Page 83 of An Invocation of Monsters

There was a strong possibility I would need lockpicks. I kept those hidden at the bottom of my duffel bag, inside a thin little pocket that looked like a seam. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t need them at all.

I forced myself to dry my hair, then braided it and twisted it up. I needed to be calm, not humming with energy. Too much tension would lead to mistakes, and if my hunch was right, I might be coming face to face soon with an extremely dangerous person.

I pulled on jeans and my boots. An artfully ripped shirt, and my gloves, of course. They’d have to come off if the lockpicks were required.

My camera bag looped onto my belt, and I kept my Leatherman and lockpicks in one pocket and my phone in another.

I was prepared as I was ever going to be.

When I emerged from my living quarters, the Lodge was once more silent, but for once I viewed this more with suspicion than with relief.

Exactly where did everyone go during the day?

I checked the dining room, but it was empty. So was the dock, with no sign of anyone swimming.

At the entrance to Mary and Joseph’s quarters I hesitated, then crept several steps down the hall.

There was nothing but silence. Either they were still dead asleep, or they weren’t here at all.

For the first time, it struck me as rather eerie that the place appeared to be empty.

But it suited today’s purpose, so I brushed off that sense of creepiness, and headed towards the front of the Lodge.

Tasha’s quarters were down a long hall that had been swept and polished, but there was still a vague sense of disuse about the place. It was like a magazine photo; perfectly staged, but with the telltale sense that no one lived here.

I brushed that feeling off, too. It was possible that there were other exits.

I glanced at the bronze plaque bearing her name as I passed it. Tasha Vintner, engraved in flowery script.

It was strange how she’d seemed so close to my mother from the pictures in the photo album, and yet no one seemed to have anything to say about her.

The Lodge was still silent around me when I came to her door. I forced myself to hold still for a solid two minutes, ears pricked for the tiniest sound.

All I picked up in that time was the sound of birdsong outside. The time was now or never.

I tried the knob first, which was locked. Unsurprising.

The picks came out next. I knelt down, carefully inserting the tension wrench into the lock, and then applied the pick as I felt my way through the pins. I was in the zone, mostly concentrating on the lock, while keeping one ear cocked for any signs of approach.

The mechanism was dirty. I had to start over a few times, and fifteen minutes later, when the lock clicked open, a fine sheen of sweat had appeared on my forehead.

“Steady,” I whispered to myself, sliding my tools back into my pocket.

I gripped the knob, turning it easily, and pushed.

The door stopped within six inches of the jamb. I swore under my breath, peering in through the crack at darkness. I could make out vague shapes and lumps, but something heavy was blocking the door.

I braced my shoulder against the door and pushed, over and over.

I was sweating for real when I’d cleared a large enough gap to squeeze through, as long as I sucked in my stomach. I popped into Tasha’s quarters like a champagne cork, and the door creaked shut behind me.

Exhaling deeply, my nose twitching from the sheer amount of dust in here, I pulled out my phone and flicked the flashlight on.

And recoiled almost immediately from the eyeless sockets staring at me, a mouth gaping open with fury.

A minute later, with my heart slamming against my ribs, I managed a weak laugh. I’d aimed my flashlight directly at a cat skull on top of a dresser.

But it was far from the only one.

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