Nolan snorts. “You always sucked at security though.”
“That’s what I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen to me over the sound of himself slurping his coffee out of that stupid color-changing mug with the dick joke on it.”
“Ha!” Nolan shakes his head. “It’s really good to see you back on your feet, Matty boy.” He scrolls through his list and stops at Lassiter’s name. “All right. I got you. And the two kids are Mayfield and Parker?”
“Yup.” Lassiter nods.
Nolan waves to somebody on the other side of the door, and another cop in a suit pushes it open, ushering us inside. “Have fun, pal,” Nolan says. “I hear the auction’s full of that paint-splatter art. Should be a real hoot.”
“But at least there’ll be caviar, right?” Lassiter wiggles his eyebrows.
Nolan laughs again.
Lassiter gives Nolan a mock salute, then snaps his fingers at us and points to the door, like he’s really our overqualified mentor and he’s getting tired of our childish behavior. Foley and I pretend to be appropriately cowed by our “senior officer” and enter the museum with our heads hung low in embarrassment. Nolan doesn’t even think to ask us for ID.
Damn, I need to use Lassiter as a resource more often. Guy’s got the sort of people skills I can only dream of.
Once inside, we go with the flow of people heading down the main hall until we reach an intersection that branches off into the two wings of the museum. Lassiter, who bided the time Foley and I were off shopping by memorizing the building’s layout, takes a hard right toward a grand set of stone stairs that lead up to the main corridor of the second floor. The corridor ends with a balcony that overlooks the atrium, which extends from the main entrance of the museum to an enormous fountain gurgling with crystal-clear water. The statue at the center of the fountain is an abstract blue something-or-other with water spouts spaced oddly across its bulk. It’s impressively ugly. Yet people are taking pictures in front of it in large groups, smiling like it’s the prettiest blue blob they’ve ever seen.
Lassiter leads us around the base of the stairs, and we skirt the perimeter of the atrium, brushing by potted trees and ribbon-wrapped stone pillars and other cheesy decorations designed to wall off the areas of the museum where the party attendees aren’t supposed to wander, the places the event staff are supposed to traverse in order to hide their untoward plebeian presence.
The stairs are a fairly impressive floating structure, and we duck underneath them then climb atop a three-foot-high marble platform that extends half the length of the room, benches cut into the base at even intervals. Tucked behind the staircase, in the corner where the platform and the base of the stairs meet, is a door painted to blend in with the wall. Lassiter takes a quick peek back to make sure no one’s watching, and opens the door.
We slip inside, and I shut the door behind us, bringing up the rear of our little group. I find we’re in a tight crawlspace for maintenance workers, with an incredibly narrow and steep set of steps that lead down to the basement level. Lucian’s text instructions claimed he’d be entering the museum proper through a tunnel built between the main building and a small outbuilding that isn’t being watched tonight. Lucian discovered this tunnel by pilfering the museum’s blueprints from a source he refused to reveal.
Man, when this is over, I really need to inform Burbank about all these security holes his people failed to notice.
Miraculously, no one trips and falls down the stairs, and we emerge into the dusty, expansive basement of the museum. This particular room is filled with maintenance and janitorial equipment, everything from brooms and shelves full of cleaning supplies to replacement AC units in cardboard boxes, stored on big wooden pallets. Since it’s dark in the room and we don’t want to alert anyone to our presence, Foley takes the lead, Lassiter in the middle, and we each grab onto someone’s sleeve to stay together. Foley expertly winds us around all the clutter in the room, and we reach another door.
Lassiter mutters, “This should be the room where the tunnel lets out.”
Foley turns the knob, and the door pops open with a faint squeak of the hinges. He peers inside. “No movement. We’re good.”
At last, we’re all stowed safely inside the requisite room, and I shut this door behind us too, to make sure we aren’t disturbed while we iron out the last few wrinkles in our plan. Lassiter flicks on a small penlight he had in his pocket and waves it around the room until it illuminates an obvious tunnel outlet: an old iron door with a padlock. Foley saunters over to the door, and with only a second of calculation to ensure he doesn’t make too loud a noise, he breaks the padlock in half.
Then we wait in the musty silence of the dark room.
But not for long.
About eight minutes in, the tunnel door creaks open, and Lassiter shines the light inside to reveal Lucian Ardelean standing at the end of a long, claustrophobic hole in the ground that stretches back into seemingly infinite darkness. Behind him are four other vampires, two women and two men, their amber eyes glinting under the penlight’s glare.
Huh, I thought he said he only had three collaborators coming with him. Where’d the fourth one come from? And what’s their job? If Lucian didn’t need Foley anymore, he’d have told the guy to stay hidden.
Lucian surveys the room as he climbs out of the tunnel. Satisfied, he waves his comrades forward. He then takes stock of us and draws closer to Foley. “You all right, kiddo?”
Foley says, “As much as I can be.”
Lucian claps him on the shoulder. “You’re a champ.” He turns to me, eying the faint red marks on my neck where Lizzie Banks decided to snack on me. “And you? Well, you’re certainly something.”
“Thank you for that glowing compliment,” I reply.
He beams a smile my way. “You’re welcome. But really, thanks for keeping Foley alive.”
“I’d say ‘no problem,’ but that would be a lie. It’s been a huge problem.”
Foley rolls his eyes. “It’s been a problem keeping you alive too.”
“Hey! Don’t forget who used his body as a shield and got stabbed in the lung.”
“I haven’t. That was heroic, but also problematic.” He grins, though it carries an edge of anxiety. He’s joking with me to hide the fact he’s scared out of his mind. “I had to carry you off the battlefield after that, and share my blood because humans can’t heal worth a damn.”
“Oh, that’s right. You drank his blood.” Lucian purses his lips. “Better try not to get yourself killed in the next hour then, Kinsey. Unless you’re looking to join our exclusive club.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say flatly.
“So how’s this going to roll?” Lassiter asks. He’s placed his back against the wall so he can face everyone in the room at once, not quite trusting these obvious creatures of the night, with big fangs and strange eyes. (I don’t blame him. Not one bit.) “Who’s doing what where and when?”
Lucian squints at Lassiter. “Who are you again?”
“Detective Matt Lassiter, Aurora PD.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Lucian says. “Anyway…” He motions to one of the other vampires, a tall, bulky man with light blond hair. The guy moves into the bright white field cast from Lassiter’s penlight and stops next to me.
“So here’s the twist,” Lucian continues. “The mayor is the primary target of the Knights, but he’s also the one that all the other targets will defer to. I figure if we can get the mayor to lead the other four targets to a location that can be easily defended by a small team, we’ll achieve two things. One, force the nobles to converge in one place, so we have a chance to take them all down in one shot. And two, ruin their plan, which includes picking off the targets one by one. Shaking up the playing field like this will throw them off balance, making it more likely the next stage of our plan will go off without a hitch. That is, using a five-person binding spell to capture the nobles and render them defenseless.”
�
�Hold up,” Lassiter says. “Who are these other targets? I never got any names.”
“Oh. I confirmed the list after I texted you and forgot to send an update. My bad. Sorry. Busy day.” Lucian closes one eye, trying to recall something he memorized. “Deputy Mayor Lucretia Calhoun, State Senator Astor Ribald, Attorney General Winston Pillsbury, and Police Commissioner Franklin Mahoney.”
Lassiter whistles. “The PC too? Goddamn. These Knights sure are ambitious.”
Lucian snorts. “Buddy, you don’t even know.”
I raise my hand like a fifth-grader. “So, how do you propose we convince Mayor Burbank to lead the other targets to one location?”
“We don’t,” says the mysterious blond man. “I take his place.”
His eyes flash violet.
I recoil. “You again? I thought you said you weren’t working for Lucian!”
The guy cocks an eyebrow. “Again? We’ve never met, Mr. Kinsey.”
“Wait.” I rake my hands down my face. “You’re a different shapeshifter?”
“Is there another one in town?” Lucian asks.
“Yeah, the one you hired to kill the Jameson trio.”
Lucian scrunches his nose. “The hell is he doing here?”
I briefly explain my run-in with Lizzie, and my rescue by the clever shifter. “You got any idea who my ‘benefactor’ might be?”
“Not a clue.” Lucian bites the inside of his cheek. “Which is disconcerting. But we can’t worry about it now. The shifter seems to have your best interests at heart, and yours align with mine tonight, so I’m going to assume the guy won’t interfere unless he’s protecting you in some way. We move forward with the plan.” He nods to the new shapeshifter. “Got your disguise ready?”
The shifter withdraws a small vial of blood from his pocket.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Trade secret,” the guy says with a smirk. He pops the cap off and downs the contents. Less than a minute of ugly cracking and stretching noises later, an exact replica of Mayor Burbank is standing in the room, wearing a carefree grin fit for a much younger man’s body. He pockets the empty vial again and pats the backpack on his shoulder. “I’ll change into the suit once we get upstairs. I don’t want to get it dirty. People will ask questions.”
“Sounds good,” Lucian says. “Now let’s—”
Lassiter clears his throat. “One thing. What exactly are we going to do with the real Burbank?”
“Oh, that.” Lucian waves his hand dismissively. “We knock him out and stuff him in a closet where no one will think to look for him. See, our fake is going to meander through the atrium and pick up the other targets along the way, and in so doing, catch the attention of the Knights, who, at this point”—he checks the time on his phone—“should be on the roof, about to break in. I did some recon when I arrived and spied them congregating a couple blocks from the museum. By the time they bypass all the security and slip into the atrium, our Burbank will already have all four of the other targets following him back to our defense point.”
“What’s our defense point?” I say, cutting off Lassiter before he can object to the plan to assault Mayor Burbank. “It’s not too close to the atrium, is it?”
“No, it’s as far away as I could feasibly make it,” Lucian answers. “Second floor, east wing, employees-only area conference room. Our fake Burbank will claim he needs to have an urgent meeting with the other targets.”
“A meeting about what?” Lassiter says snidely, eying Lucian with disdain. “What topic could possibly be relevant to the police commissioner, the deputy mayor, the district attorney, and a Michigan state senator?”
The shifter throws him a smug smile. “You leave the details to me. I’m an actor by trade.”
“I never would’ve guessed,” Lassiter retorts. He scans the shifter’s Burbank façade from head to toe and shudders. But he doesn’t allow the shifter’s eeriness to bother him for long. He looks to Lucian again and asks, “How’re we going to knock out Burbank? Some kind of magic junk that doesn’t hurt him, I hope.”
“Don’t worry. Your precious mayor will be fine.” Lucian pulls out a regular penny.
“You’re going to put a sleep spell in the coin,” I guess.
Lucian looks impressed. “Hit the nail on the head. You seen this trick before?”
“Once upon a time.”
“Interesting.” Lucian flips the penny into the air and catches it with his other hand. “I say we use the old ‘lucky penny’ gag. Toss the penny in front of him. Wait for him to bend down and grab it. And when the spell hits, we do a quick switcheroo, and the replacement mayor takes his spot in the hall. We time it right, and no one in his entourage will notice anything amiss. When a convenient moment arises, we’ll take out his two guards as well.”
“Why the guards?” Lassiter says.
Lucian’s smile broadens. “So you and Kinsey can take their places. Mayor can’t walk around without guards, and we can’t let two uninvolved humans muck up the gears in this operation. So Paula and Martine”—one of the women and the other male vampire nod in acknowledgement—“will lead the guards away from the replacement mayor and whoever’s barking up his tree at the time, and take them down quietly. Then you and Kinsey will step in and pretend the guard shift changed.”
He points to the remaining female vampire. “Annette, since we now have an extra body for this operation, you take point as our eyes in the sky to give us some additional protection. Climb to the highest place you can find in the atrium and watch everything. Anything stinks, you let me know immediately.”
Annette replies, “Yes, sir.”
“And as for you,” Lucian says, crossing his arms as he stares at Foley. “That conference room I mentioned? You’re going to wait there until I tell you to come out, right when we need you to perform the binding spell. Not a second sooner. You do not risk yourself unnecessarily, understand?”
Foley doesn’t bother trying to argue. “I understand.”
“And don’t forget to take one of Kinsey’s shotguns.” Lucian pats my duffle bag, which is no longer invisible. “If the Knights try to grab you or gut you, blow their faces off.” He grins. “Then rip their heads off.”
I unzip the bag and dig out one of the guns, plus a box of ammo, and hand them off to Foley.
Foley glumly accepts them. “Will do, Luc.”
“Good.” Lucian claps his hands. “So, we all know our parts in this insane gambit. Let’s go save the world, kids.”
Chapter Twelve
Armed with the knowledge that the real Mayor Burbank is safely tucked away in a dirty closet, dreaming about candy and rainbows, Lassiter and I follow the fake mayor through the long museum corridors as he entertains various city officials and wealthy guests who would never guess he’s a shapeshifter. The guy’s a natural. He acts exactly like the real Burbank.
The second the penny dropped, the real mayor bent down to grab it and inadvertently zapped himself, and Lucian snatched him away in a blur that no one noticed because they were distracted by a “random” loud sound at the other end of the hall, the shifter slipped into position and picked up the conversation where his counterpart had left off. Without missing a beat. It’s actually kind of creepy, how well this guy can act. The gestures. The speech patterns. The sheer degree of nuance he’s perfected. No wonder some of these shifters don’t come cheap.
Since Burbank was leading his entourage of well-dressed men and women on a tour through a few of the smaller exhibits, which are off limits to most of the gala attendees, the fake plays it like he’s planning to take his friends across the atrium to the other wing of the main floor, promising he’s going to show them some of his favorite pieces from the local artists showcased in the Michigan-centric gallery.
But as we meander past the rope barriers and into the bulk of the chattering crowd that now fills the entire atrium, the fake “accidentally” gets separated from his entourage when two people—Paula and Martine, ba
ck from dumping the knocked-out guards—cut off the fake from the rest of the group. The moment the shifter is out of sight of Burbank’s buddies, he cuts through the middle of the floor, heading for the first of the targets he spotted: Senator Ribald, who’s loitering near the refreshment table.
Lassiter and I, on the fringe of the bustling crowd, hang back, the detective keeping a keen eye on the fake mayor’s movements while I scan the room for any signs of Lizzie Banks and the other Knights. I have a com in my ear, courtesy of Lucian, but he ordered his team to maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary because the Knights are known for hijacking signals and listening to their enemies’ conversations during battle. They apparently do this not to gain a tactical advantage in the midst of combat but so they can figure out the enemies’ paths of retreat, cut them off, and slaughter all the wounded. How lovely.
I tuck my hands behind my back, underneath the gun bag, so no one will see me wringing them constantly, my damaged palm throbbing every time I squeeze it. Sweat collects under my armpits and around my hairline, caused by a combination of the stress of this situation and the stuffiness of the room.
Two hundred bodies crammed into the atrium, all of them in close proximity, and all of them in imminent danger from the vampires stalking five of their number. I chew on my tongue as I mentally urge the shifter to hurry up and gather the other targets. He’s on number three out of four now, the attorney general, Winston Pillsbury. A portly older man whose white, frizzy mustache and genial disposition disguises the fact he’s a sharp-witted man and a sharper-tongued prosecutor.
The shifter leans toward Pillsbury and whispers something into his ear, and the AG tenses up, a deep frown cutting into his face as he stares in disbelief at who he believes is the mayor. After a few moments of agitated consideration, he nods tersely and motions for the shifter to lead the way. The shifter steps back and gestures for Senator Ribald and the deputy mayor, Lucretia Calhoun, who’s munching on some fruit, to follow him. The group wades through the crowd toward the last target: Franklin Mahoney, the no-nonsense police commissioner I’ve never met but who has, on occasion, been a massive pain in DSI’s ass.
Day Killer (City of Crows Book 5) Page 14
