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She stood up. “I guess we’d better get dressed. I sure hope to hell we’re wrong. I’d hate to think he’s been plotting against us.” She yawned. “What I want to know is why these things can’t happen when we’ve had more sleep? An hour just isn’t going to cut it for the day.”
The thought of being betrayed by Wilbur stung. He wasn’t a close friend. In fact, he was a lecher who looked straight out of a ZZ Top music video. A fairly powerful necromancer, he was rude and lewd and had a pet ghoul named Martin who had once been an accountant. But he had helped us more than once, and the possibility that he was working with our enemies would be a harsh blow.
“If he is helping them…” I glanced over at Menolly.
“Then we take him out.” She shook her head. “If he’s on the other side, he’s dead. No excuses. I’m going to change. I’ll meet you up here in ten minutes.” Turning toward the bookcase, she straightened her shoulders and headed down to her lair.
Camille gave me a look that mirrored my own feelings. If we discovered Wilbur had stabbed us in the back, we wouldn’t have to worry about him retaliating. Menolly would bleed him dry before we could even touch him.
I gave her a faint smile and shrugged. “I guess…we’d better get dressed.”
Wilbur’s house was known in the neighborhood as “the old London house,” though we had no idea why it had been named that. Another Victorian built in a similar design to ours, it was three stories high, but there the resemblance between it and ours ended. Wilbur had no illusions about keeping his property tidy. While it wasn’t an issue of junker cars and old refrigerators on the lawn, the driveway up to his house was overgrown with brambles and vine maple.
Wilbur had an old truck, one of those pickups with a rounded top and a running board. He also had a beat-up 1957 Chevy with the tail fins, in a bright cherry red and white. He tore out of his drive on a regular basis, and I wondered if the cops had ever flagged him down for speeding.
We walked down the driveway and across the road to his place, the tension so palpable I could feel it. Menolly was wearing a pair of her stiletto boots—the ones she used to put holes through her enemies. Camille, Smoky, and Shade were all dressed for a fight. And I was wearing jeans, a turtleneck, and pair of Doc Martens. Morio and Roz lagged behind, yawning and quietly whispering together.
I glanced at the sky. Sunrise wouldn’t come for over another two hours and it was still dark, but a low, overhanging bank of clouds had moved in, lighting the ground with a faint glow. Though the rain had let up in the evening, it now loomed heavy, moisture saturating the air. The scents of cedar and fir drifted past and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of the trees surrounded me with a comforting embrace, and I wished that this could just be a nice stroll down the road.
Camille slipped her hand into mine. “I know. I know.”
“You know what?” I gave her a soft look.
“I don’t like this, either. I don’t like not being able to trust someone we’ve come to trust. I don’t like thinking that he might have duped us. We should be asleep, at home, instead of heading over like a gang of thugs to break into his house and check out his table.” She stopped in her tracks. “Great gods, that sounds ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I just wish it were ridiculous. But it’s not.” We trudged our way up his driveway, avoiding the potholes. I skirted a patch of stinging nettle that reached out from the side of the road. The feel to the land was odd, but rather than feeling evil, it made me shiver, as if I were being watched.
When we got to the porch, I moved to the front with Menolly. “Let me do the talking,” I said. “You’re likely to just rip out his throat.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You know me too well, Kitten. All right, but don’t try to stop me if we discover…”
“If he’s ratting us out, you can do what you like.” We clattered up the stairs, Camille, Smoky, and Shade bringing up the rear. Morio and Roz waited at the bottom of the stairs. I steeled myself, wondering how the hell we were going to approach this, and finally forced myself to reach out and press the doorbell.
No answer.
I pressed again. This time, I heard a shuffling from behind the door and after a moment, it opened to show Martin, in all his undead glory, standing there. In a suit that smelled about five days ripe, he cocked his head—the metal brace around his neck made it difficult for him to turn it too far—and grunted. After a moment he backed up, opening the door.
Wondering what the hell was going on, I cautiously entered, followed by Menolly. The scent of sulfur wafted through the air, mingled with a whiff of mold, a tinge of damp upholstery and…something else. Burned flesh? No, not quite.
Martin reached out and for a moment, I was afraid he was going to attack me. Menolly had already broken his neck last year when Wilbur first moved into the neighborhood. But instead, he touched me on the sleeve, then closed his hand around my wrist. The clammy feel of his skin gave me the creeps—it wasn’t the same chill of Menolly’s flesh—but he just gave Menolly a quick glare and pulled me after him.
I followed him, with Menolly and the others behind me, as he led me through a narrow hallway, the walls covered with dusty tapestries, to the kitchen. A woodstove sat to one side, and a teakettle and cast-iron skillet were sitting on the stove. Right there, I saw what the other scent I’d been smelling was. It looked like someone had been attempting to cook, but the eggs were still raw and smeared across the cooktop, and a raw piece of steak sat on the sideboard, covered with maggots.
Gagging, I turned away and glanced around the rest of the kitchen. There was the table—the design exactly the way I’d seen it in the vision. I slowly moved over to it, rubbing my hand on the wood. The polished surface was smooth. The wood had been well oiled, taken care of in a way that belied Wilbur’s rough nature.
Martin grunted again, and I turned to find him pointing at a door next to a built-in shelf unit. I glanced at him. If it weren’t for the fact that he was a ghoul, I could swear I was seeing a look of concern in his eye.
“We’d better have a look.” I motioned to Camille. “You and Shade keep an eye on Martin, please. Smoky, Menolly, follow me.” I gently tapped Martin on the arm. “Go stand over there.” After repeating myself several times, he finally shuffled over next to Shade and stared up at him, his eyes glowing. Whether he sensed the Netherworld energy coming off the shadow walker, I’m not sure, but he seemed to find Shade terribly fascinating.
I cautiously put my hand on the doorknob and quietly turned it, opening the door to reveal a stairway heading down. A basement, most likely. With a glance at Menolly, I started down the steps, doing my best to keep from making noise.
Halfway down, I heard a faint groan. It sounded like someone in pain. Concerned, I hastened my pace. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.
The basement was dim, with a single bulb illuminating the room. The room was long and wide, with built in floor-to-ceiling shelving units partitioning off various sections. The shelves were filled with cans and jars and boxes, but overall, the space was organized and far neater than I’d thought Wilbur’s basement would be.
“Is anybody down here?”
No answer. I closed my eyes, trying to suss out the energy, but that was Camille’s department. I turned to Menolly and gave her a questioning look. She shook her head, and we glanced over at Smoky. He was frowning, sniffing the air.
