Shadow Kissed 03 - Shadowman

deep ick of the men’s touch. That would take a long shower. Or ten.
    At least she’d be able to hide in there if those assholes came back. Not smart about her gun, though, which was still in the woods somewhere around Segue. There had been no wraith attacks near the docks, but she hadn’t considered normal violence, everyday predators. Not smart at all.
    She dabbed at her chin. It wasn’t bleeding, but it sure stung. And if those guys hoped she hadn’t gotten a good look at their faces for a police report, they’d picked the wrong girl. Noticing details was her job. She could and would give a description down to the mole above one guy’s unibrow and the tat on the other’s hairy forearm.
    The memory of his hand on her mouth made her nauseated. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be there, especially not alone.
    If I get through today alive, I promise to get therapy.
    kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
    Maybe the shrink could help with that, too.
    Light from the street fell into the interior, but it wasn’t enough to get an impression of the space. The air smelled faintly smoky. She swiped her hand on the walls near the door, felt a kind of humid griminess, but no light switch.
    Good thing she had a backup. She fished in her jacket pocket, produced a small flashlight, and pressed the button. The flashlight had a strong but narrow beam, so she had to cut the darkness to get a hint of what was around her.
    Her immediate vicinity was dusty and bare. Rope. Some chain. Rotted wooden pallets stacked in a corner. Whatever had been there once had been cleared out long ago. Except for the kat-a-kat in her head, the warehouse was silent.
    According to Zoe, she was supposed to be looking for a person. A he , in particular.
    He who? Another disgusting street thug? Layla doubted it.
    Research hadn’t helped and Zoe was nowhere to be found for further questioning. This dockside warehouse was the nearest of Thorne’s considerable assets to New York City. If this wasn’t it, she could try a couple other places farther away, but she wasn’t hopeful. The lead was simply too vague.
    â€œHello?” she said, but her voice didn’t carry. She wasn’t keen on shouting either. The place felt claustrophobic despite its size. Much better to tiptoe forward, then run like hell should anyone appear.
    She moved farther, swinging the light left and right. Just more empty, dirty space. The smoke thickened in the air as she progressed. Above, to one side of the building, was a row of high windows. Even though it was midmorning, no light seeped through them. Spooky.
    Metal debris clanged underfoot. She swished the light to her feet to find a curling, black piece of metal.
    Curious, she toed it. The piece rolled to the side. The curls became open leaves around a strange, wrought-iron flower.
    She stooped and picked up the creation. The flower should have been cold, like the weather and the room, but it was warm, near hot. It was heavy too, larger than her palm, and clearly made by hand. A black flower, delicate and . . . wicked. A treasure left behind as junk.
    When she brought her attention back up, she noticed a low-licking fire, its glow barely lifting the press of darkness. And nearby an anvil, flat and wide, with a horn on one end. On its surface lay a hammer.
    A blacksmith’s workshop. On the New Jersey docks. In one of Thorne’s warehouses. It made no sense whatsoever.
    â€œHello?” This time she called loud and clear. The smith had to be near. No one would leave an open fire unattended in this old building.
    kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat answered her. This time it wasn’t in her head.
    Shocked, Layla turned, and though the warehouse was matted with shadows, she could easily see a gate looming black and beautiful before her. The iron portal shook on its posts. How could she have not seen it until now? The sound should have been audible from the street.
    Even to her untrained eye, she could tell that the gate had been crafted by a master. The vertical pieces were tall, barbed spears, made for war. But laced among the black shafts, giving them structure and support, were twisted vines. An occasional gorgeous bloom, like the one in her hand, faced outward.
    The gate trembled, as if alive. Her bones trembled with it. She tried to turn away, but her stiffened muscles wouldn’t obey.
    kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
    It called to her, had been in her head for days. She knew now that it would