“Crybaby,” Julie said.
“Harpy,” Ascanio said.
Julie gave him a look of concentrated scorn. “Pussy.”
Ascanio glared at her.
Julie crossed her arms.
“Where did Kate go?” I asked.
“To the Mercenary Guild,” Julie said.
Probably still trying to settle the dispute over who was going to be running the Guild. They had a bit of a power vacuum and Kate, as one of the veteran mercs, had seniority.
“Did you pick up that check from the mechanic?” I asked. “For that woman’s vehicle?”
“It’s on your desk.” Ascanio turned to Julie and mouthed, “Bitch.”
Just couldn’t let it alone, could he?
“Is it me or does it smell in here?” Julie waved her hand in front of her nose.
Oh no, she didn’t. Accusing a shapeshifter of reeking was the ultimate insult.
“You’re so dirty, Ascanio.” Julie grimaced. “Be careful, you might get fleas if you keep going this way.”
Ascanio bared his teeth at her. “Be careful you don’t get lice. They’ll shave you bald.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “It’s not necessary to shave your head if you have lice. You simply use a solution containing an extract of pyrethrin or any other of the wide variety of antilice herbal compounds and then comb the lice out. Your ignorance is staggering. I sometimes wonder how you survived to sixteen years of age. I’m curious, did you live most of them in Bubble Wrap?”
That kid sounded more and more like Kate every day.
“I had no idea you knew so much about lice,” Ascanio bit back. “Speaking from experience?”
“Yes, I am. I lived on the street for a year. Remind me, where did you live?” Julie tapped her finger to her lips, pretending to think. “Ah yes, you lived in a religious commune, sheltered and coddled, where you spent your time trying to nail anything that moved—”
That’s enough of that. “Quiet!” I barked.
Two mouths clicked shut.
I looked at the check. It was a business check from “Gloria’s Art and Antiques.” Antiques. Why would an antique dealer visit a reclamation company unless she knew that they were bidding on a building that contained a vault full of antiques? Reclamation companies didn’t deal in antiques; they dealt in metal and stone. Not much else survived a fallen building.
“Here’s the address.” Ascanio handed me a piece of paper. “I looked it up.”
“Thank you. Very nice of you.” I looked at the address. White Street, Julie’s old neighborhood. Right on the edge of the Warren, a poor part of Atlanta where beggars, gangs of homeless kids, and small-time criminals of opportunity made their home. Most of them wouldn’t know what “antiques” meant, let alone buy them. This case was getting stranger and stranger.
“Please don’t leave me here with her,” Ascanio murmured.
I looked at him. “Did Kate tell you to stay put?”
“Yes.”
“Then stay put. Study your epic, get yourself straightened out, and I’ll take you with me next time.”
I turned and walked out of there before he did any more begging.
White Street received its name when an unnatural snowfall covered it with two feet of pristine powder. The snow refused to melt for a couple of years and most residents had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. If a street’s magic could sustain two feet of snow in the middle of the scorching Atlanta summer, there was no telling what else it could do. By the time the snow finally melted, most of the people living in its buildings had fled. As I drove down the crumbling pavement, the abandoned houses stared at me with dark rectangles of empty windows, like the black holes of a skull’s orbits. If I wasn’t a seasoned former member of law enforcement, I’d admit that the place gave me the creeps, turn my vehicle around, and drive away screaming like a little girl.
Gloria’s Art and Antiques occupied a large rectangular building. The front facade was a typical two-story brick affair, but the structure extended from the street, over a city-block deep. Enough space there to warehouse a lot of antiques. Or a small herd of tanks. Or some vicious magical elephants…
I checked my Sig-Sauers and tried the door. Unlocked. I swung it open. A little bell chimed with a silvery tone as I stepped inside. In front of me, a narrow room stretched, framed by twin glass counters. The floor was polished wood, the counters glass and steel, the walls a silvery gray. The whole place was the exact antithesis of antique.
The air smelled of jasmine, not the purified scent of the perfume, but real jasmine: dark, slightly narcotic, with a hint of indole. There was something ancient and savage in that scent and it set my teeth on edge.