Chapter 6
Maxim had never been a big fan of driving.
Too many rules at odds with too many uncertainties.
Maybe he would like it more if his life didn’t depend on the knowledge and attention span of every other person on the road.
He would definitely like it more if there wasn’t a woman sprawled over the back who, when she wasn’t apologizing for bleeding on the upholstery, was burning a hole right in the center of Maxim’s carefully constructed sense of calm.
He blew through another barely red light. The steering wheel squeaked beneath his grip, and for the thirtieth time this minute, he glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no flashing lights followed them.
His phone announced an upcoming turn. As soon as he’d started the car, Pippa had given him her address and he’d tapped it in with shaking fingers. Every time he glanced at the directions, he saw the red smear his bloodied thumb had left on the screen.
Pippa fell silent in the back. Panic punched into Maxim’s stomach, and he risked a quick look backward. She was very pale. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes stark against her cheeks, her mouth slack.
“Fuck!”
A car had slowed in front of him, and only by slamming on the brakes did he avoid hitting it.
Pippa let out a startled warble, and Maxim felt her bump against the back of the driver’s seat.
“Whattshappen?” she slurred.
“Traffic,” he said, his throat tight. “You all right?”
“Mrhh. Yeah. You jus’ gotta drive better.”
Relief at her being alive clashed with the new panic of a near crash.
He should have put a seat belt on her. Although, if he was getting into shoulds, he should have ignored her argument, he should have taken her straight to the emergency room, he should have— What, not followed her into the elevator?
Let her fight that monster by herself, get stabbed, and then lie in a broken heap as the elevator car careened into pieces in the basement?
“They’re moving,” Pippa said.
Maxim frowned at the motionless traffic ahead. “What?” He twisted around but, seeing nothing unexpected in the back seat or out the windows, turned back to the road. She was alert, propped up on an elbow with her face screwed up in concentration. “What’s moving?”
“The walls.”
The traffic began to inch forward, and Maxim zipped around a delivery van. “What walls?” He didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, though given what had happened today, he felt like he couldn’t be faulted for any lack of finesse with his words.
“The . . . walls,” Pippa said, as if it was self-explanatory. “They’re moving. I knew they would, but there are cracks. They’re . . . they’re bowing. Bending. I think . . . whatever this is, it’s not going to last much longer.”
She sounded relieved, at least, and she was no longer slurring her sentences. If she was losing her connection with her sanity, then the one positive would be that she was going about it articulately.
The tires squealed as he turned a corner.
Even though he was now entangled in the sort of anxiety-inducing mess he usually tried to avoid, entangling himself in Pippa’s messy, violent, fascinating life had been the right decision.
As he’d fought a monster—an actual monster, not just a young asshole who expressed feelings with their fists—he had known exactly what he needed to do.
Sure, he was terrified, and adrenaline was still tacky and sour on his tongue, but it wasn’t the same sort of gut-twisting, finger-tingling terror that stopped him from acting; it was the sort that made him act.
And it had felt . . .
Good.
Disturbingly good.
The feeling of fighting real evil was grounding in a way that conscious breathing and tapping his fingers and mindfulness exercises never had been.
The apartment complex where Pippa lived wasn’t in a bad part of town, but it wasn’t in a great part, either. The landscaping consisted of scraggly bushes and trees so hemmed in by concrete and asphalt they looked one hot day away from withering into kindling.
Maxim careened into an empty parking spot in front of her building.
She’d told him it was “E,” though the only proof he was at the correct one was the faded silhouette of the letter left behind where a metal sign must once have been screwed into the exterior wall.
The entire atmosphere made him more than a little uncomfortable thinking about his own condo, with its modern glass paneling, uncracked concrete walkway, and a front yard pulled straight from a magazine.
He helped Pippa out of the car, slinging her arm over his shoulders.
The going was slow over crisped grass and exposed, gnarled roots.
When she’d been in the car with him the previous day, she’d smelled of peaches.
Her shampoo maybe, or her soap. A gentle breeze jostled her hair about and brought that same peach scent to his nose.
Now it came along with sweat, blood, and the sulphury tang from the demon.
She was putting more of her weight on him. Her rib cage expanded in short, pained breaths alongside his own.
“I’m really tired, Maxim,” she whispered.
The fear in her words crawled down his throat and nestled low in his gut.
She hadn’t actually seemed afraid up until now, and that stoked his own worries higher.
Her apartment loomed ahead like some sort of bastion.
As if changing locations would be the only respite they required, instead of intensive medical care and a backup force with earpieces and heavy weaponry in case any more threats against their lives arose.
He shifted his grip on the wrist Pippa had flung over his shoulders, squeezing it in a little pulse of reassurance.
The small courtyard they were crossing was empty.
Yet . . . what if something came after them now?
With the combined attacks of last night and today, all logic pointed to an organized plan, the end goal of which was putting an end to Pippa Beverly.
Any creature that attacked them here, in this crappy, sunny courtyard, wouldn’t come up against any sort of meaningful defense.
That creature in the elevator had been fast. Strong. Maxim had sparred with people he’d secretly suspected of performance enhancers; he’d never encountered the sort that shrugged off every hit like his fists had been marshmallows.
As they walked, he glanced at windows and darkened entryways, dreading to see a curtain twitch or a curious face peek out around a corner.
Part of him wanted someone to notice them, to run in their direction and ask if they needed help, then join Maxim in subduing Pippa so she could get the care she needed.
And then he could call the police, tell them about the fight and—
And what, exactly?
A hamburgered demon corpse at the base of an elevator shaft?
Maxim’s left eye twitched as he glared at the sidewalk in front of them.
Pippa tightened her hold briefly on his shoulders as they reached the stairs to her apartment.
He supposed he just had to trust her; she had been a part of this world for a long time.
The obvious way to move forward was to believe she knew what she was doing, even if he couldn’t see the logic in it.
Pippa’s keys were back in the office. Maxim bit back a retort when she wiggled one side of her door frame loose and pulled a spare key from behind it. It didn’t seem like an especially secure hiding place and certainly wasn’t a mark of fine craftsmanship.
She disentangled herself from him as soon as they entered, then promptly sagged onto a short end table by her couch.
“Thanks,” she said.
The finalistic way she said that, with an “I’ll see you later, goodbye!” very much implied, didn’t sit well with Maxim.
He closed the door, then thought of demons and monsters and threw the deadbolt. Not that a single stick of steel would help much, but it felt a little nicer.
Pippa gave a soft, frustrated groan he was sure she hadn’t meant for him to hear.
“I’m not leaving until I’m convinced you won’t collapse and bleed out,” he said in response.
She looked to be chewing over her thoughts, trying to figure out what would be the most likely thing to say to convince him she didn’t need his presence. Nothing must have come to mind, or she was too exhausted to continue thinking, so she gave another long sigh.
“Just wait out here.” Her legs trembled as she stood.
“While you do . . . what?”
“I have a sewing kit in the bathroom.” She winced as she put weight on her injured leg, then began to wobble toward a short hallway. “I’ll be a few minutes. Just read a magazine or something.”
He watched her until she shut herself into the bathroom. The only light in the hallway was a warm slice beneath the door.
Maxim paced. He couldn’t sit; his clothes were dirty and horrible, her couch was clean.
He dragged his fingers through his hair and exhaled hard through his nose.
Why was he even trying? She obviously didn’t want him here.
Had she lied about giving him answers just to manipulate him into taking her home?
His sigh emerged as a tight, frustrated growl.
Well. He wasn’t going anywhere until he was either convinced she was going to be all right or he’d figured a way to convince her that she needed help more than his meager first-aid training could provide.
So he rolled his shoulders and looked around her apartment.
A witch’s home, in his opinion, should have been dark and filled with enough incense to make him choke. Candles, too, or at least a lot of cast iron pots. Bundles of dried herbs would hang from a low ceiling next to skulls and shining glass bottles waiting to be filled.