Undone

by R Phoenix

  It left him with the perfect opening to stretch out, face down, over the front desk and contemplate the meaning of life some more — the meaning of life, his own mortality, his own morality.

  God, he’d sunk to new lows, hadn’t he? Feeling compelled to visit a dubious casino — which he’d only known about because he’d fucking eavesdropped on two officers in that very building, drinking the house’s whiskey, and fucking a prostitute then—

  Well. He didn’t want to think about what the pimp had done or the deal they’d made. He’d regret it eventually. There was no reason to worry about it now when he’d have plenty of time later on.

  “Detective?” the front desk lady said, making him jerk his head up.

  Bryce kept his eyes closed. It wasn’t like she would notice behind the sunglasses. “Yes?”

  “I can issue you a visitor’s pass now, but it’s important that you find your badge. If you don’t have it back by tonight, call it in.”

  “It’s just in my other coat, I’m sure,” he lied, because fuck, what if he’d left it at the casino? He’d have to go back, something he’d had no intentions of doing regardless of what fucking deal that pimp had thought they’d made…

  “Here,” she said.

  Bryce slowly peered through his squinting eyes, feeling miserable but taking the visitor’s pass from the woman’s hands. “Wendy, right?” he asked thoughtfully. At least, that’s what he thought her badge said, but it was hard to tell from behind the sunglasses.

  “Wendeline. Wendeline Jones,” she corrected him, putting emphasis on her last name to the point where he didn’t think she liked being called by her first name. “You are expected in a meeting, Detective Ackerman,” she said. “Third floor, out the elevators straight ahead of you.” She pressed the buzzer to open the door into the Organization. Which really sounded so needlessly like something straight out of a knock-off James Bond movie…

  “Thank you, Miss Jones,” he said formally, resisting the urge to put on a British accent. He was too hungover for that. He pushed the door open to shut up the annoying — head-splitting — buzzing sound.

  When he got to the meeting room, he had to take the sunglasses off, which didn’t help his focus. His eyes ached and watered under the sharp light of the conference room, and he could barely see. To make matters worse… he was the only one at the meeting.

  Well, aside from his direct superior.

  Whatever the fucking jig was that the pimp and his boy-whore had set up, it was amazeballs. He couldn’t recall what he’d taken, but aside from the killer headache, there were some impressive side effects to the drug they’d slipped him.

  Because he could’ve sworn the man had just said faeries, in a legit job-related conversation.

  “We deal primarily in the matters of faeries.”

  This had to be a fucking joke. Bryce looked at the coffee before him, to see if the flavor and aroma had colors too.

  “I feel like you’re not all here, Detective. I don’t need slackers on my team. I know you didn’t choose this, but I need you to take it seriously.”

  Bryce remained silent a moment or two longer, staring at his coffee, but there still weren’t any colors or sounds coming from it. “Wow.” He flexed his jaw, looking at him— or glancing, rather, because the lights were too bright. “That sounds intense,” he said slowly. “...Did you say faeries?”

  “Yes, I did,” his chief responded, studying him.

  “...did you mean to say faeries?” he asked immediately after.

  “Yes, I did,” Rickman answered him, still patient but stoic.

  “...And what exactly do you mean by faeries?” he finally asked.

  “The fae and otherkin. From another realm beyond the veil, they—”

  Bryce held up a hand to stop her. “Faeries,” he repeated.

  “Is there a problem, Detective?” he asked.

  “Are you mental?” To hell with chain of command, and his superior. This was bullshit. Someone was pulling his leg.

  “I am not mental. Now, if you would kindly remove your head from your ass, and allow me to explain…” He sounded patient, but a squinty-eyed glance in Rickman’s direction told him otherwise.

  “...Yeah, all right. Humor me.” He sat up a little straighter. Compared to this, the hangover seemed like a walk in the fucking park.

  It didn’t hit him until he was handing the visitor’s pass back to Wendeline Jones at the front desk that this was all really happening. It didn’t feel like it, courtesy of the hangover that he’d claimed was a migraine. Bad as it was, the talk of otherkin and faeries and gathering information made him wish he was going to wake up with an even worse hangover from some elaborate vivid dream.

  “If you don’t find your credentials...” Wendeline warned him.

  He blinked owlishly at her. She looked more sympathetic, probably aware of the fact that he’d just been told of the existence of mythical creatures — were fairies mythical creatures? — and didn’t press him when he simply nodded.

  “Yeah… yeah. No worries,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.

  Should he even legally be driving if he was so hungover that he’d just sat through a meeting about fairies, and… unicorns, and… the veil without asking where the hidden cameras were?

  Was he being Punk’d? Were they still rolling?

  He didn’t ask. He didn’t think Wendeline would crack if this ended up being a weird episode of Punk’d.

  The door slid quietly closed behind him again, and the cool autumn air was like a quick wake-up call to aggravate his hangover even further. He winced at the sunlight despite already wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t until he reached his car that he realized he wasn’t just holding his keys. He was also holding a cup of coffee that he’d taken from inside the building.

  He stared at the coffee, as he had for the past fifty or so minutes while he’d been briefed, and wondered if it would look stupid on TV — when the episode of Punk’d aired — if he went back in now to hand in the cup. He put it to his lips and gulped back the last of the black coffee, making a face at it. It wasn’t terribly good coffee, and he decided he might as well keep the cup and return it tomorrow when he went in to work.

  With… elves. Apparently.

  “Should you be driving?” a voice asked from behind him.

  It was a good thing he’d finished the coffee, or it would’ve resulted in a guilty spit-take for sure. Bryce probably wasn’t sober enough to be driving, but he was a cop... When he turned, one of the guys from the night before was standing there.

  “You look like you’re still drunk,” the man remarked.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Bryce asked dryly, even though he was vaguely aware this man had seen him naked, with his dick in a whore. “Oh wait,” he said theatrically. “You’re the git that works for the douche, right?”

  “And you’re the smartass who can’t hold his liquor or recognize a prostitute,” the grunt retorted.

  It had just all happened really fucking fast. He’d been half-naked in a bed before he’d known it. He didn’t need to tell anyone that. It had been a mistake, a slip up-and—

  His brain suddenly ground to a halt as he stared at the man before him — through the sunglasses, so the widening of his bloodshot eyes probably wasn’t as dramatic to the onlooker as it felt to him. The only reason he’d been in the casino was because someone inside the Organization had name-dropped it while he was getting his credentials, and cards and paperwork done.

  The pimp who had tried to hustle him and shake him down had wanted inside information about what the Organization was actually doing. It had sounded much more reasonable before the briefing.

  “You’re a fucking elf, aren’t you?” Bryce asked, deadpan. “Oh my god, are you really—” He stopped mid-sentence and remembered the possibility of being Punk’d again.

  Who would Punk him, though? He wasn’t a celebrity. Getting your face on the news as a dirty cop didn’t exactly m
ean he was famous, and he definitely wasn’t Punk-worthy. Plus, you needed friends to get Punk’d, and he’d lost all of his.

  “...Are you really one of them?” Bryce asked, unable to help the somewhat dirty look on his face. It was partly the hangover, and partly genuine disgust at the idea of dealing with some sort of… creature — like looking at a many-legged bug.

  “I’m not an elf,” the man said, “but you’re a little bit racist, aren’t you, Detective Ackerman?” He pulled something out from his pocket, and the badge glinted in the big guy’s hand.

  Damn it.

  But the guy didn’t move to offer it to Bryce. He didn’t even dare to look back in the direction of the building he’d just exited for fear of drawing attention from Wendeline Jones, who would undoubtedly notice. It would be just his luck. So he didn’t react to it at all, pretending he hadn’t seen it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still coming to grips with this insane idea that we’re not the top of the food chain, and that I may potentially have to work together with a fucking unicorn,” he said flatly. “Was there anything I could help you with, Master Centaur?”

  The man turned the badge over in his fingers, and Bryce repressed the urge to snatch it from him. “Leandro asked me to bring this to you,” he said.

  Asked. Right. Men like that didn’t ask.

  “The pimp?” Bryce asked, just to piss some more vinegar even though he was partially aware that prostitution probably wasn’t the guy’s main source of income. He was probably more of a hustler than anything else.

  “He’s not a pimp.” If the guy was affected by Bryce’s words, he couldn’t tell. “Just some friendly advice, Detective. He doesn’t like being called that.”

  “And what am I supposed to call you? A pretty pony?”

  The man eyed him. “Gideon.”

  “Gideon what? Just Gideon? Like Cher, Madonna, Leandro?”

  Gideon met his gaze evenly.

  Bryce rolled his eyes. “Did he ask you to bring my badge to me, or just to show it to me?” He placed the cup on top of his car and holding out his hand.

  “Little bit of both,” Gideon said. “He wants to make sure you understand that this,” he held up the badge, “is easy to lose if you keep fucking up. But you know that already, don’t you?”

  Bryce scoffed at the threat that wasn’t much of a threat. He didn’t have any attachment to an agency that… wrangled mermaids, or whatever it was they were really doing. The assignment had been shitty enough already, and that had been before the briefing about other worlds and species. He was pretty sure mermaids had been on the short list.

  “Good to know,” Bryce said cheerfully. What the fuck ever, right? “Because as I understood it, it’s because of fucking up that I earned that. So…” He shrugged.

  The man looked decidedly unimpressed. “You still have a job,” he pointed out. “Check the attitude at the door when you come back to see Leandro, or you’ll lose more than that.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on, “And no, that’s not a threat. It’s just a fact.”

  “Of course.” Bryce frowned and nodded earnestly. He wouldn’t want to get glitter bombed by a fucking fairy.

  Gideon shook his head but finally offered out the badge.

  When the guy’s fingers brushed his, Bryce felt a static shock. He almost dropped the damn thing, but a quick grapple with his other hand meant that it was his car keys that hit the pavement instead. He stared at the grunty man before him, daring him to say something about it, while he put the badge away in the inside pocket of his coat.

  “Any other useful tips and advice? Wait thirty minutes after a meal before swimming? Don’t summon a demon before the blood moon? Carry garlic in case of a vampire? Always salt your pasta water?” he asked. He left his car keys on the ground, not feeling like leaning or crouching down before the mighty ape-man.

  Was that on the shortlist? Fuck, he should’ve asked for a print-out.

  “How about, learn a little respect before you get yourself killed?” the pimp’s goon retorted.

  “Could you write that down for me?” Bryce asked, seeing the line that he shouldn’t cross, then playing fucking jump rope with it. He held up a hand and shook his head. “I’m sorry. That was rude,” he admitted, big-heartedly. “I’m hung over from the fuckery you and your little friends put me through last night and I just had a shit meeting with my new boss. I’m sure we’re all going to be the bestest of friends once I get some fucking rest and forget the fact that your boss fondled my testicles.”

  “If you need a checklist, I’m sure your bosses would be happy to give you one,” the man said evenly, shrugging. “Just remember you’re dealing with people who’ll seal your mouth shut if they don’t feel like listening to you. Being fondled is the least of your problems, Detective.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure what the git’s purpose was. Was he trying to intimidate Bryce? Because men had tried before, and few had succeeded. He could appreciate even a poor impression of intimidation, but there seemed to be some genuine need to try and impart some much-needed wisdom in him.

  “You just don’t wanna have to clean up the mess and… dissolve my individual body parts in pickle brine over the course of a few months, right? I mean, that’s part of your job description too, I imagine, as… muscle. I gotta tell you, this is the nicest threatening intimidation talk I’ve ever had. Gotta hand it to the high elves of Lothlorien. You got class.”

  “If I was going to get rid of your body, I wouldn’t waste months doing it.”

  Bryce was fairly certain that the git had plenty of experience dumping bodies. He knew the type. He put plenty of them away — well. He had. Perhaps having the favor of some magical wizard of Oz wasn’t the worst thing to have, seeing how he had made a fuckton of enemies over the years.

  “Don’t forget what you agreed to do.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. How about we don’t talk about the corruption of a dirty cop in front of the doors of the all-seeing macabre—” He put his hands up in the air, wiggling his fingers enigmatically. “Organization, hmm?”

  “If they’re all-seeing, you’re fucked. But then, you knew that too, didn’t you?” The man nodded then turned to leave, finally allowing Bryce to bend over and pick up his keys from the sidewalk.

  He was fucked, all right, but he had known that before he’d been assigned to this fucking shithole.

  Chapter Five

  On the outside, the Lucky Blight looked like any other casino. Even the entrance and main section seemed normal enough — right down to a player’s club. Slot machines chimed loudly, and patrons crowded around blackjack tables before spending even more in the restaurants and at the buffet.

  The normies came in and out without having a clue of what was on the other side of the doors where Leandro catered to the oblivious, to the desperate and to the wealthy alike. Some played casually, augmenting their earnings. Others bet everything but the shirt on their back, and they probably would’ve offered that, too, if it had been accepted as currency.

  Gideon shook his head and headed for the doors separating the mundane from the realm of the otherkin. Leandro reigned here, and the traditional elements were augmented by the fae’s offerings. Fae, werewolves, vampires, witches, dragons — and those of demonic ancestry and angelic alike — could gather there and be safe.

  Well. Relatively safe.

  Darcy stepped out of his way to let him in, and he felt the shimmer of magic around him as the veil between the two halves of the casino briefly rippled. It didn’t affect him as it did others, rolling off of him like water off a duck’s back. Gideon avoided the usual disorientation that plagued others, brief as it was. Flickers of what would happen if he was incapacitated, however briefly, nagged at him.

  He had enough enemies to be glad he remained in control of himself.

  Unlike on the other side, the otherkin weren’t restricted to playing with money. A single glance over the room showed that their currency stretched out from the mundane to the e
xotic, from cash to jewelry to services Gideon turned a blind eye to.

  It wasn’t his place to judge, only to maintain order and protect Leandro’s interests.

  Of course, now that the new and improved Organization had popped up, a little too knowing and a lot too interested in the otherkin, that could very well change.

  Not his problem — at least, not yet, which was a good thing considering how many others he had to deal with.

  Like the fact that Kolt was cutting across the room in his direction, expression determined enough to be disconcerting.

  Gideon scanned the room, mentally sifting through the possible outcomes so see what might happen. Nothing. No disputes, no overexcited otherkin… only a conversation with the incubus that could go in so many directions that he couldn’t even hope to prepare for it.

  He grabbed his drink and knocked it back, ignoring Kolt’s approach. If only it was booze instead of water… but then, it wouldn’t make it any easier to deal with this shit.

  He leaned against the bar as Kolt slid into the spot between him and the wall. “Leandro’s in a meeting,” he said flatly. “If you need something, you’re gonna have to wait.”

  “Like I don’t know that,” the incubus answered with a scoff, holding up two fingers to the bartender. “Leandro gave this to me…” he said, holding out his hand.

  Gideon glanced down, but there was nothing in Kolt’s hand. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at — at least, not until the glint of gold caught his eye and sparked the first of multiple futures in his mind’s eye. He ignored them, keeping his focus on the present instead of what might happen even as the feeling of dread washed over him.

  The bracelet was intricately designed with stones the same color as Kolt’s eyes. It was nice, probably expensive as hell, and Kol’tso seemed to have dressed just to match the bracelet. Dark pants, a shirt, and a fitted short jacket…

  How did he always manage to look porn-star good no matter what he wore?