Page 217 of The Mercy of Dawn

A sigh of relief left her.

The view was perfect.

The three warehouses that became a point of interest—based on something she really wished she listened to Mikael about now—all spilled out onto a dead-end courtyard. Mostly overgrown and poorly cordoned off by a half-rotted fence.

Unremarkable at first glance, except for how out of place all these abandoned and run-down buildings looked in a place as overflowing with life as Brynnhold. Later she’d have to ask Mikael why this section of the city was so neglected, left to be reclaimed by the environment.

Cyril adjusted the soaked black fabric of her cowl until she was nothing but a flicker of gold in the dark, and she waited. The steady pelt of rain on metal became nothing more than humming white noise as her eyes made a slow, appraising sweep of the desolate complex.

Her uncles always said camp-outs could be grueling, soul-sucking things, but Cyril was certain they must have felt otherwise on their first assignment. The prospect of a couple of hours up here, even with the chill of the rain seeping into her bones, might have been the most enthralling thing Cyril had ever done.

She would just need to spend a few days in front of a fire when she got back to the palace.

Dozens of cracked and clouded window panes sat tucked into the crumbling stone walls of each building. But Cyril couldn’t see a damn thing through any of them. The handful of doors facing into the courtyard weren’t much more useful, either. Nearly every man door had wooden boards nailed across the frame. The massive, sliding steel doors set into the front of each building were all pulled shut too.

Cyril’s excitement sputtered.

Not that she thought a couple of hours spent lying on a roof in the pouring fucking rain would amount to any earth-shattering developments, but, gods…she’d thought she might see something.

But that overgrown courtyard, with its network of vines and shrubs left to run rampant over the cobblestone paths, spoke to zero signs of life in recent years, let alone recent days. No trampled bushes, no walkways cleared, no—

The teeth-clenching sound of metal grinding on metal had Cyril’s entire body going stiff.

Her eyes darted from building to building, to—holy shit.

Whatever Cyril thought she might glimpse, it wasn’t people.

Six, specifically, walking in well-spaced pairs of two, exited from the warehouse furthest to the right of the complex. Cloaked and hooded, and of wildly varying heights, Cyril didn’t stand a chance of catching faces, especially not with the way the rain still fell.

Each pair walked tight to the building, sheltered by a modest roof overhang, and slipped around the back, away from the dim light of the single street lamp at the courtyard’s mouth. That shrill, grating sound of metal on metal rang out again as the final pair pulled the warehouse door closed before slipping around back too.

Cyril was climbing back down the drainpipe before she could give her actions a second thought.

Mikael had been fairly clear in his ask to not do something stupid, but this was, well…time was of the essence. If there was even a chance these people had anything to do with Byron, Silas, and Nik’s disappearance, waiting to act would be tantamount to a death sentence.

The wooded area beyond the warehouses flashed four times with bright white light when Cyril was halfway across the roadway and, for the first time in months, she felt that sickening ripple of energy pulse through her.

It had to be a group of phasers or shifters, for the magic to be that fucking strong.

At least it meant she had some privacy to work in.

Cyril swallowed down that simmering nausea as she climbed the half-rotted fence posts and got her back up against the outer wall of the warehouse. That first second of respite from the rain was a fucking godsend. She waited for a few slow breaths, listening and watching for any lingering movement before featherlight steps carried her to the sliding door.

After leaning her entire body weight into the damn handle, her feet anchored into the overgrown ground below, the door creaked open enough for Cyril to slip into the building.

The smell of dust and rot hanging in the air overwhelmed her senses, even through the damp fabric of her cowl still wrapped around her mouth and nose. Nothing but collapsed crates and rusted machinery stretched inside for as far as she could see, from one tired stone wall to the other.

Well, those and a path in the dust and debris-covered floor that looked remarkably well-traveled, shaped by footprints and sweeps of fabric.

Cyril followed it to the far end of the warehouse.

The path ended at a steel staircase leading up to a second-floor gallery missing all of its floorboards, and one hell of a well-used floor hatch.

And caught in the rivets framing the metal door of the hatch?

A torn piece of black and blue fabric.

Cyril breathed a quiet curse.