Personal Demon (Otherworld 8)

As she reached for the door handle, she glanced over her shoulder and whispered, "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

I managed a wry smile.

She craned her head to look around, then shut the door again. "It's the gallery."

The young man certainly didn't look like an art thief. What were the chances of us stumbling over supernaturals conducting a burglary unrelated to tonight's events? In the very place Carlos had phoned from?

Griffin slipped into the gallery to search. He'd been gone for less than a minute when a crash sounded.

Paige peered through the door, but the noise hadn't been Griffin. He stood in the middle of the room, looking up. The sound must have come from overhead.

I eased past her. The gallery was a single room with only two exits--through the office or the front door. A third door, tactfully hidden behind a partial screen, stood open, revealing a tiny bathroom.

Paige looked up. "Storage space maybe? If so, how do they get there? I don't see a hatch and I didn't notice any door outside. Was there even a second floor? Or just an attic?"

I mentally replayed our approach.

"It's a complete floor, with barred windows. I believe there was a front door on the other side of this one. Leading to apartments, I would presume."

We looked up. If there were inhabited apartments overhead, then noises would not be unexpected.

"The question remains," I murmured. "Why come in here?"

My gaze traveled to the bathroom.

Griffin looked at me. "To take a leak? No offense, but..."

"Highly unlikely, I know."

The bathroom was tiny, and awkwardly set up, the toilet and sink facing one another, with barely enough room for knees. A poor design, but necessary--there was a second door directly across from the entrance. A closet with a deadbolt.

I slid the bolt, and pulled open the door to see a narrow hall ending in a staircase.

WE EXTINGUISHED THE light balls. Without them, the stairwell was pitch-black. We had to move up the stairs by feel as Paige cast sensing spells. When we reached the top, and her spells found no one lying in wait, she relit her light.

We were on a landing flanked by doors. The one to the right was unlocked. As I reached for the handle, Griffin shouldered me aside. I reminded myself that this was his job. If I was injured, he'd take the blame.

Griffin took out his gun, eased the door open a crack and stopped to listen. Paige motioned that she'd cast a sensing spell if she could get closer, but he pretended not to understand, threw the door open and wheeled in, gun raised.

After a slow look around, he waved telling us to stay put. When he'd turned away, I peered inside, then pulled back quickly. Beside me, Paige tensed, a spell flying to her lips. I shook my head. What I'd seen was no threat, merely something she didn't need to witness. But, of course, she would--there was no way around it--so I opened the door again. I held up a hand, warning her.

She peered around me. Her breath caught.

The door opened directly into a bedroom. There, on the bed, lay a young woman, naked and spread-eagled, tied to the bedposts, a belt around her neck. Even from here, we could tell that rushing in with first aid would be pointless.

LUCAS

15

"I SUPPOSE COVERING HER UP isn't a good idea," Paige said.

I nodded. Cabal security would be handling this, not the Miami police, but they'd still want the scene left intact.

Paige was unable to tear her gaze from the dead woman. I knew she was wondering who she'd been, what her life had been like, now reduced to this--a naked corpse exposed to strangers who were too busy with other concerns to mourn her passing or even care about the circumstances of her death, except as it related to those larger concerns.

I struggled to see her as Paige did. As a person. But tonight all I could do was assess the facts. Though she looked college age, the amount of smeared makeup made it hard to tell. Dyed blond hair. Faded track marks on her arms. A tattoo on her ankle that might aid in identification.

I turned my attention to the articles of male clothing strewn about the bed. Socks, shoes, underwear, a shirt...No sign of pants. Whoever had been with her had likely fled half dressed. Clearly not the young man from downstairs. But had he killed her?