Rowan squinted at the map they’d picked up from one of the vendors. The compass on his phone had stopped working once they’d exited the in-between in Egypt, so they’d had to resort to analog means to track down the Drakharin the Avicen scouts had spotted.
“Maybe they were being followed,” Rowan said. “This is pretty much the last place their own people would think to look for them. Too many humans. That’s why the Avicen stayed in New York even after the population boomed way back in the day. We’re pretty much hiding in a crowd. Maybe they took a page out of the Avicen playbook.” He glanced up from the map to read the street signs. “We should be close.”
They ventured down a series of twisting side streets that led them farther from the tourist area. Stray cats darted between their legs, absolutely fearless in their hunt for their next meal. The windows in this part of town were either dark or boarded up. Graffiti in at least three different languages was splashed along the walls.
“Hey,” Echo said quietly, her voice hardly above a whisper. She came to a stop in front of a freshly painted section of graffiti, written in a language she doubted few in Cairo understood. “This is Drakhar. A protection rune, I think.”
She had seen Caius paint such runes on the interior walls of their warehouse hideout in London. Every few days, he or Dorian would refresh them with a new coat of paint. They’d used white paint, the same color as the wall, so the runes would be less noticeable, but this one stood out. It was in bright green paint, which had dried in rivulets as it dripped down the wall. The angular shape had been drawn in a shaky hand, so unlike the careful, clean lines of Caius’s runes. Whoever had drawn this one had been scared, in a hurry, or both.
A heavy metal door, plastered with peeling signs for events long since past, stood not too far from the rune. Droplets of the same green paint had splashed on the ground, and the doorknob was streaked with faint green smears, as if someone had hastily wiped their hands before using it.
Rowan headed toward the door, but Echo pulled him aside and shook her head. Better for her to go first. Rowan could pass as human to an unsuspecting eye, but Echo was human. For the most part. If there were Drakharin hiding in the building, they might be spooked by the sight of an Avicen barging into their safe house. The scouts had said they didn’t appear to be skilled at combat, but it wouldn’t take more than one frightened lookout with a sharp weapon to start a fight that could potentially end in tragedy.
The door was locked, but Echo made quick work of it with the small lock-picking set she kept tucked in the interior pocket of her leather jacket. She never left home without it. She was just glad the lock wasn’t a dead bolt or something else that would require more advanced tools. The door was ancient, but its hinges had been recently oiled, and it opened without a sound.
Echo entered the building, Rowan close behind her. A naked lightbulb hung from a chain in the middle of the room, casting a weak, flickering glow that didn’t quite reach the shadowy corners. There was nothing in the room save for a rickety table with a broken leg shoved into one corner and a pile of broken wood slats. Near the door was a can of paint. Green, like the rune outside. It was the only thing in the room not covered with a liberal coating of dust.
There was a door in the far wall that led to a staircase. Echo stopped on the landing, straining to hear even the slightest sound. There was none. It was quiet, but not a casual quiet. It was a deliberate quiet. There was a quality to the silence that made her think of mice holding their breath, waiting for the falcon overhead to fly away. The only way to go was down, so that was where Echo and Rowan went.
Their footfalls were loud as they descended, even though Echo tried to keep her tread as light as possible. Whoever was down there would hear them coming. She could only hope that they were the “ask questions first, shoot later” type. She had survived a great many things in the past several months, but she wasn’t sure she would walk away from a slug to the chest. The Drakharin shared the Avicen’s distaste for modern human weaponry, but there was a first time for everything.
At the foot of the stairs was a wooden door emblazoned with the same protective rune as the wall outside. Echo pressed a finger to her lips, gesturing for Rowan to stay silent. He mimed locking his lips closed and then throwing away a key. Nerd.
Echo took up position on one side of the door while Rowan mirrored her on the other side. She crouched low and slowly turned the knob. A shuffling sound came from behind the door, like people scurrying out of the way. Echo pushed the door open and waited for an attack that did not come.
She met Rowan’s eyes. He shrugged. Echo peered around the doorframe. The room was dark, but the smoky scent of candles recently snuffed out wafted through the air. A faint whimper broke the silence.
“Hello?” Echo called out, keeping her voice quiet. “We come in peace.”
Rowan arched a bronze eyebrow at her. She mouthed, What? It seemed as good a thing to say as any. And it was true.
When no reply came, Echo stood. With her hands held up to show that she wasn’t carrying a weapon—a visible weapon, unlike the dagger tucked into her boot or the fire that tingled beneath her skin at the prospect of being used—Echo entered the room. The dim light from the stairwell penetrated only so far, but she could discern a few figures in the darkness.
More scuffling. An intrepid soul broke away from the group to come to the forefront. A female voice said something in Drakhar that lilted upward at the end. The intonation made Echo think it was a question, but she had no idea what the woman had said.
“I’m going to turn on the lights,” Echo said, hoping they could understand her.
The fire inside Echo wanted out. It was easy to call a tiny bit of it forth. Less easy was stopping the flow once it started. Echo snapped her fingers and the candles she had smelled upon entering sprang to life, unnaturally white flames shooting from their wicks before settling into a more conventional tongue of fire.
Startled gasps shivered through the group. There were about a dozen of them, not counting the ones hiding in the back who Echo couldn’t see. Men, women, and children in tattered garb who looked like something out of the eighteenth century. All Drakharin. None of them armed. The one who had come forward was staring at Echo in open mistrust. When Rowan followed Echo into the room, the woman swore and grabbed for an iron poker resting against the wall beside her. A frightened child broke from the group to run toward the woman, throwing her little arms around the woman’s waist.
“Oops,” Rowan said. Echo shot a quick glance behind her. He’d taken off his hat, and in the candlelight his feathers gleamed in all their tawny brilliance. The Drakharin responded to the sight of an Avicen as Echo had thought they might.