Blood & Ash: A Snarky Urban Fantasy Detective Series (The Jezebel Files Book 1)

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Blood & Ash: A Snarky Urban Fantasy Detective Series (The Jezebel Files Book 1) Page 11

by Deborah Wilde


  “Run in with a hostile. All good.”

  “Come meet Arkady.”

  I edged closer to my bed. Unlike Priya, who thrived in a crowd, I preferred to recharge in a quiet space, and right now my internal energy bar was blinking red. How could Levi have done that to me? “I don’t want to intrude on your date.”

  Priya laughed. “He’s gay.”

  “Everyone needs a hot, unattainable person in their lives and I have come to bless you with me. Arkady Choi, at your service.” A man with chin-length black hair sauntered into the foyer and shook my hand. “Pronounced Ar-KAH-dee, and not like I’m a video game. Though I am good for hours of fun. I also don’t house pairs of animals so for the love of anything holy do not shorten my name to Ark.”

  Arkady was slightly younger than us and about six feet tall. He sported a shit-ton of tattoos peeking out of his short sleeves and, with his arms braced over his head against the doorframe raising the hem of his shirt, a set of abs that were more cut than glass. He possessed that feline grace I’d seen in martial artists, and combined with his long-lashed dark brown eyes and full lips, he may have been the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

  I mistrusted him instantly. “Why are you in my house?”

  He pulled a face. “You’re right. She is a ray of sunshine.”

  I balefully divested myself of my jacket and boots while Priya shrugged without an iota of remorse.

  “I love the bruises. So badass.” Arkady took my arm and escorted me into my living room.

  I’d slip out after I’d gotten some answers about who he was, since I couldn’t in good conscience leave Priya alone with some unknown entity.

  Our sleek modern sofas, coffee table, and bookcases from a high-end Montreal design company were way above Pri’s and my paygrades. We’d inherited them in Talia’s last redecoration spree, but we put our stamp on the room with throw cushions made of vivid sari fabric that Priya had brought back from India. Photographic prints of a red phone booth on a London street, sunset over the Colosseum, and dazzling white homes with blue doors in Santorini hung on our walls. Reminders of our travel goals.

  Arkady pursed his lips, looking me up and down. “Tell me you own leather pants.”

  No, but maybe I should stock up if I was going to be bleeding on a regular basis. Blood was hidden on leather better than on denim, right? “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

  “I’m your new neighbor, pickle. Keep up.”

  “Did you just call me a brined cucumber?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t presume to call you Holmes. Not yet, anyway. We’ll save that for next week when we’re fast friends.” Arkady beamed, revealing a dimple in his right cheek.

  “You and Pri have gotten very cozy for someone who didn’t live here this morning.”

  Priya grinned, sitting with one leg tucked under her in her pink minidress and black tights, already refilling their wine glasses. “I’m keeping him.”

  Yeah, I’d figured, since she’d tidied up the books that tended to spill off the shelves, from our old university textbooks, to her sci-fi novels and my Sherlock Holmes collection, gifted to me by my dad shortly before he took off. Nor was there any trace of the jumble of computers, cords, chargers, adaptors, and various other electronic odds and ends that usually cluttered up the coffee table. Her interest in a person was measurable in the amount of cleaning attributed to their presence. Interestingly, Kai had not yet warranted this level of tidying.

  Arkady dropped onto the sofa, sprawling out like it was his regular spot. “So you’re a private investigator?”

  Priya patted the overstuffed comfy chair next to hers. I sat down and took a sip of her wine.

  “Enough about me,” I said. “What’s your deal?” Because it’s a pretty big coincidence that a chatty new neighbor shows up wanting to be friends when I’m uncovering this tattoo mystery.

  “Usually, we get to know each other first with what might best be categorized as small talk before our late night easing into the soul-searching questions, pickle.” Arkady snagged a pitted Kalamata olive from the small bowl full that Pri had set out and tossed it in his mouth. “Or has it been so long since you’ve met a new friend that you’ve forgotten?”

  I wasn’t on the clock, I was in my own home, and I didn’t have to be “on.” I didn’t have it in me to slip into my glib “Ashira Cohen, P.I.” self that I wore out in the world because I was too damn raw. Still, a hot rush of embarrassment speared through me. I tugged my cuffs over my fists, pretending my sleeves were the most fascinating things in the world. I was hollowed out like a deflated balloon and past the point of hitting home runs with my social interactions. I just wanted my bed.

  “Sorry.” Arkady scrubbed a hand over his face. “Mom despairs because she’s never managed to entirely correct my broken filter. You look like you’ve had a rough day and maybe it would be helpful to hang out. We don’t know each other, but I’d like to be friends with my neighbors.”

  It was possible he was telling the truth. Arkady didn’t have any noticeable tells: biting or licking his lips, grooming gestures like straightening his cuffs, or a forced smile.

  Once I’d announced my desire to be a detective when I grew up, my dad made up a game to help me better read people (and not get taken advantage of). It was his way of contributing to my dream. He didn’t know about the technical or scientific parts of being a private investigator, but he did know reading and working people.

  Walking through the business district, Dad would point out a misaligned button on someone in a three-thousand-dollar suit and ask me what it signified, or while at 7/11 getting Slurpees, he’d have us eavesdrop on the customer explaining why they were short a few cents and see if I could spot tells to uncover any lie.

  Reading people wasn’t a skill that came naturally to me, like it did for him. It had taken me years of practice observing people to get to the point where I was more successful than not.

  However, that was with a clear head and no emotional involvement, and not me still reeling from the training session and Priya nodding with her “be nice” look involving her raised eyebrows and wide eyes. She wanted us to be friends with Arkady, which meant having to give a damn about this particular social interaction to make her happy.

  That was clouding my bullshit-meter.

  “How about this? I’ll accept your apology if you give me a second chance at small talk?”

  “Deal.” He held out the olive bowl but I shook my head.

  “Are you new to town or just the building?” I said.

  Arkady picked up his wine. “Been in Vancouver about a year now. And my deal?” He winked. “Is that I’m twenty-four and both my parents are Korean-Canadian. Dad was the ambassador to Russia when I was born, hence my name. Mom was a surgeon who worked at an NGO while we lived there. Moved a few more times because of Dad’s postings until we landed back in Ottawa in my late teens.” He grimaced. “A city obviously not suited to my particular brand of je ne sais quoi, so like all good Village People, I went west and am trying to make it in the Nefesh MMA league out here.”

  “Earth elemental,” Priya said.

  Instead of weight categories, the Nefesh MMA League or NMMAL was divided by magic types.

  “Scrawny Asian kid who never seemed to be anywhere long enough to fit in.” He pulled a smooth stone from his pocket, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Always gravitated to rocks, caves, what have you. They were so permanent.”

  There was a wistfulness to his voice that belied the brash sassiness he’d displayed up until now. I smiled sympathetically at him and topped up his wine.

  Then I caught myself. Evoking sympathy was a great way to make a connection with someone you intended to con. Was he genuine or was this a good mask?

  I pointed to the stone in his hand. “Does that one have any special significance?”

  Under Arkady’s bright chatter, my fears over this desire to forcibly rip out Levi’s magic and possibly his stil
l-beating heart washed away. I had no such desire with Arkady.

  After he left, I collapsed on the sofa, watching Priya gather up their dirty glasses.

  “I appreciate you hanging out the entire time,” she called out from the kitchen. “He’s fun, right?”

  I grunted something non-committal, but vaguely affirmative. Yawning, I debated getting up, but I was comfy, and enough time had passed that I wanted to talk to Pri about Levi. “His Lordship has sunk to new lows.”

  Priya returned and perched on the arm of the sofa. “How so?”

  I told her about Levi’s deception.

  “Maybe he meant what he said about getting you out of your head?”

  “Or maybe he’s a snake so high on his own power that he thinks he has the right to fuck with people under the guise of helping them. Illusion magic. Enough said.”

  “In that case, I’m amazed you only punched him.”

  “I almost didn’t. I…” I hugged a pillow to my chest.

  Priya nudged my leg. “I love you and I’m not going to judge you for anything you tell me, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah.” Being friends since we were fifteen, we’d seen each other through some dark times. She’d supported me through the worst of my anger, and I’d pulled her back into the sunlight–literally–when her asshole ex had blown up their engagement two years ago and plunged her into a deep depression. If one of us killed someone, the other would be there with shovels and battery acid, while in times of celebration, we’d have “Shoop” queued up, chilled prosecco in hand.

  “I wanted so badly to rip his magic out and I could have done it, no problem. Ever since I got my powers, I’m like Neo after watching those training videos in The Matrix. Abilities readily available for me to access.”

  “Some things are instinctive with Nefesh,” Priya said, “but they train and develop their powers. Yours sound like some kind of pre-programming that you call up as needed.”

  “I hate that. It makes me feel like I’m at my magic’s mercy and I’m some kind of mindless vessel.” I plucked at the decorative button on the cushion. “The weird thing was that I wasn’t taking Levi’s magic for myself, I just wanted to tear it from him and destroy it. What the fuck kind of Moriarty move is that?”

  “A lot to unpack there. But before your face gets stuck in that mopey Eeyore look forever, remember that you didn’t take his magic. More importantly, you chose not to take it. Doesn’t that prove that your moral center is intact and you get to choose how to use your powers? You’re like an A.I. instead of a toaster.”

  I raised my head from where I’d cradled it in my hands. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  Priya snapped her fingers. “Doesn’t House Pacifica have a library? If anyone can answer some of your questions, the librarian probably could.”

  “Good idea. Thanks, Pri.”

  “Any time.” She picked up the empty bottle and headed into the kitchen, leaving the cardigan she’d been wearing earlier on the floor.

  I stayed awake long after she went to bed.

  According to the Van Gogh, tattooing me had been an act of betrayal. Why? Because my magic should have been allowed to run free? If someone was interested in my powers and they realized it was back, would I get a party in my honor or a bullet to the brain? Was there some slayer out there hunting me now that my abilities had resurfaced?

  On the plus side, being target numero uno might be a good push to update my wardrobe. I could have a signature color.

  Magic was magic. It wasn’t inherently good or evil. I would be in control of how I used it. Though I’d be the lamest badass ever if I had to ask my foes for a time-out while I cut myself. Levi got to be right about this one thing: bleeding to access my magic was impractical.

  Time to take the training wheels off.

  When I was in grade ten, we’d had this sexual health class where the speaker had said we needed to know our bodies. Not necessarily in a sexual way, but to visualize all of ourselves. She’d urged us later that night to use a mirror if necessary, and look at all the parts we generally didn’t, so that we were at home in our body and took ownership of it. It was stupid and beyond embarrassing, but I’d done it.

  The part I’d lingered over most wasn’t my vag, it was my scar. Up until then, I had done my level best to ignore the long gash on my thigh, but that night I accepted it. It was the same now. I had this magic but I had yet to fully accept it. Take ownership of it. I couldn’t just cross my fingers and hope for it to come out when I panicked.

  I closed my eyes and took a centering breath, seeking out the magic that swam through my veins with a pins and needles faint tingling. I visualized gathering it up and drawing it through my palms into the shape of a sewing needle. Starting small.

  There was nothing. Not even a pinprick’s worth. Again and again I tried, until I was so flushed with exertion that I’d peeled down to my bra and underwear.

  I shook out my hands. So far, my magic had manifested three times and in all three, I’d reacted instinctively out of fear. Was I overthinking this? I fixed the image of the needle in my head and a second later, it lay in my palm. It was more like an uneven, oversized child’s rendition of a needle, but it was solid and sharp. I kissed it. Cold, hard, and dazzling red. “Oh, you beauty.”

  Looking around the room for inspiration of what to manifest next, I decided on a coaster. A small round shape. It took a few tries but I mostly pulled it off.

  Nice party trick, but every time I manifested something it ran my battery down that much more, so there was no point in creating items that didn’t serve a practical purpose. Better to concentrate on weapons.

  After a couple of hours practice, I reliably produced picture-perfect needles on demand. Also, a pair of throwing stars and two small daggers, all made of blood. I didn’t bother with guns because that was a complex procedure versus a sharp blade. Too many moving parts that I would inevitably get wrong. Better to stick with simple weapons, easily visualized and produced.

  I was less successful at making the items vanish after I’d produced them.

  I stood up to stretch and the world swung around me, my legs buckling. I ass-planted on the sofa. Slowly, I made my way to the kitchen, downed half a carton of orange juice, and ate a handful of salty peanuts, riding out the blood loss until my breathing had evened out and my heart rate dropped down to normal. I wasn’t used to having magic and definitely wasn’t used to the toll it took.

  This was something to be a lot more mindful of in the future since my blood fueled my power. There had to be some magic mechanism to compensate for the blood loss and keep me relatively topped up. Bleed a regular person enough to fill a few dagger-sized molds and they’d be dead pretty damn quick, but even with my fancy blood powers I still felt like trash after a few manifestations. Fainting in the middle of some magic battle would suck.

  Did certain actions take more of a toll? Killing smudges wasn’t too bad, producing too many physical items was more exhausting. Would that change with practice or did I simply have to learn the relative costs of different actions? Magic wasn’t just about knowing what I could do, it was also about safely working within the boundaries of my power.

  Lots of new things to think about.

  I placed the needles and daggers in an empty Chinese food container, marking them “SHARPS. DO NOT TOUCH.”

  There was one other thing to test. Healing. My blood shield had protected me against magic attacks, but could magic retroactively fix me? I rubbed blood on my bruises like I was a fancy lady with an expensive cream. I’d deal with the weird factor if this worked.

  By the time I’d finished, the sun was pale gray streaks against the night sky. So much for a good night’s rest. The most I’d get was a cat nap, but I was exhausted and exhilarated and crashed hard.

  On the sofa.

  In the same underwear I’d been wearing.

  And my blood home remedy.

  I woke up drooling, face down on the couch wit
h the decorative button stuck to my forehead. My mother had left me three more messages. I texted her that I was fine, just very busy. After a moment’s reflection, I sent a second text.

  Me: Do you have cancer or something?

  Talia, Destroyer of Egos: Are you still high? Call me immediately.

  If she wasn’t experiencing concern due to a fatal diagnosis, then my first instinct had been correct: the call was to ream me out.

  Me: So busy.

  I checked the sharps container. It was empty save for the second dagger I’d made, but when I checked on it after coming back from the bathroom, that too had disappeared. I consulted the time on my phone. I’d made the knife about four hours ago, so that was the extent of these weapons’ shelf life. Good to know.

  Unfortunately, the bruises hadn’t gone anywhere, though this newfound strength had bolstered my leg, because after last night I should have been debilitated, yet there was nothing worse than a twinge.

  A fragile stalk of hope took root in my chest. Might I live a relatively pain-free life?

  After a quick shower, I contemplated my clothing. What was appropriate for projecting a “don’t mess with me” vibe in Hedon while not coming off as overly aggressive? I tried on everything I owned, including that horrible dress that Talia had bought me to wear to the gala and a unicorn onesie that was part of a misguided Halloween costume. Finally, I threw on skinny jeans and a deep blue sweater with a metallic sheen to it. I tied my hair into a simple knot at the base of my neck and applied on a ton of mascara and a light gloss. The only accessory I wore was the bruises.

  Since breakfast was the most important meal of the day, I made coffee, scarfing down a croissant of questionable freshness while the brew gurgled away into the pot. Soon as it was ready, I downed my first two cups then poured some into Priya’s favorite mug, the one with “I turn coffee into code” written on it, and brought it to her in bed.

  “Mmghgmg.” She pulled the pillow over her head.

  Setting the mug down beside her, I said, “Java’s up. If I don’t come back from Hedon, I bequeath you all my worldly goods. Take good care of Moriarty.”

 

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