Gunmetal Magic (Kate Daniels #5.5)(56)
Author: Ilona Andrews

Huh. I could’ve sworn Gloria was Anapa’s flunky. Well, showed what I knew.

“I hope you went home,” Raphael said. “I’ll be driving by later. Don’t do anything stupid without me.”

Don’t do anything stupid without him. I wouldn’t be doing anything with him, stupid or otherwise.

I checked the world outside the window. It was a few minutes past nine and the evening sky was vast and dark. Perfect.

I had to go back to Gloria’s crime scene. It was highly likely that Gloria, whoever or whatever she was, and her pals must have murdered Raphael’s people. That explained both the wide fang spawn and the location of the bite wounds. But I had no concrete proof. I didn’t have access to Gloria’s corpse, so I couldn’t measure the exact distance between her fangs and I still didn’t know where her associates were or what she was after.

I had a good suspicion that the knife in the photo that I’d seen in Anapa’s office was involved. In fact, I was sure of it, but again I had to obtain evidence of that. I had to figure out what the knife was and what it was for, and the only way to shed light on this situation would be to break into the crime scene and I would have to do it alone. If I got caught, I’d be detained, but I was just a private citizen. If anyone from the Pack was detained with me, the matter would take on a completely different light.

Everything inside me hurt. I felt like I’d been chewed up by a beast with small sharp teeth. My bones felt so heavy, you’d think they were made of lead.

I didn’t want to go anywhere. I just wanted to lie there and fall asleep so I wouldn’t hurt anymore. But there were people dependent on me for answers and I wouldn’t get those answers by taking time out to rest. Besides, with the magic down, now was the best time to search the room. Who knew how long technology would last?

Come on, Ms. Nash. Get your ass in gear.

I forced myself to sit up. Doolittle had said no physical activity, but time was of the essence. I’d just have to take it easy.

I drove to Pucker Alley two blocks from White Street and hid the car in the shadow of a ruin. A vast, cloudless sky stretched above me, and the night was gauzy with curtains of silvery moonlight. Just my luck. I grabbed my duffel bag out of the backseat and pulled it open. It held my emergency kit: matches in a plastic bag, gauze, antibiotic ointment, Band-Aids, knife, roll of duct tape, flask of alcohol, bottle of water, an MRE—a Meal Ready to Eat courtesy of the United States Army—spare knife, rope, gloves, hat, and a towel. I had once read a book that said a traveler should always have one and it made a lot of sense.

I slipped on the gloves, hid my hair under the hat, zipped the duffel, and set off.

My forehead immediately began to sweat under the cotton hat. Hats and muggy Atlanta spring didn’t exactly play nice. But I’d suffer a little sweat to keep from leaving stray hairs at the scene to be found by PAD crime techs.

The street in front of Gloria’s Antiques looked very much the same, deserted and foreboding. No sign of the cops’ presence remained. I had figured as much. Atlanta was a busy city and the PAD was stretched thin. They’d likely resume processing the scene tomorrow.

My ears caught no close noises. White Street lay empty.

I approached the door. A large paper seal was plastered across the door and part of the door frame with a big red DO NOT ENTER on it. Most police departments didn’t have the budget for the infamous yellow crime scene tape. Ninety percent of the time, a sticker was the only indication of sealed premises. It wasn’t meant to physically prevent anyone from entering the scene. It was meant to give the cops proof of your intent to enter despite the seal.

I pulled my lock pick ring out of my vest pocket, sliced the sticker with the thicker pick, and slid it and its thinner twin into the lock.

One, two, three…Click.

I edged the door open, slipped through, and locked it behind me. The moonlight spilled through the windows, giving more than enough illumination to examine the scene where I had almost died. The snake woman was gone and so were the snakes. The dark smears of Gloria’s blood still painted the floor. Beyond them, the back door waited for me. I walked past the stains along the counter. The cops had probably swept the scene, but I didn’t want to contaminate it if they hadn’t yet.

The back door had a serious look about it. I rapped my knuckles on the door. Steel. Large lock, with a few fresh-looking scratches across the metal. The PAD must’ve gotten a locksmith to pop it open. I tried the door handle. It turned easily in my hand. The door swung open, revealing darkness. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, and slid my hand along the wall, groping for the light switch. My eyes did fine with little light, but this was complete blackness. No moonlight meant no windows, so nobody would see me.

The air smelled of jasmine, that same dark, entrancing, menacing scent I’d smelled before. My ears caught nothing. No sound troubled the silence except for my own breathing.

My fingers brushed the light switch. A row of recessed lights ignited in the ceiling. I stood in a long rectangular room. In front of me four rows of heavy-duty shelves stretched the length of the space, almost all the way to another door in the opposite wall. Odds and ends filled the shelves. A collection of beige stone spheres, ranging from the size of a grapefruit to as big as a basketball. A strange metal contraption with a tall metal rod in the center and two-feet-wide rings of metal threaded onto it. A dozen empty bottles, green, yellow, brown, and clear, were thrust through holes in rings, suspended upside down at an angle. A spear with a stylized metal flower for a guard. A lantern wrapped in chains. A fishing net hanging off a hook in the shelf. Clocks, a bust of a monkey carved from some dark wood, an ancient underwater helmet, a violin, an Egyptian cat next to brass scales, a Catholic priest’s vestments with a purple stole…There was no rhyme or reason to it. No organization by type, no markings on the shelf.

A smorgasbord of junk, protected by an inch-thick metal door. That meant the junk was likely magic.

I squinted at the door in the opposite wall. A metal chain sealed it, locked with a heavy padlock. The PAD must’ve run out of time or experts, because from where I stood, the padlock didn’t look touched. I tiptoed through the gap between two shelves toward the back room.

The padlock featured a little black wheel. Combination-based. Great.

I grasped the chain and pulled. Little black dots swam in front of my eyes. My nose felt wet, as if I was bleeding.

The metal gave with a tortured screech, and the links of the chain snapped.