What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

from her mouth.
    Her hand caught at his, squeezed his fingers in a silent, trembling communication, then slid away to flutter down to her bloody side.
    One cheek pressed against her hair, Sebastian willed his breathing to still as he strained to penetrate the hushed blackness of night. He knew that at the time of the blunderbuss’s firing, Wilcox had been hidden amongst the crates back beneath the stairs. But he couldn’t be certain the man hadn’t moved since then. And while Sebastian doubted Wilcox’s ability to reload a blunderbuss in the dark, there was no way of knowing how many firearms he had with him. Even Kat wouldn’t know if the man had hidden a stash of carbines or pistols at various points about the warehouse before he brought her here.
    If he’d been alone, Sebastian would have taken the offensive, trusting his training and the unnatural quickness of his senses to even out the disadvantages of being unarmed and unfamiliar with his surroundings. But he couldn’t leave Kat, alone and vulnerable and hurt.
    Yet as the silence in the warehouse stretched out, a dark and tangible thing, Sebastian realized he couldn’t afford to wait for Wilcox to make the next move, either. He had no way of knowing how badly Kat was injured, but he could feel her life’s blood seeping hot and wet through the thick folds of his cravat, could smell the coppery tang mingling with the scents of salt and lanolin that lay so heavy on the night air.
    He took her hand in his and pressed it to the cloth at her side, then slipped his own hand away. Dipping his head, he brushed her cheek with his lips and found her face cold and unnaturally clammy. I’m not leaving you , he was telling her, although he had no way of knowing whether or not she understood.
    He could feel the cold dampness rising up from the water through the opening beside them, for their fall had brought them heart-stoppingly close to the edge of the trapdoor. The faint outline of a stack of coffee sacks showed near the opening’s edge. Moving by slow degrees, he was able to shift his weight until his shoulder touched one of the sacks.
    Gritting his teeth, he heaved, tipping the coffee over the edge. Then he rolled quickly away, taking Kat with him as the heavy bag flopped down to tumble some eight feet or more before sliding into the black water with a long and satisfyingly loud plop.
    Her trembling body held tight against his, Sebastian waited for another explosion of gunfire. But there was only a silence filled with the wash of ripples radiating out to slop against the timber supports before fading away into nothing.
    Wilcox’s voice came to him, low and mocking from out of the shadows to his left. “A pitiful ruse, Devlin. What were you expecting me to do? Carelessly venture forth on the assumption you’d slipped away?”
    Unwilling to give away their own position, Sebastian smiled grimly into the night. So the bastard had moved to a new position, behind the bales of Australian wool that lay between Sebastian and the doors leading out to the loading dock.
    “An interesting standoff,” Wilcox continued. “One might be tempted to say I’ve lost the advantage. Except that I can smell blood, Devlin. Yours, I wonder? Or hers? I can afford to wait out the night. Can you?”
    Kat’s hand snaked out, suddenly, to touch Sebastian’s arm. “ Sebastian ,” she whispered.
    But he had already seen it himself: a faint glow of orange growing steadily brighter behind the stack of wool bales near the base of the stairs. A spark from the blunderbuss’s explosion must have landed to smolder amidst the lanolin-rich bales. A breath of air stirred by the draft rising off the open trapdoor brought with it the faintest hint of burning raw wool, pungent and unmistakable. Then the entire pile burst into flames.
    As Sebastian watched, the flames leapt high, carried by the updraft from the open water door. With a whoosh , the old timbers of the staircase caught, coming alive with a crackling dance of fire that sent black smoke roiling through the building.
    He heard Kat suck in her breath on a stifled gasp and knew the full implications of the fire were not lost upon her. Wilcox was between them and the double doors leading to the water’s edge. With the stairs to the second story aflame and the main entrance to the lane padlocked on the outside, the only other way out the building was through the trapdoor. But it was an eight-foot drop into the icy cold waters of the