Dead Banshee (Golden Banshee Book 1) by Elizabeth Hazelwood

Author:Elizabeth Hazelwood [Hazelwood, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Shea and I stood on Herb Crumbley’s front porch once more. It was raining heavily, and I wanted to get inside where it was warm. I knew I could count on Herb to have heating.

The stained-glass windows on his house masked whatever happened inside, as well as hiding our identities to the occupant.

For the nosy neighbors, however, we had come prepared. Shea was holding a towel over my arm with a simple solution of a tiny bit of red and brown dyes, water, and a tiny bit of flour, all mixed and pressed onto my arm so that the leakage appeared like blood.

After brushing her thumb across a leaf, Shea pushed the wooden door open. I heard no doorbell this time, and no one greeted us at the door.

I soundlessly breathed a sigh of relief as we stepped into the toasty house. Loud jazz was playing. Incredibly loud jazz. It was louder than a nightclub, and I wondered why I didn’t hear it from outside. Herb was relaxing on his red velvet longue, with his eyes closed and his glasses still on his nose. One hand was pressed against his ear and touching the frame.

We quietly headed straight into the kitchen, where Jamal Hill greeted us with scones and jam.

“I don’t like that you’re here,” he told Shea.

She brushed it off. “You know I wouldn’t let someone else come in my place. Or bring someone along who I didn’t trust wholeheartedly.”

I gave my sister a sideways glance, wondering why someone would trust me so much. My magic was unpredictable. That didn’t readily give way to trust.

“I started searching.” Jamal grabbed a couple butter knives from a drawer. “No luck yet.”

Shea and I set to work. We’d done this as a team many times before, back when pulling heists was a regular occurrence. It was much easier with the rest of the crew’s help, but unexpected obstacles came up more often than not. It kept us limber and quick on our feet.

And quiet.

That was most important. If someone could sneak in, they could sneak out. It was better to sneak out with nothing than get caught with everything.

Jamal stuck the knives on the silver platter with the scones and jam and got a small bowl of butter out. He was behaving as one would in a kitchen—and everything we found in the cabinets and drawers were also just as normal. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The cookware was decent. Nothing to think twice about. Everything appeared to be used regularly.

There was a tray inside the oven and fruit in the fridge. The trash was all produce and meat products, plus wrappings. The towels needed to be washed. Clean ones were in a drawer next to a burnt oven mitt.

After determining that we had searched every nook and cranny, Shea wiped my arm with the back of the towel, cleaning me of her homemade injury residue. She stuffed it in my back pocket. “Don’t leave it lying around.”

“You don’t need to tell me not to leave a trail,” I said crossly.

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