The witchlight sputtered out. I took hold of the door handle and pushed; the whole door fell inward, landing with a loud boom. I could see a short hallway leading to a large space that had been divided into a kitchen area, a living room, and a dining room. A set of glass sliders led to a small patio. Lacking a certain enthusiasm, I stepped gingerly into the place, followed by Mags and Ketterly, who was following the basic rule of all Tricksters: Keep the exits in play.
The place had been smashed to pieces. The glass doors were a pile of glass shards on the floor. Holes had been knocked into the walls, pictures torn from their hangers and flung wildly. The television lay on the carpet, bent and broken. All the kitchen appliances had been torn open, wires spilling out into the air, and the counters and cabinets looked like someone had taken a hammer to them. In the middle of the living area, a motorized wheelchair lay on its side.
I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t explain it, but wheelchairs freaked me out. Just the mere sight of one made my heart pound and set my whole nervous system to vibrating.
“The bathroom,” I croaked. “You said she locked him in the bathroom.”
Swearing continuously under his breath, Ketterly nodded and led us down a hall to the left, into the bedroom, a small dark room that looked like a tornado had torn through it. Everything that had once been on the walls or upright was now strewn on the floor. Someone had torn up the mattress with a blade of some kind, covering everything in white fluff.
The bathroom door was closed. Light leaked around the edges.
“Mags,” I said, flicking out the switchblade again. Ketterly, still muttering, had his penknife out. “On count of three, open the door.”
Mags nodded and stepped over to the bathroom. The door was a cheap privacy model, hollow-core. Wouldn’t keep a determined mouse out, yet it was probably the only thing in the whole place that was still in one piece.
We sliced our hands. I went a little deeper because I didn’t know what to expect and had to be ready to cast something useful. The sweet, sour sense of gas in the air, rich and pulsing with energy, made my stomach turn and my heart race with desire. I ran through the bits and pieces I’d picked up. Hiram had stopped teaching me a long time ago, but he’d always told me I was good with the Words. If I heard a spell, I could usually replicate it and even improve the grammar.
With one casual heave, Mags tore the door free from the lock. For good measure, he kept tugging, and the door popped off its hinges as well.
An old woman was sitting on the toilet, holding a semiautomatic pistol in both hands. She fired twice, aiming more or less directly at me.
The room went completely silent. I waited to feel the burning of a fresh wound, the abrupt wave of dizziness I knew so well, but it didn’t come. She’d missed.
The old lady squinted at me. “Who the hell are you?” she barked, her voice surprisingly deep and whiskey-burned.
I pointed at Ketterly. “We’re with him, ma’am.” I flexed my hand, squeezing a few extra drops of blood. If she raised the gun again, I would have to speak some Words fast.
She followed my hand and sagged a little. “Oh, thank goodness, Mr. Ketterly,” she said. “You must help me.”
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Ketterly wrapped it around his own wound. I kept mine open, not being as trusting of old ladies as he apparently was. He stepped forward. “Of course! Anything for you, Mrs. Landry. What can I do for you?”
This with the Trickster’s well-practiced tone of complete innocence, as if he’d simply failed to notice the trashed apartment, the call for help, and the near-accidental murder of his hired help. I had a feeling that if I ever needed to rely on Ketterly during any sort of apocalyptic happenings, I’d have to be prepared for bitter disappointment.
“My husband, Mr. Ketterly,” she said, trying to get up off the toilet, a desperate struggle that put the gun on each of us in turn. “He’s gone insane! Please, you must find him and bring him back here before he does something terrible. He’s lost his mind. He’s not himself!” She tottered into the room, looking around with watery eyes. “Hmmmn,” she said in a distressed tone as she noted the damage. “Hmmmn,” she repeated as she caught sight of Mags, her tone even more alarmed. Then she looked over at Ketterly and staggered toward him, gun first. “Please, Mr. Ketterly! I need your help. I will, of course, compensate you and your . . . people for your work!”
Ketterly was caught between trying to dance his way out of the direct line of fire and not offending someone who had just suggested that she’d pay him money in exchange for services. As Mrs. Landry drew close, he deftly plucked the gun out of her hands, and then she was on him, taking hold of his coat and sagging, using him to keep herself upright.
“Help me, Mr. Ketterly. You’re the only person I trust. Whatever it costs!”
Ketterly looked up at me, considering. “I’ll up it to fifty each,” he said, “if you’ll bleed.”
I glanced at Mags, who was holding the door in one hand as if he’d forgotten all about it. Bleeding for someone else was okay. It was my blood, I could do whatever I wanted with it. So could Mags. As long as we didn’t bleed other people, it was fine.
I looked back at Ketterly. “We’re in.”
2.