Cold Reign (Jane Yellowrock #11)(95)
“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.