“I’d call it more than a failure,” I mused. “One is dead, and the other is in the hands of the Directorate.”
“Which is enough to make any madman intent on evil extremely pissed.”
“I guess.” But why would he be reacting now to events that had happened this afternoon? If Handberry was a good thug-master—and we had no reason to believe he wasn’t—then he would have known almost immediately that something had gone wrong. The lack of communication from his men would have told him that.
No, this was caused by something else.
We continued to follow Handberry from a safe distance—a task aided by the fact there were few cars on the road. He slowed down once he hit Hoddle Street and headed away from the city, taking the Heidelberg Road turn-off then scooting along that until he reached Dan Murphy’s. He swung into the parking lot behind the liquor store, then climbed out and walked across to the house next to it.
Tao turned right onto a side street, then came to a halt several cars up from Handberry’s house. It was a small, single-fronted brick and—like the ma
n who lived in it—rather ugly.
“What do you want to do now?” Tao asked as he killed the lights but kept the engine running.
“I don’t know.” I twisted around in the seat so I could see the house better. “I guess it depends on whether Handberry actually lives here or not.”
“Well, that’s a question that can be solved by a simple phone call.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and said, “Stane.” A few seconds later, I heard the answering rumble of Stane’s voice. “I need another favor if you’ve got the time.”
I tuned out their conversation, watching as lights went on inside the house. We were too far away to hear any noise or conversation from the house, and only Handberry’s silhouette appeared in any of the windows. But one thing I could sense was that there was an odd feeling in the night. A wrongness that made my skin crawl.
And it was different from the feeling I got when I looked at Handberry.
“Okay,” Tao said, his voice breaking into my thoughts and making me jump. “According to Stane, this is the address listed on Handberry’s license, meaning it’s probably his place.”
“Did Stane manage to pick up anything from the bug?”
“A telephone conversation. He’s enhancing the audio now, and running a search on a couple of names mentioned. He’ll let us know if he comes across anything.”
More lights went on at the back of the house, and the feeling of wrongness suddenly sharpened. I rubbed my arms and fought the urge to tell Tao to just get out of here.
“Looks like he might be settling in for the night,” Tao commented. “I really can’t see—”
The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sudden sound of screaming. Horrible, high-pitched, about-to-die screaming.
And it was coming from the house Handberry had entered.
“FUCK,” TAO SAID. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”
“I don’t know.” I quickly stripped out of Kiera’s coat so it wouldn’t be destroyed when I re-formed, then wrenched the car door open. Tao grabbed my arm before I could scramble out.
“Are you crazy? There’s no way I’m letting you go in there. Especially alone.”
“Tao,” I said, voice sharp with impatience, “I can go in as an Aedh. No one will see or hear me, and neither the cops nor the Directorate will know I’ve been there. You breaking in is a completely different story. Ring Uncle Rhoan for me,” I added, and gave him the number.
Tao made a low growling sound that spoke of frustration, but released my arm. “Go. But promise you’ll let me know if you need help.”
“I will.”
I scrambled out and ran for the front door, calling to my Aedh form as I did so. By the time I hit the front steps I was little more than a stream of fast-moving smoke, and I slipped easily under the gap between the door and the porch.
The screaming had stopped, but the silence was even more terrifying. I flowed through the house cautiously, looking for Handberry and whoever else was in here with him.
Because, given those screams, someone—or something—had to be.
The front section of the house was dark, and consisted of bedrooms and a bathroom, all of which were empty. The rear—which turned out to be a massive kitchen and living area that ran the entire width of the premises—was ablaze with lights.
Handberry lay sprawled in the middle of the kitchen, a knife clutched in one hand. His body was twisted, broken, suggesting that someone—something—had battered him to death. And yet there were no bruises and very little in the way of marks on his flesh to suggest this had actually happened. My gaze rose to his face—it was locked in an expression of terror, as if death had frozen the muscles into that position even though his flesh would still be warm.