Page 23 of Marked
“Charming,” the Fae warrior says under his breath. “If this was the condition for the entertainment ...Your human may have had it quite a bit worse.”
“No shit.”
He pulls out a few of the drawers in the largest vanity, and lifts a clear baggie into the air. The almost sulfur-yellow powder glares out at us.
I snarl. “Is that—”
He wreathes the baggie in emerald fire as his eyes glow in the dimness. The Fae male scents the air, nostrils flaring as his gaze goes unfocused. “It has been cut with something ... Maybe heroin?”
“Why mix Brightex with anything?”
He focuses on the bag again, like waking up. “It would lessen the effects on a supe, but it would work on humans now too.”
“Fuck.” I step back and motion the others. Caine and Horan crowd around me as Gage stands there, little bag still held high between two porcelain fingers. “Gage, get that shit into a case, man,” I command.
He huffs, but glances at Caine.
The demon’s hands weave in a complex rhythm. Hellfire and brimstone fill the air in a cloud as black smoke belies the appearance of a narrow, metal case. Gage opens the lid and places the bag carefully inside.
Horan leans closer. “Is that—”
Caine shuts the lid and poofs it back wherever he sends shit with his portal magick.
“Less than an ounce,” Gage says into the quiet. “That is nowhere near the amounts I was expecting.”
“Hey, Cap, you’re gonna want to see this.”
We turn around and look at Tanner. A large armoire has been moved to the side, and he leans half-in half-out of a narrow opening at the very back of the room. I walk closer and peer into a dark stairwell leading back downstairs.
“We going down there?” I ask T.
“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ with gusto.
If my judge of distance is right, it would be right over the kitchen hall below.
Clapping T on the back, I sigh and start down.
My eyes glow softly at first, the pale gold light brightening the deeper into the building we go. The walls are old brick, covered in slime and mildew. It makes it hard to breathe. T swears behind me, and I know his sensitive sinuses are dealing with worse.
At the bottom of the steps, I find the light switch and flick it on. The single bulb crackles and fights it but when it finally comes on, it illuminates a narrow space that diverges off into a network of small halls and closed doors. I motion the men and we start off.
My hall is shorter, tighter. The damn walls leave a strange white soot over my coat sleeves, but I know better than to wipe the mold off. I open each door, and the knot in my gut worsens.
Most of the rooms are barely usable closets of half-empty paint cans, old chairs, and ruined dishes.
But the last door is cleaner than the others and covered with faded white paint. It’s bright in the dim lighting. Too bright, but Lilah’s fragrance, though faded, is all over it.
I hesitate over the handle and open the door.
Disaster.
It’s the only word that comes to mind. But no matter how much I try, I can find no other scent but Lilah’s.
The small bed is smashed next to the far wall and barely big enough for a child, let alone a grown woman.
Was this an old room for her?
Pictures of landscapes and gardens with blinding suns hang in disarray from the painted wall, like she tried to find any light in the world she lived in.
