Chapter 12

Ch. 12: Dane

I break at least five traffic laws on the way, but we get back to Spring Lakes in record time. There are only two cars on the street in front of Lagrange's shop, one of which is Julian's. My front tire jumps the curb as I park behind it, and I'm out of the car and dialing his number in seconds. Just like the last ten times I'd tried, it goes to voicemail, and I swear and hang up the instant the recorded message begins to play.

As I stride across the street towards the shop, a car door slams, and quick steps approach at my back. I turn to see that Ingrid has followed me.

"Grids, get back in the car. I don't have time for this."

"No way! You need backup!"

Reaching the door, I try it but find it's locked. The interior is dark except for a row of overhead lights, and there's no sign of Julian or Halloran.

"I am the backup," I snap, examining the large windows on either side of the door. "I don't need a backup dancer."

She crosses her arms and tsks at me. "Are you being sexist right now? Because that sounded kinda sexist. What are you freaking out about, anyway? Just 'cause a rune sounded like Halloran's name and Julian looked at the guy?"

"Yeah, pretty much." I cast about for a suitable glass-breaking implement, and spot a golf-ball-sized stone near the base of an ornamental tree. Snatching it up, I flex my arm for a throw, but Ingrid lunges to catch my sleeve.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing? Isn't that like, a crime, or something?"

I shake her off. "Ingrid, I swear to God if you don't get back in the car—"

"You'll what? Spank me? You're not my father, Dane. And yeah, I'm your little sister; but I'm also a full-grown woman and just as much a Wolf as you are. Now stop being such an alpha dick for a second and use your head. Can't you just call your cop-lady friend and have her let us in?"

I cross my arms and glower. "Now who's being sexist? That 'cop-lady' is the chief of police, and yes, she could send someone over, but there's no time. Fastest response for a non-emergency is at least ten minutes."

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "Fine. Gimme two minutes. Then you can smash things."

Before I can ask what she's talking about, she rummages in her purse and produces what appears to be a paper clip. As she unbends the bit of wire, crouches in front of the door, and works it into the lock, I realize two things: it's definitely a paperclip, and Ingrid knows what she's doing.

She'd probably accuse me of double standards, and she'd probably be right, but in my mind there's a big difference between me committing a crime to rescue my mate, and my little sister committing one to help me. I'm about to tell her to stop — to set a good example and wait for the police after all — when the lock clicks and she lets out a triumphant "Fuck, yeah!"

It hasn't even been one minute, much less two.

"Where the fuck did you learn to do that?" I ask.

She shrugs, dropping the abused paperclip back into her purse as she stands. "School."

"Right." I rub the back of my neck and sigh. "You're not gonna listen to me, are you?"

"Nope."

"All right. Stay behind me, and stay quiet."

I push the door open and step into the shop.

"Cold in here," Ingrid remarks, hugging herself as she follows me.

"What the fuck did I just say?" I hiss. "If you're cold, then wait outside. Either way, shut up."

"Fine." She huffs, but she says it in a whisper, at least.

The shop has two main areas — the primary sales floor, and a back room for repairs. The first is large and open, and between the rows of bicycles hanging from racks or arranged on the floor, there's not much opportunity for concealment. A glance is enough to tell we're alone. The back room is smaller, with a mount for holding a bicycle, a workbench, tool chests, and storage cabinets. I sniff the air but detect nothing beyond the pungent odor of fresh rubber and compressed air.

Ingrid, though, wrinkles her nose. "What is that smell?" she complains, having once again immediately forgotten the 'be quiet' rule.

"It's just the shop. Oil, grease, rubber. Stuff like that," I say, heading back into the main area and giving the space one more quick look.

She rolls her eyes at me. "I know what bicycles smell like, Dane. I mean the other thing."

I sniff the air again and shake my head. "What other thing?"

"That damp smell. Like a basement."

"This building doesn't have a basement," I say, pulling out my phone again and considering my next move. Coleridge will have Halloran's number, and Vasquez might have some insight, too. "I studied the floor plans when we were hired to look into the thefts."

"Well, it's coming from somewhere," she says, disregarding my other instruction and wandering off to explore on her own. "Smells stronger over here."

"I don't smell anything," I say as I call Coleridge and head for the door. "It's probably a leak or something. These building are old. Come on — maybe they went into one of the adjacent shops."

"Dane?" she calls.

I turn and see she hasn't followed me, and is instead looking at something behind the sales counter.

"What?"

"I found the smell."

I start walking again. "Ingrid, we don't have time for this. I'm—"

"Dane!"

She stamps her foot and points at the ground, eyes wide as she looks up at me.

"They're not in another shop. Now get your head out of your ass for a second and come here."

Having gotten my attention at last, I end the call before it connects, and join her.

Rounding the side of the sales counter, I find her standing over a rectangular hole in the floor. The cold, dank-smelling air wafting from it is exactly as she described — like an old basement. It's a smell I recognize from a childhood spent far north, where my mom kept the root-cellar well-stocked with canned goods all year. I'm not sure how I could have missed it before.

"Fuck. What in fuck is this?" I swipe my hand across my mouth and stare down to where a set of narrow stone steps leads into the dark.

"I don't know," Ingrid says. "Let's find out."

"Whoa." I grab hold of her arm. "No way are you coming with me down there."

"Are you kidding me? I got us in here and I found this thing. You obviously need my help."

Recognizing a losing battle, I give in. "Fine. Just—"

"Stay behind you and stay quiet. Yeah, I got it."

"Then fucking listen this time."

As I descend the steps, a light flares over my left shoulder, and I turn to see Ingrid angling her phone in front of us. The glare blinds me, and I hiss a curse.

"Turn that off."

"Why? It's a flashlight."

"No, it's not." I rummage in my pocket for the pen-sized one I keep on me for situations just like this. "It's a lit flash. This is a flashlight. Honestly, your generation worries me sometimes."

"Yeah, yeah. You probs just don't know how to use the one on your phone, do you, old man?"

"Be quiet, or I legit will remove you and lock you in my car."

She sticks her tongue out at me but thankfully says nothing more as we continue our descent.

I count thirteen steps before we reach the bottom. My flashlight reveals a narrow tunnel of dark bricks, like something from some ancient catacombs, and when Ingrid hisses a curse under her breath, the echoes seem to flutter and skitter about us like bats or small, scaly things with too many legs.

I shoot Ingrid a warning glare, and she nods, hands clamped over her mouth and her eyes wide, showing she understands. Any sound we make will be amplified tenfold.

Turning back towards the tunnel, I proceed with cautious steps and silently thank the stars that Ingrid prefers tennis shoes with soft rubber soles. Except for the rustle of fabric and the whisper of breath, neither of us makes a sound as we move.

A few meters in, the tunnel connects to another passageway at right angles, like a T. I look right and left, but even my flashlight doesn't penetrate far into the pitch-black gloom.

Ingrid taps my shoulder and points to the left, her eyes wide as she mouths a word: blood.

I sniff the air but detect nothing unusual. Then again, as much as I don't like to admit it, Ingrid is right: she's proven herself twice in a very short time, and her sense of smell — in human form, at least — is sharper than mine.

Giving her a nod, I set off down the tunnel on my left. I haven't gone far when I pick it up, too: the sweet iron tang of fresh blood. There's something off about it — something strange — but there's enough familiar in the scent to make my heart race.

It smells like Julian, but it smells like someone else, too — Halloran, I presume — and I fight off a flood of fear as I wonder which of them is hurt and how badly.

There are sounds, as well — a soft thud, a grunt of pain, the hiss of whispers — as of a strangely quiet struggle.

Increasing my pace, I move silently along the narrow tunnel, then draw up short as I spot another sharp turn ahead. The sounds cease, and I shut off my light and signal for Ingrid to do the same and to stay back while I go ahead. Advancing, I ready myself for quick and decisive action, when I hear a sound I know well — the scrape of metal on stone and a quiet click.

Someone just picked up a gun and turned the safety off.

I take a slow breath, trying to untangle the scents that flood my nose, and then someone steps around the corner, and instinct takes over.

Clicking my flashlight on, I shine it at eye level, blinding my opponent as I reach for the gun, grab, and twist. The gun goes off, something snaps, the bullet sparks harmlessly off bricks, somewhere behind me Ingrid screams, and a familiar voice cries out in pain.

Even as I hear the sound, I recognize the wrongness in it, and stare in horror as Julian drops to his knees, cradling a broken wrist.

"Julian!" I fall with him and catch his shoulders, setting the gun down and handing the flashlight off to Ingrid, who stands at my back.

"Dane! How are you—!" He gasps and I take most of his weight as he goes limp.

"Fuck. Are you hurt?"

Wide-eyed, he makes an indeterminate motion with his head. "No. But I think my arm is broken."

"Shit. I thought you were Halloran."

"Halloran? Why is it... fine to break... Halloran's arm?"

Shallow, rapid breaths punctuate his words, and I recognize the onset of panic or shock, and dark, underground tunnels help neither condition.

"I'll explain later. Let's get you out of here."

I help him to his feet, but as he regains his balance, he resists.

"No. We have to help... Halloran. He's the one who's... hurt."

"The blood is his?"

He nods.

"How bad?"

"I don't... know. Just his... shoulder, I think. We were... attacked."

"Attacked by whom?"

"The... thief. She... threw a knife. And she... took my phone."

"She? The thief is a—"

"Julian?" Halloran's voice echoes from farther down the tunnel.

"I'm here!" he calls, turning. "I'm okay!"

What sounds like muffled curses follow, and then a bright glare illuminates the tunnel ahead. Halloran rounds the corner, clutching at his shoulder.

His eyes go to Julian's arm and then to me.

"Hunter? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I texted him," Julian says quickly, having recovered himself a little. "No offense, but I was hardly about to follow you down here without letting him know what we'd found."

I don't bother pointing out that he hadn't told me where he'd gone or what he'd found. That was a conversation—or an argument—for another time.

"Ah! Well, good thing you did," Halloran says. "What happened? I heard a shot."

"The gun went off by accident," Julian says, wincing. "Luckily, no one was hurt."

"What about you?" Halloran asks, clutching his shoulder and eyeing Julian's arm.

Julian shakes his head. "An accident."

"Our quarry escaped us, then?"

Julian glances at me, and I can tell there's something he doesn't want to say.

"She did," he says.

Halloran draws a quick breath. "She?"

Julian nods. "Pretty sure. We should show Dane what we found."

"If it's something Fae, you might as well spill it," I growl, as Halloran frowns. "I already know that much."

"So do I," Julian says quickly, moving to Halloran's defense. "He asked me not to tell you, but I—"

"You know one of the runes means 'hart?'" I interrupt. "And the other is his name?"

Julian blinks, his violet eyes faintly gleaming in the dark, and turns to Halloran.

The other man stares back, his face pale and expressionless. The front of his shirt is dark with blood, and I wonder if he's in shock or just buying himself time. At last, he takes a quick breath, shakes his head, and addresses Julian.

"I'd have told you, anyway," he says, "once I was sure of things. Given what we've found and what you've told me, I believe I know our vigilante, and I know why she's here. If I'm right, she is one of the fiercest wolf-slayers to ever live: Rhiannon of House ha' Lárán. She's your grandmother, Julian. She happens to be my sister, as well."