A handful of witches who had reached the warehouse before them labored within the cleared interior, some working earth magick. That power rubbed against Isabelle’s skin like rich planting soil—deep magicks meant to bury and conceal. They worked to cover up the scene of the crime from non-witches, just as they’d done at the scene of her sister’s murder.

At the far end of the building, she noted two large open doors big enough to drive a truck through. She wondered if they’d been open when Boyle had killed the witches. It would make it easier for her to work if the water from the brief rain shower had been lingering in the air during the killings. Since Boyle didn’t seem all that concerned with his murders being discovered and because this part of town was devoid of humanity at this time of night, it was possible he’d left the doors open.

A flash of white caught her eye and she glimpsed two sheets covering a section of the cracked concrete floor. The bodies had been removed, but those sheets marked the location of where they had lain. They’d done that with her sister, too.

The world lurched a little and Thomas took her by the upper arm to steady her. She straightened, calmly pulling from his grasp.

Adam walked over to them. The man always had a five o’clock shadow, but Isabelle didn’t think it was so much a fashion statement as it was simple forgetfulness to shave. Right now it made him look weary. “The warehouse is owned by Erasmus Boyle.”

Isabelle let out a small laugh. “Color me surprised.”

Thomas glanced around. “I wonder what a demon wants with a warehouse?”

“Maybe he’s planning to start a shipping business, specializing in sending packages to hell,” she commented.

She knelt and put her palm flat to the cold concrete floor, sending out tendrils of her magick to search for any moisture that might have a story to tell. Water held emotion like none of the other elements. When something violent happened in a place, the moisture picked up and retained a record of it, burned there by the intense feelings of the participants. Accessing that emotional echo was not a skill all water witches possessed, but Isabelle had been lucky enough to inherit it.

Or unlucky, as the case may be. Reliving all that emotion was rarely pleasant.

She drew a breath. Damn it. No moisture to note along the floor. Maybe in the air. There was always a little bit of moisture in the air, and her magick was usually strong enough to pull it.

She stood. “But I might wager a guess he needs a large open area that is also concealed in order to…work.”

Thomas pushed a hand through his hair, freeing it partially from the queue at his nape. “Toward what goal?”