Roxanne Fosch Files Collection

Chapter 12

I tried to sit and strategize a plan out of there, but every time I"d find myself up and pacing again. My mind whirled and whirled and not a single thought resembled the next. What now? What to do? What could the most powerful black sorcerer want from me?

Where are the missing pieces?

I paced to the door and examined it carefully. I wanted to try Remo"s theory, but was afraid to. Still… what if he was wrong?

I walked back to the elevator shaft and examined the door. Again, there was nothing there but a keyhole. The only difference between this one and the one downstairs was that this one was white instead of metallic grey. I tried sliding the door open, and… it gave a c***k! I renewed my attempt, excitement pumping me with adrenaline.

I pushed and pushed, the beige, thick carpet helping with excellent traction. And then I was staring at a yawning, dark hole.

The car wasn"t there.

I looked down, but as far as I could see there was nothing but a normal-looking cable. There weren"t even doors that opened on the other floors below. Just smooth, grey cement walls all the way.

It was a one-way elevator. How far? I looked around for something to throw down and decided on a whiskey bottle.

I dropped the bottle and waited. An eternity later came the tinkling sound of breaking glass.

Very far down, then. After giving it one more considering look, I returned back to the supposedly-warded door and examined it.

I passed my hand over the door knob and the same energy buzzing off Remo, vibrated off the door. I touched it with my fingertips, and nothing happened. There came no heat from it either. I closed my hand firmly over the knob and concentrated. After a moment or two, that buzzing energy became a soft vibration, beginning where knob touched skin and moving up, like a slimy, icy creature. It moved from limb to limb until my whole body vibrated with it.

But that was all.

Thrilled—hopeful now, my heart still kicking with unspent adrenaline, I pulled open the door a c***k. Still nothing, just the buzzing energy. Inch by inch I moved until the door gaped wide, my concentration tight on the vibrating energy.

I waited a full minute, aware of the time ticking away. Beyond the door, about twenty feet stood a bank of elevators.

My freedom.

“Hello?” I called.

No one answered.

“Hello!”

Still no answer.

“Help me!”

I let go of the door, the faint buzzing residual still coursing through me. I inched my right hand closer to the threshold, again concentrating on the buzzing level. I recalled all the spells and stuff the PSS had used that worked on every other preternatural but had no effect whatsoever on me. Like the blocking bracelet.

Could this ward be the same?

I inched closer and… reached the frame and… the threshold… and the buzzing… stopped.

Nothing happened. There were no infernal flames, no intense heat, no nothing.

I felt triumph and a spark of pride I hadn"t taken Remo"s bullshit for what it was and was about to take a triumphant step out the door when the world exploded.

There was a phantom tug before I was flung back. It was like being hit by a giant fist, so potent was the shove that I skidded a few inches off the floor. I hit the compact glass bar with a bone-jarring thud, teeth clacking before I slid to the floor in a shower of glass, liquid and noise. A lot of noise.

Stars danced in my vision, threatening to close in. Everything hurt. My back, my head, my legs, my ribs, my arms. Worst of all was the intense heat on my right hand.

When I managed to focus my watering eyes on it, my stomach contents curdled. Blisters covered the whole surface, and, oh God, some parts were charred black.

I am not a crier. The PSS certainly taught me how futile the sentiment was, but on that horrible night in the penthouse of the MGM, I bawled like a baby. But I didn"t let myself wallow in self pity.

After some deserved tears, I dried my face on the sleeve of my jacket and examined the damage closely. The whole hand, palm and back was either covered in blisters or charred. There wasn"t an inch, or a fraction of one, on the entire hand of healthy skin.

My wrist, however, was smooth and healthy.

My jacket was in perfect shape. No burn spots or smoke marred the cloth. My left hand, like my right wrist, looked smooth and unblistered. In fact, the only part of my body burning was the hand that had physical contact with the threshold. Of course, my body was screaming from all the injustice it"d been enduring lately. And it was all connected to Remo Drammen.

Shit, I had to get the hell out of there, or pain would be the least of my worries. First things first, my inner voice told me. Focus.

There should"ve been ice in the bar. I spotted what could be a freezer and braced to get up and cursed when a piece of broken glass cut the palm of my left hand.

“There goes smooth,” I murmured, watching the blood well up. With a calm I didn"t feel, I looked around at the mess, grabbed a vodka bottle that was still in one piece.

I studied it for a moment, my blood staining the glass red. With a loud, raging roar, I threw the bottle at the opposite wall. It exploded in a loud shower of glass, liquid and the strong scent of alcohol. Some of the glass fell through the threshold to the other side. I sighed, spiteful at the mess that littered the once perfect room.

Fifteen minutes later, I slammed the door shut with a bang. No one bothered to investigate all the noise. The makeshift ice bandage around my burning hand leaked water all over the place. The mess I was making gave me some childish satisfaction.

I moved to the window and watched as night turned into day. I couldn"t feel any of the buzzing energy at the window, but Remo Drammen had ensured I wouldn"t be going out that way simply by choosing the top most floors. And I realized there was nothing I could do but wait and see.