“You waited three minutes, give or take, while I did a weapons check,” I said.
He answered with a lazy not-smile, pushed off the wall, and said, “You smelled me?”
“I heard you. Your combat boots make an awful noise on the carpet. The clomping stopped outside my door. You got the addresses?”
He nodded and tilted his head to the harness on the bed. “Need help?”
“Yeah. It gets harder and harder to get dressed by myself.”
“Well, I’m better at undressing women, but I’ll give it a shot.”
“You’re a gun whore.” It was the standard chatter between us, comfortable and easy.
“Turn around. None of this would be so hard if you hadn’t gotten so fat.”
“I put on muscle. You helped.” I slid into the jacket, the weight settling on my shoulders. The jacket was heavy, with a thin layer of silver-plated links between the leather and the lining. A small surprise for any vamp who wanted dinner. Eli helped me into the harness and started on the buckles and tabs, making sure the weapons were all easy at hand.
“All the weapons secured. Release straps secured,” he said. “Extra mags?”
I opened the weapons bag and took out four magazines, inspected them each, and tucked them into the special pockets: two on the right for the nines, two on the left for the .380s, all loaded with standard ammo. Everything about my gear was special and it had cost a fortune. Some women spent money on shoes and mani-pedis. Not me. My next weapons purchase would be to acquire two new nine mils. The .380s had their uses, but in a firefight it was handy to use interchangeable ammo. “You got some of those sleepy-time bombs we used the last time we were here?” I asked.
Eli yanked the harness to position it midline with my body, so the M4 was straight up and down my spine. I had to raise my arm up high to pull the weapon, but it was out of the way until needed. There was another way of wearing the weapon on the harness that allowed it to hang free, within easy reach, but secured beneath my arm. “Yeah,” he said. “But I can’t get any more, so we have to be thrifty. Okay,” he said, giving my clothes one last jerk. “Good to go.” And he slapped me on my butt.
The growl from the doorway froze us both. Then Eli moved, and was holding a nine millimeter in a two-handed grip, pointed at the door, his feet positioned, legs braced for firing. He had a bead on Rick.
“You move, you’re gonna bleed,” Eli said. “You already jumped me once. Not gonna happen again.”
“He’s not going to jump you,” I said, my voice without inflection. “He’s going to jump me.”
Eli’s eyes flicked from Rick to me to the bed, and back to Rick as something seemed to rearrange itself in his head. “Same difference, were-cat. She’s on my team, my pack. Back off or bleed.”
Before any of us could decide to react, a green ball of fur slammed into Rick’s side and knocked him off his feet. Again. I chuckled and walked from the room, stepping over the cop on the floor and the kitten-sized predator at his throat. “Some people never learn. Do they, Pea?” I patted her head and practically skipped down the stairs. “Hey, Rick. I like your pet!” I called over my shoulder.
Out in the SUV, Eli buckled himself in and pulled into the street. The sun was about two hours from setting, and that gave us plenty of time. I waited, knowing the Ranger was biding his time to say something about the contretemps in the hall. But he said nothing, and as we turned in to town, I caved. “Okay. What?”
Eli’s mouth did that nonsmile thing and he said, “Your business.”
I felt myself flush, and the stupid guilt I’ve lived with all my life rose like a whirlwind, even though I had done nothing—nothing—wrong. My own physical responses made me mad, and I shoved down hard on the useless guilt. “Yeah. Mine. My business.”
CHAPTER 16
Maggots. I Hate Maggots.
Under the Hill wasn’t deserted, but neither was it bustling; few people were out and about, with the reports of missing citizens keeping most indoors. In the sunlight, Under the Hill looked odd; it was a place for the shadows, the dark of a new-moon night, hard rains, and stifling summers. By day, the gardens of the earth witches were brilliant with flowers and winter vegetables, and the buildings that were painted were done so in vibrant color—blues, greens, barn red, and one old house that was lilac with pale lavender trim. It looked like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale, and probably was. It was attractive on the surface, but likely dark and bloody underneath. Cars were parked here and there, but not well-waxed vamp mobiles. These ran from well-kept older models to rusted-out hulks, SUVs and vans, some with conspicuous baby seats, others painted with advertisements for dog grooming, pet walking, personal gardeners, bakers, rune casters, artists of every stripe and kind. The typical witch wagons. Like Molly drove. I shook the thought away. You can’t force someone to forgive you, not even a once-best friend.
When we parked, I searched for Silandre’s Saloon but couldn’t see it. It was downhill, closer to the water, and faced south. The buildings where we were parked faced north. The warehouse where we met Big H for intros was in the middle somewhere. Except for age, their history as saloons, and association with vamps, the structures had nothing in common. We left the SUV unlocked and walked back to an address the Kid had given us.
It was empty, containing only the stink of age, river rats, and roaches. The next address was equally empty and disused. But the third one set my Beast senses tingling. The structure was a former warehouse and loading dock, converted into a saloon back in the day when Under the Hill was notorious for the kidnapping of women and young boys and their sale into sexual slavery. It was two stories, the bright sunshine showing a brick exterior and rusted antique iron shutters on both floors, the corrosion gathered in the corners and across the center support bar. The trim was unpainted and mostly rotten, with only traces of green paint showing here and there. The porch was better made, though, rust-stained concrete with terra-cotta pieces set in, like something constructed in the nineteen sixties, but getting to it meant a huge leap where the steps had rotted away. The porch roof was rusted tin, and the rust running down from the constant rains had tinted the rotten wood a deep brown.
I could smell the dead from ten feet away and wrinkled my nose, making a spitting sound a big-cat might make before I could stop myself. “What?” Eli demanded, sotto voce.
“Unwashed humans inside,” I said, as softly as he. “And like the last house, DBs. Don’t know how many, but dead bodies.”
“Reconnoiter,” he said, and motioned me to move counterclockwise around the house while he went clockwise. I wasn’t a witch and I didn’t feel any witch energies, so widdershins was fine by me, but it would be different if spells were being cast here. Witch houses had to be approached very differently. I pulled a .380 and stepped off the sidewalk.
The surrounding shrubbery, all overgrown and spindly, hadn’t felt the sharp edge of pruning or lopping shears in years. The foundation was cracked and broken in several places, the crawl space narrow and currently unused but smelling of the recent occupation of chickens—wet feathers and chicken poop. The windows at the side, like the front, were covered with iron, but they hadn’t been sealed for as long as the front ones. Air still moved through some of the cracks, smelling of blood and rot, and the sickly sweet, beery, herbal scent of Naturaleza. The mingled stench made my skin crawl. I wasn’t gonna like what we found inside.