Page 86 of Dead Beat

A boom shook the room, making the walls shake.

Alex’s head snapped up. She knew that sound. She’d heard it too many times not to know what it meant—big magic, someone pushing through a barrier, trying to get someplace they weren’t meant to be.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Turner demanded through the phone.

“Is it raining where you are?” Darlington asked.

“A little windy. Nothing else.”

Mira looked directly at the camera; her eyes had gone entirely white. “Culebra que no mir morde, que viva mil anos.” It didn’t sound like a single woman speaking but a chorus—and Alex knew those words.

“It’s a refrane,” she said. One of her grandmother’s old sayings. May the snake who doesn’t bite me live a thousand years. But Mira didn’t speak Ladino. She’d rejected everything Estrea had offered. “Help her,” Alex pleaded.

The screen went dark.

Outside the wind howled, a high, hoarse wail against the night.

Alex grabbed her phone and frantically dialed her mother.

“Mom?”

“Alex! I think we lost the connection.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, baby. Should we do this every week?”

“She doesn’t remember,” said Darlington.

Another boom sounded and Dawes had to grab the back of Alex’s chair to keep from falling. “Let me call you back, Mom.”

“Is there a storm there?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Darlington was at the windows. He pushed the curtains aside. “Something is trying to get past the wards.”

Suddenly, the wind dropped away to nothing. The rain ceased its patter. The silence felt too complete.

“We’re okay,” Dawes said, gripping the chair. “The wards held. We’re okay.”

“Would someone tell me what is going on?” Turner bellowed.

“What was that?” Alex asked. “Who did this to her?”

“I’m not sure,” said Dawes. “But—”

“Look,” said Darlington.

Alex wasn’t sure she wanted to. She made her way to the big picture window that faced Orange Street. Sitting on the powerline above the rooftops, their bodies tucked close together, were six owls silhouetted against the blue-black of the night sky. Their eyes glinted with flat green light. One of them released a rough screech, somewhere between a human cry and the sound of a door creaking open.

“It was the owl that shrieked,” Darlington quoted, “the fatal bellman.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“What do we do?” asked Dawes, clutching her headphones, her knuckles white.

Alex met Darlington’s eyes. “What we always do. We answer.”