by Neill, Chloe
I was glad Damien was behind me and couldn’t see the searing expression on my face. But I changed the subject.
“There was a girl sitting by Tanya at the house. Is that her sister?”
It took him a moment to answer, which only piqued my killing curiosity even more. “Emma,” he said. “Her name is Emma.”
His voice was softer now, careful, as if speaking her name too loudly would work its own magic.
We reached the front door and I pulled it open, relieved to breathe fresh air again. The neighborhood smelled different than the Breckenridge estate had. There, the air was heavy with the scents of crushed pine needles, animals, pastures. The air on Aline’s front porch smelled more like a city—more smoke, more vehicle exhaust, even the scent of food from the carnival down the road.
Aline’s mailbox was at the end of the pitted sidewalk in front of her house, the wooden post surrounded by a tangle of vines with long-wilted flowers. I pulled open the door, found a single envelope inside.
I looked at it for a moment, debating whether I’d be jailed for tampering with the mail.
“Problem?” Damien asked, looming behind me. He was tall enough to peer over my shoulder but seemed content to let me do the tampering.
“None at all,” I said, sliding the envelope from the box and turning to read the label in the streetlight.
Luck shifted. It was addressed to Aline Norsworthy from Pic-N-Pac Storage, and from the clear window on the front, I guessed it was a bill.
“Aline has a storage unit,” I said, handing the envelope to Damien, who ripped it open and pulled out the letter.
“A new storage unit,” he said, handing the paper to me. It was a bill for forty-eight dollars, fifteen of which was allocated to a “New Locker Setup Fee,” which was processed two days ago.
I whistled, glanced up at Damien. “Our disappeared shifter just rented a storage unit.”
I memorized the address, stuffed the letter into the mangled envelope, and put it back where I’d found it.
“I’m pretty sure mail tampering’s a felony.”
Damien made a gravelly laugh, started back up the sidewalk. “Girl, you’re a vampire. This day and age, everything you do is a felony.”
Chapter Seven
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
We walked back into the house to collect Jeff, found him huddled over a boxy computer that sat on a desk comprised of cardboard boxes and vintage board games.
“Not much for tech, is she?” I asked.
Jeff offered the arrogant grunt of an IT whiz kid. “Not even slightly. And she’s stealing wireless from her neighbors. But that’s neither here nor there.”
Damien stepped forward. “Did you find anything that is here or there?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, typing with the heavy, plastic clack of ancient keys, “I did.”
He pulled up a browser window that showed the pixelated image of a receipt—for a flight to Anchorage that had left at eight o’clock this morning.
My brows lifted in surprise. I hadn’t actually expected him to find evidence Aline had skipped town. She seemed the naive and complaining sort, the type to gripe about irritations but not actually attempt to fix them.
I looked back at Jeff. “I presume you fly into Anchorage if you’re going to Aurora?” The North American Packs’ ancestral home was in Aurora, Alaska. If she was running, she was running back to ground.
“You do,” Damien said.
“Leaving town doesn’t mean she had anything to do with the attack,” I pointed out. “Maybe it was the last straw for her. The last failure of the Keene family.”
“The ticket was booked five days ago,” Jeff said, pointing to the purchase date on the screen.
I frowned. “So she planned to leave nearly a week ago, but shows up to Lupercalia, waits out the attack, and leaves. If she knew the attack was going down, why show up at all?”
“Maybe she wanted to see it,” Jeff said. “Maybe she’s angry enough that she wanted to watch it go down. She wanted her revenge.”
It was definitely plausible. And it was the best lead we had.
“I’ve uploaded the hard drive onto a thumb drive,” Jeff said, holding up the small stick. “I can dig more at the house. You find anything?”
“She rented a storage unit. Bill was in the mailbox.”
“I love the smell of evidence in the morning,” Jeff said. He flipped the computer’s power toggle and rose again. “I think we’re done here. Let’s check it out.”
“What about the cat?” I asked. “If she’s gone to Alaska, we shouldn’t leave it here alone.”
Damien disappeared for a moment, reappeared a minute later, the kitten blinking drowsily in the crook of his arm. “I’ll take him.”
Tall, dark, and handsome was hot. Tall, dark, and handsome with nestled kitten? Atomic.
“It will need a name,” Jeff said.
Damien looked down at the scrimpy kitten in his arms, scratched between his ears, and set the cat purring. “Boo. I’ll call him Boo.”
And that’s how Boo Garza joined the North American Central Pack.
• • •
The brain coped with complexity by making shortcuts, by categorizing.
Shifters, to my brain, were a rough-and-tumble sort. So I expected Damien Garza was the type to open a beer bottle with his teeth. I expected he loved a good steak, had specific opinions about football or boxing or hockey. He had the look and the vibe.
I did not expect we’d drive to Pic-N-Pac Storage in his tiny, fuel-efficient car while he held a kitten on his lap, its rumbling purr audible even in the backseat.
Damien Garza was a good reminder that people were rarely what they seemed, that judging a book by its cover was a remarkably inaccurate way of taking its measure.
On the way, Jeff called Aline’s work. I checked on Ethan and advised what we’d found.
ALINE MAY HAVE SKIPPED TOWN, I messaged. FOUND TRAVEL RECEIPT TO ALASKA. CHECKING STORAGE UNIT.
It took a few moments for him to answer—a delay that made me worry more about his safety—and I felt a wash of relief when his message came through.
THAT’S A LEAD, he agreed. SORCERERS MAKING GO OF FESTIVAL. MOOD STILL GRIM, BUT BOOZE AND MEAT SOOTHE FEELINGS.
So I’d been right about the meat and beer.
STAY ALERT, he told me, and my phone went silent again.
Communications done, I glanced at Jeff. “Any luck at the office?”
“No answer,” he said. “But her voice-mail box was full.”
“So people have been trying to reach her?” I wondered.
“That’s what it looks like.”
We found the Pic-N-Pac on the edge of town, a run-down area far from the wealth of the Breck estate.
The facility, a few rows of low-slung metal storage sheds, was situated between a mobile home park and a closed skating rink, the FOR SALE sign fading and cracked, not unlike everything else we saw.
We pulled through the gate, passing only a couple of pot-bellied guys in a beat-up truck loading very large boxes into storage. They stared at us as we passed, clearly not happy about the company.
“What number?” Damien asked.
“Forty-three,” I told him. It was the last locker on the second row, its aluminum sliding door closed with a silver padlock.
We climbed out of the car, waited until Damien had built a bed for Boo on the front seat from his leather jacket. Boo immediately climbed inside, pawed at the leather, and snuggled in.
We glanced at the lock. “I don’t suppose either of you has a bolt cutter?” I asked.
“Bolt cutters lack subtlety,” Damien said, stepping forward and pulling a couple of small silver implements from his pocket. He inserted them into the key slot while Jeff looked nervously around.
“Might
want to do that quickly,” Jeff suggested. “In case there’s security?”
“Camera’s busted,” Damien said without looking up. “Check Merit’s seven o’clock.”
Jeff and I both looked back to the position Damien had indicated, found a small camera perched on the wall between Aline’s locker and the next one, its unconnected wires dangling below like tentacles.
Little wonder Gabriel trusted Damien with “sensitive” matters. His attention to detail was impressive.
With a snap, the lock flipped open. Damien replaced his tools and tossed aside the lock.
He put a hand on the lever but looked back at us. “Anybody think anything’s in there?”
I lifted the block on my vampire senses, which was usually down so I wouldn’t be driven mad by an excess of sensations. But even with my shields down, I sensed nothing at all.
“Not that I can tell,” I said, but unsheathed my sword anyway. Better to be safe than sorry. Or leave Boo without a father.
“In that case . . . ,” Damien said, pulling up the door with a ratcheting sound. He flipped a penlight from his pocket and shined it into the space.
It was empty except for a cardboard box on the ground, the top flaps woven closed.
“That was anticlimactic,” Jeff said as I slid the sword home again.
Damien moved forward and nudged the box with a toe. When nothing happened, he crouched in front of it and pulled open the flaps.
“Looks like trash to me.” He stepped back, gesturing for me to take a look.
The box was filled with ephemera. Old photographs and paper scraps, notes and holiday cards. I reached inside, pulled out a black-and-white photograph. It was an old-fashioned Polaroid, a pretty woman kneeling on the ground, each arm around a cute kid.
I turned the picture around. “Chas and Georgie,” it read.
I glanced back at Jeff and Damien. “What were the names of the boys Aline wanted the Pack to shelter?”
“Jack?” Jeff asked, looking at Damien. “Something with a ‘J’?”
“George,” Damien said. “And Charles.”
Wordlessly, I handed over the picture, let Jeff and Damien reach their own conclusions.
“I somehow doubt this is a coincidence,” Jeff said, dropping the photograph back into the box. “But why would she bother to get a storage unit for one box of stuff?”
“Maybe this stuff was important to her,” I said. “The boys certainly were. Maybe she wanted to keep these things separate and safe when she decided to run.”
“Or she needed the space for more hoarding,” Damien said, rising again. “And this is the first thing she decided to store here.”
That was certainly the easier answer. The more obvious answer. But either way, the case against Aline was getting stronger.
• • •
Without another immediate lead, Jeff and Damien decided to take a break and work through what we knew about her reason for leaving. They picked a twenty-four-hour chain restaurant not far from the Pic-N-Pac, a diner-style joint at the end of the parking lot where the carnival held court.
It was late, music still blasted from the carnival’s speakers, and the Ferris wheel rolled lazily, the spokes outlined in lights that flashed in patterns as it turned. The air smelled deliciously of fried food and sugar. Damien tucked Boo into his nest, and we walked inside, found plenty of quiet booths. While the guys slid into one, arguing about the best way to serve hash browns—plain, or covered with cheese and onions—I stopped at the jukebox inside the door, bosom buddies with a cigarette machine that now held packs of gum. I hadn’t seen a jukebox in years, so I scanned the music choices, which ran the gamut from Top 40 to classic country, heavy on the big hair and sequin vests.
My phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket, found the number blocked.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lakshmi,” said the prettily accented voice on the other end of the line.
My heart began to pound, and I glanced back at Jeff and Damien, who were looking over laminated menus. I had only a moment to talk.
“Hi,” I nervously said. “Are you trying to reach Ethan?”
“I am trying to reach you,” she said. “I’d like to discuss our previous arrangement.”
I cursed silently. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known this was coming, but her timing could hardly have been worse. “You need a favor?”
“I do. But it would be better to discuss in person.”
I wouldn’t renege on our deal. That would be dishonorable for me, the House, and Jonah, who’d put his ass on the line to get the favor from Lakshmi in the first place. On the other hand, I was rather involved in something at the moment.
“I can’t really get away right now.”
“Ah, yes. The murder investigation and the shifters,” she said, apparently aware of what was going on.
“Yes. I don’t suppose you have any pull with Mayor Kowalcyzk? Or know anything about harpies?”
She was silent for a moment. “That’s what attacked the Pack? Harpies?”
“Well, a magical manifestation of harpies, anyway.”
“And the Pack is holding you hostage?” she asked.
“We’re helping them investigate.” That was only partly the truth, but enough for her purposes. I wasn’t about to incite a war between shifters and vampires by telling the GP we were at their mercy.
“When can we meet?” she asked.
I stood there dumbly for a moment, the phone in hand, debating my next move. I’d have to meet with her, one way or the other. But to do it, I’d have to get away from the shifters, the sorcerers, the house, and Ethan. He knew about my RG membership, but he didn’t know Lakshmi was a source. This was going to be tricky.
“I can come to you,” she offered. “It’s a matter of some urgency. Where can we meet?”
I looked back at the table, and Jeff caught my eye, waved me forward. I was nearly out of time.
“There’s a carnival in Loring Park,” I said, providing directions to the first place that came to mind. It would be busy—full of sounds and smells and people—and would give us a bit of anonymity.
“One hour,” she said, and disconnected the call.
I checked the clock on the wall, ensuring I knew when to make my exit. Now I just had to figure out how to do it.
I rejoined the shifters, sliding into the booth beside Jeff. “Cadogan House,” I said. “Just checking in.”
“News from home?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “What looks good?”
“Waffles and bacon for me,” Jeff said, handing over his menu. “And Damien’s looking at crepes.”
“I do not eat crepes. Eggs, sausage, toast,” he said, when the uniformed waitress walked over, a notepad in hand. “Eggs over hard. Toast buttered.”
“Hon?” she asked, glancing at me over glasses with square frames.
“Just orange juice.”
She nodded and disappeared through a door that flapped back and forth.
“Just orange juice?” Jeff said with a chuckle, sliding his menu back into place. “Since when do you just have orange juice?”
Since a member of the GP asked for a secret meeting, I thought, my stomach roiling with nerves. But I couldn’t exactly tell them that.
“Stress,” I said, crossing my arms against the chill. Patrons moved in and out of the diner, which sent blasts of cold air careening across the restaurant.
“Ah,” Jeff said, linking his hands on the table. “So Aline. What are we thinking?”
“The receipt says she left town,” Damien said. “Although the circumstances are suspect. She left a cat and a single box in a storage locker. She left one day into Lupercalia, when she could have avoided it altogether.”
I tilted my head at Damien. “So you think the receipt’s bogus?”
<
br /> He glanced up at me. “I am not sure. But I think it’s suspect.”
“She could have been set up,” Jeff said.
“Do we know of any specific enemies?” I asked. “Other than the Keene family, I mean.”
“I do not,” Damien said.
The waitress came back bearing drinks, which she passed out with smiles.
“Does she have any friends in the Pack?” I asked, when the waitress disappeared again. “She seemed to know Berna. They talked last night, anyway.”
“Good thought,” Damien said. “I’ll ask her. Other than that, I believe she kept to herself?” He glanced at Jeff for confirmation.
“Far as I know,” Jeff said.
“What about people in Aurora?” I asked. “Would she have told anyone she was coming? Made arrangements to stay with a friend? I mean, I don’t imagine there are lots of hotels up there.” I leaned forward, curious. “Actually, how do you accommodate everyone if the Packs get together up there?”
“Giant puppy piles,” Damien dryly said. “Curled up on an old plaid blanket by the fire.”
I knew he was joking, but it did make for an interesting mental image.
“There’s a resort,” Jeff said. “A former resort, anyway. The Meadows. Had its heyday in the fifties and sixties.”
I imagined well-heeled men and women playing badminton in long white skirts and pants, staff members carrying watermelons to their bunkhouses, Dirty Dancing–style.
“It fell into disrepair,” Jeff said. “The Packs got together, bought it, rehabbed it. Now it’s private, and it holds a hell of a lot of shifters. Nothing fancy, but it does the job. Plenty of space to act human, plenty of space to roam.”
Visiting the Meadows popped up to the top of my bucket list. “How does a vampire get an invitation to such a place?” I wondered.
“They don’t,” Damien said. “Unless you’re volunteering to be kibble.”
“I am not,” I crisply said, sitting back again. He was joking, but considering the mood at the house, I decided there was still a kernel of truth in it.
“We wouldn’t make kibble of you,” Jeff said. “We’d serve you up with fava beans and a nice Chianti.”