The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(15)

“She’s outsourcing,” Caitlin said.

“Exactly. Someone builds them; she animates them. Which means somewhere, not far away, there’s a woodshop getting some very distinctive custom orders.”

“A shop,” Caitlin said, “that will have her current address on file. How many woodworkers can handle that kind of workload? It’s not like when I was a girl, when—”

She paused.

“What?” I said.

“Never you mind what it was like when I was a girl. Let’s just say it was before plastics were in vogue, and skilled artisans were more highly valued than they are today.”

I made a point of never asking Caitlin her age. This seemed to make her happy.

I clinked my glass against hers and took a sip of pinot noir. “Tomorrow, after we see what Naavarasi’s got planned for us, we start hunting for woodworkers. When it comes to magic, Meadow Brand is a one-trick pony. That’s about to bite her in the ass.”

This felt good. Caitlin and me, bouncing ideas off each other, pushing each other to think of angles we never would have come up with on our own. It wasn’t something we had to work at—it just happened naturally, like we were two parts of a perfectly geared engine.

The sommelier swooped in, a tall Chinese man with a pristine white cloth draped over his forearm. He expertly refilled our glasses, twisting the bottle just right so as not to spill a drop, then glided away again.

“Speaking of the baron,” Caitlin said.

“I know. She’s the sommelier. And she was one of the valets outside the parking garage. I’m pretty sure she was one of the tourists on the elevator with us, too. Now that I’m not being blindsided with visions of my ex-girlfriend, I can pick up on her glow. Think we should say anything?”

“No,” Caitlin said. “I think she’s showing off. Don’t look impressed. You’ll just encourage her.”

“How should I look?” I said.

“You should look at me. All night long.”

“That,” I said, “is a plan I can get behind.”





Seven



I woke up in my favorite place in the world: curled in Caitlin’s arms. She was already awake—she didn’t sleep so much as meditate—and her deep emerald eyes flickered open to meet mine.

“Hello, sunshine,” she purred. Her body pressed against mine in the swirling expanse of gray silk sheets, warm as a kitten’s fur.

“Hello yourself. Ready to live dangerously?”

“Every day,” she said. “Right after a hot shower and a good breakfast. Danger goes better with mushroom and spinach omelets.”

I rolled out of bed. “And bacon,” I said, groaning as I stretched my arms. “Bacon cures all ills. That’s a science fact.”

We hit the road around nine, cruising southeast under a cloudless sky with the mountains rising up in the distance. The address Naavarasi had given us was in Henderson, near the old Water Street District. With Caitlin navigating, I narrowed down the address and pulled the Barracuda up to the curb outside a prim little suburban nest with white vinyl siding and a shaggy postage-stamp-sized lawn.

The street wasn’t just sleepy, it was comatose. No birds, no lizards, not even the distant drone of airplanes. The mild breeze, staving off the worst of the morning heat, fell still as we stepped out of the car.

“That’s not ominous or anything,” I said, peering at the curtained windows.

I didn’t expect a fight, given what we’d been told, but I’d come prepared for one anyway. My deck of cards nestled in my hip pocket. The deck vibrated eagerly and sent little pins-and-needles shivers down my leg.

Caitlin tilted up her face and sniffed the air like a wolf. “Demonflesh,” she said softly. “And a corpse. Not far away.”

“Let’s hope it’s just one,” I said and led the way up the short walk to the front stoop. “Okay, cover me.”

I fished my locksmith’s gear out of my other pocket. It was a thin folio of olive plastic stocked with a row of stainless-steel picks and rakes. The lock on the front door was a thirty-dollar model straight from Home Depot, not the top of the line but not the worst either. I picked out a torsion wrench and a half-diamond pick, bent down on one knee, and went to work. Meanwhile Caitlin stood beside me on the stoop, looking casual as she watched the street, ready to shield me with her body if a car drove by or a neighbor poked their head out.

The tumblers clicked and rolled. I pocketed the picks and slowly turned the knob, bracing for trouble. The door swung open without a sound. Just beyond, a plush burgundy rug decorated pale birch floorboards. Dust motes hung in the air and clung to a glass credenza by the door. Caitlin followed me in.

The house stank of sweaty socks and moldy pizza, like a frat party in a sauna. As we crept inside, my wrinkling nose picked up a stronger stench, that odor of gas and decay that only comes from one thing: a corpse left out to rot.

Voices echoed the next room. We froze. Then I heard the tinny echo of a laugh track and realized it was just a television set.

I poked my head around the corner, fighting to keep my stomach under control. The stench shoved its gaseous fingers down my throat. The living room might have been nice once, with a tan leather sofa set, thick shag rugs, and a sixty-inch television. That would have been before the place turned into a garbage dump of empty food wrappers, crumbs, and dirt, sweltering under the grill of a broken air conditioner.