Her attention strayed to the row of standing toolboxes, then moved along the wall. A stack of fender pads to protect precious paint jobs. A couple of mechanic rolling beds leaning against rough stone. Three mobile tool trays milling around. Everything she needed to pop the truck’s hood and take a look at the engine.
Excitement skittered through her. Her fingertips started to tingle. “And if I get it running?”
“I’ll take the pod out of your skull.”
Cate blinked. She turned her head to look at him. “Seriously?”
Dillinger tipped his chin. “Seriously.”
“What about your brothers?” she asked, not trusting his offer. “Won’t that piss them off?”
“They’ll live.”
Holding his gaze, Cate chewed on the inside of her lip. “If I do this, you promise to keep your end of the bargain afterward?”
“A word to the wise, Cate.” A nasty glint entered his eyes. “I never break my word. Do not question my integrity.”
Softly spoken words. Lethal intent behind each one.
Goosebumps erupted on her skin.
Swallowing her unease, Cate nodded once and, leaving Dillinger standing by the Chevy, headed for the toolboxes. “Pop the hood, Dilly. Let’s see what secrets she’s hiding.”
He muttered something under his breath.
Mind already mired in the task ahead, she ignored him. She had a job to do. A pick-up truck to bend to her will. An engine to heal and hear rumble.
Hope spiraled deep, raising her spirits.
Dillinger had just handed her a chance. A chance to save herself and help Rannock in the process. The opportunity to influence the outcome of a bad situation and tip the scales in her favor. Determination settled inside her. She could do it. Master the Chevy. Ease Rannock’s burden. Save herself.
A lofty goal, but she believed in her skills.
Whether he knew it or not, Dillinger had just handed her the key to the kingdom, one she’d use to open every closed door inside Habersham House. Escaping the Shadow Walkers had been nothing but a pipe dream… before. Now, Cate saw a pathway forward.
Find her way free—eliminate the threat to her life—and the success of Rannock’s mission wouldn’t matter. Her dragon could abandon his search for the TriHexe. The Shadow Walkers would be forced to do their own dirty work. And she and half the Scottish pack would be airborne, on their way, before Dillinger and his brothers knew what hit them.
Perfect solution to a tricky problem.
Now, all Cate needed to do was pull it off.
17
Vertebrae stacked in a straight line, Rannock jetted down a tube cut through solid bedrock. Feet first. Arms pinned to his sides. Shoulders and arse taking the brunt of the bone-jarring slide.
Fatalistic by anyone’s standards, except Olympic athletes participating in the luge event and kamikaze earth dragons.
Tempel loved this shite. Even in the radio silence, he heard the echo of his friend’s “yee-haw!” through mind-speak as the male rocketed down the tunnel ahead of him.
Gritting his teeth, Rannock hissed as his shoulder scraped the side wall. His jacket dragged across grooves corkscrewing into rock. Metal rivets embedded in the leather sparked against stone. He tightened the cloaking spell surrounding him, ensuring no sound escaped.
A necessary measure.
Fast and silent gave him the best chance of success. Infiltrating the Witch’s Cauldron without raising any alarms was a tall order.
The second she realized her coven had been breached, things would go from bad to worse. Getting in under the wire required a certain amount of savvy, and a helluva lot of finesse. The longer he went undetected, the better for him and the warriors with him. Even if meant riding Tempel’s subterranean deathtrap.
Rocketing around a corner, Rannock checked his position. The tunnel narrowed, growing even steeper, dragging him deeper underground. His speed increased. Cursing under his breath, he fine-tuned his sonar. A ping echoed inside his head as his spine screamed in protest. Shoving the discomfort away, he zeroed in, tracking his packmates’ progress.
Three blips blinked onto his mental screen. Almost there. Another quarter mile. In less than a minute he’d drop into the corridor where his brothers-in-arms already stood, boots planted, hackles up, deep in darkness, waiting for him to arrive.
Tense in anticipation, Rannock prepared to put on the brakes. He didn’t want to do it, really wanted to avoid the physical fallout, but some things couldn’t be helped. Pain was nothing but sensory input. The body’s way of protesting, but… mind over matter. No matter how much it hurt, he needed to slow his velocity. Otherwise, he’d torpedo out the end of Tempel’s tunnel and go splat inside the witch’s lair. Not optimal, given the need for quiet.
Starting the countdown, Rannock got ready. Speed at smash-scale levels, he bent his knees and planted his heels. Rigid boot soles ground into rock. Dust kicked up. The smell of burning rubber rose in the compact space. His velocity slowed, but…
Not enough.
Gritting his teeth, he slammed his forearms into the side of the tube. Leather moaned. Twin zippers shrieked. The cacophony bounced around inside the cloaking spell. His head started to buzz as the high-pitched whine battered his eardrums. Choking on stone dust, Rannock bore down, using every inch of his six-foot-eight, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound frame. The spine-ripping speed downgraded another notch. He pressed harder, steady pressure, making minute adjustments, increasing the resistance as he saw light at the end of the tunnel.
The bottom dropped out.
Solid rock became open air.
His feet swung free. His body flew through the man-sized hole.
About to jet into the void, he grabbed for the edge. His hands caught and held. Momentum straightened his arms, then reversed, yanking him backward. Ligaments stretched. Taut muscles pulled. Pain stabbed him as his elbows jerked, bringing him to an abrupt stop.
Hanging from the ceiling, he swayed in the low light. A dust cloud swirled into the open expanse below him. The scent of lamp oil tickled his nose. With a grunt, he solidified his grip and, clinging to grooves in the stone, sent his senses searching.
Fine filaments of magic spun into a web. He threw it like a net. Metal ions transformed into magnetic force, rushing over the walls, ceiling, and floor, coating everything it touched. Gathering the threads, he pulled on the strings, drawing the whisper-thin cables to him, reading the information embedded in the fibers.
Two miles underground. A complex warren of interconnected corridors and rooms. Elven-made structure commissioned by the former residents of a Seelie court. Once abandoned, now smoldering with dark magic. He smelled the distillation, the slow boil of Fae power turning into something less powerful, but far more sinister.
A quiet tap sounded below him.
Sensing his packmates, Rannock abandoned his perch. He hung suspended in midair a moment, then dropped fifty feet to the floor. His boots thumped against stone. His knees rebounded, softening his landing.
Silence descended. His night vison sparked.
A metallic orange glow washed into a wide corridor as he looked around. Cracked mosaic tiles beneath his feet. Vaulted stone ceiling above his head. Immense columns standing with their backs to the wall at even intervals along both sides of the long hall. Elaborate murals between each pair. Peeling paint. Colors faded by time. Historical depictions no doubt long forgotten by the Fae who’d once lived inside the underground complex.