Waking the Witch
Page 40
No answer.
I crept along the building, then stopped. More listening. More looking. More casting. All negative. I double-checked the address.
Had he even meant Columbus? In this part of the country 3rd Avenue was a common street name. Maybe it was Battle Ground or Vancouver.
But we knew Cody was expecting a delivery. Could it be a coincidence that Michael’s address led me to abandoned warehouses only doors away from Cody’s office? I doubted it. Besides, Michael thought I didn’t have my bike back. It would be tough enough for me to get out here, let alone to another town.
Still ... Abandoned warehouse. Deserted road. Urgent late-night text message. Can’t contact the sender. Yep, paranoia was warranted.
I cast a blur spell and zipped to the rear of the warehouse. The door was unlocked. With my back to the wall, I eased it open and cast a fast sensing spell. Only the faint pulse of small heartbeats came back. Rats, cats, or other furry squatters.
Had Michael come and gone? If he had, why not text me again?
I cast a blur spell and slid inside. The windows were filthy and when the door closed behind me, the light went out. Damn it, I needed a flashlight. Everyone said I relied too much on my spells. They might have a point. I used the light ball. It was easy enough to extinguish in a hurry, and safer than stumbling in the dark.
As I stepped past the entrance, I caught a whiff of smoke. There was the acrid scent of burned paper, but something sweeter, too. My shoe sent a white tube rolling silently across the floor. Cigarette? I bent. No, a joint. Was that what I smelled? Yes, I know what pot smells like—never tried it, knowing drugs could do funky things with my powers. But the scent seemed sweeter. Spicier. Cloves?
I walked a few more steps and picked up another burning scent. Candles. I found one on the floor, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up. Still warm. The sides were rough. I brought the light ball down lower and saw faint scratches. Symbols.
The hair on my neck prickled. A ritual? Was this what Michael found? Or, worse, stumbled on?
I walked slower as I scanned the floor for chalk marks. I found disturbances in a thick layer of dust that seemed to serve the same purpose. Ritual markings. Like the chalk mark in the crime-scene photos, they were faint. Easily overlooked.
Someone had definitely conducted a ritual here tonight.
I cast the sensing spell again. Still negative for people. I had my cell on vibrate, but I checked it anyway. No calls. No texts.
As I made my way deeper into the building, the dust on the floor thickened and I could make out footprints; lots of scuff marks at first, then clear impressions in spots where no one had ventured in a while. Men’s loafers. Like Michael’s.
The tracks led to a set of wooden stairs going up to an observation deck. I could see a couple of desks up there, and more boxes. Extra storage and a place for a security guard to work, looking out over the floor below. The perfect place to get a good view of the whole warehouse.
Michael’s were the only prints leading up. As I started to climb, I noticed something dart between boxes below. Glowing green eyes flashed. A hiss. Then a waving tail as a cat tore off.
I seemed to be attracting cats these days. I shook my head, glanced back up the stairs, and cast my sensing spell. Nothing. I cast again, to be sure. Nothing. Michael must have gone down a set of stairs I couldn’t see. I’d find those, then maybe climb up and get a look from above.
The cat moved alongside me, hopping over the boxes, turning every few seconds to spit at me, pissed off, it seemed, because I insisted on traveling in the same direction.
I sent a few sparks flying its way and it gave me one last hiss, then tore off ahead, still keeping to the same path. Determined to head in this direction, however nervous I made it. I followed.
It had slid between two rows of boxes. A tight squeeze, but I made it. When I shone the light ball ahead, another cat turned, hissing, orange fur puffing. I stopped and it lowered its head to the floor again. A rasping sound. It was licking the floor. I tossed the light ball over it. Tendrils of blood snaked across the concrete.
I raced forward, elbows knocking the boxes on either side. Ahead, I saw a leg stretched out. Light chinos. Brown loafers. I pictured Michael from earlier, his tan pants and darker shoes.
I shoved my way through, sending boxes crashing. Michael was draped over the remains of a smashed wooden crate. On his back, face turned the other way, head at an angle that was wrong, just wrong. Blood dripped from his fingertips, slow and steady, a pool growing on the concrete floor beneath him.
I stood there, brain stuttering, telling myself it was someone else wearing clothing like Michael’s. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.
Then I thought I saw him breathe and I dropped beside him, slipping in the blood and not caring. My fingers went to his neck. No pulse. His skin was chilled, clammy.
I turned his face toward me. His head moved easily. Too easily. His neck was broken.
His eyes were open. Open and empty.
No, I’d seen him move. Goddamn it, I’d seen him move. How could he break his neck? What could—?
I looked up. The ledge of the observation deck was twenty feet above me.
He stepped back too far. Went over the edge. Hit the crates. Hit the cement. Broke his neck.
No! Goddamn it, no! Not Michael. He’d never be that careless.
My phone vibrated. It was like an electric shock and I jumped. I fumbled and pulled it out. Jesse. I answered.
“Hey, just wanted to make sure everything’s—”
“Michael. He‘s—I found Michael. He fell. He’s—” I squeezed my eyes shut. “He’s dead.”
When Jesse didn’t answer, I said, “He’s dead. Michael’s dead.”
“Shit ...” He floundered, then came back, firm. “Are you still at the scene? Have you called 911?”
“N-no. I should. I will.”
“Do that. I’m on my way.” A pause. “Where are you?”
I gave him the address.
“Call 911 and hang tight. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t move anything. Don’t touch anything. Got it?”
I said I did. Then I hung up. I pressed 9, and crouched there, finger poised over the 1.
This was no accident. I was sure of that. Sure. He’d been murdered.
Dead.
Oh, God.
Dial the numbers, damn it.
A squeak behind me. I turned to a flashlight shining in my eyes. Beside it, the barrel of a gun. The phone fell. My hands shot up. Sparks sizzled from my fingertips.
I crept along the building, then stopped. More listening. More looking. More casting. All negative. I double-checked the address.
Had he even meant Columbus? In this part of the country 3rd Avenue was a common street name. Maybe it was Battle Ground or Vancouver.
But we knew Cody was expecting a delivery. Could it be a coincidence that Michael’s address led me to abandoned warehouses only doors away from Cody’s office? I doubted it. Besides, Michael thought I didn’t have my bike back. It would be tough enough for me to get out here, let alone to another town.
Still ... Abandoned warehouse. Deserted road. Urgent late-night text message. Can’t contact the sender. Yep, paranoia was warranted.
I cast a blur spell and zipped to the rear of the warehouse. The door was unlocked. With my back to the wall, I eased it open and cast a fast sensing spell. Only the faint pulse of small heartbeats came back. Rats, cats, or other furry squatters.
Had Michael come and gone? If he had, why not text me again?
I cast a blur spell and slid inside. The windows were filthy and when the door closed behind me, the light went out. Damn it, I needed a flashlight. Everyone said I relied too much on my spells. They might have a point. I used the light ball. It was easy enough to extinguish in a hurry, and safer than stumbling in the dark.
As I stepped past the entrance, I caught a whiff of smoke. There was the acrid scent of burned paper, but something sweeter, too. My shoe sent a white tube rolling silently across the floor. Cigarette? I bent. No, a joint. Was that what I smelled? Yes, I know what pot smells like—never tried it, knowing drugs could do funky things with my powers. But the scent seemed sweeter. Spicier. Cloves?
I walked a few more steps and picked up another burning scent. Candles. I found one on the floor, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up. Still warm. The sides were rough. I brought the light ball down lower and saw faint scratches. Symbols.
The hair on my neck prickled. A ritual? Was this what Michael found? Or, worse, stumbled on?
I walked slower as I scanned the floor for chalk marks. I found disturbances in a thick layer of dust that seemed to serve the same purpose. Ritual markings. Like the chalk mark in the crime-scene photos, they were faint. Easily overlooked.
Someone had definitely conducted a ritual here tonight.
I cast the sensing spell again. Still negative for people. I had my cell on vibrate, but I checked it anyway. No calls. No texts.
As I made my way deeper into the building, the dust on the floor thickened and I could make out footprints; lots of scuff marks at first, then clear impressions in spots where no one had ventured in a while. Men’s loafers. Like Michael’s.
The tracks led to a set of wooden stairs going up to an observation deck. I could see a couple of desks up there, and more boxes. Extra storage and a place for a security guard to work, looking out over the floor below. The perfect place to get a good view of the whole warehouse.
Michael’s were the only prints leading up. As I started to climb, I noticed something dart between boxes below. Glowing green eyes flashed. A hiss. Then a waving tail as a cat tore off.
I seemed to be attracting cats these days. I shook my head, glanced back up the stairs, and cast my sensing spell. Nothing. I cast again, to be sure. Nothing. Michael must have gone down a set of stairs I couldn’t see. I’d find those, then maybe climb up and get a look from above.
The cat moved alongside me, hopping over the boxes, turning every few seconds to spit at me, pissed off, it seemed, because I insisted on traveling in the same direction.
I sent a few sparks flying its way and it gave me one last hiss, then tore off ahead, still keeping to the same path. Determined to head in this direction, however nervous I made it. I followed.
It had slid between two rows of boxes. A tight squeeze, but I made it. When I shone the light ball ahead, another cat turned, hissing, orange fur puffing. I stopped and it lowered its head to the floor again. A rasping sound. It was licking the floor. I tossed the light ball over it. Tendrils of blood snaked across the concrete.
I raced forward, elbows knocking the boxes on either side. Ahead, I saw a leg stretched out. Light chinos. Brown loafers. I pictured Michael from earlier, his tan pants and darker shoes.
I shoved my way through, sending boxes crashing. Michael was draped over the remains of a smashed wooden crate. On his back, face turned the other way, head at an angle that was wrong, just wrong. Blood dripped from his fingertips, slow and steady, a pool growing on the concrete floor beneath him.
I stood there, brain stuttering, telling myself it was someone else wearing clothing like Michael’s. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.
Then I thought I saw him breathe and I dropped beside him, slipping in the blood and not caring. My fingers went to his neck. No pulse. His skin was chilled, clammy.
I turned his face toward me. His head moved easily. Too easily. His neck was broken.
His eyes were open. Open and empty.
No, I’d seen him move. Goddamn it, I’d seen him move. How could he break his neck? What could—?
I looked up. The ledge of the observation deck was twenty feet above me.
He stepped back too far. Went over the edge. Hit the crates. Hit the cement. Broke his neck.
No! Goddamn it, no! Not Michael. He’d never be that careless.
My phone vibrated. It was like an electric shock and I jumped. I fumbled and pulled it out. Jesse. I answered.
“Hey, just wanted to make sure everything’s—”
“Michael. He‘s—I found Michael. He fell. He’s—” I squeezed my eyes shut. “He’s dead.”
When Jesse didn’t answer, I said, “He’s dead. Michael’s dead.”
“Shit ...” He floundered, then came back, firm. “Are you still at the scene? Have you called 911?”
“N-no. I should. I will.”
“Do that. I’m on my way.” A pause. “Where are you?”
I gave him the address.
“Call 911 and hang tight. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t move anything. Don’t touch anything. Got it?”
I said I did. Then I hung up. I pressed 9, and crouched there, finger poised over the 1.
This was no accident. I was sure of that. Sure. He’d been murdered.
Dead.
Oh, God.
Dial the numbers, damn it.
A squeak behind me. I turned to a flashlight shining in my eyes. Beside it, the barrel of a gun. The phone fell. My hands shot up. Sparks sizzled from my fingertips.
