Death & Desire: A Snarky Urban Fantasy Detective Series (The Jezebel Files Book 2)

by Deborah Wilde

  “Ride it out, buddy. Your attacker was a person, not an angel. Thoughts on why he came after you?”

  He shook his head, the picture of misery.

  “Did you cheat on Shannon?”

  He turned startled eyes to me. “What? No! I’d never do that to her.”

  I counted off the seconds in my head. Omar cracked before I’d reached forty-three. Ivan was right. He was weak.

  “One time,” he mumbled.

  “When?”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “So much for ‘you’d never do that to Shannon.’”

  “It was someone I’d gone to school with and I’d always had a crush on her. We got drunk and… I was a fool. I hated myself afterwards and I’ll never do anything like that again. Please don’t tell Shannon. I love her and want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  “Was this woman married?”

  “No.” The tension in his posture was gone. He’d already confessed to the worst of it. He spoke the truth.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Edrice Abadi. She’s the site supervisor on an archeological dig I provided security for.”

  I’d follow up with her.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d like the feather. To remind me how close I came to dying.”

  “Bullshit. What did it tempt you with?” I’d hoped its compulsion would have worn off by now. Moran almost took my head off for it and he’d only been exposed for a few minutes. How far would Omar go to get it back?

  He worried at a hole in his jeans. “Tempt? No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Quit fucking around. The feather compels people. It tempts them with their heart’s desire. What was yours? Aren’t you putting your family in danger while you’re under its thrall? Putting Shannon in danger?”

  His lip curled. “I can handle it.”

  Of course. Strength.

  “Did it promise you invincibility?” I pulled out the metal pouch. “The feather is right here.”

  His fingers twitched and his eyes gleamed.

  “Your whole family is watching. Shannon is watching. If you want to be strong, prove that you can be to yourself first.”

  He tapped his head. “I can’t get away…”

  “From the song?”

  He nodded.

  “Trust me, I know what that’s like, and how hard it is. But even if the craving is eating you up inside, walk away. It will wear off at some point. Meantime, take the first step to becoming the man you want to be.”

  He reached for the pouch. Stopped. White-knuckled the edge of the bench.

  “You can do this. Go back to Shannon and live happily-ever-after.”

  Omar bit his lip, then with a long look at his fiancée, he stood up and walked away. The price of turning his back on the pouch was etched into the twist of his shoulders, his bowed head, and his painfully slow gait, but he kept going.

  Good for you, dude. The feather might have given you some initial burst of confidence, but you’d spend the rest of your life chasing that first high.

  My fingers tightened on the pouch and I tucked it back in my waistband with movements as slow as Omar’s.

  I turned off my phone app, and switched over to my notes program, jotting down my thoughts. Judgment and temptation. I fit the pieces together until they fell into a shape I could work with.

  What if the attacker’s heart’s desire was this Edrice and then he saw her with Omar? I’d assumed that like me, the attacker wasn’t affected by the feather’s ability to compel, the reason being that he’d shoved it down Omar’s throat and walked away.

  Except he’d come after me to get it back.

  Flip it and examine that angle. What if the attacker was still under its thrall? That was why he was driven to this extreme method of murder. He didn’t just want to kill Omar, he meant to pass the ultimate judgment on him, so he took on Malach’s persona–the Destroyer. He used the feather to send a deadly message, but as the attacker was still compelled by the feather, he now needed it back.

  Omar was still alive, and the attacker might be hoping to finish the job properly, provided he got the feather. Who knew what effect that thing was still exerting on his mindset? Evil artifacts were not known for their soothing and rational influences.

  This was a working theory but it was simple and straightforward and it made sense. Love, revenge, and magic, all twisted into one ugly knot.

  I had motive and I had Edrice, a focal point for my search, but there was one other thing I had to do.

  The feather had to be destroyed because it was too dangerous to exist. I ghosted my fingers over the metal pouch. What if the cost of my success was being forever lost to the cravings for that magic? This wasn’t the residual feather magic that I’d destroyed inside Omar–and that had been bad enough. This was a concentrated magic that even Freddo couldn’t explain.

  I could do it, but did I dare?

  Chapter 13

  I updated the Queen about Omar’s condition and that she should keep guards on him until the compulsion had worn off.

  In order to make a decision about the feather, I required facts. Namely, what kind of magic would I be engaging with? Were there ramifications to destroying it?

  Freddo was a level four Typecaster, as was the one who worked for the House. I needed to level up and Hedon was my best bet. It was the black market. There had to be need of that skill.

  The exit I took out of the Queen’s park didn’t lead to the section of Hedon with its crooked cobblestone streets and the electric ramen bowl sign that I was familiar with. I was alone in unfamiliar and probably hostile territory. It would be easy enough to turn back and get directions to that other neighborhood, but as the Queen had said, knowledge was power. In gaining access to my memory of the night that Dad had left, she’d achieved both where I was concerned, whereas I knew virtually nothing about her.

  When I walked the streets of my hometown, I didn’t merely get a picture of a particular city, I got a sense of how it was governed and what those in charge valued. In Vancouver’s case, it showed a place where diversity was celebrated–unless you were one of the many Indigenous people who lived in poverty. A city that thrived on entrepreneurial spirit, but where the middle class couldn’t afford housing and little was being done to actually address that. Somewhere that wanted to be on the world’s stage, but had a definite streak of conservatism.

  What might exploring Hedon tell me about the Queen?

  I kept walking.

  A narrow railway track stretched out in either direction as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the night.

  There was no station. Instead, two identical squat brick buildings bordered one section of the track. A set of dice magically tumbled above one building, rolling double sixes over and over again. Above the other, the silhouettes of chorus girls bedecked in feather headdresses did the can-can.

  The oddest little market had sprung up in front of the casino and dance hall. There was barely twenty feet between the track and each building to begin with, so these stalls crowded the rails.

  At the stall nearest to me, a man in thick leather gloves held a pair of large metal tongs and an ice pick, systematically breaking pieces off a huge block of ice and chucking them into a blue cooler. He hacked into the ice with a grunt and pulled a jagged piece free. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

  “There are other parts of Hedon to keep a person busy.”

  He jerked his chin at the other stalls. “Pick your payment. Same as everyone.”

  Payment for what? Nodding as if I had a clue, I jumped the track. I passed by a man with a dusty bowler hat and neat goatee snoozing in a battered dentist’s chair, a woman with crazy curved nails that had scorpions embedded in resin in them who had a rough mani-pedi set up in her stall, and another lady, wearing her scissors and razors crisscrossed on her chest in a bandolier ammo vest, standing next to a hairdresser’s chair, texting. Across from her was a small but well-stocked bar
tended by androgynous twins with identical shoulder-length dark bobs, polishing shot glasses.

  I stopped in front of a stall wreathed in incense smoke with a wooden wheel mounted on a base. The wheel was painted in a black-and-white swirl, but nothing was written on it.

  The old woman manning the booth was plump with brassy red teased hair. “Welcome.”

  “What part of Hedon is this?” I said.

  “The Dream Market.”

  “You sell dreams?” Not that I’d doubt anything in Hedon. I motioned between the two buildings. “Are the dance hall and gaming parlor to loosen you up before you buy your dream and go to sleep?”

  “Not those kinds of dreams.” She pointed to the dance hall. “Love. Or sex.” Then she motioned at the gambling parlor. “Money. Them thing’s dreams for many. Twas prudent to give easy access.”

  Were dreams currency for the Queen as well?

  “Do the people who purchase dreams have to say them aloud?”

  “Och, no. Dreams are private.”

  “So, no one else knows what they’re buying?”

  “That’s right,” the redheaded old woman said. “Except the Queen, of course. Seeing as she founded this market.”

  Did she now? “What if I wanted to trade in a dream? What does it buy me in these parts?”

  The redhead smiled indulgently. “You can’t buy someone’s dream, dearie.”

  Sure you could. People did it all the time. The social justice lawyer who sold their dream of saving the world for a juicy partnership in a corporate firm. The spouse who sold their dream of a grand passion for an okay marriage because it was better than nothing.

  It was interesting though. The Queen didn’t care about dreams that had been given up on. Those had no worth.

  “And these stalls?” I twirled a finger around the market.

  “Same as the wheel. Attaining your dream costs, don't it?”

  Ice in a cooler, a dentist’s chair, hair, nails, and the memory of my father coming back from Hedon minus a rib. If the man who saw everything as a con had traded a piece of himself for some dream, how desperate must he have been to achieve it?

  How far would I go to achieve mine?

  I swallowed to get some moisture into my suddenly dry throat.

  “I’m in the wrong place.” I backed away but she grabbed my arm in an unbreakable grip, even with my enhanced strength.

  “You sure, dearie?”

  “I want to hire a Typecaster. I’m not looking for a dream.”

  The redhead released my arm with a sympathetic pat. “You say that, but you wouldn’t have landed here otherwise.”

  “I can achieve my own dreams, thanks.”

  “Sure you can. You look like a smart girl. Since you’re here anyway, it would be a shame to waste this opportunity. How about this? We play a simple game of three questions.”

  “What do I get out of it?” I said.

  “You’ll be given the correct path to attain your dream. Some are willing to pay outright for them. Others simply want a wee bit of direction to achieve their heart’s desire.”

  My attention snagged on those words. A feather and a market, both promising the same thing. I wasn’t a mark, but in my gut, I couldn’t discount that out of everywhere in Hedon, I’d ended up here. Something else tied to heart’s desires.

  “What does it cost? Do I have to give up body parts?” I said.

  “No, dearie. Just answers.”

  “Three questions in exchange for the correct path. That’s it?” I said. “No hidden costs? No strings?”

  “Not at all.”

  Three questions meant three more opportunities for the Queen to learn about me. On the other hand, she’d always kept her word. If she founded this market, then the deal was valid. I weighed all the risks and made my decision. Giving her more knowledge about me was worth being set on the right path to my Nefesh P.I. dreams, because I wasn’t sure how to steer a course through being a Jezebel with Chariot on my tail and Levi’s hesitancy to register me.

  Seems I was like my father after all, willing to trade away a piece of myself. Thing is, my hunches had been good lately and they were saying to follow this through. Ever since my subconscious had led me to draw the Magician card represented by an almond tree, my life had taken on a fairy tale edge that I’d be unwise to ignore, especially as I kept running into this pattern of tests of three.

  A dream market reminded me of tales of faerie. So, I’d follow the same rules. Don’t eat or drink anything offered to me, beware magic beings bargaining for things I didn’t want to part with like my heart or soul, and no assumptions about anyone because the weakest child might be a powerful witch.

  Long before my dad had turned me on to Sherlock, Talia had spent hours reading me fairy tales and myths at bedtime. Once upon a time, I’d had a mother who’d loved magic.

  “Before I do this, tell me where to hire a Typecaster.”

  “What’s the information worth to you?” the dentist said in a sleepy French accent.

  I offered him my Taser but he sneered at it. Weirdly, he perked up at the power bars that I’d filched from Priya’s stash, deciding that two was an acceptable trade.

  “You’ll be needing to see Vespa,” he said.

  Like the bike? Some hipster identity? “How do I find him? Her?”

  The redhead here at the wheel shrugged. “Just Vespa. You need to make an appointment first. Vespa doesn’t like unexpected visitors.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take the peanut butter one.”

  I slapped the bar into her palm, my patience frayed and my stash depleted.

  “How do I make the appointment?”

  The hairdresser looked up from her phone. “I’ll do it for that little Taser. Hand me your phone.” I gave her the gadget and my phone and she sent a text. “Done. Vespa will contact you to let you know when.”

  “Question time.” The redhead pulled a pair of thin reading glasses out of her poofy tangle of hair. “Spin for the first question.”

  I gripped the rough edge and yanked the wheel down. It clattered as it spun, the black-and-white pattern dizzying. Hypnotic.

  It stopped abruptly and the redhead leaned in. “Ooh. Interesting. What’s your most complicated relationship? Remember, you must tell the truth, otherwise…” She jerked her chin at the bar, where the twins had stopped polishing to watch us, their heads cocked to the right.

  What? They’d deny me a stiff drink? “Are you making this up? The wheel doesn’t even have words.”

  “I am its Lady. I’m in no need of words.” she said. A Queen, a Lady, Hedon was a regular royal court. “Answer.”

  “My dream has nothing to do with relationships.”

  “Your dream may not be relationships, but relationships are inherent to your dream.”

  “Ooh, pithy. Fine. My relationship with my mother is my most complicated.” Levi was a close second, and once Talia and I sorted out my Nefesh status, I had no doubt he’d rocket straight to first place.

  The wheel gave loud rumble like a lion purring and I jumped back.

  “What the fuck!”

  “Truth,” The redhead announced in a bored voice. “Well, that was an easy one for you, wasn’t it? Spin.”

  Once more I spun. The swirl lifted off the wheel to twine around my ankles, like the lightest tickling of fur. I held absolutely still until the wheel slowed to a stop and the pattern settled back into place on the wood.

  “What’s your most heartbreaking relationship?”

  My only romantic heartbreaks had been crushes that left me upset for a few days. Only one relationship had shattered my heart, had made me crawl under the blanket for days, emerging only to deface Vancouver bridges with my novice graffiti, some part of me still hoping he’d see my messages and come home.

  “My father.”

  Another purr from the wheel and indifferent acknowledgment from the woman that I’d passed.

  “Final question.” She nodded at the wheel.

  I g
rabbed the wheel and spun. Once more the swirling pattern lifted off the wheel, this time to settle on my head like a crown.

  “It likes you,” the woman said.

  I tried to poke it. “Is it housetrained?”

  The wheel clattered to a stop but the crown stayed on my head.

  “What’s your most satisfying relationship?”

  “Easy. My best friend Pri–”

  My erstwhile crown roared and leapt off me like it had been scalded.

  An orb of gold light blinked on over the bar.

  “The game is forfeit!” the redhead cried, her eyes gleaming greedily. “I told you not to lie.”

  “I didn’t!”

  She laughed. “Even better. You think you’re telling the truth.”

  One of the twins crossed the track, holding a small filigreed silver tray. Upon it was a shot glass of red liquid.

  A coiled anticipation fell over the market, the air of excitement tinged with a slyness that terrified me. I’d only checked the price to play, not the price of losing, being confident I’d win. After all, a woman who valued truth would never lie to herself.

  I palmed one of my bronze tokens because enough was enough, but I didn’t go anywhere.

  The twin stopped in front of me.

  “Drink up,” the dentist said heartily.

  “No thanks,” I said, throwing every ounce of “get me out of here” vibes at the damn token. “It’s rule number one and I’m a stickler for rules.”

  “The only way out is through,” the dentist said. Cheerful sadist.

  “Drink,” the twin said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  I squeezed my fist on the useless token. There was no escape.

  Drink this and I might be dead, chopped up for parts in that cooler. Or worse. I didn’t know what worse might be, but I was positive that Hedon had all kinds of creative definitions.

  Nauseous, but determined to face my end with dignity, even if I’d just peed a little, I sent up a silent apology to my loved ones, even Talia, that they’d never know what happened to me, and shot the drink back.

  It warmed my throat, leaving a clove aftertaste.