“Statues, Jane,” he said, and his tone said I was being insensitive.
“What about adamagedchurch? Black mold on water-damaged walls?”
“After all the hurricanes and the financial devastation of the last few decades, there are many churches that haven’t been repaired and might never be.”
I sat up straight, trying to remember the different things I had seen in each vision. “Could be.” I looked at the werewolf. “Whatcha think, doggie? An old church?”
Brute snarled at me, showing his teeth at the doggie comment, but he gave a curt nod.
“Brute thinks an old church.” I grinned and looked out the window, saying, “If we get close, just gowoof.”
Brute growled, a sound like a big generator coming on inside the car, before he turned his head away, effectively dismissing me. My people were getting good at that.
CHAPTER 15
Get Your Furry Ass to the Prison
By the time the sky was bright, we had checked out several damaged churches that might conceivably have statues standing in niches. All were in the vicinity of Angie Baby’s pointing finger, but none looked anything like my visions, nor did any church make Brute gowoof. In fact, he refused to even get out of the SUV. And the farther from HQ we drove, the wider grew our of margin of error.
“Quint,” Bruiser said, as we got back into the car after the last stop, “please drive.” They switched places and Bruiser said, “Brute, If I show you the map, can you suggest a general vicinity where the angel might be?”
Brute, ignoring me as if I was a cat beneath his notice, pricked his ears at Bruiser and gave a regal nod, like, a better royal nod than I knew how to give.
My sweet-cheeks unfolded an honest-to-God paper map of New Orleans and nearby environs, and twisted over the seat and console to display it to Brute. “Some animals have a natural homing instinct.”
Brute narrowed his eyes at Bruiser, and this time I wasn’t on the receiving end of the werewolf’s growls.
“Forgive me misspeaking,” Bruiser said smoothly. “I wasn’t calling you an animal. But Jane retains some of the traits of the creatures she shifts into. And I don’t know what additional gifts you might naturally have as a were-creature. If you are tied to the angel, might you have an internal”—Bruiser rolled his free hand, as if searching for more appropriate phrasing—“indication of Hayyel’s whereabouts?”
The growling stopped. The werewolf gave a dog chuff and tilted his head, his eyebrows wrinkling closer together in thought. He stood on the seat and turned around in a circle, tumbling the grindy into my lap.
“Easy with the steel claws,” I said to the little killer. “I bleed.”
Brute bopped the window with his snout and sniffed outside when it opened with a faint whirr. He shook his huge body, sending wolf hairs into the air, looked back to the map, and gave a dog frown. Turned around again, his nonretractable wolf claws denting the leather. He shook his head no, then yes.
“He doesn’t know where Hayyel is, but he knows something,” I said. “General direction?” I got the shake/nod again.
Bruiser held the map closer and said, “If I point at the map, can you give a better idea of the general direction?”
Brute stared at the map, the skin around his eyes tight, his mouth closed. I had a feeling he was going to fart as a joke, but I didn’t say it. No point in giving him ideas. And kudos to me for keeping my big mouth shut.
“This is the direction Angie pointed.” Bruiser indicated west and south.
Bruiser leaned in and studied the map, finally licking one area.
“Algiers,” Bruiser said, circling the licked spot with a blue pen.
Brute nodded, but he didn’t look particularly certain.
“Good an idea as any?” I asked.
Brute shook, nodded, and plopped back down. The vehicle rocked slightly.
“Okay,” I said. “Quint, drive us across the river.”
“Roger that,” she said, pulling away as we buckled up.
Algiers. That the church was across the Mississippi never crossed my mind.
