Harvest Hunting (28 page)

We pulled into a Starbucks, and while Camille bought cookies and a monster latte, I flipped open my laptop, jacked into the wireless service, and pulled up a browser. I had numerous sites bookmarked where I could dredge up all sorts of goodies on people. Some were pay-per-use, others I’d subscribed to, and still others were public domain. Within five minutes, I had the address of both president and treasurer of Madame Pompey’s Magical Emporium, Inc. Van and Jaycee Thomas, and they lived a few miles from our home in Belles-Faire.

“Move it,” I said. “I want to get there well before they even think of going home for the day.”

Camille grabbed her latte and cookies, and we headed back to the car.

 

 

The Thomases lived back off the main road, like we did, on what looked to be a two- or three-acre parcel of land. In the Seattle area, that meant they weren’t hurting for money. Camille paused at the edge of the drive.

“Just remember: They may have wards up. Keep your eyes open.” She let out a long breath and began to edge forward along the drive. Like most driveways in the area, it was heavily graveled and bordered on both sides by heavy foliage.

I watched nervously as we eased along the road. The sun was beginning to disappear beneath the cloud cover, and the scent of impending rain hung heavy in the air. Huckleberry and thimbleberries reached out from the side to brush the car as Camille focused on staying in the grooved wheel ruts that had been worn into the drive, and I caught sight of a deer poking his head through the undergrowth up a ways to our right.

He was a four-tine buck, and he watched as we quietly drove past. I stared into his eyes and caught a glimpse of something—an intelligence I didn’t normally associate with deer. They weren’t stupid animals, by any means, but this . . . this was cunning and wile—not normally deer characteristics. I filed away the information in case we needed it later. For all we knew, the Thomases were creating souped-up animals for guardians.

As we rounded a curve, the house was suddenly in front of us. Like our own, it was a rambling Victorian, three stories high. Unlike our house, it was badly in need of repair and would have given the Munsters’ house a run for its money. The paint was faded, the weather vane had snapped in two, at least three of the windows were cracked, from what I could see, and the porch sagged dangerously.

“They need to sink some of their money in a visit to Home Depot,” Camille said, turning off the engine. “That porch doesn’t look stable. Let’s head around back and see what we find. I’m pretty sure we tripped a couple wards on the way in, so let’s get the fuck in and out, just in case they have a warning system set up at their shop.”

We cautiously circled the house, me leading. I wished now that I’d thought to bring my dagger, but the Seattle cops frowned on carrying weapons around in public. I took it when I knew we were heading into a fight, but I didn’t go flaunting it on jaunts around the city streets.

The back of the house was no better than the front, but at least the steps up to the back door looked more stable. I gingerly climbed them, testing each with my weight. At the landing, I motioned for Camille to join me while I began to pick the lock.

She kept watch as I eased my picks into the keyhole and fished around. After a moment, I heard a faint click.
Bingo!
We were in. Easing open the door, I edged my way inside, Camille following.

The door led into a small laundry-utility room. The washer and dryer had seen better days, too, and I had the feeling that Van and Jaycee had sunk all of their money into the shop rather than their home. A half door led to the kitchen, and I peeked through the top half, which was open, before turning the knob.

The kitchen was tidy.
Too tidy.
There were no signs that anybody ever ate in this room, no fruit bowl on the counter, no dishes in the sink, no coffeemaker, toaster, or any other appliances. Frowning, I opened the nearest cupboard, while Camille peeked in the refrigerator.

“Nothing,” I whispered. “No dishes, no food.”

“Nothing here, either.”

“Are you sure that they’re human?” I asked. “The woman looked almost . . . too vivid to be an FBH, but I thought maybe it was her magic that did it to her.”

Camille leaned against the counter. “I don’t know. Can’t be vampire if they’re out in the daylight. But you’re right—she did seem terribly vivid, although she responded to my glamour.”

“Unless she was faking it.” With that unsettling thought, we headed into what turned out to be the living room. Again, all the proper furniture, but no sign that people actually lived there. Everything was tidy, neat, dusted . . . but no personal pictures, no personal effects, nothing that clued us in on just who Van and Jaycee were.

“I don’t like this,” Camille said. “It’s . . . too antiseptic. We have to hurry, though. More than ever, I’m thinking they have some warning system and may be on their way now. And considering what we’re
not
finding, I’m feeling awfully uneasy here. Look for a basement. What better place to hide someone?”

We began peeking in doors, looking for steps leading down. The first two I opened led to small rooms—what looked like a parlor, and a bath—again, both with nothing to indicate this was anything but an empty house. But third time’s the charm, and I opened the door to find a set of steps. I motioned to Camille. She held up her hand and flipped out her cell phone.

“I’m calling home—letting them know where we are . . . just in case.”

I didn’t like thinking
just in case
, but it was a good idea. She left a message with Iris, telling her if she didn’t hear from us in twenty minutes, to send somebody looking. After she stowed her phone, we headed down the steps.

“This is too reminiscent of when we fought the hellhound for comfort,” I whispered as I found a broom—new and untouched—to use for a tapping rod.

“At least this time we haven’t caught the scent of Demonkin.”

“
Yet
. You can’t believe those two haven’t been cavorting with demons.” Van and Jaycee seemed the perfect couple to call in a demon here or there for favors.

“Believe it or not, not all evil comes from the Sub Realms. There are plenty of evil people in the world, plenty of evil beings in the astral.”

I tapped on the first couple of steps with the broom handle. They were stable, so down we went, our conversation falling to the wayside as we descended further into the basement of the house. I glanced around. No cobwebs? That was impossible. Every basement had cobwebs. Unless they had some magical housecleaning service that spiffed everything up with the blink of an eye.

The steps seemed to go on forever—this basement was deep, deeper than our own, which housed Menolly’s lair, deeper than the one in which Chase had been imprisoned. But after awhile, we came to a door at the bottom.

I jiggled the handle. “Locked. I don’t know if I can pick this one.”

Camille held her pen-sized flashlight on the keyhole as I worked it, first one way, then another until finally, the lock sprang.

As the door edged open, a bright flash blinded me, and I cried out, ducking to one side. Camille let out a sharp scream as the wood burst into flames, licking out at us. She turned tail and scrambled away from the stairs, which were acting like a wind tunnel, sucking the flames up toward the top.

I pressed against the wall, and she joined me.

“What do we do? That’s magical fire, and I guarantee you, I can’t put it out. I don’t know how long it will last—”

But even as she spoke, the flames died down, the blast fading. The door was a pile of charred splinters, but the steps and sides of the basement hadn’t caught fire at all. I frowned.

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Magical fire can be geared toward one target. My guess, it was aimed at any living thing in its path. The steps aren’t alive. The door charred because of the blast, not because of the fire.” She gingerly peeked through the hole in the door. “We were lucky. Let’s get a move on. I need to check in with Iris in ten minutes.”

We climbed through the hole in the door—there was no use trying to open it anymore, considering only the frame was left intact—and found ourselves in a laboratory. Here, it seemed, the Thomases actually lived. Or at least worked.

Benches lined the walls, with beakers and jars, test tubes and powders and Bunsen burners and everything necessary to produce compounds of all sorts. In the center of the room rested a basin large enough to hold a body. Drains were evenly spaced along its length, and what looked to be blood stained the porcelain. I grimaced, realizing they were used to drain away body fluids.

“This is where they make it—the Wolf Briar. They must be working with the coyote shifters—the shifters procure the werewolves and the . . . whatever they are . . . Van and Jaycee do the dissection here. But I don’t see any cages, and there doesn’t appear to be an inch of wall space leading to any secret chambers.

Camille stared at the basin in horror. “I’ve had to learn some pretty graphic and repulsive spells lately, but we’ve never touched someone alive. Raising the dead is one thing . . . killing the living for spell components is another. There’s one way to find out if there’s anything behind the lab benches.”

With one leap, she was at the edge of the first. She took it in hand and heaved, tipping the table so that all the glass crashed to the floor. Fluids mixed with potions, and there were several small explosions and hisses as the reagents combined. In another moment, she’d tipped the table entirely, crashing it to the floor amid the broken glass. Then, grabbing a broken piece of wood, she thumped along the wall behind the overturned lab bench.

“Nothing here,” she said, moving on to the next.

“Allow me.” I stepped in and sent the next table flying. Again, the crash of glass, the hiss of burning chemicals, and again, nothing behind the walls. And then the frustration of the situation took hold, and we gutted the place like maniacs, tossing beakers, smashing the glass off before sending the tables sliding across the floor.

“This is for Paulo,” I growled . . .

“And this is for Mary Mae and her baby . . .”

By the time we’d destroyed the room, Camille motioned to her watch. “I need to call Iris before she sends someone over—”

“Well, well, look what we have here, Jaycee. Visitors. Aren’t we lucky they’ve taken such an interest in our work?”

The voice came from behind us. Startled, I turned. There, just inside the broken door, stood Van and Jaycee. And they looked pissed out of their minds.

“Oh, crap.” I backed up.

Van, who was a nondescript, pale man, stepped forward. His blandness faded as a wave of power rolled toward us.
Shit.
The dude had strength. Camille let out a gasp, and I realized she could feel his energy better than I could.

“He bad?” I asked her softly.

“Yeah . . . bad.” She moved toward me.

There was no good way out of this. We couldn’t talk our way out of having trashed their lab, that was for sure. I flicked open my wrist blade, jonesing for Lysanthra. But I’d fought before I began carrying her, and I could fight barehanded if necessary.

Camille sucked in a deep breath; I glanced at her. She was invoking the energy of the storm that was starting to break outside. Not only could she call down the Moon Mother, but she could invoke the power of lightning. She had a thing for the forked bolts, and they liked her a bit too much.

Van kept his gaze on us but motioned to Jaycee. “How much do you suppose we’ll get for them?”

She looked us up and down, like a couple of fryers. “Two out of the three? My guess is more than we expect, although we can’t press our luck. I don’t want the boss thinking we’re trying to jack up the price. We’re toast if she even remotely believes we’re trying to scam her.”

“What are you talking about?” I jostled, trying to find just the right position. It was obvious they weren’t going to let us waltz out of here.

“Seems a certain demon general we work for has set a pretty price on your pretty heads,” Van said. “We’ve been planning this moment—or one similar—for the past two weeks. Our only concern was that we get to you before the other recruits.”

Realization of what he’d just said swept over me, and I wavered—only for a second—before spreading my legs and taking a firm stance. “So you work for the Bonecrusher.”

“This is a setup.” Camille let out a soft sigh. “The coyote shifters, the Wolf Briar . . . all to gain our attention and bring us to you.”

“No, we just lucked out with the stupid shifters. They wanted the Wolf Briar, and they wanted it bad. We decided to use that to bring you out. We knew it would catch your attention sooner or later. You’ve got your nose into everything in this town. We just had to be patient. In the meanwhile, the more werewolves we captured, the more ingredients we had, and the more personal profit we made. Everything we get from the Wolf Briar is ours to keep.” Van shrugged, a pasty grin plastered on his face.