened the air.
The page dragged himself up as she supported him, his feet scraping Irene’s shoulders and leaving smears on her coat. He took the torch with him, of course. ‘I’m not sure as I’ll be able to pull you up, ma’am . . .’ he babbled.
She jumped for the edge of the hole in the ceiling, grabbing hold of it and, with some gasping and straining, she pulled herself up and through. Her old gymnastics coach might give her a few marks for effort, but would take several thousand off for lack of elegance. But she was through.
The dark lift shaft was full of oily cables and dust. Six feet above where they were standing, the torchlight faintly illuminated the elevator doors. It must be the seventh floor, the one they’d just passed.
She pointed up at it meaningfully.
‘We’re not supposed to open the elevator doors if there isn’t an elevator there,’ the page whispered. He looked miserable.
Irene patted him on the shoulder. Then she began to climb. There were enough handholds in the twisted cables for her to pull herself level with the closed doors in the wall. She had time for a quick prayer to any deities that might be listening and at all interested, as she reached towards the doors, eyebrow pencil in one hand, hanging onto the cables with the other. Please let my pursuers be on the floor below this . . .
Door, open, she scrawled in the near-darkness.
With an agonized noise of metal against metal, the door obeyed.
There was nobody on the other side.
‘Holy Mother of God and all his angels,’ the elevator page muttered. But he didn’t complain, and he scrambled up the cables and through the open door after Irene. ‘Ma’am, I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but . . .’
Irene nodded. She gave him a quick thumbs up, then ran for the stairs.
The ground floor was a seething mob of people running in all directions and demanding answers. Irene used her elbows to get through it. She could hear the wolves upstairs. It was only a matter of time until they picked up her scent. If she could just get a cab or steal a car, she could break her trail. But were Kai and Evariste prisoners? And exactly how much of New York would she need to take apart, if they were?
The wolves were getting louder. Irene staggered onto the sidewalk and looked for a taxi.
There weren’t any.