Page 15 of The Hive Queen

I pull down my mask. “Just don’t get caught, and it won’t be a problem.”

“Slow and steady.” Trent pulls down his own mask, the black mesh over the eyes disguising anything that could identify him. “Keep it tight to do it right.”

I lean forward to settle the shotgun over my back, then tighten the strap of spelled bullets across my front.

My pulse quickens as Elizabeth cuts the lights, and darkness fills the van. Rustles come from all around me, along with Trent and Savannah’s steady breathing and the low rumble of the van’s engine.

For a second, another sound joins the quiet, the clang of chains dragging against the floor.

I glance toward the front of the van. There better not be something wrong with the engine. The last thing we need is to steal from a danguri and then be stranded on the street outside its house.

The van slows to a stop in front of an old Victorian-style house. Paint-peeling shutters block the windows, and trash covers the wrap-around porch and lawn. Yellow pieces of paper are taped all over the place with the city’s demand that the property be cleaned up. But it doesn’t appear that they’ve brought out the dump trucks yet. Or if they have, the trash just piled back up.

Savannah’s head moves from side to side as she takes in all the crap. “Fucking danguri and their hoards.”

“What we’re after should be in the south tower,” Trent reminds us. “Keep your trackers on. We don’t know what will block our way.”

I check the schematics one last time before dimming the screen on my tablet as low as it will go and tucking it into my vest.

What we’re after hadn’t started as part of the danguri’s hoard. It had been in the house when the demon took up residence and started filling it with crap. This means, so long as we don’t touch any of the danguri’s actual collection, it won’t come after us for the theft. Danguri are particular like that.

Savannah pulls on a long sleeve shirt to hide her tattoos, then tugs a mask over her head before heading for the rear door.

Silently, we pile out of the van onto the sidewalk and make our way up to the house, careful not to touch anything. A spicy, musky scent reaches me through the mask, making my nose itch and my eyes water.

Savannah’s gags come through our mics. “Ugh, what’s the smell?”

“Danguri musk. They spread it over all their treasure.” Trent silently steps up onto the porch. “Shitty eyesight and hearing, but they can track a single piece of their stolen hoard across entire states.”

Because danguri have such poor eyesight and hearing, they usually hole up in the heart of their hoard during the day, relying on booby traps to alert them of intruders. By night, they go out to find new treasures and expand their hoard.

If we’re lucky, this will be a collection night, but two weeks of surveillance hasn’t pinpointed a pattern to when the danguri leaves its house. Our time to retrieve the item and hand it over doesn’t allow us to keep sitting on our hands while we wait for a pattern to emerge.

We had all washed in unscented soap multiple times and rubbed odor-neutralizer cream over our entire bodies before heading out. If we walk softly and avoid the lair, there will be no trace that we were ever here.

Trent tries the handle to find it locked and kneels in front of the door while Savannah and I monitor the street for passing cars. The last thing we need is to be picked up for breaking and entering because we were sloppy.

A soft click sounds. Trent pushes the door open before flicking on a red light and shining it around the entrance. “Looks clear.”

The spicy musk smell strengthens, burning my eyes. I take in a few deep breaths, trying to wipe out my senses as quickly as possible. Once we’re inside, it will only get worse.

Trent pulls an aerosol can from his vest and sprays the air in front of him, searching for invisible tripwires. After a moment, he steps into the house, and we give him a five-pace lead before Savannah follows, spacing out our entry.

If someone sets off a trap, the rest of us need to be on the outside to help.

I go in last, the feeling of ants crawling over my skin raising goose bumps as trash rises around me. Some of the mounds are piled so high that they press against the ceiling. I keep a wary lookout for instability. Buried alive by trash isn’t on my list of ways to go.

The schematics we have put the stairs directly in front of the door. But because of the sheer volume of crap crammed into the house, we’re forced to take a serpentine path through the downstairs.

This reminds me of tomb raiding and creeping through the catacombs, where the ceiling and walls can cave in at any second.

Ahead, Savannah comes to a stop, and I peer past her, but can’t see Trent.

“Dead end,” he murmurs over the mic. “Head back to the last crossroad and take the other path.”

“That’s close to the basement,” Savannah hisses.

“The danguri won’t have blocked off the stairs, so there has to be a way through there,” Trent counters. “Backtrack, Marc.”

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