“I know.” Wrapping my brain around the idea of a human turning against the Triads just made my head ache. What could have happened to make someone so angry at their own species? Granted, I’d been pissed at the Triads when they killed the Owlkins and took the last of my friends away. Stripped me of the last of my family … “Hey!”
I sat up straight so fast I banged my knee on the underside of the dash. I ignored the flash of pain and twisted around to face Wyatt. “This Call, or whatever his name is,” I said, “he’s got to be super-fucking pissed to go after the Triads like this, right?”
“Either pissed or he’s making some sort of power gambit,” Wyatt replied, eyeing me cautiously. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“That the violent loss of a family can make someone homicidal. You remember the Greek restaurant ten years ago? You said two teenage sons were left behind.”
Wyatt stiffened. “Yeah.”
“Do we know what happened to either of them?”
It seemed like a good epiphany, and the motive fit the pattern. From Wyatt, I got something I didn’t expect —a sharp head shake and terse “It’s not them.”
“How do you know?” I asked, a little deflated. It felt like a good lead. Granted, it hadn’t been the Triads who’d killed those women, not exactly. But close enough for someone still holding a grudge to—
“Because I knew them, Evy. Catalyst for the Triads, remember? One of them died less than a year after the fire. The other isn’t Call.”
“How—?”
“Just trust me, he’s not.”
“Fine.” So much for my investigative instincts. Wyatt’s refusal to offer up more information was vastly annoying, but it made sense he’d know. I could imagine him keeping tabs on those early victims out of some noble sense of guilt, even though he’d not been responsible for the deaths of their parents.
“But maybe you’re onto something,” Wyatt said a moment later. His eyebrows scrunched in thought. “Instead of looking at it from Call’s angle, look at it from the motivation angle. They’ve been recruiting for a month, right? What happened, Dreg-wise, roughly five weeks ago?”
Middle of April. I’d been down with the flu for the first half of the month and had just been allowed back to work. Confinement to our crappy apartment, sipping tea and cocoa, and listening to Jesse and Ash chat about their latest assignments for ten days—five of which were spent in the haze of a high fever—had been hellish. Most of the details of those conversations were lost. I really remembered only the four-day goblin hunt I’d gone on my first day back.
“You’re going to have to fill in those blanks,” I said. “I wasn’t in much of it, as I recall. What was everyone up to?”
“Routine stuff, as far as I remember.” He gazed down at his interlocked hands, as though the answers were etched on his skin. “Baylor, Sharpe, and Nevada all had extended assignments south of the city. Rufus was looking into a string of muggings in the Lot that were linked to Dreg activity. Willemy’s team was off duty, recovering from some nasty magic virus they’d stumbled into while on routine patrol.”
I listened, attentive and amazed at his recollection of so many events. He rattled off three more Triads and their whereabouts during the time frame. All accounted for except one. “What about Kismet and her boys?” I asked.
“Neutralize job Uptown.”
Those had always been my favorite. We got our suspect and our choice of weapons and, depending on the victim, our own time frame in which to “neutralize” them. Goblins and Halfies were always easiest, but we also had open Neutralize orders on them—if you saw one, kill it. The more specific Neutralize jobs were given over high- profile suspects—vampires, Therians, even the occasional psychotic Gifted human. They were rare assignments, which made them preferred. A nice change to the routine.
“Do you know the target?” I asked.
Wyatt looked up, his hands no longer interesting. “You know we don’t share that information among Handlers.”
“Figured it was worth asking, especially since, of all the things happening during that time frame, it sticks out the most. Think Kismet would tell you if you asked?”
“Maybe, given the circumstances. It isn’t really a policy to not share, it’s more of a safety measure. The less we know about one another’s business—”
“The less likely someone else can beat it out of you.”
He smiled grimly. “Exactly.”
We’d passed through Uptown and were pointed toward the Axelrod Bridge, the only major crossing over the southern tributary of the Black River—below where the Anjean connected—that separated Uptown from the East Side. For some reason, I’d expected the Assembly to meet in Mercy’s Lot. Showed how much I tossed all Dregs into one basket, even though Jenner’s own address proved that Therians did indeed live all over the city.
Jenner easily navigated the underdeveloped, ghostly section of town not far from the skeleton of the Capital City Mall. We were less than ten blocks from the area where the hound attacked. Ten blocks from the place where I’d shot an innocent man. A pang of guilt settled in my stomach, sour as lemon juice. An unlucky shot from my gun had nearly killed a man on a bicycle who knew nothing of the secret battles we waged on a daily basis.
But that secrecy and his ignorance were the things I was fighting for.
The city thinned out as we continued east, into a lower-class residential area. Block after block of crumbling row homes materialized, with cement front yards the size of postage stamps and bars on all the windows. It was a land of cracked sidewalks, cars missing tires, and the faces of people too bored to care why a fancy car was suddenly driving through their neighborhood—or they simply assumed we were on our way to sell something illegal.
After several more turns that wound us around a few times (I couldn’t tell if he was lost or just avoiding potential tails), Jenner pulled into a half-empty parking lot shared by a furniture store advertising “Best Seconds,” a linen outlet, and a few other similar businesses.
I stretched as I got out, my legs stiff from the thirty-minute drive from one side of the city to the next. It was like traveling between worlds. The odor of car exhaust was a far cry from the fresh-cut-grass scent of Jenner’s neighborhood. Shoppers went about their business, paying us little mind. I felt as self-conscious as a cat in a dog pound.
Jenner led us across the parking lot. I followed behind Wyatt, keeping him in front of me at all times and my attention constantly circulating. We weren’t equipped for an ambush from anyone—be it the Triads, Call’s people, or an old-fashioned mugging.
We entered a rug and flooring megamart. The sharp scent of new carpet made my nose itch the moment we stepped into the lobby. A long sample room was on our right, and a two-story, seemingly endless warehouse of carpet and linoleum rolls, flats of wood flooring, and shelves of remnants was on the left. Jenner went that way.
“Strange place for a meeting,” Wyatt said quietly.
Jenner glanced over his shoulder. “You were expecting some clandestine location, no doubt?”
“More clandestine than a carpet store?” I asked. “Where—?”
“Just follow me.”
He navigated a path through the maze of shag, pile, and Berber in dozens of colors and patterns, deeper into the cavernous warehouse, until I was sure we were lost. In the recesses, far from the lingering voices of salespeople giving their canned pitches, Jenner pushed through large swinging doors marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I kept close to Wyatt, every sense on high alert. Watching. Listening.
Jenner bypassed a row of parked forklifts and turned down a dimly lit corridor. We passed a break room that reeked of cigarette smoke and greasy food, three office doors, and two restrooms. At the end of the corridor was another door marked PRIVATE. It was heavy and gray like a fire door, but without the crash bar. Just a simple knob and lock, for which Jenner produced a key.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Truman, but you must remain here,” he said.
Wyatt scowled.
