Page 46 of Dead Beat

“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced the full brunt of Dawes’s disappointment,” said Darlington.

“I have,” Alex said ruefully. “Repeated exposure does not help.”

“She’s righteous,” Turner considered. “But is she right?”

I guess we’ll know when the screaming starts, Alex thought but didn’t say. She wanted Dawes safe, and there was no question that if Tripp tried to hurt her, Alex would put him down. Tripp hadn’t been a bad guy. Dopey, fratty, well-meaning but thoughtless. There was no shortage of Tripp Helmuths in the world. There was only one Pamela Dawes. And even if the numbers were reversed, Alex wouldn’t have cared. She had killed for the memory of Hellie; she would do whatever it took to keep Dawes breathing.

Even so, she couldn’t tell Dawes to be sensible or sane. That would be prescribing medicine she herself wasn’t willing to take. Alex didn’t know if she was worth saving, but Dawes had tried, and if she wanted to extend that same kindness to Tripp, Alex couldn’t stand in her way.

“Flashlight?” she asked.

They turned their phones on the dark gap in the boards, the hidden treasure or trial the pilgrims had left for them.

The niche was more shallow than she’d expected, and in it sat a wide, flat package swathed in glittering spikes of what had to be salt. It looked like a sea creature resting on the ocean floor, a lost object from a shipwreck forgotten beneath the waves.

“What’s the prickle saying?” Alex asked.

Turner gave a slow shake of his head. “Nothing at all.”

Better than alarm bells ringing.

“I’m going in,” she said, and before Darlington could protest, she added, “We don’t know how demon-proof this thing is, so let me.”

They kept the light steady, and carefully she reached inside. The spikes made the package awkward to grip, but it was lighter than she’d expected. As soon as it passed the threshold of the gap, the floorboard reappeared, closing off the secret compartment.

“Let’s do this properly,” said Darlington, and Alex felt a rush of relief. She probably would have just tried to crack it open on the stairs. It was always easier to throw herself at things before she could lose her spine, but that lack of strategy came with a hefty downside.

They carried the package up the stairs and into the armory. The room’s high shelves and cabinets centered around the great golden tub of Hiram’s Crucible, stolen from a secret chamber at Machu Picchu. Alex had been healed in it, used it to perform occult rites, and had slept in it on more than one muggy summer night, grateful for the room’s climate control.

Darlington set an asbestos blanket on one of the long wooden tables by the shelves and handed them all sturdy gloves. “Fireproof,” he said. There was also an extinguisher in the hall.

Alex set the spiky package down and Darlington drew three pairs of goggles from another drawer.

“I feel ridiculous,” said Turner as he slipped the goggle strap over his head.

“You look ridiculous,” said Alex.

“You’re wearing the same goggles.”

“But I make them work.”

“I assure you,” Darlington said, “we all look ridiculous. I think we’ll need a chisel, maybe a hammer.” When he located them, he asked, “Ready?”

Alex nodded, though she didn’t feel particularly ready at all. “Are we sure we don’t want to wait on Dawes?”

“Nope,” said Turner. “If this all goes sideways, we need someone around to cover it up.”

“The Lethe tradition,” Alex said, and Darlington gave a reluctant nod. Some part of him was still grieving his belief in this place.

He lifted the chisel and hammer then paused. “If this opens a portal and I get lost in another hell dimension—”

“We’ll come get you,” Alex promised.

“She’ll go get you,” said Turner.

“Fair enough,” Darlington said and brought the hammer down.

The first strike cracked the salt case. The second broke it open.