Chapter 16 #2
“Back out carefully,” he ordered Des. “Try not to step on anything.”
He waited for Des to move out of his way, then he stepped in and noted a void in the mess of glass and gin.
Small indentations in the aerated mat created an abstract pattern.
He let his magic extract the pieces and reshuffle them.
A partial shoe tread came into focus. “Someone, likely male, stood right here.”
He held his position and studied the rest of the story.
A hand towel was crumpled on the floor near a box of glasses on a low shelf, but up on the counter, the only thing out of place was an off-kilter drying mat.
He started toward the other end, and Des, who had his back to the door leading to the kitchen, shifted out of the way, causing the door to open inward.
Bright light spilled over the concrete floor, revealing more clues.
“Hold that door,” Locke said.
Des went still, keeping the door open.
Locke sank to his heels, his magic zeroing in on the faint scuff marks that filled the area near the kitchen and the pass. “Another one was here, waiting.” There was a heavier scrape just on the other side of the pass. “They drew her out, ambushed her.” It played out in his mind.
The light brightened as Des leaned back, forcing the door wider. He looked into the kitchen then back at Locke. “She knew someone was out there because she brought the bottle with her.” He motioned into the kitchen. “Open box on the counter, which means she was here to get the inventory delivery.”
“And she managed to get at least one hit in.” Locke straightened. “Not sure what damage, if any, it did, because there’re no other signs of blood.”
“Just hers on that one piece,” Des said grimly.
“Which came after the bottle broke.”
Des kept one hand on the door and leaned forward into the kitchen, reaching for something. When he straightened, he had a phone in his hand. He held it out to Locke. “Isa’s.”
Locke took it. The lock screen showed a paused playlist and, under it, a text notification. The box holding his emotions at bay rattled. He ignored it.
“We missed her by fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.” Locke scanned the bar’s ceiling. “You have cameras?”
“Two inside, four outside,” Des said, turning to the kitchen and leaving Locke to follow as he talked. “We can access the feed in the office. I can use my phone, but the desktop gives me multiview options.” He started off down the hall.
Locke took in the quiet kitchen—the stack of boxes and crates near the back metal door, empty boxes flattened and piled up near the half-open door to the walk-in cooler, and the security ward flashing a steady orange.
Isa’s impatient voice floated through his mind—“I’ll be careful. ” He stalked after Des.
The man was looming over the desktop, his face thunderous. “Motherfucking pissants fucked with my security.”
Locke came around the desk to see six security feeds, each filled with static. “Electro mage.”
Fury pulsed off of Des. “It has to be, to mess with the cameras without interfering with the security wards.” Any halfway decent electro mage would hex all nearby cameras, so there was no use in requesting to pull video from neighboring businesses.
“So we’ve got nothing.” Exasperation tore at Locke’s self-restraint.
“Not quite.” Des straightened, his face set in hard angles as he walked over to a dented filing cabinet in the corner. He pulled out a drawer—which gave an ear-splitting squeal—reached in, and came back out with a small zippered pouch. He slammed the drawer closed and stormed past Locke. “Come on.”
Curious, Locke followed. Des went back out to the main floor and straight to one of the high-top tables. He set the pouch down and then worked off a heavy silver ring from his left hand and two from his right before holding them out to Locke.
“Hold these for a second.”
Locke took the trio of rings. “What are you doing?”
“Finding out what happened to Isa.” From the pouch, Des pulled out an unlabeled bottle, uncapped it, and poured a small amount of what appeared to be oil into his palm. “Take those rings—don’t let them go—and go sit in that corner booth.”
As he talked, he dipped his finger into the oil and started trailing it along one of the intricate tattoos winding its way over his ring finger and up his left forearm. A pungent mix of citrus and soap drifted from Des’s skin, chased by the near-electric zing of magic.
Locke drew back as the combination seared across his enhanced senses. “Is that rue oil?”
“Yep.” Des continued tracing the pattern etched into his skin.
The dark lines of the tattoos sharpened and emanated a faint glow.
“Now, so long as you don’t draw attention to yourself, you should be good, but if things take a turn, a standard protection ward should be enough to discourage any leeches. ”
Locke had started to move to the booth but on that last word stopped and turned to pin Des with a look. “Leeches?”
“Yeah.” Des shook the excess oil from his palm then wiped it on his pants.
“Some of these spooks can be stubborn assholes. The last thing you want to pick up is a rider.” He plucked a piece of chalk out of the pouch.
“I can pull them off, but it’ll take time we don’t have.
” He turned on his heel and started to shove tables off to the side.
Before long, he had an open space in front of the graffiti-laced wall.
Sliding into the booth, Locke rolled the three heavy rings in his palm. “What’s with the rings?”
“They’re hexed,” Des said with a disconcerting casualness as he lowered to his heels then started drawing on the concrete floor. “Specifically, so ghosts will leave me the hell alone.”
Locke opened his palm and studied the rings. Sure enough, he recognized some of the symbols. He looked back to Des. “And those wards you’re drawing…?”
Without looking up, Des said, “Ensuring that the uninvited don’t crash our meeting.” He got to his feet, tucked the chalk into his back pocket, and looked at Locke over his shoulder. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Des turned back, took a breath, and, in a disturbingly deep voice, commanded, “Wake up.”
The soft glow along his left arm flashed bright, burning white, then settled into an unearthly haze as the overhead lights flickered for a long moment before steadying.
His power washed outward, touching the walls then climbing it like ivy.
A breeze swept through the room, bringing the scent of fresh-dug dirt marred with bone dust and an unnatural chill that raised every hair on Locke’s body.
It twined around Des like a devoted pet, demanding to be acknowledged.
Locke held still as his magic stalked silently forward, curious about the phenomenon.
It stayed back but not far enough. Des’s head turned, giving Locke a glimpse of his profile.
His familiar features blurred into a ghastly mask.
Though similar to the one Isa wore as a Reaper, Des’s had a savage undertone—a warning that universal rules would not apply.
Des’s mouth moved, and with a bone-rattling boom, he warned, “Back off!”
Locke called his magic back. Like the hunter it was, his magic eased reluctantly away from the threat and settled warily between the two men.
Des’s power continued to spread behind him then slid through the urban art to spill into the interspersed sigils until they writhed, shifting to form a decorative arch.
Des turned back and fed more power into the wall until the space within the arch shimmered. Then it settled into an inky black pit.