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A polite tap at the door interrupted. "Mr. Catlin?" a man's voice inquired.
"Yes, come in, it isn't locked." Yet... The moment the driver was gone, Je
Je
The driver, grey-faced and grunting with the effort, was dragging himself across the floor. He left a sickening trail of blood, as though a mortally wounded garden snail had crawled across the carpets. Je
Je
"What in hell's going on, Catlin?" the driver gasped out, breathing shallowly against the pain.
"Long story," Je
Then she wrenched up the nearest window sash and let in a flood of relatively fresh, wet air. It stank, but coal smoke smelled better than the coppery stench of blood and burnt gunpowder in the room's close confines. Je
Ianira was taking in the blood, the corpse on the carpet, the wounded driver. Her eyes had gone wide, dark and terrified. She had to lean against Je
"What the hell—?" The driver was staring. "Who's that?"
Je
"Should I? Been living in London for the past eight years. Haven't been back on the station in at least seven..."
If this guy didn't know who Ianira Cassondra was, Je
"I'm going to lower you out the window," Je
Ianira plunged downward, staggered, landed. "Hurry!" the prophetess called up.
Je
"Sorry, really," Je
And the gunman charged out of the hotel's entryway. Gun in hand, he was heading for the window they'd just jumped from. But he hadn't seen them yet... Je
Je
"Yes... I ca
Je