"Sir?"

Finn looked back at the guard.

"Would you like me to contact an alternate executive?"

"I don't think that would help with my investigation and I'd hate to waste anyone's time. It's very important that I speak to Irving Nast himself, and I can't wait for tomorrow, not on a case that involves four murders, including the deaths of two LAPD officers."

"I'm quite certain Mr. Nast would know nothing about that."

"I'm sure you're right." Finn sucked the sarcasm from his words. "I still need to speak to him."

"Let me contact Josef Nast for you. He's our CFO. Perhaps he can – "

"I don't think you understand. The CFO – "

" – will really not want to be bothered on a Sunday," said the young ponytailed man from behind Finn. "My uncle Josef is at church, as I'm sure your schedule shows, Mark."

The clerk jerked up, like a soldier snapping to attention. In the consternation that crossed his face, Finn saw the first proof that the man was indeed flesh and blood.

"Mr. Nast, sir," the guard said.

Finn took a closer look at the young man, seeing his face full-on, the resemblance to the photo now clear in the coloring and the brilliant blue eyes, though his build and features were thinner. That would explain how he got away with the ponytail.

The young man extended his hand. "Sean Nast."

"Mr. Nast is our COO," the guard said with a note of sourness that blamed Finn for making him look bad in front of a VIP.

Finn shook his hand and introduced himself.

"You wanted to speak to…?" Nast prompted.

"Irving Nast."

"Ah, you just missed him." Nast checked his watch. "Irving won't be home yet and I suspect if I call his cell, he won't answer." A wry smile. "I spent the morning pestering him with questions on a project and he was eager to be off. Why don't we go up to my office and I'll call his house in a few minutes, explain the situation and get him back here for you? He'll likely prefer not to have the police come to his home."

"You're above me," the werewolf said in that same calm voice. "You're standing just below the third-floor doorway."

How -? Oh, scent. A dog couldn't just track by a trail on the ground; it could smell you. The werewolf could smell him up here, smell his fear, the piss dried on his legs, the sweat streaking -

He swallowed, shoulder blades rubbing the wall, desperately trying to get farther from that railing, from the werewolf. He glanced up at the door. Only three steps away. Three seemingly endless steps.

Colm shut his eyes, not trying for a vision now, concentrating solely on sound. He hadn't heard any footsteps or shoes squeaking on the steps. Maybe the werewolf didn't know for certain that Colm was here. Maybe he was guessing.

"Have you heard of the interracial council?" the man continued. "They help supernaturals in trouble. My – the woman you saw with me, she works for them. We're here to help you."

Werewolves were as stupid as everyone said. Or maybe he thought Colm was the stupid one, especially if he expected him to buy that old lie about the council.

"If you don't know of the council, perhaps you've heard of Lucas Cortez?"

The man's voice remained steady, volume unchanged, meaning he hadn't moved. The moment he did, Colm was up those three steps and through the door.

"Lucas Cortez is famous for fighting the Cabals. If you're in trouble with the Nasts, Lucas can help."

This guy just didn't know when to quit. If one lie didn't work, spew another.

"I can phone him right now," the werewolf went on. "You can talk to him. Or you can talk to his wife, Paige Winterbourne, one of the council leaders. Just tell me who you'll trust and we'll get in touch with them."

The only people Colm trusted were the kumpania.

"Tell me what I can do to make you feel safe. I only want to talk to you."

A movement flickered on the stairs below. Then the top of the werewolf's dark head appeared. Colm blinked, certain it was a vision caught at a weird angle. He should have heard him climbing, heard his voice getting louder.

The man looked up, eyes meeting Colm's. Colm scrambled up the steps, his feet barely catching the edges, shoes skidding, the stairs seeming to move under him like an escalator, those three steps to the landing an impossible distance.

"There's no place to go," the man called, his words barely piercing the pounding of blood in Colm's ears.

He finally hit the landing. As he dove for the door, the handle turned. He spun before seeing who was on the other side, stumbling to the stairs and tearing up the next flight, his feet remembering how to climb now. He glanced at the fourth-floor door, but didn't need to be clairvoyant to guess that if he opened it, someone would be waiting on the other side.

As he raced to the next floor, he glanced over the railing. The werewolf was still two flights down, taking his time. Why not? He could get Colm anytime he wanted. He was a werewolf; Colm was a skinny fifteen-year-old clairvoyant.

The werewolf was still climbing, still not rushing, letting the distance between them grow. He reminded Colm of the kumpania barn cats – overfed beasts slipped scraps by the kitchen staff, they didn't need to catch mice to survive, so they toyed with them, getting close, falling back, batting them around until they finally tired of the game and chomped through their little necks.

Colm missed the next step and fell, palms smacking the concrete, shins striking the step edge, the pain so sharp it blinded him, and he started crawling up on all fours, feeling his way. When his vision cleared, the pain shifted to his wrist, and he glanced down to see the odd angle, a protruding knob of bone that wasn't right. He'd broken his wrist as a child and the doctor warned him it could happen again. Not now, please not -

"You need to slow down," the werewolf called up. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He hit the fifth-floor landing, ignored the door and ran up the next flight. Just keep going.

There wasn't much farther he could go. This flight was the last. He lurched for the door. He tripped, his hands flying out, hitting the door. The pain that jolted down his arm was excruciating.

With his good hand, he twisted the knob, but it didn't budge. He yanked on it. Yanked and yanked and -

It was obviously locked. He needed to slow down and do something about it.

There was a deadbolt, but it was on his side, to keep people from breaking in. The lock on the knob was a simple one. He pulled out his fake ID card, pushed it into the jamb, wriggled it and…

The door opened.

Colm pulled open the door and flew through, then reeled back, blinded by the sun.

He was on the roof.

He spun, blinking hard, praying this was a vision that would disappear, leaving him with a cool dark hall and a red exit sign to safety. It didn't happen.

There had to be a fire escape. He jogged the perimeter. Nothing. The door stayed shut. If the werewolf had followed, he should be up here by now.

Colm's cheeks ballooned as he puffed, calming down. Where he'd exited there was a closet-size "room." He could get behind it and hide, then -

Stop planning and move. Act, don't think.

He circled wide to his goal. He needed to get downwind – No, upwind. Or was it downwind?

Stop thinking! Just -

The door swung open.

Colm twisted out of the way.

"Wait!"

A woman's voice. He glanced over to see the Indian girl standing by the open door, her hands up, genuine fear on her face. Fear that he'd jump off the roof and her boss would punish her for losing a clairvoyant slave.

"It's okay." She took a measured step toward him. "It's just me, okay? I only want to talk to you."