Wild Things

Page 16

“Merit has decided she hasn’t been here in a while. I’d agree.”
“Although she hasn’t been gone long enough to bother the cat,” I said. Apparently clean enough, he sat on his haunches and looked between us, the picture of health.
“What about magic?” Damien asked.
“I’ve seen a sorcerer’s workshop,” I said, thinking of the basement in Mallory’s Wicker Park brownstone. “Nothing here looks like she’s been mixing spells or magic.”
“So no magic,” Damien said, “and no Aline. If she’s not here, where is she?”
“She has to be somewhere. We just need a clue. I’ll check the mailbox,” I said, then glanced at Jeff. “Maybe you can find a computer or laptop in this mess? Maybe her Web searches will give us a clue, or there’s a receipt that tells us where she’s been.”
He nodded. “Good thought.”
I entered the labyrinth again, only a little nervous when Damien fell into step behind me.
“So, do you live in Chicago?” I said conversationally.
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“The cat’s perfectly healthy,” I reminded him, “and I’m a vampire.”
“Gabriel calls you Kitten. Although since you’re scared of them, the moniker seems a little inappropriate.”
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.