The little unit was sitting in the corner, plugged into a wall socket. When he touched the handle, another whispery vision slashed through him, strong enough to penetrate the glove. He opened the door and saw a small, unlabeled vial. There was a trace amount of clear fluid inside.
Bradley shoved the key into the lock of his front door. He moved into the foyer and looked at the small white control panel on the wall. The security system was off. That wasn’t right. He was sure he’d set it before he left the apartment. The damn thing was broken again. One of these days he would have to get around to replacing it.
He thumped the panel box a couple of times. The lights didn’t come on. He was about to hit the box again when he sensed a presence behind him.
He spun around, hand going inside his jacket. But Zack Jones already had his gun out.
“Guy in your line of work should probably get a better security system,” Zack said.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Zack held up a small glass vial. “You and I need to talk.”
Forty-nine
Mayor Joanne Escott parked her Mercedes sports car in a no parking zone in front of Incognito shortly before noon and rushed inside. Calvin did not appear to be paying much attention but Raine was sure she caught a whisper of power. He had jacked up his senses when Joanne flew into the shop, assessing her with his hunter talent.
Joanne stopped short, removed her dark glasses and gave him a blatantly appraising look.
“New employee?” she asked, brows rising with unconcealed interest.
“This is Mr. Harp, a freelance costume designer,” Raine said before Calvin could respond. “He brought in some sketches for me to look at.”
Joanne’s interest faded immediately. “Oh. Probably g*y, then, hmm?”
Calvin gave her his sunny smile.
Raine cleared her throat. “Calvin, this is Joanne Escott, our mayor.”
Calvin inclined his head, gravely polite. “Your Honor.”
“Do you live here in Oriana?” Joanne asked brightly.
“No, ma’am. I’m from out of town.”
“I see.” Assured that Calvin was not a potential voter, Joanne rounded on Raine. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes for my fitting,” she announced, checking her diamond-studded watch. “I have an appointment with my stylist at twelve forty-five. I don’t dare be late. Roger is so temperamental and I absolutely have to get my hair done for the fund-raiser tonight.”
“Your costume is finished,” Raine said. She held the red velvet curtain aside. “It won’t take long to try it on.”
Joanne gave Calvin one last regretful glance, and then, with a tiny sigh, she dropped her dark glasses into an oversized purse and followed Raine.
Calvin rose from his chair in a seemingly leisurely fashion and ambled after them. He lounged just inside the doorway, arms folded.
Raine brought the Cleopatra gown out from behind a long row of costumes and started to remove the plastic covering.
“We took the hem up another two inches and tightened the bustier,” she said.
Joanne watched, pleased, as the finished gown was revealed. “It looks fabulous.”
She reached into her purse. Raine assumed she was going to take out another pair of glasses. Instead she removed what looked like a milky white jar.
Power jumped. Calvin moved so quickly, Raine didn’t even realize he had left the doorway until he seized Joanne’s right wrist.
But Joanne, serene and unruffled, had already dropped the jar. It shattered on the floor. White smoke erupted in a foggy cloud of vapor.
Hand grenade, Raine thought. We’re all dead.
Instinctively she dove for the floor behind a rack of costumes, bracing for the inevitable shock wave and the flying bits of metal, knowing there was nothing she could do to shield herself.
But there was no shock wave. No metal bits pierced her body. There was only the cool, white smoke. It roiled through the room, filling the small space with a familiar herbal scent.
Joanne stared at the swirling vapors, frowning in baffled confusion.
“What in the world?” she said.
She crumpled, unconscious.
A torrent of voices rose out of the swamp of nightmares inside Raine’s head. Familiar screams of rage, agony and hellish panic smashed across her senses.
“Get down,” she shouted to Calvin.
He seemed to comprehend but he did not follow her instructions. Instead, he lashed out with one foot, kicking the smoking canister beneath another rack of costumes. Then he backed toward the door, fumbling for his phone.
But it was too late. He had been standing virtually on top of the canister when it struck the floor. Raine knew he had taken the worst brunt of the initial explosive blast of smoke. It was amazing he had remained upright as long as he had. There was no telling what effect the drug might have on a powerful hunter whose parasenses had been running wide open when the herb-laced fumes hit them.
Calvin coughed but managed to punch in a number on his phone.
“Get out of here,” he roared to Raine. “Back door. Now.”
Then he went down. The floor shuddered when he landed. He did not move again.
The phone landed on the floor beside him. She had no way of knowing whether he had managed to punch in 911. Her own phone was in her purse in the other room.
Breathing shallowly, she yanked her shirt out of the waistband of her pants. The smoke was thickest in the center of the room. She did not dare try to crawl through it to get to the safety of the front part of the shop. The alley door was closer.
Holding the edge of her shirt over her nose and mouth, she wriggled awkwardly on her belly toward the rear door. The smoke was doing what it was supposed to do according to the laws of physics: rising. The air near the floor smelled strongly of herbs but the vapors were not as thick as they were a few inches higher. She knew she was still taking in a lot of the drug, however. The demonic cacophony in her head was getting steadily worse.
The costumes around her began to come alive. She was suddenly in the midst of a nightmarish masquerade ball that was taking place in a room filled with funhouse mirrors. Capes and gowns swirled, making her dizzy. Malevolent eyes peered down at her through the empty sockets of the masks. Panic drenched her senses. The urge to leap to her feet and make a run for the door was overpowering.
It’s the drug. Ignore it. Stay low.
The voices were changing. Some of them seemed to be coming from the mouths of the masks.
“…Kill her. Torture her. Burn, witch, burn….”
She told herself that she was making progress through the ranks of dancing costumes. She could see the rear door but to her smoke-warped vision it kept shifting position. The masks were closing in around her.