by Faith Hunter
The Lafitte Greenway had been created in 2016 on land that had, until that point, been ignored. The bicycle and pedestrian path was a twelve-foot-wide multiuse trail along the linear park, a nearly three-mile stretch connecting the French Quarter to Bayou St. John. The greenway also linked to the neighborhoods on either side via St. Louis Street and Lafitte Avenue. Counting the houses and businesses and warehouses along the length of the park-in-progress, it was a heck of a big place to hide enemies, especially in the rain and the dark.
We thought we knew where the vamps and their prisoners were hiding, but it never hurt to be careful. Eli and Derek, in separate armored SUVs, took different streets along the greenway; Derek was on Lafitte, with Rick, Brute, and Gee, checking out the neighborhoods for anything that felt or looked wrong; and Eli, Edmund, Bruiser, and I toured the St. Louis side. We drove slowly, in meandering circles, the storm runoff abated just in time for more rainfall. Three blocks from the warehouse, Eli spun the wheel, taking us along a side street to circle each of the blocks, studying every house, empty lot, business.
The wind and rain again increased, almost as if the storm had spotted us and worsened on purpose. I checked my cell and followed the progress of the spiral arms of the storm on weather radar. No, something was, for once, coincidence. The newest wave of rain and lightning was right on time. The weather map showed red blobs within the storm band where dangerous wind and hail were, and pink bands where sleet was falling. It was cold for New Orleans, temps now hovering well below freezing. Not normal.
I closed my cell and took in the industrial buildings, many marked with mixed gang signs and some really artistic graffiti. We passed little empty lots, a few two-story Creole town houses, and lots of Creole cottages. The residences were painted vibrant shades of purple and yellow and rusty red, most with small gardens anywhere soil could be found, along the sidewalks and between the houses in the narrow pass-throughs. There were also pots everywhere, most pulled up close to the houses and under front porches, many covered with plastic against the cold.
One house, painted a rich green and white that I could make out even in the dark, in the flash of headlights, sported a claw-footed bathtub on the ground in front of the front porch. On the porch itself were several huge planters and an honest-to-God urinal all planted with winter veggies and winter flowers. Everything was beneath plastic shower curtains printed with flying tropical birds. Because—New Orleans.
We circled slower as we neared the warehouse, the suspected lair of our enemies, windows down, Bruiser and Eli in front, comparing notes on tactics for getting inside, me behind the driver’s seat, my nose out the window, sniffing. I caught the smell of blood at one house, but there were people sitting in the front window, watching TV, so I figured it wasn’t a dead body. And I caught the smell of vamps, unknown vamps, powerful and deadly, the herbal scent of lemon verbena and anise and the rich scent of leather. Had to be Le Bâtard, Louis Seven, and the strangers from the dinghies. I smelled the Marchands, the little traitors, and a faint trace of Sabina. Riding above the scents was the tingle of magic, though that might be from the storm, which was gathering strength. Wind pummeled the SUV, gusts rocking the heavy vehicle.
Overhead, the clouds danced with lightning, and when I pulled on Beast-vision, I spotted arcenciels pirouetting in the flashes of power. Soul, Opal, and two others. Now there were four of them: one in blues and greens and crystal brightness, one copper tones and flashing brass, one in opal shades of fire and stone, and the last one in silvers and grays and glimpses of moonlight. They were stunning. But no one except Gee and I could see them. To the others they were simply lightning flashing cloud-to-cloud. And I worried. Why were they still here? Why were they not outside of time? Were they stuck in the clouds? Arcenciels could be trapped in crystal and ridden, their magic stolen by the person who rode them. Their time-altering abilities used. It was telling that they were here, in real time, not in their own little bubble of time, and that my time magics were malfunctioning.
Unknown magic skittered across my flesh and was gone.
Over the coms, Derek said, “Big Bird has flown the coop.” It wasn’t code, but if someone was listening in, they wouldn’t know what had happened. Gee DiMercy had shifted shape and flown. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen on the backseat, the view from overhead.
My earbud hissed and then I heard Eli say, “Copy. We have visual. Initiating Operation Insertion. George will drive our vehicle. Give us until I mention my mama and then the big cat can come in. That’ll mean the way is clear.”
Big cat had to mean Rick.
“Roger that,” Rick said.
The smell of Tex-Mex food grew on the air, chicken and beef, lots of spices, ears of corn roasted over an open flame, hot grease. Pepe’s taqueria appeared at the end of the block, lights from inside spilling into the rain, making the lights flow like luminous liquid. Eli pulled over and shoved the SUV into park. In a street-tough, faintly Cajun accent I had never heard before, he said, “You ready?”
“I’m always ready.” It was a silly line, but I liked it.
We both exited on the driver’s side as Bruiser slid across the seat, put his foot on the brake, and shifted into drive. “Be careful,” he said. Because vamps might have a lookout inside. Right. Eli held out his hand. I took it and we raced through the storm and under the awning, where we brushed rain off us as we looked through the storefront window.
Eli said, “It’s smaller in there than we thought. We’ll have to put on a real show to keep their attention from the door.”
“Long as they don’t call the cops,” I said. “We don’t have time for the cops.
“Call the cops? In New Orleans? How long have you been living in this city?”
He had a point. Unless there were ambulances and near death, or rich people involved, cops didn’t come to domestics or bar fights. “Okay by me,” I said, with that same evil grin.
Eli leaned and caught my jacket in one hand, pulling me back. In that surprisingly good Cajun accent he said, loudly, “You don’ cheat on me. You hear?”
“You ass!” I shouted.
Eli twitched at my cussing. Just a tiny twitch, but it was enough. Inside I thought, Score! He shoved open the door of Pepe’s and yanked me behind him. He shouted, “You trying to tell me you din be makin’ eyes at Jimmy Ray?” He walked into Pepe’s with all the machismo of a street thug. Dragging me behind him by the jacket.
“I hadda look at him,” I yelled back. “He was passing me a beer. You want I should guess where it is?” I covered my eyes, stretched out my other arm, and made a dramatic waving motion. “You’re stupid, you know that? Now lemme go or things’ll get nasty.”
“You got a mouth on you, you do.”
I yanked my clothes free, fisted my free hand, and took a long step for momentum.
To the three people inside, he said, “You see what I gotta put up with this li’l bit—”
I shoved Eli across the room, into the corner. Holding back. The breath blasted out of him. “I was careful, so I didn’t hurt you. Much,” I yelled. “I ain’t no cheater, you ass.”
This time Eli didn’t twitch. He slapped the back of my head. Not hard but it stung. And it was on, as I kicked his shins. Like a grade school child. I charged him clumsily and we spun around together. Maneuvering us toward the corner farthest from the door. We splashed though a wet spot on the floor. My feet flew and I nearly fell. I screeched, kicked over four chairs and a small table, sending them crashing. A chair tripped Eli. We both went down.
As I fell I realized we had all three employees, a man and two women, racing to us, away from the entrance. Perfect. Except that I hit the floor, landing hard on my elbow. Pain sparked through me. My left hand went numb. A wounded breath whistled out of me.
Eli roared with fake fury. “You sleeping with Jimmy Ray!”
“I’m not, but if I did, his dick would
be bigger than yours. Your mama told me so!”
“You bes’ be leaving my mama outta dis!”
The helpful employees were trying to separate us and pull us to our feet. I screamed, keeping their attention on me as Rick dashed in from the storm and raced around the counter, into the kitchen. He vanished into the back.
“Lemme go!” I shouted, standing up. “You can take your silly insecurities and shove ’em where the sun don’t shine!” I elbowed my way out of the group and out the door. Into the shadows and the freezing rain. Rubbing my elbow and my scalp and muttering, “Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” as freezing rain blasted into my collar and down my back. My legs froze in the icy wet wind. Stupid girly clothes.
“Janie said dick,” Alex said into my earbud. “And ass.”
“Shut up,” I said, breathing hard, laughing and wheezing in pain under my breath. “Holy crap, this hurts. And it’s called Method acting.”
“It’s called foul language,” he countered. “I get pizza.”
“Whatever.”
The SUV’s lights flashed. I dashed to it and inside, into the amazing warmth of the heater and the towel Bruiser held out to me. I stripped, dried off, and wrapped up in a blanket, unfolding the new armor as my arm regained some painful sensation and movement. We listened to the angry banter between Eli and the store employees as I changed into the dry long underwear and the new armored uniform. Eli ordered a dozen tacos of various different kinds, putting down the now ex-girlfriend. It was colorful and Eli managed to sound like a total . . . well, a total dick. His ex-girlfriend had been a smart chick when she left him. A good ten minutes later Eli raced through the rain and got into the backseat.
“Dude,” Alex said over the headphones. “I am like, totally awestruck. Can I have your autograph?”
“What about me?” I asked. “You don’t want my autograph?”
“Only if I can have it on a naked picture of one of the Kardashians.”
Eli passed out tacos. “The cook said the shredded chicken is the best, but the two chicks said the pork is worth dying for.”
I got one of each and we chowed down, me wrapped in a blanket, listening to Rick, following his progress via softly spoken bursts of comments. His voice deepened, growing scratchy as he narrated his passage, which showed up on the SUV’s screen, and I realized he was wearing an IR monocular. And he was fighting going catty with the stress, even though it wasn’t the full moon. I wasn’t sure how much control Rick had over his wereleopard. If he lost control, this could get rough. “Walkway into parking area between buildings,” he murmured. “Five vehicles. Three food trucks. Two limos. One of the limos is still hot.” Which meant it had pulled in recently. Which meant people inside the warehouse somewhere. “I smell DBs.”
Dead bodies. Got it. I tensed all over and the taco curdled in my stomach. Brian and Brandon were likely inside the warehouse somewhere. So was Grégoire. Hopefully still alive. I wrapped the rest of the food and put it back in the bag.
“No visible security cams,” Rick said. “No lights on. Moving from the back of Pepe’s around each of the trucks.”
Eli murmured to us, “We have new visual from Gee on tablet.” Black-and-white video shifted to low-light images from overhead. I could see Rick, barely, in between two food trucks, near the edge of the warehouse’s narrow roof.
Derek said softly, “Pulling around the block. Positioned a hundred feet from the vehicle entrance at twelve.”
Rick half growled, “Approaching alpha five. No cams noted. Door is open. Repeat, door is not locked. Entering.”
I heard a door open and close and thought for a moment about Rick being a cop. Needing probable cause or a judge’s signature on a warrant to enter private property. He had neither. Yet he was going in. Because paranormal creatures—like me, like the vamps we were going after—had no legal rights. None. Our law-keeping was done in the trenches, with blades and guns and no mercy. Something cold and hard formed in my heart. But now was not the time to look at that. Now was the time to get my people back.
The ambient noise in my earbud changed, the shushing sound vanishing. The sleet had been left outside. The images on the screen were now split, one side overhead, low light, the other attached to Rick’s monocular IR camera. In it I saw a small room with a table and too many chairs, all dark. No residual heat from a watchman or a guard who might have ducked out. I watched as Rick moved through the cramped space like a cat, in a sinuous path to the door at the end. He leaned in and I heard him sniff at the crack where door met jamb. He rolled to the floor and looked under the door, sniffing again. “I smell fangheads,” he snarled.
“Rick,” I said. “Stop.” Eli and Bruiser swiveled their heads to me in surprise. “Your cat is close to the surface. I want you to stand and move into a corner so your back is covered from two sides. Now. Move now, Rick.”
He growled, the sound soft and menacing. The camera view repositioned as Rick backed into a corner.
“Breathe,” I said. “In. Hold it. And out, slowly. Again, in. Hold it. And out, slowly. Again. Do it. That’s good. One more time.”
“Thanks,” he said, a few breaths later, sounding more human. “Meditation stuff. I’ll remember that. Going through the door now.”
The door opened and Rick slid through, closing it behind him. On the camera, we saw an angle of the interior of the beta arm of the warehouse. What I could see of it suggested that it was a huge space, with the support beams exactly where they had been originally, but affixed with some kind of metal ties that indicated walls had once been secured in various arrangements. The floor around the outside walls was piled with office furniture, a few couches, and myriad tools including a forklift and barrels and shovels. My heart clenched when I focused on what might be a saw with an adjustable overhead arm and huge blade, a model number in big letters on one side. But the blade wasn’t bloody and I relaxed. Just a bit.
“I smell blood,” he said. “A lot of blood. And witches and suckheads and . . . other creatures.”
Rick moved silently, his breathing steady and smooth, along the wall. Clockwise, I thought, a witch direction, not heading widdershins as humans might do. I could make out the barrel of a weapon from time to time, but he kept it down, out of sight of the camera, beside his thigh.
As he moved, more of the room came into focus. The floor looked like concrete, smooth and stained with oil or . . . “Bloodstains on the floor?” I asked softly. “Cold and dry?”
“Yes,” he breathed back. “Human blood.” He took three more steps and the rest of the room came into focus on the IR lens camera. The remainder of the building had been walled off, the parts with the odd garage-sized door shut away. I didn’t see a door leading into the sealed section anywhere.
CHAPTER 17
Pawpawpaw. Silent. Beast Was Best Ambush Hunter.
The only other opening was a barn-type door on a rail, which Rick slid open about three inches. Beyond the door was a room fit for a king with a bed that looked as if it had come out of a porn movie. It was big enough to comfortably sleep six people, and the frame was carved into curlicues and swirls at the posts, the header, and the footer; the entire thing had been gilded. The gold caught the lights, two candles in hurricane-style glass lanterns that glared out the view several times as Rick examined the room. The bed was made up with shimmery linens, probably silk, with fluffy comforters and an electric blanket that was glowing warm. One pillow was stained dark with dried blood. In the corner was a table and four chairs, natch on the gilded stuff, and a steamer trunk big enough to cage a baby elephant. From here, there was a door that led into the walled-off portion.
Rick moved there and listened, his nose pressed to the crack, sniffing softly like a cat. I wondered what he heard but nothing came through the mic. He tried the door, but it was locked from the other side. He spent another ten minutes moving around the bedroom, looking into a wardrobe, and peering into the
trunk. Then, the rest of the building sealed off and unavailable to him, he moved silently back the way he had come and outside into the sleet. He slipped past a food truck with a dead human at the wheel and another on the ground in the accumulating sleet. They had been there long enough that they were the same frozen temps as the asphalt beneath them. He moved to the corner of the fenced property, where he paused and holstered his weapon. I followed his progress on Gee’s cam as, one-handed, he swung up the dying banana tree and over the high metal wall. It wasn’t something a human could have done easily, but a demonstration of his newfound were-strength. He landed with cat-grace on the sidewalk outside and trotted to the SUV he had been in originally.
“I smelled some things I couldn’t ID,” he said as the door closed on the downpour and the ambient noise changed. “Something that smelled like electricity sparking, and heated metal. Something mineral. I also caught a whiff of sweat and blood from Brian, Brandon, and Grégoire. They’re inside somewhere I couldn’t get, and they’re in trouble.”
I pulled the Benelli M4 shotgun and reached for the door handle. Edmund, who had been so silent I hadn’t even thought about him, grabbed my arm. “Let go of me,” I said evenly.
“No, my mistress. I will not. This is a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap. Eli and I already had this convo.”
“We must not rush in where your angel might fear to tread.” Something inside me slowed at the word angel. I hadn’t told Ed about the angel Hayyel or that a celestial being had appeared and altered almost everything in my life. But Ed was sworn to Angie Baby. Had she called him too? Something in his eyes suggested so. “Not without more information,” he went on.