Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [75]
I moved up to the door, keeping myself out of the lines of sight from the broad picture windows on either side, and hammered against it with the butt of my gun. “Police! We have a warrant!” “We” being me and the approaching SWAT team, which would do all the good of pointing my finger and going “Bang!” until they landed.
The door was solid pine boards as wide as I was, strapped with iron bands. No way I was kicking that thing in Dirty Harry-style, even with were strength. The same ward marks were burned into the frame. I was very glad at that moment not to be a witch.
Out of a sudden bout of logic, I tried the massive iron pull-handle and the door creaked open. I jumped back, aiming into the shadowy interior. Nothing jumped out at me. No bullets flew. As far as tactical operations went, this one was about as hot and heavy as one of Sunny’s meditation circles.
“Police. We have a warrant!” I called halfheartedly one more time, then stepped into a tiled foyer with a cathedral ceiling full of rough-hewn crossbeams, sterile and devoid of any sign that people actually lived here.
Every sense I possessed was on edge, and my palms were slicking the Glock’s grip with sweat. My instincts were screaming at me, the fight-or-flight ingrained into my blood wanting to get the hell out, away from the crushing quiet and that subtle, rotten scent that cloyed the air heavier and heavier the farther I went into the lodge.
A kitchen appeared, all copper countertops and empty cupboards, and I saw that the hallway after it opened into a gallery facing the lake, solid floor-to-ceiling windows giving a panorama view. In that weirdly detached part of my brain, I thought, Must be a bitch to heat this place.
Then I heard voices.
“Write, you stupid whore.” The voice wasn’t shouting, quite the opposite. It was soft and unconcerned, attached to the type of person who’s used to being obeyed without question.
Valerie answered him. “I can’t. I don’t know how to translate this.”
I sagged against the kitchen doorway, never more relieved to hear someone speak. She was alive, and well enough to talk. My city wouldn’t go to cinders because of the witches and their pointless war.
The crack of a palm on skin echoed into the kitchen, and the same male voice said, “Karl!” It was sharp this time, sharp like a combat knife. I was glad I wasn’t Karl.
“Why isn’t the goddamn working… well, working?” Karl demanded. “Can’t you tell she’s lying to us?”
“The working never failed before,” said the voice. If I wasn’t so ramped up, I would swear I’d heard it before, but I put it down to being hidden in a creepy kitchen while at least two men held a hostage not twenty feet away.
“We should just kill the kid and go for the old man,” Karl muttered. “Did I not say this when the order came down to snatch this skirt in the first place?”
“Are you questioning my judgment?” said the first voice. Silence followed. “Good. Now, Valerie. Please read this page and translate the inscriptions.”
“I can’t,” she said again. “I don’t know how to translate this.” She sounded awfully cheerful for someone being held by thugs employed by her family’s archenemy, but we all have different ways of coping.
The calm man swore. “Valerie, trust me. You have no idea how bad it will be for you if you keep resisting.”
Certain things—images, phrases, smells—are keyed into your brain the same as nerve endings. Sense a memory, and it can affect you like a blow to the back of the head.
Still, I wasn’t sure it was him until I swung around the kitchen door and screamed, “Freeze! Hands behind your head!”
Joshua turned toward me, a pleasant smile on his face. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get out here.” He really saw me, and his features sagged in concert with my knees. “Gods. Luna. Is that you?”
Peripherally, I saw that there were at least six other men, all in badly cut suits,