Falling by Debbie Moon Page A

way out of this, you just remember that.’
    Still no reaction.
    Damn.
    Jude started down the corridor.
    One thing was for sure. She was going to have difficulty kicking backsides in this skirt. Bloody Schrader and his bloody disguises. ‘They’ll never suspect you dressed like that,’ says he. I’ll bet he only wanted to see my legs, the –
    Schrader.
    The only person who’d been involved in this complex tangle of ReTracery twice. He’d been the one who’d handed her this assignment. Deputising for Warner while he was in a meeting. Was that significant?
    Answer: she had no idea. For all she knew, the clue to sorting all this out could be tied to the price of bean sprouts or her mother’s shoe size. Too many variables.
    Still. The way he’d looked at her on the Millennium Bridge. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a long time.’
    About what?
    Movement.
    Instinct, unhelpful as always, froze her to the spot.
    Yes, there. Behind the door. Very slight, just the twitch of a hand perhaps, or a head. Then stillness, and the shouts of the barge-men on the distant river, bellowing for trade or cursing their steersmen as another collision was narrowly avoided.
    Well, she thought, I have two choices. I can stand here until this hideous skirt gives me a wool rash, or I can take the initiative.
    Deliberately not stopping to think things through, she hurled herself at the door.
    With a terrible grinding of hinges, it slammed into the wall and bounced back at her, throwing her off balance. Something rose from behind it with a screech of terror, flapping and fluttering among the cobwebs. Wings beat briefly, desperately against the window glass. Behind the door, she could hear the faint cheeping of small and vulnerable things.
    Finding the missing section of glass at last, the raven launched itself out into the rain, crying out in triumph as it spiralled cloudwards.
    And then she saw him – felt him, more likely, registering the movement behind her with older, deeper senses than mere sight. Already gone when she turned, leaving just the blank absence of a corridor newly vacated.
    He was still here, then.
    â€˜Sorry about the birdbox.’
    The deserted chicks twittered panic and were silent, as if she’d somehow confirmed their worst fears.
    â€˜You don’t talk much, for a salesman. How’d you get this job anyway?’
    In the room the raven had abandoned, a box of cleaning supplies was perched on top of a heap of broken furniture. Stepping inside, Jude picked up a broken table leg, hefted it uncertainly. No. No, that was just silly.
    Whereas the spray detergent – well, that would be very useful indeed.
    Clutching her new-found weapon at her side, she marched back out to the corridor.
    How long would you be able to move at that speed? Not long. Even if your nerves were hyped enough to handle it, your heart couldn’t keep up the effort. Couldn’t move the blood round the body fast enough to feed the muscles. More than a few seconds and you’d basically suffer a stroke.
    No wonder he’d taken the lift. He couldn’t outrun her. He could use the speed burst to evade her, yeah, but in the long term, all it would do was wear him out.
    The next door. Ultramarine light and barricaded windows; she paused on the threshold, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Realising too late that standing outlined against the corridor lights wasn’t such a great idea.
    Shelves, glass-fronted and reflecting luminous blue. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. Papers rustled in the frigid currents circulating from the wide grilles in the ceiling. Goose pimples rose on her bare arms.
    Her reflection stared back at her from the glass: and behind it, something else was staring too.
    Shivering, transfixed, Jude moved closer.
    It was exactly the way she’d always imagined it. Jars and bottles and tanks lined up on the shelves, a Frankenstienian museum of the