“Woodcross.” Rye sighed, so close again that she felt the heat of his body over her shoulder. At least the morning breeze abscondedwith the rosemary scent. “I cannot believe that you are playing matchmaker while mid-investigation into how you’ve been framed for the murder of one of your best friends.”
Embry slugged Rye in the gut. He must have tensed because it was like smacking a brick building. Still, despite the fact that her hand now hurt, he moved away.
“And I can’t believe you’d think I’d pass up an opportunity to set those two up after I already told you I’d planned on doing so weeks ago.” She smugly smiled up at him. “I should also inform you that I’m not heading home—I’m going with you to the morgue.”
“Woodcross, your dad—”
“Is fine.As you pointed out, he has a CIA-trained witch with a medical degree watching over him and the house.” Embry tossed up a stop sign of a hand, her tasteful pale manicure flashing in the autumn morning light, a relic from a much different time just days ago. “No use in arguing with me because you won’t win. You’ll just lose and have me on your tail anyway.”
Rye sighed as heavily as an aggrieved cartoon character. Drama queen.
“I’ll take that as resignation. Smart boy, save your strength.”
Even with the sigh, mirth shone in Rye’s eyes when he hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her in the direction of the police station. For once, Embry didn’t bat him away.
CHAPTER 24
DOWN AT THE STATION (ACT 1)
THERAVENWOODPOLICEDEPARTMENT WAS A MISNOMER. THEwhole thing was an arm of the Table, a satellite office, functioning within the confines of the nonmagical world.
If any nonmagical people stumbled onto Ravenwood Island and into town, it wouldn’t seem any different to them than any other charming coastal community. One with a jewelry box row of adorable storefronts, a post office, and of course a police station.
The good news for Embry and Rye was that not only did the Ravenwood Police Department simply look like a normal police station, it was built like one, too. At least on the outside. Magical reinforcements abounded on the inside of the building, but the exterior was of typical, state-funded redbrick construction. Even better, because it was a public building, no wards were allowed to keep out citizens, only to keep in prisoners.
Embry was prepared to shell out her secret invisibility spell to get them inside despite the energy it took to sustain and her current deficit of actual rest, but it turned out Rye had a better plan. And with one spell aimed at the security camera and quick work when Inspector Brown left out the back door with a pack of coffee-clutching Table agents, they slipped inside the building, made a beeline for the boiler room, and shimmied into the ducts from there.
The bad news—because of course: Apparently zombies manned the morgue 24–7.
The Table often used the “working stiff” propensity of certain types of Stitches to its advantage. Though in Embry’s experience, the current generation of Stitches, like Cass and Taviana, pushed hard against the “all work and no play” societal expectations. Unfortunately, these zombies were old school, endlessly typing away.
“They have to do a shift change at some point, right?” Embry whispered after a solid hour of waiting face-to-face with Rye at the confluence of two ducts, peering down through one of the vents over the morgue.
Set off from the heavily trafficked jail cells and interrogation rooms, the morgue seemed to be its own contained area in the basement level, consisting of an examination room, refrigerated holding area, and wall of three sterile-looking offices with filing cabinets and secure computer stations.
Embry didn’t need to whisper—they’d cast the same sound-muffling spell Rye had used in the quad days ago—but her frustration required the pressure valve of a well-placed annoyed hiss. “Bathroom break? Lunch break? Coffee break, definitely. Everyone knows zombies run on caffeine and decomposition.”
Not that Embry was suggesting that these zombies would take a nibble on anyone unfortunate enough to be in the drawers. The magical group had excellent food safety protocols and standards that could teach the FDA a thing or two about avoiding E. coli and salmonella. They probably enjoyed the scent of a fresh cadaver, though—zombies had an excellent sense of smell, and blood, guts, and rot were at the top of their favorites list.
To Embry’s surprise—and relief—Oakley’s body wasn’t laid out on the table.
In fact, there wasn’t a body there at all, just clean stainless steel. The pair of zombies currently located within were stationed at the computers, one in each office, the far corner office of the medicalexaminer dark and locked—and exactly where they needed to be. Eventually.
“Surely,” Rye whispered back, catching her impatient expression in the twin glow of the palm light spells they’d lit once they’d entered the ducts.
Not for the millionth time was Embry relieved she didn’t have tosharea duct with Rye. That would be even tighter quarters than the drama closet. Literal hours had gone by and she could still feel the ghost of him pressed against her back, his finger warm against her mouth. Covert operations had their drawbacks, and one was the need to hide in close quarters, apparently.
“We’ll just have to be patient,” he continued. “You can close your eyes if you want. I’ll wake you if they say anything relevant to each other or leave.”
Considering those zombies hadn’t uttered a word in the past hour or moved anything except for their fingertips, incessantly typing, Embry’s hopes weren’t much. But Embry Woodcross was nothing if not extremely resourceful and her own three-latte morning gave her an idea. “Give me your phone.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Rye asked, even as he was already reaching into his pocket.
“Create a distraction.”
Rye arched a sandy eyebrow. “You’re not going to light it on fire or anything, are you?”
“I’d say don’t be dramatic, but we both know how you roll.” She held out her hand.
