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

by Deborah Wilde

  It turned out that Rafael Behar was staying at the Pan Pacific, one of the priciest hotels in the city. If Jezebeling came with an expense account, I would spend the shit out of it.

  I drove Moriarty down to the massive white hotel and convention center on the waterfront. Shaped like a boat, it was complete with ninety-foot-high sails and had become a Canadian architectural icon. It was the main cruise ship terminal here in town, and as such, bustling.

  I sprinted inside, weaving through tourists like a quarterback going for the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. Skidding up to the front desk, I grabbed the hotel phone and placed a call asking to be connected to Rafael Behar’s room.

  “Yes?” His voice was posh with the condescending edge of all upper crust British accents, much like highly polished cut glass.

  “Rafael Behar, this is the Seeker,” I said, pitching my voice low and gruff, and breathing like Darth Vader. “I have found you and now must decide whether I plan to keep you.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” he said, with more than a touch of annoyance. “Wait at the Coal Harbour bar. I’ll be down shortly.”

  “Wear that snazzy little bow tie so I recognize you.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll be the day drinker with the can-do attitude.”

  “I rue this meeting already,” he said, and hung up.

  Tucked in a corner of the soaring atrium, a burbling fountain wound through the bar out to a large patio area. It failed to boast the “gloomy, functioning alcoholic” ambiance that I preferred in my watering holes.

  Two five-story cruise ships were docked alongside the hotel, blocking any view of the water or Stanley Park. It was too cold for anyone to be out on the rows of stateroom balconies, and the desolation gave the ships a forlorn air.

  I ordered a Coke and grabbed a secluded table for two in the far corner with my back to the white behemoths. When Rafael entered, I waved him over.

  Other than his black eyes behind round spectacles, I didn’t see much to indicate a Spanish heritage. Rafael’s short hair was medium brown with reddish highlights and he possessed the vampiric pallor of a librarian who’d been trapped in the stacks for a hundred years. His shirt actually had gold cuffs, his tree tattoo hidden under the long sleeves, and his outfit included a dove gray sweater vest and softly pleated trousers.

  On first glance, you’d dismiss him as mild-mannered, which I suspected was his intention, but those bothering with a second, more detailed study were rewarded with a glimpse of the alpha under that Clark Kent exterior. For one thing, there was nothing soft about Rafael’s body. Dude didn’t have an ounce of fat, his shirt snug around his muscled biceps. For another, he moved with that same deceptive lithe elegance as both Levi and Arkady, and his eyes were suffused with intelligence and a piercing sharpness.

  “I suppose I should congratulate you on finding me.” Rafael sat down.

  “I’d say it’s a pleasure,” I said, “but let’s not kid ourselves.”

  “I do appreciate honesty.” He sniffed my drink and grimaced. Motioning a waiter over, he ordered a glass of house red.

  “Your libations all sorted?” I said. “May I impress you with my dazzling Seeker skills now and convince you of my worthiness?”

  “You may try.” Rafael leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.

  “Did you know that Chariot is after a magic feather that compels people with their heart’s desire? It was found on an archeological site near a grove that may have been a site of Asherah worship.”

  The waiter placed his drink in front of Rafael and he murmured his thanks.

  “That’s interesting,” he said once the waiter had left, “but hardly surprising. They excel at chaos.” He took a sip.

  “The feather is an angel’s feather. You know, like how Nefesh magic is a dilution of angel magic?”

  Rafael sputtered out his wine, then grabbed a linen napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “There’s no way you could have learned about the angel connection on your own. Not that quickly. Who told you? Did Gavriella say something to you before she died?”

  He knew I’d been at the lab? “No one told me. I’m damn good at what I do. Go ahead. Report back to the others that I’m keeping my magic and you can all shove your issues with me up your collective asses.”

  “What others?”

  “The rest of the team.”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  I gripped the table. “No. This can’t be a partnership. I don’t have time to fight Chariot fifty percent of the time.”

  “Why would you believe there’s a team?” Rafael said.

  “Gavriella implied more than one person had searched for me. That ‘we’ had to stop Chariot.” I dropped my head into my hands, pulling on my hair. “It can’t all be on us.”

  “It’s not.” I raised my head, hopeful, but he added: “It’s all on you. I’m merely your support person.”

  The bottom dropped out of my world. “I have a career. See, I’ve always dreamed of being a private investigator and I started my own business and–”

  “You’ll have to wrap that up, I’m afraid. Being a Jezebel takes priority. Shift work is best. Pays the bills, allows for flexibility and sudden moves if necessary.”

  “No. Go activate someone else.”

  “I think not. You’ve proven yourself.” He nodded, satisfied. “You appear to have valuable skills needed for this fight, after all.”

  Hoisted by my own petard. I slammed my hand on the table. “Then I refuse. Seems like that’s what Gavriella did.”

  “Gavriella never rejected it. Not consciously. She made a series of choices out of grief and anger leading to her abduction and torture at Chariot’s hands to further their goals.”

  I didn’t care. I wasn’t taking on this fucking destiny as my full-time gig.

  “What is Chariot’s ultimate goal? Money? Power?” Stupid curiosity.

  “That’s part of it, certainly, but it’s not their endgame,” Rafael said.

  “What is?”

  “Immortality.”

  I choked on a piece of ice.

  “Indeed.”

  “Hang on. So everything we were taught about the original ten men of the Lost Tribes attempting to achieve the fifth level of the soul, Yechida, wasn’t about a metaphoric spark of the divine?”

  “They were trying to become gods on Earth, and those behind Chariot have been attempting the same ever since. We are all that stands between them and their goal.” He gave me a wry smile. “That is part of a larger conversation.”

  “That doesn’t change my decision.” Except I had to face myself in the mirror. “If I refuse, are they left unchecked?”

  “There is a ritual, used in a handful of cases, that transfers the magic of the chosen Jezebel to the next most worthy potential, provided the woman has not yet said the words, ‘I accept the Mantle of Jezebel.’ Should you desire, this can all be over for you by this evening.”

  “Including my powers.”

  “Obviously. Think carefully, Ashira. Neither the world, nor I, desire a Jezebel who has to be dragged kicking and screaming into saving us.”

  I could walk away.

  “I need a minute.” I fled the bar and went outside, gripping the patio railing, a stiff breeze washing over me.

  My original dreams had been founded on being a Mundane P.I., and yeah, sure the elixir of what I could now reach as Nefesh was a heady one. But while I was all kinds of selfish, I wasn’t actually evil. This fight with Chariot deserved a Jezebel who was in it for all the right reasons. Who would give everything to it.

  There were a lot of reasons to walk away: the world would be in good hands, my relationship with Talia would remain intact-ish, Rafael would get a do-over with someone whose magic hadn’t been tampered with and was committed to the cause, and any potential problems for Levi because of me would disappear.

  There was only one reason to stay: my revised Sherlock dreams, now fueled by mag
ic.

  Ah, but there was the irony. Keep the magic and my dream was dead. Give up the magic and my dream was alive, but lesser. I’d begin again at the bottom of the Mundane P.I. heap. Scrounging for scraps as I trudged to that far-off door.

  The wind curled around me in frigid lashes, but the icy hands I pressed to my cheeks encountered flushed skin and the uncomfortable truth that I’d shiv anyone who tried to take these powers from me.

  That in itself should have been reason enough to step aside gracefully: so the magic could choose someone truly worthy who would make the quest to take down Chariot their calling. Not me, a selfish cow already computing how much this Jezebel gig would get in the way of my actual pursuits and how far I could bend the parameters of being chosen without breaking them entirely.

  Do this and I’d be running a con on being a hero. Adam would be proud.

  I slammed the railing. Why’d the magic have to choose me anyway? In what universe had I been deemed the worthiest? A thirteen-year-old kid with anger issues and a bum leg? It had cost me the few precious illusions I had left about my dad and was making me feel like a shit-heel because I was too selfish to prioritize humanity’s well-being, like an actual Chosen One should.

  What could this magic have possibly seen in me to justify all that?

  Much as my heart demanded I put my dreams first and keep the powers, my conscience had another counter-argument to chime in with. Staying Nefesh guaranteed that I’d end up taking more magic away from people, breaking their spirits and destroying their lives.

  The fact that I’d only do that to bad people left a sour taste in my mouth and made me a liar, because look at me now. One threat to Priya’s life and I’d agreed to ruin Shannon’s or Abraham’s.

  Selfish.

  Walk away and one hundred percent of my time would be devoted to my dream, but I’d have to live with the sorrow that it would never quite be all that it could have been.

  Accept the Mantle and live with my dream always being an afterthought, because taking down Chariot came first.

  The Queen had once said that life was a series of choices and, in the end, we hoped we came out ahead. That would never happen if I gave up my powers.

  I needed a third choice: keep the magic and face myself in the mirror by doing good in the world.

  If I was clever, I’d find a way to combine my dream with my destiny.

  I smiled. I was very clever.

  Teeth chattering, I walked back inside, sighing at the warmth easing through me.

  Rafael sipped his wine like living in the moment and savoring this experience was of paramount importance. He made a disgruntled face at my reappearance, but wiped it away in favor of a polite expression of interest. “What is it to be? Mantle or no Mantle?”

  “Mantle. With modifications.”

  “Absolutely not,” Rafael said.

  A bowl of peanuts had been delivered to the table.

  “Peeled and everything. How quality.” I tossed a couple of nuts in my mouth.

  “It’s an as-is deal,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Hear me out, okay?” I explained my idea.

  His skepticism lessened as I presented a valid counter-argument to each of his objections. “You’re positive you can achieve this?”

  “Yes.” Ninety-nine percent positive. Solid mid-eighties for sure.

  “Perhaps different times require different tactics,” Rafael said. “God knows our progress over the past four hundred years has been less than admirable. Are you certain you want this?

  “I am.”

  His lips twisted wryly. “Let me rephrase. Ashira Cohen, do you wish to accept the Mantle of Jezebel with a full understanding of and commitment to those duties?”

  “I do.”

  “All right. We’ll use your idea. But should it not pan out, it’s back to the old way and you shut down Cohen Investigations. Agreed?’

  “Agreed.”

  “Then say the words.”

  “I accept the Mantle of Jezebel.” My blood warmed, the magic humming almost like a happy sigh, and the taste of cloves filling my mouth, reminiscent of the drink the twin had given me at the Dream Market.

  You win, destiny. Just this once.

  Chapter 24

  “Are you my Giles?” I said.

  “Let me make something perfectly clear.” Rafael vigorously wiped off his hands with his linen napkin. “The first rule of making this relationship work is no pop culture references. Especially not that one. Our work is serious business with very real ramifications.”

  “Immortality. Gods on Earth. I get it. Okay, start by explaining–” I shook my head, sighing in frustration. “I know virtually nothing and have an endless list of questions.”

  “That’s normal as a new Jezebel, but as that will require a much longer conversation, what do you wish to know at this moment?”

  “What was supposed to happen when I got my magic? Jezebels one day wake up with powers, which would be terrifying, because we’ve always been Mundane. If there hadn’t been extenuating circumstances at the time my magic manifested, I would have had no idea what was happening and on top of that, I was supposed to find some strange man? Dude, I was thirteen when my magic first activated.”

  “Gavriella was right.” He stared blankly down at his wine, then shook off his stupor.

  “Ever hear of stranger danger? I would never have gone looking for you. Not to mention, you would have been a kid, too. This system is screwed up.”

  “Your magic is screwed up.”

  What a peach. I calculated my chances if I slashed his throat with his wine glass. Better still, poison, applied in a remote location where my face would be the last thing he saw in his agonizing twisty death throes.

  I crunched down on a piece of ice from my Coke, enjoying his flinch. “Death is the trigger, right?”

  “You’ve surmised correctly,” he said. “Normally, your Attendant, who back then would have been my father, would have sensed several magic hot spots, the cities with the strongest potentials, and instigated the magic test which would start with the worthiest candidate. The brightest spot. Yours.”

  We were totally coming back to this Attendant idea. Did he do laundry?

  “I was never tested back then because my magic was warded-up until recently. Part of that longer conversation,” I added, off his puzzled look.

  “Ah. Well, Gavriella flatlined for several seconds during a mission, and while Father sensed the hot spots when he cast the test, it didn’t go anywhere. Presumably because of this ward.”

  I nodded. “From that point forward from your perspective, there were no more Jezebels. Gavriella was the last of the line. Then she died for real a couple of weeks ago. Where’s the second Jezebel?”

  “There isn’t one. I’d inherited the mantle of Attendant by that point and I did as required with the test. There were a number of hot spots, but yours, the one in Vancouver again, remained the brightest, despite it flickering in and out. The test didn’t find you immediately, and I feared we were in the same predicament as fifteen years ago.”

  “If you knew I was in Vancouver but nothing more than that, how did you find out my name and what I did?”

  “I found the lab.” He fiddled with the stem of his glass, his expression unreadable. “Too late to save Gavriella, but I saw you and wondered. Then I overheard you exchange contact details with another woman and did some research, all while I kept attempting to cast the test. When it finally took hold, there you were. My hypothesis was correct.”

  I appreciated a man with a good hypothesis. “Were you and Gavriella close?”

  “My father had been her Attendant for my entire life. She was an irritating older sibling who claimed the lion’s share of his attention.”

  I was well acquainted with that blithe tone and the hurt it concealed. “Still, I'm sorry for your loss. Both your losses.” I ate some more peanuts. “What happens if the potential fails?”

  “They die during the
test and it moves to the next person. I can only assume that as you didn’t technically fail it, seeing as the magic never found you in the first place, that it went into a kind of limbo until it once more connected with you to test you properly.”

  “What was I tested for?”

  “The first test with the three cups determines whether you choose and, by extension, protect the almond tree, symbolic of the goddess Asherah who created you all.”

  I sputtered out my Coke. “Made us? I’m not human?”

  “Poor choice of words. Apologies. Bestowed this magic upon the first Jezebel.”

  “Are we all female?”

  “Yes. It’s a matriarchy, like Judaism. You’re related to the first Jezebel through your mother.”

  I laughed so hard that I choked and had to thump my chest, while Rafael stared like I was unhinged. My mother, a champion of curbing Nefesh rights, was the reason I had magic. I wiped my eyes. “Longer conversation.”

  “Second test, do you have the ability to defeat the Repha’im, which proves you can destroy magic, and finally are you smart enough to find the way out of the grove? Jezebels aren’t merely warriors. Thwarting and ultimately defeating Chariot involves your Seeker capabilities.”

  “Repha’im. Those are the things I fought in the grove? They’re from Hell?”

  “Sheol isn’t Hell,” he said in his crisp British accent, “but yes.”

  “But ghost stories have been around longer than the 1600s when magic came into being.”

  “Not all ghosts are Repha’im, but all Repha’im are essentially ghosts.”

  “And they’re floating around doing what? Are they dangerous?”

  “Not generally. Not unless they’re provoked. That’s when you get your hauntings.” He paused. “And such.”

  “Back up, buddy. What’s with the loaded hesitation? Define ‘and such?’”

  “Longer conversation,” he said.

  “Fine. But you implemented a fourth test involving whether or not I could find you.”

  “Once you’d defeated the Repha’im and I arrived in the grove, we should have seen each other’s faces, allowing our connection to click in like a phone line. At that point, you’d have known how to find me, and once we met in person, the bond would harden. So long as we were both alive, we’d always be able to find each other.”