Devin took a breath, rattled and disquieted, but somehow lighter.
Graves’s warehouse bordered the Great Sea, just one in a long row of identical buildings only set apart by the number above the door. No one questioned them as they approached or when they slipped into a line of enforcers entering the building through a bay door.
Once inside, they were assaulted by an acidic, chemical smell with an undercurrent of rot. Here, there were various workers whose faces weren’t covered. Workers stacking boxes, or tallying with clipboards, or packing crates. There was a flurry of activity, as if they were trying to get a lot done in a short window of time.
The ground floor was a single open level and the ceiling rose up to the rafted roof. But dividers and stacks of crates obscured their view and gave the effect of rooms and separated spaces. Above were a series of open walkways that crossed above their heads to allow workers open access to the levels below. An open storage platform spanned one corner and a walled off office in another.
Devin followed Miranda’s gaze, searching for her mother through the vented slats on the roof. Lady Wilde shook her head. Cordelia wasn’t in view from above.
“We need to go up,” Miranda whispered. “I’ll bet anything she’s in that office.”
“Agreed. If we walk like we know where we’re going, we shouldn’t be questioned,” Devin said.
They chose a path and tried to make their search for the stairs look purposeful. There were several sets of stairs but once inside the network of ‘rooms’ it was hard to see the entire upper floor and get their bearings. The first path led to a dead end, and before they could turn around a line of enforcers forced them to duck into the closest room to avoid notice. Miranda lingered by the entrance—there were no proper doors—and listened for the retreat of footsteps.
Devin’s newly returned awareness shifted his attention to the room. Unease crept up his spine. Dread lay stagnant in the air like a fog.
This room was against one of the outer walls, the other sides delineated by crates on one side, the other by shelves, and another by cages. The cages appeared empty, sized to hold larger animals, and the barred doors were left ajar. Against the crates were a series of desks littered with equipment. Test tubes and beakers, stacks of papers, pens and cutting instruments. On the shelves were endless rows of vials, all empty. Waiting.
Devin’s focus was drawn to the wall of cages and the single latched door near the bottom. A red tube snaked from the bars, ran along the wall and into a carafe on the desk. An aura, the faintest shade of desolation he’d ever seen, was more like a void than a glow. The color was so dismal his Sight couldn’t find a name for it, but the feeling seeped into the room, seemed to reach out to him with clawed, weakened fingers, dragging him down into the source’s despair. It was a Winter Fae talent to sense Death, but no one could mistake the heavy presence of Death that waited in the cage, biding its time.
“Mira…” He reached for her, but her focus was elsewhere.
Devin remained frozen, trying to find the will to take a step, to lift an arm.
“These are the same drawings, the same notes from Graves’s desk.” She picked up a sheet of paper and then crumpled it in her fist. Anger began to emanate from her, flickering waves of red hot anger.
He followed it, allowed her bold, vibrant colors to lure him into taking a step.
“Devin?” She left the desk, meeting him in the middle of the room, and when her touch reached him he heaved in a breath like he’d been drowning. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
He fell into her, taking the support. “The corner,” he growled, motioning with his chin.
Her eyes followed the motion, but she shook her head. “What? There’s nothing there.”
“You can’t see, but there is most certainly a soul in that cage.” He twined his fingers with hers. “May I use your hand for a moment?”
She nodded, though confusion creased her brow.
Devin used her touch as a lifeline, a tether, to keep him from sinking. Then he grabbed the red tubing, which was actually a clear tube currently filled with the steady trickle of blood. With his free hand he drew a knife and sliced through it, some of the sticky, hot liquid draining onto his hand. The figure in the cage was too weak, too far gone to do more than slump further over, their aura flickering for a moment, but not going out.
Miranda gasped behind him, though he didn’t dare turn as he continued. His hand squeezed hers, grounding him so he could finish his task. He flipped the knife and used the handle to snap through the lock. It had not been a strong lock. There was no fear of attempted escape.
He eased the door open, hinges groaning from disuse, but opening it had been more for Devin’s sanity than anything. Whoever was inside hadn’t the strength to leave and Devin could hardly waltz out with a prisoner and risk the mission. Hard as it was, Devin would have to trust that Gideon would do the rest.
“Let’s get out of here,” he growled, voice thick with a righteous sort of fury.
After a few more dead ends, they found the stairs closest to the upper office. They were about to ascend, when the office door burst open and they instinctively retreated into the shadows under the stairs.
Above, they could only make out the shoes and movement through the slats of the flooring, but the voices carried with perfect clarity.
“Please, remind the Chaplain where his new roof came from, and that it can be taken away just as easily. In fact,” Graves’s voice was razor sharp, laced with anger, his careful performance forgotten now that he wasn’t being watched, “Let him know that if I don’t see him in the next half hour I will simply burn his church to the ground. Do you understand me? Am I speaking clearly enough? Because if I see you again without a chaplain in tow I’ll use your corpse as kindling.”
“Burn the church—” A timid voice, from a pair of flat, men’s shoes, their steps light and jittery.
“Oh, the Divine can try and smite me if They wish, but by the time I’m through with my plans, They’ll be little more than a nuisance. Remember who holds the power here, Yen. Who do you fear more?”
The flat shoes skittered away to their task, bounding down the stairs and then disappearing.
