They approached on quiet feet, the area dark compared to the lights spilling from the factory.
Arthur glanced at Wesley. “Alasdair’s office?”
Wesley kept the gun at the ready. “Alasdair’s office.”
The warehouse door was locked with a chain and padlock. Arthur examined the lock. “Fairly simple one. Any chance you’re wearing a stickpin? I’ve only got a clip.”
Wesley extracted the gold and emerald pin from his tie and handed it over to Arthur. “You pick locks?” he said incredulously, as Arthur bent over the padlock.
“I figured since I don’t have magic, I’d pick up other skills.” Arthur slipped the stickpin into the keyhole. “You’re going to fit right in with your sharpshooting.”
You’re going to fit right in. That was a phrase Wesley hadn’t heard often. Maybe ever. He cleared his throat before any untoward emotions bubbled up. “Hurry the fuck up, come on.”
A couple minutes later, Arthur had the door open and they were stepping into an expansive space scattered with crates. The electricity was still on, although many of the bulbs had burnt out, leaving the cavernous area dimly lit.
The second floor looked to be little more than the equivalent of a walled-in hayloft along the back of the warehouse, with only one set of narrow stairs leading up to it.
“Go first, I’ll cover you,” Arthur whispered.
“I’m the one who’s armed,” Wesley said testily. “I’ll coveryou.”
Arthur rolled his eyes but mercifully went first up the stairs. Wesley’s skin began to prickle as they climbed—faint enough he could have dismissed it, if he weren’t on alert.
“I think there’s magic in the air, do you feel it?” Arthur said under his breath.
Wesley nodded. “But Langford thinks paranormals are the enemies. If he still strategizes like he did during the war, he’ll have put a lot of thought into keeping paranormals in—and not enough into keeping the non-magical out.”
The stairs opened onto a platform. There was a hall that ran the length of the back of the warehouse, windows overlooking the floor on one side and a row of doors on the other. Warehouse offices, Wesley would gamble.
The first door was ajar, nothing inside but a desk that had been pushed into the corner and a few odds and ends: an assortment of hats on the desk, a filing cabinet, a few rolls of fabric against the wall. Wesley’s gaze fell on the hats, and he stilled.
“Come on,” Arthur started.
But Wesley shook his head. “Look at thehats.”
The hats weremoving. There was no pattern to the movements, no finesse, just small motions as the hats bumped into each other along the desk.
“What’s doing that?” Wesley whispered.
“A spell.” Arthur took a breath. “Or a telekinetic.”
They scrambled to try the second door, and found it locked. Arthur swore as he checked the door. “Old door, but it’s bolted and not much room to maneuver. I’m not kicking this one down.” He put his ear against the crack between the door and the frame. “I don’t hear anything.” He knocked on the door with some force. “Jade? Are they keeping you all in there?”
Wesley gestured with the revolver. “Back up.”
“Are you screwy? Those bullets are going to ricochet—”
“I’m not shooting the door, I’m bashing the pins out of the hinges.” Wesley side-eyed him. “Are you screwy—you picked that up from Brodigan.”
“And I’d give anything to hear him say it in person,” Arthur said impatiently. “Give me that.”
Wesley let Arthur take the gun from him and stepped aside. Arthur brought the butt of the revolver down on the higher of the two hinges, and old wood splintered under the strength of an angry ex-quarterback’s throwing arm.
Moments later, Arthur was pulling the door off its hinges, revealing an office space with three cots and two figures curled together on the cot at the far end of the room.
“Miss Robbins.” Wesley hurried forward. “Mr. Zhang.”
He dropped to a crouch next to the cot where the couple was pressed close to each other, Arthur at his side. Wesley reached for Zhang’s wrist. “Steady pulse,” he said, letting out a breath. “They’re alive.”
