There was a small manila envelope inside, the flap still gummed and open. I picked it up and emptied into my palm a small brass key. Its working end didn’t have the typical angular hills and valleys; instead there were square notches. A number, 425, was inscribed on the head.
“Well, well, well, Sentinel. Look what you have there.”
I glanced at him. “I’m looking but have no idea what it’s for. Do you?”
Ethan smiled. “That is a key for a safe-deposit box.”
A hidden box that led to a vaulted box. That was a pretty interesting find.
“So our murdered shifter, who defected from the Pack, has a hidden cashbox and a key to a safe-deposit box.” I glanced at Ethan. “What does an unaffiliated shifter keep in a safe-deposit box?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ethan said, eyes gleaming with interest, “but I’m eager to find out.”
I slid the key back into the envelope and put the envelope in my pocket. Then I put the cashbox back where I’d found it, pulled the plywood and brick back into place.
And realized we weren’t the only ones to have been here. The ground here was as soft as it was near the swing, so it had saved the impressions of the large, rough footprints.
I pointed them out to Ethan. “We aren’t the only ones poking around out here.”
“Then we’d best be the first to solve the mystery.”
? ? ?
We made a final pass through the house, looking for information that might identify the bank Caleb had used, the location of the box. But we found nothing.
We turned off all the lights and walked outside, setting the lock on the doorknob to deter intruders. We were on our way back to the car when I heard a faint murmur of sound, a voice carried on the wind. And with that voice came the buzz of magic.
“Listen,” I said quietly, when Ethan joined me on the sidewalk.
He tilted his head, and when he caught the sound, alarm crossed his face. “Magic,” he said.
“Our sorcerer?”
He flipped the thumb guard on his katana. “Someone is doing magic in this neighborhood. Let us be prepared either way.”
I nodded, kept my hand on my katana’s handle as we walked across the street and down the block, pausing every few yards to check our position in relation to the sound. Silently, I touched Ethan’s hand, nodded toward a small cemetery, the graves surrounded by a chain-link fence. Unlike much of the rest of the neighborhood, the fence and grass beyond it looked well tended.
“Longwood Cemetery,” Ethan whispered as we reached the front gate. It was a double gate and standing open, large enough for cars to drive through.
I stopped at the entrance, gathered up my courage. I didn’t like cemeteries. My brother, Robert, and sister, Charlotte, and I had held our breath when we passed them on car trips as kids. I was the youngest and always held my breath the longest. I had been completely terrified by the thought of all those people underground waiting, Thriller-like, to thrust out their dirty hands and grab my ankles. If I stayed quiet and still, they’d stay happily asleep beneath the earth.
The wind shifted and moved, directing the clear sound of a voice on the wind. We were looking for a sorcerer, and this definitely seemed like a potential hit. That meant I had to suck it up and walk into Longwood like the goddamn Sentinel of Cadogan House, with my head held high, my senses on alert, and my bravery intact.
But even still, and knowing what I knew now, I decided to take exceptionally quiet steps.
The gate led to a crushed-stone path that led straight through the cemetery and branched off to secondary trails.
The cemetery wasn’t very large, but it was well kept. Marble gravestones sat at perfect intervals along shorter rows, and there were neatly pruned peonies and rosebushes every dozen yards or so.
I stayed close enough to Ethan that our arms brushed when we walked. “Freaking Thriller,” I murmured.
“What was that?” Ethan whispered.
“Nothing,” I said, and stopped short when a figure became visible in the darkness. There, I said silently, gesturing toward her.
A woman stood in front of a grave, silhouetted in the moonlight. She was tall, slender, and pretty, with dark skin, high cheekbones, and dark, braided hair pulled into a knot atop her head. She wore a cropped white cardigan, white sneakers, and a long, pale pink dress of sharp, narrow pleats that fell over her swollen abdomen.
Ethan stepped forward, broke a twig in the process. The crack was as loud as a gunshot. She turned around, one hand on her belly, fingers splayed in protection, another in front of her, threatening magic.
I’d seen Catcher and Mallory throw fireballs before, and didn’t want any part of that. I put my hands in the air, and Ethan did the same.
The woman stared at us for a moment. “You don’t look like ghouls,” she said, but didn’t seem entirely sure about it.
“We are not,” Ethan said. “And you don’t look to be an evil sorceress.”
She snorted. “I most definitely am not. Could you move forward, into the moonlight?”
We did, hands still lifted in the air. It seemed safe enough movement; I’d yet to meet an evil, gestating supernatural.
“You’re vampires,” she said after a moment. “I recognize you. You’re Ethan and Merit, right?”