“See if you can discover anything else about the origins of the drug,” Illium said, his glance taking in all four of them. “I’ll alert Raphael that it appears either Cornelius or Xi somehow managed to remain behind in the city, or return to it after the rest of Lijuan’s forces retreated.”
The angel couldn’t technically give Ashwini an order, but this was one order with which she had no argument. First, however, they finished going over the warehouse. Ashwini found another tiny red feather, this one with a tip of rich cream. Xi, she remembered, had no cream in his wings. Still, she double-checked with Naasir and Janvier, received the same answer.
That narrowed their target down to a single angel: Cornelius.
“They were careful,” Janvier said, his hand touching her lower back. “Must’ve picked up any larger feathers.”
“No.” She stared at the tiny feather as Naasir contacted Illium with the updated information. “They had no reason to be careful—Giorgio was so sure he couldn’t be tracked that he used a warehouse held under his own name. There’s something wrong with this feather.” Holding it cupped carefully in the palm of her hand, she walked outside into the light. “Do you see it?”
First Janvier, then Naasir examined the feather. Even Trace. None could see anything wrong, and when she looked at it in their hands, she couldn’t, either. But as soon as she took it, she felt it again, the wrongness. “There’s something wrong with Cornelius, then,” she said, skin crawling. “Very, very wrong.”
Sliding the disturbing thing into her pocket, after rooting around in there for something to act as a bag and finding a crushed plastic sleeve that had once held tissues, she walked with the men across to the other warehouse.
It was identical to the first one in size and shape, but the lighting was much better, most of the space filled with what appeared to be normal goods. They opened a few boxes to be sure, found the kinds of things a man who served the luxury market might acquire—exotic spices, antiques, rich bolts of silk.
The back right of the warehouse, however, was sectioned off into its own room with a single small window. It said Office on the door, and at first glance that was what it appeared to be. Tall filing cabinets, a desk, invoices, a phone. There was even a tiny sink behind the filing cabinets, as well as a camp stove.
It was under that sink that Trace had found a clear plastic box that held a steel bowl, a dirty syringe, a tiny spoon, and what looked like a bunch of ordinary sugar crystals alongside more ziplock bags. Putting everything on the sink, Trace said, “Either the foreman who ran this warehouse was oblivious to his master’s activities or he was the cook.
“The bag I found was crushed under the bowl, must’ve been missed when they made the last batch.” He held the syringe up to show them the brownish residue inside before putting it back down. “In all honesty I’m not sure how or what they were doing, but I believe they must’ve needed water and the stove. The actual raw materials are nowhere in evidence.”
Naasir sniffed the air. “I smell blood.”
Frowning, Ashwini, Janvier, and Trace spread out, looking for any evidence someone had been held or hurt in here. “I don’t see any blood,” she said. “Janvier?”
“Nothing.”
Trace’s response was the same.
Naasir sniffed the air again, walking closer and closer to the sink until he had his nose in the bowl. “Blood,” he said definitively. “Strong blood. Angel blood.”
“They made a drug out of the blood of an angel?” Ashwini just stared at the wild silver of Naasir’s gaze.
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“Yes.” Naasir sniffed again, his eyes going flat. “This blood is wrong.” He hissed, drawing away from the bowl. “Bad to drink.” He came to Ashwini. “Show me the feather again.”
Taking it out of her pocket, she removed it from the plastic sleeve. Naasir didn’t take it, just put his hand under hers and lowered his nose to the feather. The silver liquid of his hair slid forward to kiss her skin. “Yes,” he said, rising to his full height. “You were right—the feather smells wrong, too, but it’s much more subtle.”
Ashwini put it away in her pocket. “No question it’s the same angel?”
“None.”
The deep, deep green of Trace’s eyes glinted. “That explains why Umber is so exclusive—even an angel can’t donate blood every day without consequences.”
“It also,” Janvier said, “confirms the why of the drug.”
“A poison.” Naasir’s features set into piercingly intelligent lines, his feral nature taking a backseat. “The aim was always to kill or cause bloodlust.”
“Yes.” Trace stared at the wall, his mind clearly working. “Either they’re adding something to the blood or the angel’s blood is poison. Given what you said about the feather, my bet is the latter.”
That left the question of how the blood had been poisoned in the first place—but if their man was Cornelius, well, he was Lijuan’s protégé, and the Archangel of China had created infectious reborn. Not a stretch to say that one of her minions hadn’t been “blessed” with poisonous blood courtesy of his goddess.
“Can you track the scent?” she asked Naasir.
“Yes,” Naasir said. “But there is no fresh trail outside—the snow has buried what was there. We’ll need to narrow down the location.”