Page 48 of Light

“Get yourselves ready first,” Davidson returns. “I can brief you on the way over.”

I nod along with Reece, thankful for the brief—very brief—break to impart some fast instructions to ’Dia about Lux’s bedtime care, reassure my brain that I’m ready and trained for this, and then swiftly climb into my brand-new battle leathers. The outfit, newly designed for me by Fershan and Alex, features gold-colored piping along the inner seams of the legs and arms. They’ve installed similar accents in a rich cobalt blue to Reece’s gear. While both ensembles are still meant for slipping in and out of shadows undetected, the different colors help us keep track of each other.

Davidson’s so eager to get back to the building with the Roman columns and its distinctive barrel-vaulted entrances, the two-block journey to the Biltmore becomes damn near a jog. We enter the hotel at the main floor level off Olive Street. Across the street, at Pershing Square, the large geometric sculptures are joined by command centers for the Red Cross, the police department, and several fire battalions of the LAFD. If just some of what the fire chief has told us is true, all of them may be needed.

During the trip, Davidson dropped a few hints as to why he specifically sought us out. When the Biltmore’s security team made its initial sweep, nothing out of the ordinary was yielded—until the officers started hearing voices. A lot of voices. Not cries for help or anyone in pain but also not belonging to anyone they could see. The whisperings seemed to belong to the walls themselves. They’d come from everywhere and nowhere at once and were in a slurred, unidentifiable language.

“And I do mean nothing we could pinpoint,” Davidson clarifies as we pause inside the hotel’s entrance. “Nearly every man in my battalion is decently fluent in Spanish,” the chief goes on. “And we also have guys who speak Filipino and Japanese. With some additional help, we were able to rule out Russian, Chinese, Hindi, and most of the European languages. We still have no pinpoint on the language or dialect, just as we still have no exact location on the exact source point of the voices.” His face twists as if he’s just smelled something rancid. “Between you and me, it’s just a lot of fucking creepy.”

Creepy. It’s a decent descriptor for the hollow scuffs of our boots against the heavy tarps that have been laid out to protect what’s left of the marble floor in the hotel’s most famous public space. The last time I was here, marveling at the resplendence of the soaring Rendezvous Court, Mom and I met for high tea on a bright Sunday afternoon. I’m gutted as I look across the gloomy room now, still awe-inspiring despite being devoid of all chairs, tables, and even its polished grand piano. The famous Renaissance-style balcony, along with its intricate pillars, astrological-themed clock, and double-sided staircases are also shrouded, looking like a massive ghost preparing to grab us.

Reece and I share a meaningful glance. We both understand, with crystal clarity, the jaded fire chief sucked back his ego far enough to bring in the billionaire superhero and his “blondie” partner.

But while the atmosphere is eerie, it’s not terrifying. I’m puzzled by that and sense the same dilemma is pounding at Reece too. While I’m not as sensitive as Angelique to the poison of Faline’s nearness, I’d still take a legal oath that I don’t sense her anywhere near. Yet I don’t feel like this is a run-of-the-mill case of locating someone’s lost cat.

So what the hell is going on?

Reece maintains the all-business mien while pivoting back toward Davidson. “I assume you checked all the back hallways and storage areas already? The pool and spa areas too?”

“All of which have been closed for the last two years,” Davidson rebuts. “But yes, we searched them thoroughly, along with the basement storage space.”

“And nothing?”

“Not unless you count some spooked rats and a storage closet stacked with old cash registers as ‘something.’”

“No humans, then?” Like the focused professional—and gentleman—that he is, Reece doesn’t flinch at Davidson’s condescending tone. “Not even some sleeping transients?”

Davidson shores up his posture. Sweeps us both with a steeled stare. He almost looks insulted—and likely would be, if he wasn’t so blatantly freaked out. “Nothing and nobody with two legs.”

He overemphasizes the syllables into determined spits—though the remainder of his saliva chokes in his throat the second a giant crash resounds through the room. As the loud bwwaamm collides against the vaulted ceilings, Davidson and I visibly jolt. Reece looks more like we’ve just gone to an escape room for date night and been handed a new clue. “I take it that’s a new sound?” he murmurs.

He doesn’t wait for Davidson’s answer, probably because it’s already stamped across the fire chief’s face. Instead, Reece cocks his head while jogging across the room, around the fountain, and then over to the elevator banks beneath the balcony. I don’t hesitate to follow, easily keeping pace in my sturdy but light-soled boots, the beloved black Danner Acadias I’ve been using for training and running with Sawyer.

Once we’re in the alcove, every one of my senses easily spikes to high alert. Not a surprise when all my pores pop open, allowing the glow of my bloodstream through. It’s definitely an advantage in the dim space below the balcony, where the air isn’t so ventilated. Everything smells like disuse and feels like a sepulcher.

I stop when Reece does. Our movements would likely cause chirps on a cleaner floor. I turn into a brighter glow worm because of my heightened instincts but ignore Davidson’s stupefied gasp. There are much bigger issues to stress about than shattering this man’s mental checkboxes.

Like how the interior of the elevator shaft continues to shudder and hum and vibrate.

Then faster.

And faster.

The slit between the lift doors begins pulsing with light. Rapid-flashing hues of silver, gold, and green.

Then brighter.

And stronger.

We look to the indicator numbers over those doors.

And gape because they’re all ignited.

“Just an electrical issue,” I blurt. “Yes?”

My husband, encased in the glowing, godlike arrogance of his full Bolt mode, exhales a grunt that makes really unprofessional parts of me tingle. “You truly believe that, Velvet?”

I don’t waste time with a verbal answer. Surely he already witnesses the answer in my gaze—as well as the other internal war I’m waging. My heartbeat is a mess of lightning bolts in my throat. My chest thumps and thrums, tight with fear and anticipation—and the full comprehension of what’s going on in regions south of my waistline. Dear God. Seriously? I barely hold back from emphasizing with an eye roll.