Chapter 1 #3
Instinct suggested that hope was a forlorn one.
I pushed away from the railing and continued on toward the other stairs. “Location update?”
“Just moved past the bar, heading down the corridor toward the bathroom.”
“Tracker still active?”
“And coming through strong.”
I relaxed a little. Given she wasn’t aware of us or the tracker—it had been discreetly placed on her person by her driver, another Society operator, as she’d exited the limo they’d hired for the evening’s adventures—the chances of her ditching it and us were low.
I clattered down the stairs and kept close to the wall as I made my way around to the bar and the corridor.
There was, as usual, a goddamn line for the ladies.
I joined the end, but leaned out in an effort to see where Monica was.
She wasn’t ahead of me, so either she was already in or had continued on, following the corridor to the exit at the far end.
Why would she do that, though?
The exit led out into a small courtyard that was a designated smoking area, and while there was a gate that led from the courtyard into the lane beyond, it was padlocked.
Ginny had double-checked it earlier this evening, so unless someone had cut the chain between then and now, there was no escaping that way.
It was possible Monica simply planned to meet someone in the courtyard, but if that were true, how had she made the arrangements?
The Society had been monitoring not only her calls but also every post she made across her various social media platforms; if anything remotely resembling a meeting with an unknown player had been planned, we would have been told.
Of course, the “why” behind the over-the-top security ring we’d placed around her was something that hadn’t been in the files.
Ginny and I presumed there’d been a kidnapping threat, given her father was a privately employed advisor for the Prime Minister, but neither Jack—who was manning the comms base—nor indeed the Society itself had confirmed it.
Not that there was anything unusual in that.
The organization did have a habit of putting agents into the field without detailed information, although admittedly, it often came down to them not having it.
“Ginny,” I murmured, “is she in the loo, or has she moved toward the lane?”
The corridor went left not too far past the toilets, so I had no direct line of sight of its length from where I stood.
“Tracker indicates she’s in the toilets—second stall, going by the floor plans.”
At least that was something. The line moved forward steadily as women came out. I had no idea what Monica was doing, but she seemed to be taking a long time to do it.
“Okay,” Ginny said. “She’s on the move—leaving now.”
I leaned to the right again and watched the door. Two women came out, chatting animatedly, and were quickly followed by a tall thin woman who looked decidedly unsteady on her six-inch heels. No sign of Monica.
“You sure she’s on the move?” I murmured. “She’s not come past me.”
“Well, according to the tracker she has. She’s approaching the bar right now.”
I turned. The only woman currently approaching the bar was the unsteady one; everyone else was standing in the slow moving line for the toilets. I swore and sprinted after her; when I was close enough, I none-too-gently grabbed her shoulder and turned her around.
“What the fuck...?” she said, her tone outraged and her pupils enlarged. Definitely on something.
“Your bag—let me see it.”
“Fuck off—”
I snatched her bag out of her hands, raised an arm to ward off her blows, then glanced at the two women in the queue who stepped toward me. “High Council investigator,” I growled. “Mind your own damn business, or I’ll find a reason to arrest you.”
The two of them raised their hands, palms up, and backed away.
“One of these days, someone is going to ask to see your credentials,” came Ginny’s dry comment.
I didn’t bother replying. I did have proper ID, but in most cases, it was simply quicker and easier to tell people I was HCI.
The Black Lantern Society tended to work in the background, and for the most part, the general public had no idea about the important role we played in keeping the more...
problematic... members of the witch world in check.
I told my target to calm down and opened her purse. Inside was a phone, keys, a credit card case, and, right at the very bottom, our tracker. I plucked it free and raised it.
“Who gave you this?”
Her expression was a picture of confusion. “What the fuck is it?”
“Government property. Who gave it to you?”
“It’s not mine—I’ve never seen the thing before.”
The alarm in her voice was real enough. I handed back her bag and she clutched it tightly in front of her. “Am I in trouble?”
“No. Did anyone run into you in the toilets?”
“No, but this stupid woman did almost knock me over as I was going in.”
“Description?”
“I don’t fucking know—I needed to pee and just wanted to pick up my things and get in there.”
And that’s no doubt when the swap happened. But to confirm, I said, “Did she help you pick up your things?”
“Yes; it was the least she could do.”
“Did she go into the toilets?”
“No, toward the exit. Seemed in a damn hurry, too.”
I swore again, this time silently. “Thanks for your help. Just... ease up on the drugs, okay?”
She nodded and walked unsteadily away.
“How in the fuck did Monica know about the tracker?” Ginny asked.
I turned the tracker off and shoved it in my pocket. “Someone obviously gave her the heads-up. You want to update Jack, then head outside and do a sweep?”
We’d lose direct contact while she was in hawk form, but it was the quickest means of checking the entire area.
“On it now.”
The line went dead. I hurried back down the corridor, stopped in front of the toilet, and said, in a loud enough voice to be heard over the pounding music, “Did anyone see a woman with scarlet hair, wearing a short white bodycon dress and sparkly heels come this way?”
“Why? You a cop?” a short woman asked.
“No. A concerned friend.”
It was said a little impatiently, and she sniffed. “You sound like a cop to me.”
“Cops don’t dress like that,” another said. “And they certainly don’t have jeweled belly studs.”
I knew several cops who actually did, one of whom was responsible for mine, thanks to a drunken bachelorette party decision that we should all get something to remember the night by.
We’d been thirty rather than teenagers at the time.
Rochelle, who was now seven months pregnant, had removed hers due to the discomfort it was causing during her pregnancy.
While that was something I didn’t have to worry about—aside from the fact you had to have sex to get pregnant, the power that ran through me made it all but impossible to conceive—I’d downgraded mine a year or so ago to a simple diamond stud that I stuck on as needed with eyelash glue.
I still loved “real” belly rings, even if there were some in the Society who considered them kitschy, and me way too old, but I’d discovered the hard way they weren’t always compatible with this job.
“The woman?” I repeated. “Did anyone see where she went?”
“Down the corridor,” the tall woman closest to the door said. “Seemed to be in a hurry.”
“Thanks.”
I eased past her, then broke into a run, my footsteps echoing softly through the half-lit darkness. Deep in the distance beyond the walls, something stirred.
Something that wasn’t entirely human.
I shivered and shoved my imagination back in its box.
While I was totally capable of detecting the life forces of both supernatural or demonic beings, I didn’t have X-ray vision and couldn’t see through the many walls that currently divided me from whatever stirred in the streets beyond this building.
My sense of movement was likely born of nothing more than fear—not fear of the unknown, but rather of making a mistake that could once again lead to the death of another....
It was a fear I would never overcome, no matter how long I lived.
Another shiver stole across my skin. I did my best to ignore it and studiously but quickly checked the two rooms that led off the main corridor. One was a store, the other an employee locker room with bathroom facilities; both were empty.
The exit lay around the corner from the two rooms; I edged around, but again found nothing except shadows and dust. The latter stirred sluggishly, suggesting someone had moved through here recently. Whether that person was Monica or someone else was impossible to say.
The light above the exit was green, indicating it wasn’t locked, which wasn’t unusual during operational hours. What was, however, was the fact that neither the door nor its handle held the pinprick glow of body heat that would normally linger if someone had very recently gone through the door.
And yet, where else could our bride have gone?
I had no idea, but I really needed to find out, and quickly.
I pushed the exit bar down and warily opened the door.
The night air was warm and danced delightfully across my bare stomach.
It might be the middle of winter here in Brisbane, but for a born and bred Canberran used to biting winds blowing in at this time of the year, it was positively balmy.
The courtyard area beyond had once been a loading bay, and the faint drift of smoke coming from the half-stubbed cigarette sitting in one of the many ashtrays lining the concrete walls to the left and right suggested someone had been here recently.
Someone who might well have been waiting for Monica.