Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

DRAKE

J esus, Drake. That looks like a slaughterhouse,” Clark said through Drake’s headset.

“Smells like one too,” he murmured.

“Bodies?”

“Not yet,” Drake replied. “And if I find any, let’s hope they stay dead.”

Drake had gone to check the warehouses by the river. He heeded Garrett’s warning about the danger, which was even greater because Drake was looking for trouble and hoping he found it.

“Any idea what went down?” Clark asked.

“Not yet. I’d bet the blood on the floor isn’t all human, but we’d need the forensics folks to confirm that.”

Drake had his gun in hand as he made his way through the shadowy, abandoned space. Light filtered down from dirty windows high overhead. Someone had attempted a cleanup. Other than the bloodstains on the concrete floor, not much had been left behind, just pieces of wooden pallets, glass shards, bits of scorched metal, and yellowed papers. The whole place smelled of mildew and rat piss.

It’s not exactly like my vision, but close enough.

“Picking up on anything else?”

Drake concentrated, focusing on his psychic sense. “Magic. Fairly fresh, somewhat sloppy, and plenty of traces. I’m thinking that maybe some of McElvoy and Rankin’s toughs fought it out,” he added, referring to the two largest local supernatural crime families.

“That would explain the blood.”

“I’m not seeing anything that looks like a lab or drug production equipment,” Drake reported. “So if they made the stuff here, they cleaned that up well enough that it’s not easily visible.”

“Could have been a distribution site or just a drug drop. Or maybe a big, empty space to have a witchy gang war. He ran it through a bunch of shell companies and intermediaries, but the warehouse belonged to McElvoy, and before him, Fletcher Swain, that dark warlock you helped smack down,” Clark said. “Their employment agency was in an office building in the same business park.”

The employment agency was a cover for trafficking shifters and low-level witches who had enough power to be useful but not enough to free themselves.

Drake put on latex gloves and pulled out his test kit, swabbing spots on the floor, doors, and walls, then waiting for the quick analysis to turn color.

“Yeah, the tests are positive for paranormal pharmaceuticals,” he told Clark.

“All right—you got what you came for. Don’t hang around. Bad neighborhood—and you attract trouble.”

“Roger that.”

Something bugged Drake, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. He walked back to where the floor was stained red and turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene. Then he realized what was missing. There were blood stains by each place where a body had fallen—but not large enough to indicate a fatal amount.

Something drained them or took them elsewhere to die.

He could make a case for either scenario and wondered if the witches had turned their vampire allies loose on the casualties before hauling the bodies away.

“Don’t push your luck,” Clark warned. “You got what you wanted. Get out of there.”

Drake looked around the empty warehouse, frustrated. So far, he still wasn’t entirely certain who posed the biggest threat since the dark witch, Fletcher Swain, had been destroyed. “Heading back,” he said under his breath.

“Stay on the link until you’re in the truck and away from there,” Clark told him.

“Fine with me.”

Drake remained hyper-alert until he was in his Silverado and pulling away from the business park.

Just as he pulled onto the main road, a dark figure suddenly appeared in front of him. Swearing loudly, he wrenched the wheel to the side to keep from hitting what appeared to be a man dressed in oversized, ragged clothing.

Drake braced for impact—and went right through the apparition.

“What the hell?”

The ghost loomed large in his rearview mirror. Drake felt a force shove the truck hard, making it swerve as he fought to keep control. The spirit flickered and vanished, only to appear in front of him once more in a spectral game of cat and mouse.

This time, headlights glared from the oncoming lane, narrowing his options for maneuvering. Drake ignored the instinct to jerk the wheel to avoid the figure and braced himself for impact as he drove right toward—and through—the phantom.

He gripped the steering wheel white-knuckled as his heart pounded. The car that passed him hadn’t even slowed, making him wonder if the ghost was something only he could see—or a spirit sent as a warning to cause an accident.

Not for the first time, he wished he had some Batmobile-style alterations that would let him spray salted holy water from the grillwork.

Instead, he began to chant a banishment ritual, glad that the cab was warded and salted to avoid picking up ghostly hitchhikers. The spirit winked out, and Drake checked his mirrors to make sure it hadn’t taken up residence in the bed of his truck. He didn’t see anything, but just to be sure, he chanted a Latin exorcism since he wasn’t certain what type of apparition had attacked him.

Was it related to the warehouse? One of the people who died there? Or is this just a bad luck stretch of road with a repeater ghost living out his last moments?

He kept an eye on his rearview mirror but didn’t spot anyone following him. Once he was back at the hotel, he ran a scan to assure himself that no one had put a bug or a tracker on his vehicle and breathed a little easier to find none.

After he cleared his room for intrusions, Drake let out a long breath, poured himself a cup of cold coffee, and heated it in the microwave.

He set up his laptop on the table and opened the files Clark and Faye had sent him before accepting Clark’s video meeting invitation.

“Glad you got back safely,” Clark said. “I hate big, abandoned industrial buildings. Too many damn hiding places.”

“Pretty sure that’s why the bad guys seem to love them.” Drake took a gulp of coffee, needing the caffeine jolt.

“It’s taken a while, but I think I’ve unsnarled a few things,” Clark said. “Fletcher Swain was the bigwig, and he’d had a century to amass his holdings and get rid of rivals. When you and your friends stopped him, it didn’t just break up his fake wellness business—it sent all the underlings scrambling for pieces of the empire.”

“Which we suspected.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t know who grabbed what. Now I think I’ve got a better idea.”

“Fill me in.” Drake hoped the coffee hit his system soon. He needed that jolt.

“Doane McGill is the local top honcho vampire,” Clark told him. “He worked with Swain and Osborn, and he also seems to have done business with the two main supernatural syndicate families. That’s impressive, because the McElvoy family and the Rankin family have been at odds since their ancestors stepped off the boat from Ireland. Maybe before then.”

“That’s probably true,” Drake agreed. “Let me guess—the two crime families are fighting over who gets to take over the spoils from the witches, though Osborn’s operation was the plum. The McElvoys seem to have claimed the pharmaceuticals and the Rankins have the trafficking.”

“McGill supplies people with supernatural abilities to Rankin, who farms them out to the highest bidder,” Clark continued. “And McGill also has contacts who ensure that the drugs are optimized for supernatural metabolisms, and he finds dealers and distributors that won’t skim off the profits or use the product.”

“Playing both ends against the middle?”

“That seems to be the case. No matter who loses, he wins,” Clark replied.

“Do we have any intel on McGill?” Drake felt like they were chasing their tails, going around in circles while something essential stayed out of reach.

“Doane McGill was born to a well-to-do family and was turned by a vampire in 1900 when he was twenty-five years old,” Clark said. “He built on that family wealth with success in several industries, but he seems to have a fondness for chemistry, so he’s been a big supporter of the drug business, and he has connections everywhere that help him stay under the radar.”

“And he’s got his fingers in the trafficking pie?”

“Yep. Then again, vampires are good at glamouring people—plus the zombie drugs make that easier. If he has his brood working with him, that could make securing the victims much simpler,” Clark added. “I’m sure the roofies that lower the ability to fight compulsion play a big role in the shifter trafficking trade.”

“Great info,” Drake said. “Now we’ve just got to figure out the best way to take their operation down.”

“Both the McElvoy and Rankin families have their own witches. And we know that Swain and Osborn eliminated any witches they thought were strong enough to challenge them. That’s not as reassuring as it might sound because the stregas could still be fairly powerful but not have posed a threat,” Clark cautioned.

“If the families have been at odds for so long, I’m surprised they’re dividing the spoils,” Drake mused.

“Yeah, me too. It might be that they don’t think they’re strong enough to fight to keep everything and win,” Clark replied. “If they split things up now, maybe they figure they can come back and take it all later when they’re strong enough to crush the competition.”

“I hate witch wars,” Drake muttered.

“And that brings me to the other piece. Jennings Weston is a witch who wants to be the heir to Fletcher Swain. He’s bided his time and has managed to avoid swearing fealty to either of the syndicate families while playing up to the vampires. Swain apparently didn’t see him as a threat, and I think Weston engineered that. Colletta’s witch is one of Weston’s disciples.”

“But Swain is gone.” Drake pieced it together as he spoke. “Does Weston think he can fill Swain’s shoes?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to,” Clark said. “If he carves out a piece for himself, he can let everyone else do what they want with Osborn’s drug business. As for taking over for Swain, if Jennings and McGill revive Swain’s spiritual retreat business, they can get their food to deliver itself to them—and have all the blood and juicy emotions they need to feed themselves.”

“Fuck. I hate those types. They’re almost always a scam, even when they aren’t literally sucking people dry,” Drake muttered.

“I’m right there with you,” Clark agreed.

“So we’ve got a gang war over territory and zombie drugs plus vampires—and a witch who might be more powerful than he lets on,” Drake summarized. “You know that saying about cutting off the snake’s head and having a hydra pop up in its place? I feel like that’s what we’ve got with Swain out of the picture.”

“If you expect law enforcement to ever catch all the criminals, you’re going to be very disappointed,” Clark said. “It’s more like Whack-a-Mole. Swain did a lot of damage for a very long time. I don’t think that anyone thought taking him out would rid West Virginia of evil. But it’s the best we can do—knock off the worst ones and keep an eye out for the next crop.”

“Right now, what we’ve got are suspicions, and we need something solid to act on.” He got up and started to pace the room. “A lab location. A group of trafficked shifters being moved. A big drug delivery. Even if we could bust them on something smaller, it wouldn’t be enough to shut them down, but it would be a start.”

“Be patient. Something will turn up,” Clark replied. “That’s the hardest lesson I learned in law enforcement and the most valuable.”

“Always at the wrong time and in the worst possible way,” Drake agreed. “Every time.”