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“What about magic?” Damien asked.
“I’ve seen a sorcerer’s workshop,” I said, thinking of the basement in Mallory’s Wicker Park brownstone. “Nothing here looks like she’s been mixing spells or magic.”
“So no magic,” Damien said, “and no Aline. If she’s not here, where is she?”
“She has to be somewhere. We just need a clue. I’ll check the mailbox,” I said, then glanced at Jeff. “Maybe you can find a computer or laptop in this mess? Maybe her Web searches will give us a clue, or there’s a receipt that tells us where she’s been.”
He nodded. “Good thought.”
I entered the labyrinth again, only a little nervous when Damien fell into step behind me.
“So, do you live in Chicago?” I said conversationally.
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“The cat’s perfectly healthy,” I reminded him, “and I’m a vampire.”
“Gabriel calls you Kitten. Although since you’re scared of them, the moniker seems a little inappropriate.”
I was glad Damien was behind me and couldn’t see the searing expression on my face. But I changed the subject.
“There was a girl sitting by Tanya at the house. Is that her sister?”
It took him a moment to answer, which only piqued my killing curiosity even more. “Emma,” he said. “Her name is Emma.”
His voice was softer now, careful, as if speaking her name too loudly would work its own magic.
We reached the front door and I pulled it open, relieved to breathe fresh air again. The neighborhood smelled different than the Breckenridge estate had. There, the air was heavy with the scents of crushed pine needles, animals, pastures. The air on Aline’s front porch smelled more like a city—more smoke, more vehicle exhaust, even the scent of food from the carnival down the road.
Aline’s mailbox was at the end of the pitted sidewalk in front of her house, the wooden post surrounded by a tangle of vines with long-wilted flowers. I pulled open the door, found a single envelope inside.
I looked at it for a moment, debating whether I’d be jailed for tampering with the mail.
“Problem?” Damien asked, looming behind me. He was tall enough to peer over my shoulder but seemed content to let me do the tampering.
“None at all,” I said, sliding the envelope from the box and turning to read the label in the streetlight.
Luck shifted. It was addressed to Aline Norsworthy from Pic-N-Pac Storage, and from the clear window on the front, I guessed it was a bill.
“Aline has a storage unit,” I said, handing the envelope to Damien, who ripped it open and pulled out the letter.
“A new storage unit,” he said, handing the paper to me. It was a bill for forty-eight dollars, fifteen of which was allocated to a “New Locker Setup Fee,” which was processed two days ago.
I whistled, glanced up at Damien. “Our disappeared shifter just rented a storage unit.”
I memorized the address, stuffed the letter into the mangled envelope, and put it back where I’d found it.
“I’m pretty sure mail tampering’s a felony.”
Damien made a gravelly laugh, started back up the sidewalk. “Girl, you’re a vampire. This day and age, everything you do is a felony.”
Chapter Seven
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
We walked back into the house to collect Jeff, found him huddled over a boxy computer that sat on a desk comprised of cardboard boxes and vintage board games.
“Not much for tech, is she?” I asked.
Jeff offered the arrogant grunt of an IT whiz kid. “Not even slightly. And she’s stealing wireless from her neighbors. But that’s neither here nor there.”
Damien stepped forward. “Did you find anything that is here or there?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, typing with the heavy, plastic clack of ancient keys, “I did.”
He pulled up a browser window that showed the pixelated image of a receipt—for a flight to Anchorage that had left at eight o’clock this morning.
My brows lifted in surprise. I hadn’t actually expected him to find evidence Aline had skipped town. She seemed the naive and complaining sort, the type to gripe about irritations but not actually attempt to fix them.
I looked back at Jeff. “I presume you fly into Anchorage if you’re going to Aurora?” The North American Packs’ ancestral home was in Aurora, Alaska. If she was running, she was running back to ground.
“You do,” Damien said.
“Leaving town doesn’t mean she had anything to do with the attack,” I pointed out. “Maybe it was the last straw for her. The last failure of the Keene family.”
“The ticket was booked five days ago,” Jeff said, pointing to the purchase date on the screen.
I frowned. “So she planned to leave nearly a week ago, but shows up to Lupercalia, waits out the attack, and leaves. If she knew the attack was going down, why show up at all?”
“Maybe she wanted to see it,” Jeff said. “Maybe she’s angry enough that she wanted to watch it go down. She wanted her revenge.”
It was definitely plausible. And it was the best lead we had.
“I’ve uploaded the hard drive onto a thumb drive,” Jeff said, holding up the small stick. “I can dig more at the house. You find anything?”
“She rented a storage unit. Bill was in the mailbox.”
“I love the smell of evidence in the morning,” Jeff said. He flipped the computer’s power toggle and rose again. “I think we’re done here. Let’s check it out.”
“What about the cat?” I asked. “If she’s gone to Alaska, we shouldn’t leave it here alone.”
Damien disappeared for a moment, reappeared a minute later, the kitten blinking drowsily in the crook of his arm. “I’ll take him.”
Tall, dark, and handsome was hot. Tall, dark, and handsome with nestled kitten? Atomic.
“It will need a name,” Jeff said.
Damien looked down at the scrimpy kitten in his arms, scratched between his ears, and set the cat purring. “Boo. I’ll call him Boo.”
And that’s how Boo Garza joined the North American Central Pack.
The brain coped with complexity by making shortcuts, by categorizing.
Shifters, to my brain, were a rough-and-tumble sort. So I expected Damien Garza was the type to open a beer bottle with his teeth. I expected he loved a good steak, had specific opinions about football or boxing or hockey. He had the look and the vibe.
