Wolves snarling. Grindylows jumping and cutting, steel claws slashing. Blood, scarlet splashing. But my bloodlust was muted by the speed and violence.
A witch throwing defensive spells that made my teeth and the roots in my belly hurt, until T. Laine’s null weapon took her down.
Wolves howling in fear and grief. Stairs leading up and down.
What might have been a juvenile gwyllgi, raging in his cage. Another were-creature I couldn’t identify.
Laboratories. Green color scheme. Machines and machine noise.
Storage rooms. Dull gray. Boxes. Old, dusty jars containing liquid and fetal humans and creatures with genetic abnormalities and horrible deformities, like things confiscated from a traveling carnival of the fifties and sixties. Newer jars full of sea creatures, starfish, jellyfish, small sharks. Strange things. Strange creatures.
Offices, pale stone color scheme. Desks. Computers.
Then the laboratory on the lowest level. And the glass doors. And the blood inside. In bags. Like a blood bank.
In bags.
Blood bank.
For research.
A vampire wearing a lab coat looked at me and demanded, “Call Ming of Glass. Call her. Now!”
“Ming?” I whispered, looking around, taking in everything. The lack of caged were-creatures. The lack of vampires in silver cuffs. Blood in the refrigerator in plastic bags. Gallons of it. No torture room. Just a blood bank. I was an idiot. I had messed up badly. The fact that Soul and Rick had pushed for this raid didn’t make that knowledge any better.
? ? ?
Rick and the PsyLED team met back at the entrance and the broken door frame. “The paras are on the DNAKeys compound willingly,” he said, his tone wooden. “They are cooperative and well-paid test subjects or are employed here in research projects. And the lab has all its animal research paperwork up-to-date. Everything here is legal and monitored by the proper authorities.”
He didn’t look at me as he continued. “This was a waste of time and resources. You all have your orders for the rest of the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Shoulders hunched, I went to the van and took a seat in the back. I was immeasurably happy that Rick hadn’t fired me on the spot.
? ? ?
Much later, I drove to the senator’s place on the river, stopping by Starbucks just before it closed, where I picked up a leftover banana bread loaf, a carton of coffee, and a short stack of foam cups. It was a probie move, meant to create a warm and fuzzy feeling in the agents already on duty. I didn’t have to do it. I didn’t have to spend my hard-earned money. But I was feeling stupid . . . really, horribly, abysmally stupid.
No, the raid itself wasn’t on my shoulders. But . . . the stupidity sat heavily on me.
I parked on the shoulder of the road and got out, carrying a hefty load of food and gear. Warm air blew past and, overhead, clouds scudded through the sky, racing in ragged tails, lit by the moon. The wind was strong enough to overpower the scent of coffee and I caught other smells on the night air: burning tobacco, wet dogs, the ozone of something electrical.
I set the coffee up on the hood of my truck and people began to meander over, as if they were psychic to the presence of fresh coffee. A dark-skinned woman in a jacket and pants, her hair cropped close, got to me first and I held up my ID at the same time I handed her a steaming cup. She barely glanced at the ID and drank the scalding brew like her life depended on it. When she was rescued, she blew out a breath and said, “You must be my telepathic new best friend.” I nearly flinched until I identified her amused tone. “Special Agent Margot Racer, FBI. Coffee addict, going on a four-hour withdrawal.”
“Special Agent Nell Ingram, PsyLED, probie and all-around coffee gofer.”
She offered her hand and I was surprised when she shook mine. Not all feds were willing to treat well with other agencies, especially the “magic wands and broomsticks” agency. Two ALT uniformed guards reached the truck and I passed out cups and offered sweeteners and creamers and the banana bread. They each put money in the banana bread box, paying their way, which was nice. I nodded to P. Simon, Peter, the security man from the Holloways’ and Justin Tolliver’s house. Simon gave me a quizzical look before he seemed to recognize me. He lifted a hand and turned away. Margot tossed in a five and took a piece of the bread.
I felt an unusual something approach and somehow knew it was my cousin. Chadworth Sanders Hamilton strode up, an expression of dissatisfaction on his face. He took a cup and tossed a dollar at me. I caught the fluttering bill even as he spun on a heel and walked away.
“Charming,” Margot muttered.
Before I could ask her about my cousin, the others gathered around. Two sheriff’s deputies and two more people in suits took cups and food, said their thanks, and returned to their quadrant. Everyone tossed a dollar or two into the box to offset expenses. I was quickly alone with Margot, who poured herself a second cup and leaned against my old truck. The weather had warmed, and she didn’t look chilled, her jacket enough for the temps.
I thought about asking after Hamilton, but decided against it. “Anything interesting tonight?” I asked.
“Not a thing. Nothing’s biting.”
It was a fishing metaphor and I said, “Maybe we’re using the wrong bait.”
Margot laughed, her eyes moving across the dark, taking in where every flashlight was, as if counting them off. I had served seven people and I saw only three lights, so some were likely using low-light lenses. “Politicians,” she said, “so, yeah. Bait might be a problem, for better or worse.”
“I have a psy-meter 2.0,” I said. “I was sent to take readings. You mind?”
“Fine by me. You mind if I watch? I’ve heard about them, but never have seen one in action.”
That meant she would be watching me read the earth too, and I wondered if I could hide my communing. I shrugged, uncomfortable at the thought. “It’s pretty boring, but sure.” I finished off a cup of coffee and carried my gear to the far front edge of the property. I spread the blanket and sat on it, opened my cell to take notes. Turned on the psy-meter and took basic readings to the north, east, south, and west. “Mind if I read you?” I asked. “I need a human standard.”
“What makes you think I’m human?”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. That was rude.”
Margot shrugged. “Mama’s mama was a witch. Mama’s got some knacks, small gifts. She can tell if the weather’s going to turn. If a woman is pregnant and what sex the baby is, with about a ninety percent success. She called the night I was nearly shot and told me to be careful, to wear my vest on my entire shift, even when I was at my desk, and not turn my back on anyone. Saved my life.”
“Really?” I thought about Sam, and his ability to tell exactly what the weather was going to do and what cows were going to have trouble calving and when to plant and when to hold off. “Someone shot you at your desk?”
“Elevator, actually. No idea how she got a weapon inside, through security.”
“Inside help?” I asked.