The Blue Devil

by Quirah Casey

  It’s just past midnight and the streets are still. I enter the warehouse through the same door as earlier, but once I get inside, it becomes very evident that the gathering that was taking place earlier has ended. There isn’t a soul left in the building.

  Well, I may not be able to snap any necks or take anyone for questioning, but that doesn’t mean I can’t check out the rest of the place. I guess the guys were right earlier, at least about one thing: we’d only really checked out one room, and I know there’s plenty more space to cover.

  I still curse Levitsky in my head. If it weren’t for him, we’d have at least one captive right now. And I’d have some punching bags—sorry, bodies—to absorb my anger.

  My heart rate picks up and the pounding returns to my head as I think of Levitsky and London. I don’t know why it took me so long to cut those two loose, considering that they’ve done nothing but slow me down. I would have already found the perp if it weren’t for them. Levitsky is a goody two-shoes, and London doesn’t take shit seriously. I mean really, what has that English asshole contributed that I couldn’t have figured out or done on my own?

  Nothing.

  I shake my head, pushing my dark thoughts away. I don’t have much time to linger, and thinking of those pathetic excuses for dragons won’t help me.

  I start my exploration, finding most of the rooms on the lower level completely empty. The others only contain the most basic furnishings: a couple of tables and chairs. The idiot byurtids have left their half-eaten food lying around, and the place smells of rot. The stench makes even my eyes water, and I quickly find stairs leading to the building’s second level, surprised by how easy everything is to access. There are no locked doors or security panels to keep unwelcome visitors out.

  Stupid.

  The stairs creak and groan under my feet, giving away how old and rundown this building is. I’m surprised the place hasn’t completely fallen apart yet. I start my search of the second floor with the room closest to the staircase. Pushing the door open, I discover a bedroom, twice the size of the rooms below and containing much more. There are four bunks lining the walls, each accompanied by a wooden dresser.

  I choose the dresser closest to me, roughly throwing it open. I take out all the clothes, shaking them down and checking their pockets, but find nothing of interest. At the bottom of the drawer is a litter of charms, all different colors and sizes. Unfortunately, the only charm identifiable on sight is a black blood charm with red veins running through it. I’d need to take the rest to a witch to find out what they do.

  I stuff all the charms in my bag, listening to them clink against each other. I throw all the clothes back into the dresser before moving on to the next, not bothering to put them back in the semi-neat way I found them. All of the dressers in the room prove to contain the same shit: clothes and charms in varying quantities. I check under the bunks for anything useful, but other than bags of chips and bottles of alcohol—which I also bag—there’s nothing that holds my attention.

  I move on to the next room, finding it identical to the first in both setup and contents. These rooms clearly comprise a dorm of sorts, a base of operations for the escaped byurtids. I count well over a dozen bunks, giving me an idea of the small army that has been assembled. The leader is either cautious, brilliant, or both—regardless, she’s realized that an army will be what’s required to take me down.

  I try the knob on the next door, surprised to find that it isn’t unlocked like the rest. This must be where the good stuff is. I press my hand against the door, trying to get a feel for any magic coming from it. I feel a slight buzz, a low-level spell. I can’t identify it specifically, but I have a charm from Fran to take care of whatever it is.

  I pull the charm from my bag, thankful for its distinctive shape: it’s about the size of a tennis ball, and bright purple, like most of Fran’s charms. I hold it against the door. “Ryut liet ma ti.” The charm activates silently, glowing brighter for a moment before returning to its regular color. It’s a spell-breaker, and unlike most charms, it can be used multiple times. I stuff it back into my bag. The knob turns easily under my hand this time.

  The second I enter the room, a sharp, floral smell floods my nostrils, and all the hair on my arms stands up. The door closes behind me as that dark presence overtakes my senses, stronger than ever. My siem form rises up out of instinct, my body sensing a threat. I stop before my body goes full dragon, but I don’t try to push back to my human form.

  My heart beats faster. There’s no one in the room, but it’s clear that the person who’s been watching me lives here. Their presence clings to the space, strong even without their physical form.

  Until a couple of weeks ago, I’d never felt a presence like this, not this dark. Yet, there’s something eerily familiar about it, just like Fran said. The power reminds me of someone I know, but I can’t figure out who.

  Just search the room and figure out the rest later.

  There’s a huge desk in the middle of the room, littered with papers, and multiple filing cabinets against the wall. I start at the desk, rifling through the papers. Most include information about the town, the shops, the residents. I stuff it all in my bag. I also pick up a list of names I recognize as byurtids. Some are scratched through, while others aren’t.

  I pull open one of the drawers, my eyes widening when I find multiple vials of liquid and blue-tinted bullets. Just to be sure, I pick up one of the smaller vials and crush it in my hand. When my skin becomes a burning, bloody mess, my suspicions are confirmed. This is the chemical that killed Tarae, that nearly killed Paris Stendahl. And Mel.

  I carefully place the vials in my bag, making sure not to shatter any more of them. If I can get this stuff to Zyut, he’ll definitely have enough for an antidote, and to figure out exactly what it contains.

  I move on to the file cabinets next. I don’t even bother to go through the papers before I stuff them in my bag. Everything I find here can give me insight into my enemy’s mind, and that instantly makes it useful. I pause at a map of the underground sewers in town, and as I crumple the page into my bag, the one beneath it falls to the floor.

  I pick it up, frowning when I recognize the blueprint.

  “Blyat.” It’s a blueprint of The Lair, halls highlighted and security camera locations circled. There are even notes scribbled on the blueprint to indicate the type of lock on each door, and a small table of guard shifts.

  A loud crashing sound seizes my attention, and I jam the blueprint into my bag.

  “CDA! Everyone get down!”

  Fuck.

  Of course they come now, when I’m getting what I need, when there’s no one even fucking here. Damn Levitsky. The CDA usually can’t even get a team together in a few hours, much less do recon and announce their presence.

  I cram files into my bag until it can’t hold anything more. I leave the room as the sound of footsteps gets louder. I still have the shadows pulled over me, but with a ton of agents casing the building, I know it’s time for me to show myself out.

  I search for an alternate exit as CDA agents stomp down the hallway, covered head-to-toe in black tactical gear, weapons drawn. They systematically kick open doors, point their guns around, and continue down the hall. I’m debating making a run for the stairs—the only way out—when more agents appear on the top step, including Levitsky. Even in his CDA gear, he isn’t hard to recognize. He’s taller than most of the other agents, his stance serious and his presence more than familiar to me now. He barks out orders to the other agents, then pauses, looking right at me. Or, rather, the nothingness he sees where I’m standing.

  Fuck.

  I’ve pulled in my presence as much as I can, but of course it still lingers—there’s always the chance that someone who’s felt it many times before, or who’s sensitive to magic, might be able to sense it. Just as Levitsky opens his mouth to speak, the sprinklers go off overhead, and he looks up.

  What the fuck?

  And the
screaming begins.

  For a few panicked moments, I spin wildly around, trying to figure out where the fire is. And then my eyes focus, and I watch as agents claw at their arms, some of them falling to their knees as they wail. I reach out hopelessly…and catch a glimpse of my own arm, dotted with gaping, bloody wounds that work to knit themselves closed even as they are reopened with each drop of water from the sprinklers.

  Shit, not water. Not even fucking close.

  I watch as Levitsky hits the ground across the hall, groaning.

  I need to get out of here, because even though I’m building up a tolerance to it, I can still feel the chemical start to soak through my clothes.

  I make my way to the exit, stepping over the screaming agents between me and the stairs, most of them lying in pools of blood by now. I reach Levitsky.

  He’s groaning slightly, not screaming like the other agents.

  It’s not your problem, especially since he’s done nothing but create issues. You need to get yourself out of here, I tell myself, but when I try to step around Levitsky’s body, I can’t.

  Shit.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  With a curse, I widen the shadows to cover him as I pick up his bulky body and throw it over my shoulder. I head down the stairs, Levitsky groaning as I carelessly jostle him up and down.

  By now, the chemical has soaked through my clothes completely, and I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the pain as my limbs tense up.

  Push it the fuck back.

  I blow out short breaths as I try to focus on the route ahead of me instead of the agony taking over my body. Levitsky lets out a grunt, and his body starts to seize. While I may feel pain, it’s nowhere close to what he’s feeling, I remember.

  This is nothing for you, I tell myself. The first time hurt so much worse. Keep going.

  I push through the pain, forcing it to the back of my mind as I let the steely persona I adopted a long time ago take over. Even more agents are down for the count on the ground floor, their bodies littering the hallway. Some continue to scream while others have gone still, already dead. I find the exit, propped open by a bloody corpse. It looks like one of the agents was trying to crawl out the door, but he lost the ability to move before he could.

  In front of the building, there’s a mass of agents looking on, paralyzed with terror. A few are stoic, but others weep desperately. Their people, their coworkers and partners, their friends, are dying inside, and these agents can’t do shit without risking a toxic, lethal shower. Two brave agents step forward to pull the lifeless body from the doorway. He’s already dead, but even if he hadn’t been, the poison would’ve killed him within minutes—there’s no antidote.

  I think about dropping Levitsky’s body in front of the crowd, leaving the other agents to care for him, but I think better of it. There’d be questions if he suddenly fell out of thin air. And again, there’s no antidote. Except, of course, my blood.

  Goddamn it.

  I owe this man nothing, yet here I am, saving his fucking life.

  I don’t drop Levitsky, even though I’m tempted to. I carry him away from the warehouse, dashing toward another one that’s nearby but out of sight. I need to act quickly, or all this, all my fucking altruism, will have been pointless. I drop Levitsky’s body against the wall of the building and squat beside him. Throwing his head gear to the side, I slice open my wrist with my teeth and press it against his mouth. He’s completely out, so I have to force-feed him the blood, but I can hear his heartbeat. When the pounding grows a little stronger, I begin to strip him out of his poison-drenched clothes.

  I feel the familiar presence before I hear the English accent. “I know you’re here, Pudding, I feel you. Reveal yourself.” London’s irritated voice comes from directly behind me. I didn’t even realize I’d kept the shadows up.

  I drop them and hear London let out a curse, crouching next to Levitsky. “What the hell happened?” he asks, reaching a hand out.

  “Don’t touch him,” I warn. “The warehouse had poison in the sprinkler system.” I finish getting the agent out of his clothes, reopen my wrist, and press it to his mouth again. “I saved Levitsky.”

  “And what were you doing in the warehouse?” London barks.

  “I was figuring out this fucking case.” I glare at him: a challenge.

  He looks away, his eyes lowering to take in my body. “Bloody hell, you’re covered in poison, Blue!” My clothes are indeed soaked; I had forgotten. I’m used to turning off my pain, so I’d completely ignored my own skin, which has been steadily melting away and re-growing under my wet clothing. Still, I note once again that the pain isn’t nearly as intense as it was the first time the poison hit me. Does immunity build with exposure, or is it my exotic blood that’s helping me build tolerance?

  “Get those clothes off. Blaine is steady for now,” London orders, making my shoulders tense.

  “I’m fine.” It’s a lie, because now that he’s mentioned it, I’m very aware of the stinging ache in my limbs.

  “Blue.” His voice is sharp, his tone more serious than I’ve ever heard from him before. I look over to find his gold eyes full of determination. “Take your damn clothes off.”

  My dragon perks up at the challenge for dominance, but I push her back. “I can think of a hundred times that phrase has been sexier,” I tell him, but I stand up and shuck the clothes and my backpack. I leave my undergarments on, since they’re not as badly soaked.

  I set the other clothes on fire using my magic, erasing any evidence that I was here.

  Levitsky starts to awaken, groaning as he slowly moves his arms.

  “We need to get out of here,” I whisper to London.

  “You can’t just leave him here!” London practically shouts.

  I shoot him a glare, shushing him. “I have to. Or else the CDA will have questions. I need to put him and his clothes back near the warehouse, make it look like he got out on his own. Healed on his own.” Even though I idiotically decided to save Levitsky, I still have my sense of self-preservation, and I’ll be damned if I let the CDA know I was here. They already want to pin all this shit on me.

  London shakes his head, sending his golden locks flying. “There’s no way they’ll believe he managed to heal himself when no one else could.”

  “He’s much stronger than the other agents, London. It’s not unbelievable.”

  Levitsky starts to regain consciousness, and he even tries to speak, his lips moving with no sound coming out. I kneel next to him and slap him sharply across the face. His dark eyes pop open, and his body jolts in surprise. “You need to tell your superiors that you got yourself out of the building and took your clothes off to heal, Levitsky. Do not mention me.” The words are harsh and rushed, but I know he hears them from the groan he lets out.

  I stand, putting my backpack on and hefting Levitsky’s body over my shoulder. I pick up his belongings with my other arm.

  “You’d better make yourself scarce before the CDA finds you,” I warn London.

  “You almost sound like you’re worried about me, Pudding,” he teases, but I can see the way his intent gaze lingers on me.

  “Not even a little bit.” I turn away.

  I return to the warehouse, placing Levitsky by the rear exit, on the side of the building far from the CDA crowd. I set Levitsky and his clothes on the ground and break the lock on the door so the story will make sense.

  Then I run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I had Mel check the entire club for bugs this morning. Everything came back clean, so I go straight to my office. I empty out my bag, surprised to find that none of the vials were crushed while I was busy being a good samaritan, saving Levitsky’s ass. I guess good deeds are rewarded after all. My bag is wet from the sprinklers, though, and I have to put on gloves to keep my hands from sizzling as I go through it.

  There’s not enough space on my desk to spread out all the papers I collected, so I drag in a table from anoth
er room. Once I’ve laid out the papers, I anchor them with pens and paper clips and turn on the ceiling fan to dry them out. Luckily, most of them are still readable.

  While I wait for them to dry, I pick up the map of the town and blueprint of The Lair, sitting down in my office chair to examine them. On the blueprint of the club, the private rooms are circled, and the entrances and exits are highlighted with arrows. In the margins is a detailed schedule of guard changes. There’s a small check mark in the hallway outside the private rooms, right where the security camera was tampered with.

  Handprint required is written next to my office door in bold, red ink and unfamiliar handwriting. I frown, my brows knitting together. A few people have handprint access, but I had Mel check the logs after my office was broken into. The only person who accessed the room that day was me.

  I sigh and push the blueprint away, rubbing at my temples. More fucking problems.

  Of course, the Lobrooke map brings more questions. Unlike the club blueprint, it’s unmarked, so I have no clue what it was being used for.

  Fuck.

  I thought that this stuff would give me answers, but so far it’s only raised more questions.

  I lay the map down, deciding to take a quick break. I’ll give Fran and Baptise a call before I really lose myself in the other papers.

  “Hello?” Baptise’s low voice comes across the line.

  “Baptise. How is Fran?”

  He sighs. “She’s feeling much better, but she’s already insisting on going back to Lobrooke. Despite my protests.”

  I chuckle. “You know that old woman is hardheaded.”

  There’s a rustling before Fran’s voice sounds off in my ear: “I heard that.”

  “It’s only the truth,” I say, happy to hear her familiar voice. She sounds almost normal again.

  I take a few minutes to fill Fran and Baptise in on what’s happened since they left town.

  When I’m done, there’s a pause on her end. “Blue…that presence in town felt so familiar.”