Spellbound (28 page)

The boy—Larsen—had been placed with the great-niece of the Nasts' clairvoyant. She was married to a Nast half-demon employee, and they had a child of their own, a few years older than Larsen. It was as close to a safe and normal family as they could provide for the kid. I suspected Sean was the one behind the arrangement.

So Larsen lived his semi-normal life with his semi-normal family in a cute little bungalow. A fortified bungalow. With trained security officers for neighbors on either side, and a bulletproof minivan to drive him to mom-and-tot classes at the gym.

So what had happened? No one knew. The guards had changed shifts at seven. The day team went to their “homes” on either side, and had a normal night, reporting no disturbances. The night shift was supposed to call in to headquarters at midnight. At one, when it was clear no update was coming, the security command center called. They paged. They texted. Then they woke up the guards living on either side and sent them to the house. It was empty. No sign of a struggle. No sign of a security breach. No sign of the night guards, the family, or the two specially trained dogs. No sign of Larsen.

I pulled up to the gated drive. It didn't look like a security gate, just part of a tall, ornamental fence. A small sign politely warned there were dogs loose on the premises, so visitors would need to buzz to be admitted.

I buzzed and gave my name. The gates opened, then closed behind our car as a man walked out from a guard post disguised as a garden shed.

I recognized him as Davis, one of Sean's personal guards. Like Troy, Davis is loyal to his boss, not the Cabal, meaning he could be trusted.

“Hey, Davis,” I said as I got out of the car.

“Hello, Miss Nast.” He knew my last name was Levine, but to him this was a mark of respect for my brother, an acknowledgment of our shared parentage.

He greeted Cassandra, warily, and as he led us toward the house, he stayed on my other side, as far away from her as he could get. She ignored it. She always does.

“First question,” I said as we walked. “Video footage?”

“Nothing.”

“So someone turned off the feed.”

“No, there's footage, but it doesn't show anything. Just a regular evening at the Dahl house. The night guards arrive at six forty-five. The day guards leave at seven fifteen. Mrs. Dahl brings the dogs in at nine. At eleven, the lights go out and the night guards move from their post out here to inside. Just before midnight, one comes out with the dogs. They circle the property. They go in. Then nothing until the day guards came back at two to see what was going on.”

“Could the tape have been tampered with?”

“Maybe. It looks clean, but it's been sent to our techs for analysis.”

“What about interior tapes?” I asked as he unlocked a side door.

“There aren't any. The Dahls had certain conditions for taking Larsen. They wanted to give him the most normal life possible, while having a normal life themselves.”

We stepped into the house. It was pleasantly cool and eerily silent. Just inside the door was a mat with two sets of rubber boots, one tiny pair in a firefighter design and a larger pair of purples ones dotted with daisies. Beside them were two dog bowls with TRIX AND TREAT hand painted on them in childish strokes.

“You said the guard took the dogs out at midnight. Does the tape show him returning?”

“No, but the routine was to exit the front door and enter the rear. The video isn't as clear around back—better lighting would shine right into the kids' bedrooms. The entry alarm triggered, though, which suggested he came back in.”

“No, it just means someone opened the door, going in or out. Let's see the backyard.”

The yard backed onto an estate owned by a Nast VP. One of Thomas's nephews, I think, which would make him my second cousin or something. Knocking on the door and introducing myself would be kind of fun. First, though, I'd need to get past the patrolling armed guards, and they didn't look very friendly.

The point was that the Dahl house was well protected on all sides. If something had happened to the guards and dogs, it happened in the middle of that night-darkened yard. And stayed there.

“Blood,” Cassandra said as we walked through the Dahl yard. “I smell blood.”

“Well, that's your specialty, so put your nose to the ground and sniff it out.”

She ignored me. In the middle of the yard, she closed her eyes and slowly turned. When she had the direction, she walked to a massive oak tree and bent under its spreading branches.

“There's blood here,” she said. “Soaked into the ground.”

She pointed to a small patch in the shade. Even up close, the damp grass only looked dew-covered, a spot that hadn't been in the sun yet. But when I touched it, my fingers came away red.

“Why would there be fresh blood?” I said.

Cassandra looked up. I followed her gaze. There, stretched across two thick branches, was a man's body. Another man was draped over a higher limb. Higher still a dark form stuffed in a fork looked like a dog with another one above it.

“Shit,” I said.

Davis seconded my curse, then said, “Why the hell would they stuff them in a tree?”

“Because they couldn't get them over the fence without being seen.”

“How did the killer get over it?”

“The house is guarded against teleporting half-demons, right?”

“Of course.”

“And the yard?”

“No. It's too big an area and too complicated to maintain. When the children are out, there's always a guard right there so . . .” He trailed off. “That keeps someone from teleporting in and hurting the children during the day, but not coming in and killing the guards at night. Doesn't explain how the family got out, though.”

“Unless they didn't get out,” Cassandra murmured.

We looked at the house. Davis jogged toward it. We followed.

 

 

The house was a single floor. Maybe two thousand square feet. Not big enough to hide a family . . . or the bodies of a family. Especially not when we had the blueprints, which showed every room.

Cassandra didn't pick up the smell of blood, which was a relief. She kept returning to the master bedroom, though.

Finally, she said, “Someone's here.”

When Davis frowned, I explained that vampires have a sixth sense for detecting the living. The problem with ignoring certain races is that you don't understand their powers.

Cassandra crouched and pointed at the floor. “Under there.”

Davis shook his head. “There's no basement. Not even a storage space.”

“Well, either you have a compartment under this floor, containing a living person, or the property is infested by giant moles.”

“Let's start moving furniture,” I said.

 

 

We found the trap door under the area rug. It was locked, from the inside. As I examined it, Davis studied the blueprints as though, if he looked hard enough, a subterranean room would suddenly appear.

“This isn't supposed to be here,” he said finally.

“I think that's the point.” I leaned back. “You're an Igneus, right? Can a little fire help here or do we need a crowbar?”

He concentrated on the hinges. Not being an Exustio, like Adam, he couldn't disintegrate them, but with a combination of heat and brute strength, he finally wrenched the door from its hinges.

When I made a move to go down, Cassandra waved me back.

“I'm the shield, as I recall,” she said. “I'll go first.”

“What's Mr. Dahl's power?” I asked Davis.

“He's a Tempestras.”

In other words, a storm half-demon. Not terribly lethal in a tight place. I eased back and let Cassandra descend.

As she disappeared into the darkness, there were no shouts or screams or gunshots. Just the sound of someone scrabbling away from her.

When I started down, Cassandra lifted a hand to stop me and whispered, “It's a child.”

After a moment we heard her say, “You must be Gabrielle.” The Dahls' daughter. I was surprised Cass remembered the name. “I'm Cassandra. We've been looking for you.”

A sniffle. Cassandra kept talking to the little girl, her faint French lilt coming stronger, making her voice soothing, musical.

“She's good with kids.” Davis sounded shocked.

“It's the only way she can get them to open their windows and invite her in.”

His look said he didn't find that funny. At least he didn't take me seriously. I've met supernaturals who would.

Cassandra has a patience with children she can't find for adults. I think she enjoys their lack of pretense. They amuse her. Well, we all amuse her, but children particularly so. They like her back. Particularly if she uses her vampire charm.

Contrary to myth, a vampire can't make you do anything against your will, but if you're already inclined in that direction, their voice and gaze can prod you along. This scared little girl wanted to be rescued, so it was easy for Cassandra to persuade her that we were rescuers.

After a few minutes, she led Gabrielle out. I motioned Davis back—a hulking bodyguard is not the first thing a terrified kid needs to see as she comes out of her hiding place.

According to the file, Gabrielle was five. She was chubby, with curly blond hair and dark blue eyes and wore a nightgown covered in frolicking puppies. Or that's what it looked like—the gown was dusted with dirt, the front streaked from her tears.

“Hey there,” I said, crouching down to her size. “How about we get you some breakfast. I bet you're hungry.”

She nodded.

“Cassandra's going to take you in the bathroom to clean up,” I said. “I'll get your breakfast.”

Davis motioned that he was calling it in. I gestured that Sean shouldn't hurry—we needed to get as much from the girl as we could before an invading security team frightened her into silence.

I found cereal in the cupboard and pulled out a box of Lucky Charms that was tucked at the back, behind the healthier stuff. I poured a bowl and a glass of orange juice before Cassandra got Gabrielle to the table.

“Can you tell us what happened?” I asked after she'd eaten a few mouthfuls.

“A man came,” she said. “From Mr. Nast.”

“Mr. Nast?”

She nodded. “The young one. The old one came once, to see Larsen, but the young one comes a lot. He's nice. Mommy and Daddy like him, so they weren't mad even if it was past our bedtime.”

“She means Sean,” Davis said as he walked into the kitchen, phone still in hand. “He's the executive in charge of their case. He comes by once a month. But he didn't send anyone last night.”

“Easy enough for someone to say Sean had sent him,” I said.

Gabrielle, who'd been following the conversation, shook her head. “Uh-uh. He has to know the secret word.”

I looked at Davis.

“It's a code,” he said after a moment. “The Dahls trust Sean. Only Sean. Anyone bringing a message from him has to use the right code. You're asking the wrong questions.”

He crouched beside Gabrielle. “Tell me about that room you were in. It's for Larsen, isn't it? In case someone comes to get him.”

When she looked confused, Cassandra murmured, “Her parents wouldn't tell her that. It would frighten her.” She looked at the girl. “Is it for storms? Earthquakes?”

Gabrielle nodded.

“And your parents told you to go in it last night? Only you?”

“It's supposed to be for me and Larsen, but Mr. Nast's men said they needed to take Larsen into the city. Mommy told them I was sleeping at my friend's house. Then she put me in the room and said when they were gone, I was supposed to come out and call the special number.”

“What special number, hon?” I asked.

She took a dirty piece of paper from her pocket. In big, thick letters, it spelled out a phone number.

“I was supposed to call when it was quiet,” she said. “But I couldn't really tell if it was quiet, so I waited, and then I heard people in the house, so I waited some more and then I dropped the flashlight and it broke, and I couldn't see, and the door wouldn't open and—” She took a deep hiccupping breath as tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away. “Mommy said if anything went wrong, not to worry because you'd come.”

“We'd come?”

She nodded. “She said when she didn't call today, someone would come. That's you.”

Cassandra looked at Davis. “What exactly is the child-rearing agreement with the Nasts?”