Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (10 page)

As I got out of the car, I realized how quiet and still it was. The surrounding empty buildings should be chock-full of transient residents, but if they were, those residents were as silent as … well, as silent as the dead.

As I thought that, a figure moved in the shadows, but when I peered into the foggy darkness, no one was there.

When my phone rang, I jumped like a scalded cat. I didn’t recognize the number. I
did
recognize the caller’s voice, as soon as she said my name.

“Pamela?” I said. “How did you get this number?”

“I only have a minute. If you really don’t want to speak to me, hang up and let me call back to leave a message. I wouldn’t contact you if it wasn’t urgent.”

“You aren’t supposed to contact me at all.”

“Don’t. Please.” Her voice was firmer than usual, and I realized there was something else odd about this call—no message
warning me I was being contacted from an Illinois penitentiary.

Before I could comment, she said, “I need to see you. I know Ricky is in trouble, and that concerns me.”

“Why? Don’t you want him dead, too?”

A pause. Then her voice came, tense, as if she was struggling not to snap a reply. “No, I do not. I like Ricky.”

“You’ve never met Ricky.”

“I like what he’s done for you. He makes you happy.”

So did James, once upon a time. So does Gabriel, in his way.
I didn’t say that. After a while, no matter how valid the reasons, arguing starts to feel like petty bickering. So I told her to just get on with it, and she did. The summary? She’d heard about Ricky and had information. Critical information.

“Really, Pamela? Is that the best you can do?”

I hung up before she could answer. Then I turned off my phone, jogged across the road, and rapped on the door of the drop-in center. It creaked open at my touch.

I backed up and looked around, checking for omens the way other people dip their toes into water. And there it was: a dead crow behind a trash bin. Dead bird equals trouble. A dead
crow
ups the ante.

I took out my gun, and called, “Hello?” I eased through the doorway.

The room was lit by a single bulb, the light wavering. There were posters on the walls. Not cutesy motivational ones, like that damned cat exhorting you to just “hang in there.” These were portraits of girls on the street. Half of them were accompanied by later photos of the same girls—one in a graduation cap, one laughing with a toddler, another behind a desk, another in an art studio. Before-and-after shots. Some of the pictures had no second portrait, the girls still on the streets. Two had a different sort of follow-up—a tattered Missing poster for one and
a gravestone for the other. Yet even those were beautiful shots, respectful and haunting, reminders of the fates that could befall lost girls.

Lost girls never matter.

As I heard the lamia’s words, my gaze fell on one of the portraits. It was the older girl I’d seen die. The photographer had caught her in motion, turning away, wide-eyed, like a rabbit that had thought it was hidden if it stayed perfectly still. A fitting portrait for a kid on the streets, feeling invisible, startled when someone notices her. Equally fitting for a fae, and in that portrait I swore I could see a shimmering glimpse of something not quite human.

“I knew you’d come back,” a voice said.

I turned. It was a woman. Tiny—maybe five-two and a hundred pounds. A few years older than me, she wore a cropped leather jacket, faded jeans, and sneakers, her black hair gathered in a ponytail.

“Aunika Madole,” I said, tucking my gun into my back pocket. “Yes, I—”

She threw water at me.

I looked down at my dripping jacket and up at her. I thought she mistook me for an intruder and had thrown the only thing she had on hand—a glass or bottle of water. Except she held what looked like an antique metal flask. And she wasn’t grabbing her cell phone to call 911. She was staring at me, intently, as if expecting to see something.

“Holy water?” I plucked at my damp shirt. “Seriously? You threw
holy water
at me? Sure, I’ve heard the demon-spawn jokes, given who my parents are—”

She ran through the doorway. I went after her. In the middle of the room she spun, with a gun in her hand now … only to see me holding mine on her. Her gaze dropped to the threshold,
and I followed it to see an odd metal plate.

I backed up, crouched, and put my hand on the metal. It felt abnormally chilled, and the tingle ran down my arm. Cold-forged iron. It wouldn’t kill faeries on contact, but they’d be unable to cross it. I looked at the metal bottle in her hand. Not holy water. Some other kind of liquid detection.

I took out my switchblade, flicked the penlight part, and shone the beam on my face. “Does better lighting help?”

She went still. Then she backed to the light switch and turned it on. I put away the knife and flipped open my wallet. “Olivia Taylor-Jones.”

“Taylor …” Her eyes widened. “You’re …”

“Yeah, hence the demon-spawn jokes. Totally groundless. I’m working as an investigator for Gabriel Walsh.”

Her head shot up, her eyes narrowing.

“You know
his
name, then.”

“He’s the son of a bitch who defended—”

“—some scumbag you think didn’t deserve a defense. Yep, that’s my boss. Which is not why I’m here. I was going to give you a story about how I was visiting the prison with him and heard some chatter about a guy killing teen prostitutes, but apparently we can cut through that bullshit. You thought I was fae.”

“What?”

“Fae. Faeries. You thought—”

She forced a laugh. “A faery? Really?”

“Right, and that”—I pointed at the metal inset under the door—“isn’t cold-forged iron. Nor is that flask. You just happen to be throwing water at strangers and seeing if they can cross an iron plate. I passed. I’m not fae. However, those girls who went missing are another story. It’s also why you have the plate at the back room and not the front door. Because you don’t want to keep
them
out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I sighed and put away my wallet. “So much for cutting through the bullshit. Do you want me to keep pretending I’m investigating these missing girls on a whim?”

“I want you to get the hell out.”

“Nope. Sorry. Can we lower the weapons, at least? Please? I suspect you’re better at shooting a camera than a revolver.”

“Want to test me?”

“I already did. You’re holding it wrong, for one thing. You’ve had some basic training, but I’m pretty sure I’m”—I fired at a wall calendar, putting a bullet through today’s square—“a better shot.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m not the one testing for fae intruders. Maybe we can talk about that.”

“Maybe I can tell you to get the hell out of my—”

“You already did. I declined. Now, I understand that this conversation is making you very nervous, but how about we go grab a coffee and talk.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Two girls are missing,” I said. “They’re dead. I’m sorry if you didn’t know that, but they are. I’m trying to stop the guy who’s doing it.”
I won’t mention that it’s your brother-in-law.
“If you want to test my motives, go ahead, but I’d really rather do that over coffee. This”—I waved my gun—“is just awkward. And kind of rude.”

“I …” She trailed off, looking rather like someone who has stepped into a fae realm herself.

“You can check my ID,” I said. “But since it could be fake, just take out your phone and google me. You’ll get plenty of pictures. Further research will reveal that I’ve officially solved four murders in the past six months. All were related to that.”
I pointed at the cold-iron inset. “Which we can talk about, or we can just pretend you know nothing about fae and proceed from there. But I’d really like to get to work finding a killer. So … coffee?”

“Twelve hours,” she said.

“What?”

“Give me twelve hours to check out your story.”

“You don’t need—”

“Then we don’t talk.”

I started to reply when a board creaked overhead.

A
unika and I went still.

“What’s up there?” I whispered.

“My apartment.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t have visitors tonight?”

“Just you.” She started backing away, gun still raised, her attention on the ceiling as she tracked the steps. “Get out of here. I can lose them.”

“Lose who?”

She didn’t answer, just turned and ran, silently, into the next room. When I went after her, she said, “Damn it, girl. You really don’t give up.”

I lifted both my gun and switchblade. “Whatever this is, I can help.”

She loped down the hall. Halfway to the end, she stopped and cocked her head. Then she eased open a closet door, prodded me inside, followed, and shut the door. I was still mid-step when the light went out, and I bashed into a wall. I clicked on my penlight.

“We’re hiding in a closet?” I said.

Aunika waved me into the corner and pulled something on the floor. A panel opened.

“You have an escape hatch?” I whispered.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

She reached inside, pulled out a flashlight, and started down. I crouched and shone my penlight to see a ladder. I started after her.

“You need to—” she began, then stopped as she saw I was already shutting the hatch behind me.

The ladder only went about six feet. When I stood, I could reach up and touch the ceiling. The dirt floor was damp, and I could smell the river and hear water trickling down a distant wall.

As I looked around, I said, “Shadowy mystery stalkers? Hidden escape hatches? Creepy subterranean tunnels? My mother tried to get me to take social work for my master’s. I told her it was boring. I was so wrong.”

Aunika snorted and set off, saying, “Keep your voice down.”

“Because sound echoes. Radio silence, then.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

I looked around as we walked. It was indeed a subterranean tunnel. Like
The Count of Monte Cristo
, locked away in a dungeon, digging your way out with a rusty spoon, and creeping along the rat-infested warren of abandoned passages deep below the prison. At least
this
one didn’t seem to have rats.

I ogled as we went, touching a rusted metal pipe, leaning into a dark side passage.

“This isn’t a sightseeing tour,” Aunika whispered back.

“Life is a sightseeing tour,” I said. “By the way, do you know how old these tunnels are? They’re definitely not part of the original city system for transporting goods to and from the railroad. For those, they had to put in a foot of concrete and run sump pumps to keep them dry.” I touched a rivulet, running through a groove at least a half-inch deep, worn by decades of such rivulets.
“They really skimped here. Tunnels built for nefarious purposes, I’m guessing. Or by government contract.”

She shook her head and continued on. When she heard a beep, she looked back to see me getting out my phone.

“Taking pictures now?” she said.

I shook my head. “Calling my boyfriend.”

“You need a guy to come rescue you?”

I waggled my gun. “I have that part covered, but given the situation, I’m going to let someone know where I am. I’m a feminist; I’m not an idiot. And … no cell service. Naturally.”

A pipe clanged ahead. When I went still, Aunika looked at me and said, “Now what?”

“You didn’t hear …”

Her expression told me I didn’t need to finish that sentence. I started forward, only to catch the whisper of voices. When asked if she heard them, she screwed up her face.

“Shit, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”

I was about to answer when another voice came, speaking a language I didn’t recognize, but loud enough that there was no way Aunika wouldn’t hear. A shadowy figure slid past ahead. When she didn’t see that, I cursed under my breath.

“What now?” she said.

“Nothing. Just … ignore me.”

“I’m trying to. Really, really trying to.”

She resumed walking. I caught snatches of voices and saw more streaks of movement as a vision encroached on the world of the living. That was
not
a good omen. It meant I was teetering on the edge of a full-blown vision.

Not now. Please, not now.

I kept my eyes open, as I mentally recited Dickinson’s “There Is Another Sky,” but stopped short because, well, there was another place here, another world, and I was desperately trying to stay
out of it. I switched to Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night,” which seemed thematically appropriate. The voices faded, and I stayed firmly in these subterranean tunnels, my penlight beam shining on Aunika’s back.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

I nodded, and she peered at me, as if not quite convinced. “I’m being quiet,” I said. “It
is
a strain.”

She shook her head. “The exit is just ahead. I’ll go up first. Keep the light down and let me make sure it’s clear.”

We reached another ladder, this one wooden and not nearly as sturdy. As she pushed open the hatch, I moved to the bottom, partly to defend her but also to race up that ladder if she tried to lock me in. But she only went through the hatch and then shone her light around before motioning for me to follow.

We came out in a different building. The night wind whistled through holes in the stonework. That gave me pause. Every abandoned place I’ve been in lately has spelled fae trouble. But when I looked around, all I saw was a cavernous room with rotting crates and barrels and holes in the roof.

I got about five steps, following Aunika, when I heard the voice again, louder now, a man saying, “Put it over there,” and another man, with a younger voice, replying in the other language, which I now recognized as Gaelic.

The first man snapped, “You’re in America now. Speak American,” and the young man said, “It is called English.”

A smack, as if the older man had slapped him. “Don’t be smart, you mug. You want to go downstairs, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I would very much like to go downstairs.”

The older man chortled. “I bet you would. Then do as you’re told. Finish loading those barrels in the cart and haul them to the wharf. We’ve got about three hours of night left.”