Chapter 16
Locke
“I’m so glad we took your car, because odds are she’s going to puke any minute now.”
Locke grimaced at Zev’s dry but potentially accurate comment.
Through his rearview mirror, he checked on the moaning girl slumped in his back seat.
Not that he could see much from this angle, just a tangle of brown shoulder-length hair matted around a wan, green-tinged face, bruised eyes barely slitted open as she rolled her head against the seat.
“You hurl in my car, Paisley, you’ll be cleaning it up.”
Her response was another whimpered groan.
“Mari says she’s got medical on standby, so once we get to the clinic, we can hand her off,” Zev said. “You know, it’s going to take a few hours before you can get anything out of her.”
“Yeah, I know. Hopefully, she’ll be more useful than Beto.”
Zev gave an annoyed grunt. “Yeah, that was kind of a bust.”
The financier hadn’t known jack shit about the drug, other than that his assistant had inconveniently overdosed on it, which threatened to expose his double life to his wife.
He was not happy to discover that despite paying Angel for his “discretionary silence,” his plan to quietly sweep Owen’s death under the rug was in jeopardy.
Zev and Locke banked on that paranoia to get Beto admit that his relationship with Angel was a fairly new development.
They also got him to agree, reluctantly, to keeping them informed of his future dealings with Angel.
“At least we know it was Angel that reached out to him and not the other way around.”
“I’ll have Roxy shift her focus, see if she can figure out how someone like him came into money like that.” Another groan came from the back seat, and Zev did a quick visual check then shook his head as he turned back to face forward. “If Mari finds her parents, you might get stonewalled.”
Locke gave a disgusted snort. “Maybe, maybe not.” They’d found Paisley dressed in club wear and passed out in an apartment that appeared to serve as a crash pad for free-roaming teens, so he wondered just how concerned her parents could really be.
“If they do try to block me, I’ll sic Mari on them.
I’m sure she can find plenty of ways to encourage them to let me talk to her.
” He checked the time and winced. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“I was supposed to be at Wonderland, like, five minutes ago.”
The call that linked Paisley to Isaiah had come in as they finished up with Beto, along with Isa’s text that the meeting with the lawyer was running long.
It made his decision to run down the fresh lead on Isaiah fairly simple.
Finding Paisley had been easy. Unfortunately, getting her to talk coherently—not so much.
“Need me to text Isa?” Zev asked.
“Yeah. Let her know I’m running late.”
Zev grabbed his phone, held it up so it could read Locke’s face, then quickly shot off a text.
Within minutes, Locke was turning into the quiet parking lot outside a private clinic.
The Cordova Family lawyer, Maribel Ortiz, was waiting for them out front with a scrub-wearing twentysomething manning a wheelchair.
After pulling up to the curb, Locke got out and helped Zev guide the still-groaning teen into the wheelchair so the PA could whisk her away.
“Her parents?” Zev asked Mari.
She shook her head. “We’ve left messages at the numbers on file. Nothing yet.”
“I need to know as soon as she’s able to talk,” Locke said.
“She’s a minor, Locke.”
“I’m aware, but right now, she’s the best link I have to tracking Isaiah down.” And something told him Micah’s brother was running out of time.
Mari worried her bottom lip.
“You asked for Emilio’s help,” Zev reminded her.
“I know.” Mari blew out an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll make it work. Once she’s sober, I’ll tag you.”
“Thank you.” He quickly took his leave and hopped back into his car, impatient to get back to Isa.
He checked his text and frowned when it showed that it had gone unread.
An uneasy prickle raised the hair on the back of his neck.
He thought about calling her, but considering Isa’s escalating irritation with his so-called hovering, he decided against it.
Besides, Wonderland was only fifteen minutes away. He’d be there soon enough.
Locke pulled into Wonderland’s empty lot, that unease slithering down his neck and knotting his shoulders. Where the hell is Des’s SUV?
The thought had barely formed when the vehicle in question turned in. As it came to a stop, Locke saw that Des was alone. His hands fisted, and he barely waited for the man to get his door open and step out before snarling, “Where’s Isa?”
Des’s dark brows rose above the edge of his sunglasses as he threw his door closed. “Inside.” He started for the entrance. “You’re late.”
“And you left her alone,” he snapped as he matched the other man step for step.
“I had to run Kelly home.” Muscles coiled and bunched, indicating that Locke’s barb had found its mark. “It was a rough meeting.”
A pinch of empathy pierced Locke’s frustration, and he forced his hands to uncurl. “She going to be okay?”
“Depends on how far the police want to push things.” Des reached the door, yanked his sunglasses off, and shot Locke an assessing look. “It would help if someone could provide proof of how that jackass was suddenly able to throw around magic.”
“I’m sure they have their theories.” Reassurance was beyond Locke, because if things got truly dire for Kelly, what got shared with whom would be up to Emilio.
Des’s lip twitched with ill-disguised disgust, but he turned away and reached for the door only to stop and mutter a low curse.
“What?” Locke’s question was a sharp bullet of sound.
“The security is on standby.” Des yanked open the door, and the two men rushed down the stairs.
Nebulous shadows filled the space, distorting the normally friendly floor into an otherworldly maze of unseen threats. At the far end, a light burned over the bar, and just beyond that was the soft luminance of the graffiti art along the back wall.
Des didn’t slow as he navigated through tables and booths. “Isa?”
There was no answer.
“Isa?” Locke called, his magic pushing forward, whining to be used.
Still nothing.
Des went to the far end of the bar, just beyond the pass, and hit a switch. Harsh illumination burst into life, wiping away the shadows.
Locke blinked away the small stars as his vision adjusted. At first, everything appeared undisturbed, but a bitter bite rode the air, and it took him a second to place it. “Is that gin?”
Des didn’t answer but shoved through the pass. A small shot glass rolled off the counter and tumbled to the floor. “What the—” His gaze went to the right and landed on something behind the bar. He froze.
“What?” Alarmed, Locke rushed forward, his magic settling around him like a second skin, the predator at its heart, yanking at the leash.
“Stop!” Des’s sharp command and upraised hand stopped Locke in his tracks. “There’s broken glass back here.” He moved carefully into the narrow space behind the bar then dropped into a crouch, disappearing from view.
Locke cleared the last few feet, pulled open the swinging half door, and stood just inside the pass.
Isa was gone. Taken. He knew it down to his bones.
Just like he knew who was behind it. The ugly mix of fear, worry, and underlying frustration surged, but he shoved it all into a box and slammed the lid closed.
He would deal with the emotional shit later.
Getting Isa back was primary, and to do that, he needed to focus.
Des was frowning as he held up a chunk of green-tinted glass, mindful of its ragged edges. “That smell is definitely gin.”
Locke took it from him. It was a thick piece from the lower half of a bottle.
He let his magic snap free, and it surged forward, eager for the hunt.
Smells sharpened, scents separating into concise strands.
He brought the chunk up to his nose and inhaled.
The bite of juniper filled his nostrils.
Under it was a barely-there hint of musk he couldn’t place.
He looked at the shards between him and Des. “Where’s the rest?”
A small ball of light popped into existence and hovered over Des’s shoulder. He waved it forward, and it cruised low and slow over the floor. It pulled up short near the well.
Des found a safe spot to brace his hand then leaned forward and pulled out the other half of the bottle.
“This is what’s left of the top half.” The still-sealed cap clung to the squat neck, and one jagged shoulder remained intact.
The little ball of light zipped back to Des as he rose to standing.
He twisted the glass shard, his frown darkening. “I think there’s blood on this.”
“Let me see it.”
Locke took the piece from Des, his magic cataloguing the visual clues with rapid-fire sequence, the details burned into his brain.
It was easy to miss—a single drop with spines and satellites, dry and dark, erupting from around the nearly perfect circle, with a brighter center.
He brought the piece of glass up to his nose, careful to avoid smearing the small drop near the label, and drew the scent deep.
The bite of iron was there, not faint but not strong, and under it was the barest hint of cinnamon. His heart stuttered.
“Is it Isa’s?” Des asked.
“Yeah.”
He focused on what wasn’t there. No blood patterns indicating repeated violent blows, no alarming smears to signal a struggle or cleanup effort, so a single blood drop could be nothing more than a minor cut.
He took in the rest of the scene. The residual liquid dripped from a low shelf just above the floor, splattering over the shards of glass scattered along the aerated mat and seeping through to the cement floor.
His magic ruffled the air, collecting the scent of herbs and spices accented by a dry pine-like hint.
The gin had sprayed outward, raining over the tight space. But the way the pieces lay…