Collin nods and takes a half-step away, lips pursed. He knows I’m shutting him down. Probably unfairly.
I blow out a long breath, puffing out my cheeks, and try to release some of the useless fear and guilt inside me. Then I go to wait on the corner for Rafa, out of sight of the building. He arrives almost immediately, striding with determined confidence.
“Get anything new?” he asks, chomping casually on what I assume is a mint, clearly not stressed out in the least. He’s thrown his Kevlar duster over his shotgun—the long gun is in its holster on his back, the butt of the weapon peeking out just over the collar of his coat—and he’s carrying a massive tactical backpack slung over the other shoulder. (The pack is even bigger than Ms. Stryker’s.) A large knife is strapped around his left thigh.Creepy or not, I’m glad this out-of-the-way side street in Nob Hill is strangely barren of people. Between the black Kevlar and the military gear, he looks post-apocalyptic. The last thing we need is someone calling the cops.
“No,” I reply. “We need to get in there. Then I’ll know more.”
“All right. Lead the way.”
We’re going in through the sewers. Almost a block away from the Society, there’s a boutique hotel that used to be a laundry house. An old coal chute in an alley leads to the basement where Collin says a “culvert” connects directly to the tunnels under the street. Those conduits apparently lead to the sub-basement floor where Emma is being held. No vamps should be in the way since it’s daytime and their resting place is one floor up. But we won’t know until I’m closer.
Secret doorways and subterranean passages are, of course, very Sherlock Holmes, and there is part of me that finds it pretty darn cool that I have access to this kind of intel. But that’s not the part that’s puckering up as we start to act on it.
The first obstacle is a boringly modern padlock securing the chute hatch, but Rafa is able to twist it off with one hand. (Because, as a Monster Hunter, he’s just crazy-strong like that.) I stick my head inside the lid and Collin confirms there’s no one down there. Shoving my sneakers against the inner edges of the slide, I scuttle down feet-first into darkness.
At the bottom, I hear the faint clangs and splashes of a commercial kitchen upstairs and my paranormal vision kicksin. I’m sure everything above in the hotel is totally renovated, but down in this claustrophobic underground chamber, it’s like time stood still. Ancient coal and damp tickles my nose, and I fight a sneeze. Against the opposite wall, two hulking, rusted iron things with big doors support thick chimneys that go up into the ceiling. (The original furnaces?) Some old wooden racks have scraps of rotting cloth stuck on them. Not much else is around. It doesn’t look like the hotel uses this space. I wonder if they even know it’s here.
The cracked concrete floor under my feet slopes down to the right, leading to a semi-circular bricked arch in that wall—the culvert, apparently. It’s about three feet tall, protected by thick metal bars, and is under a sign that says FLOOD CONTROL. One of Collin’s VR arrows confirms that’s where we need to go.
We’re not even at the scary part yet, but my heart is hammering. I just stare at the gate and shift from foot to foot, like a kid needing to go to the bathroom. Rafa, who slid down effortlessly behind me, passes by, cool as a cucumber. If anything, he looks like he’s in a good mood. Engaged, anyway.
God, I’d give anything to have that level of chill!
Rafa snaps off another, much older-looking padlock guarding the access to the culvert. The heavy barred gate groans as he raises it. Rafa then removes a flashlight from his backpack and flicks it on. The torch shoots out a red beam of light, something that won’t mess with night vision. (Humannight vision. I’m pretty sure mine wouldn’t be affected either way.) He crouches down and enters the half-height tunnel.
I follow and try not to let myself get crushed under the heavy iron bars when I bring them back down.
The way past the flood-control gate is sloped down and really cramped—barely person-sized—and even I need to crouch. Rafa is almost forced to crawl. Some of the stones are slippery with slime and moss. But after about fifteen feet, the half-tunnel then opens up into a larger vault where we can finally stand again. There are a bunch of other culverts and pipes along its walls and even more pungent mold smell. The chill in the air is clammy. Flowing water gurgles up ahead. Collin lets me know that beyond a large flap-like steel door in front of us (the “flow control” gate) is the main sewer.
It doesn’t look like anyone has been in this little stone chamber for decades. It’s dark, wet, and eerie. And maybe Rafa’s finally feeling it, too, because he leans in toward me, frowning.
“Any vamps up ahead?” he asks, hushed.
I glance over at Collin for the first time since we got in here. He looks serious but unafraid.
“No,” he says. “Vampires have used these tunnels under the city in the past, but to the best of my knowledge, not recently and almost never during the day. We shouldn’t run into any bad guys. And there’s no one within earshot.”
I relay Collin’s report, and Rafa steps up to the gate, the blood-red beam of his flashlight providing the only light.
“Stay close,” he says. “Let me lead the way, okay?”
I nod back, hopefully not too visibly relieved.
There’s no lock on the flow-control gate, and it leadsout to the main sewer tunnel. A low channel of water runs in front of us, and there is a narrow walkway on either side of the flow. Now that we’re in the real sewer, I expect things to full-on stink, but while there are a few questionable foamy things floating around, it smells mostly like old rain and the sea.
The path to the Benevolent Society turns out to be a straight shot. We follow the walkway about 150 feet until Collin touches my shoulder, stopping me.
“It’s here,” he says. “You go up that ladder, and you’ll be in the storeroom. Emma will just be down the hall.”
Collin points at wide iron loops jutting out of the stone wall next to us. They are so grungy, even with my paranormal night vision, I might have missed them. The rungs lead up to a trap door in the ceiling of the sewer tunnel above. The steel hatch doesn’t seem to have a handle, so it must open upward.
The way Collin just put it, this rescue sounds easy-peasy. But that’s not my kind of luck, is it? And once we go through that hatch, there’ll be no turning back.
“We’re here,” I say, my mouth dry.
Rafa nods and drops his pack to the ground. He removes a large Cordura belt rimmed with honest-to-goodness wooden stakes, two oversized semi-automatic shotgun magazines, and one industrial-sized Taser. He smoothly buckles the heavy strap around his waist. Well, at least he came prepared.
I glance into the pack he set down to see what other Van Helsing stuff he brought with him. There’s a lockpick set, some glow sticks, the night-vision goggles, a Combat Application Tourniquet—and a whole bunch of bottleswith cloth wicks sticking out of corks. I’m not talking one or two. There must be half a dozen. They’re surrounded by bubble wrap to keep them from clinking, and when he lifts the pack back to his shoulder, swinging it toward me slightly, I’m hit with a faint whiff of gasoline.
