Caleb switched off the headlights and stopped. Michael immediately left the car and trotted a ways out, turning between a pair of buildings.
“He’ll meet up with my scouts,” Caleb said.
“How many people do you have here?” Cormac asked.
“Two, plus Michael. Stealth will have to make up for numbers in this fight.”
Cormac made a noise, and I couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or not. Me, I always liked stealth. If we could sneak in, grab Tyler, sneak back out …
I didn’t expect it to be that easy.
The rest of us left the car and moved into the shadow of the nearest building, out of the streetlights. Cormac held an object hidden in his hand, some charm against the dark.
A container ship, a hulking form just visible between buildings, was docked some distance down. Tyler’s captors could load him onto such a ship from here, take him anywhere, and we’d never get him back.
“This isn’t a real good environment for us,” Ben said.
His nose was flaring, wrinkling as he took in the smells in the area—oil, fuel, concrete, steel. Nothing natural intruded. I thought I should have been able to smell the river, the rich waterway of the Thames, but the air in that direction smelled of oil and volatiles, tainted and poisonous. The only scent in the mix that even resembled nature was a trace of rat and pigeon droppings. An industrial lamp sent out a circle of light gone hazy in the mist. Over the course of the evening, the clouds had returned.
“Not our territory, not our habitat. It sucks,” I said.
“A dead zone to people like us. Another good reason to bring Tyler here. I’m surprised your fairies were able to find him,” Caleb said.
“We asked them to rescue him, but they couldn’t get this close,” I said. “Too much iron.”
We listened, tense and alert, all senses turned outward. I suddenly wished Cormac wasn’t here. If our enemies sent lycanthropes, if any of them bit him …
“All we need now is the zombie apocalypse,” Ben said.
“Zombies don’t exist,” I said. “Not that kind of zombie, anyway.”
“What?”
“The brain-eating zombie—those are movie zombies. They don’t exist. On the other hand, Haitian voodoo zombies totally exist.”
“How do you even figure these things out?” he said.
“Long story.”
“I guess so.”
Caleb raised a hand; I looked to see what had caught his attention. A short-haired woman, small and athletic, young and jumpy, approached. A werewolf, she seemed at ease in a tank top and shorts, even in the chill air.
“We think we found ’im, gov,” she whispered to Caleb. “Spotted their car.”
“Lead on, then,” he said, wearing a proud smile. “Jill has the best nose in the south of England.”
Single file, we followed her, winding a path among the buildings. Ben, I noticed, had moved to put Cormac between us. Maybe an inadequate shield, but a shield nonetheless.
We stepped slowly, carefully, wolves on the prowl, pausing often to survey the air. I couldn’t smell much besides oil, concrete, and our own party. A couple of times, Caleb signaled to his three scouts. Michael returned, paralleling us on a different path—keeping watch on Jill.
When Ben let out a stifled yell, we all dropped into defensive crouches.
“Where the fuck did you come from!” Ben hissed to the figure behind him.
“You ought to keep your voice down,” Ned said in a stage whisper.
He should have been almost an hour behind us. “Wait a minute. How—”