Not Dead Yet

by Jenn Burke

  He deserved all the respect for that.

  Lexi was reading in the living room when I emerged. I asked her how she got in, and she brandished a key without even looking up. I wasn’t sure if I should be put out that she got a key to Hudson’s house before I did, but since it meant she could join us whenever she needed to, I decided it was a good thing.

  Lexi put a tablet on the kitchen table in front of me. “Timuritans.”

  I rubbed at my eyes to clear the sleep from them. “Bless you?”

  She tapped the tablet and turned to make coffee. “Read.”

  “Ugh.” I braced my chin on my hand. “Give me the high points.”

  Lexi cast a look over her shoulder but started talking as she measured out coffee grounds. “They’re a group of witches—” she grunted “—magic users with the philosophy that anything goes. They’re all about magic for self-gain—trying to stabilize it and make it a reliable option.”

  “Sounds like they’re real party people.”

  “They’re assholes.”

  “Don’t hold back, Lex. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “They’re self-important, greedy asshole sons of bitches.”

  I blinked. “Okay.”

  Lexi sighed. “Sorry. They’re like the Republicans of the magic world. The ends justify the means and all that.” She slammed the lid of the coffee maker shut and faced me. “I don’t like them.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  She nodded at the tablet. “There have been a few stories about Timuritans who have tried sacrificial magic. Mostly animals. A few older accounts of human sacrifice, but nothing recent.”

  “Well, that’s...uh, good.” I frowned. “Wait, so are you saying—”

  “I did some digging into forums on the TWW and I think all of your murder victims were members of a Timuritan group. Nothing solid to back me up, just some whispers of Timbits getting crushed.”

  “They call them Timbits?”

  Lexi shrugged.

  And now I was picturing someone stomping all over yummy donut holes in one of those sacrificial rooms.

  Coffee. I needed coffee.

  “Modern Timuritans are usually pay-to-play groups,” Lexi said. “Meaning you need to have money to contribute to the group before you can join.”

  “And all of our victims were very well off.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Greed begets greed.”

  “Exactly squared.”

  “So what’s our plan?”

  “I have a contact for the Timuritan leader. We can go chat with him, try to get him to confirm the connection between the victims.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Honestly, I’m not keen on us doing that. I think Hudson should be the lead for any suspect questioning or...whatever.”

  I still wasn’t a hundred percent—more like seventy-five—and Lexi’s magic wasn’t a great strategy for defense, since defense equaled personal gain.

  “Fair enough.”

  “What about the vampires?”

  Lexi had been here when we returned last night and shared the news. She’d had a little freak-out, and the lightbulbs in the living room needed to be replaced. Hudson should be thankful more glass didn’t shatter. I’d seen Lexi in a full-on tantrum—I had to replace all the bulbs in my building and get the connection to the electrical grid repaired. Good times.

  “I can’t imagine they’re connected to the Timuritans,” Lexi said. “Magic and vampires don’t mix.”

  “But the lead vampire—I’m positive that’s the guy who killed Meredith and I’m pretty sure he was the one who attacked Iskander too. Which meant he was the client who wanted to contact me—but I still don’t know why or how Isk’s memory got fudged with.” Maybe older vampires had the mind-mojo Hudson lacked? “So...what? Is it like a gang war?”

  Lexi poured us both mugs of coffee and brought them over to the table. “I don’t know what the vampires would gain from killing the Timuritans,” she said after a couple of sips.

  “They’re rich.”

  “But nothing was reported stolen, money or otherwise.”

  “Right—but there’s that missing artifact from Shawn’s secret room.”

  “That could be anything. It might not be connected to his murder. He might have loaned it to someone else in the group.” Lexi’s lips twisted. “Though that’s not likely, given their reputation for greed.”

  “So the vampires—or one vampire in particular—killed Meredith, and may or may not have killed the other Timuritans for unknown reasons. And tried to get to me through Iskander and then tried to kill him.”

  “One thing that’s bugging me is that the vampire didn’t drain Meredith. Or Iskander.”

  “Or Cyril or Shawn, assuming the vampire killed all of them.” I frowned. “Hudson pointed that out, said it was one of the reasons the murderer couldn’t be a vampire. Another being that the murder happened during the day.”

  “So much for that.” She crinkled her nose and her eyes grew unfocused as they usually did when she was working out a problem. “I couldn’t find any more info on the TWW about vampires and no one wanted to chat about them.”

  I didn’t find that shocking. I mean, if vampires didn’t want to talk with one of their own, the chances they’d talk to anyone else were slim.

  “We could hit up one of the vampire bars ourselves.”

  “I thought you didn’t recommend that?”

  “I don’t. But if we want info...”

  “Point. But either way, I’m not making a decision until we can talk it over with Hudson.” I had my opinion on what we should do—witches over vampires—but I was no cop.

  Even if this investigation had strayed far away from any cop’s expectations, vampire or not.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The massive gothic mansion looked like something out of an old black-and-white horror movie. One with vampires wearing slicked-back hair who hissed indignantly at the sun. Or something. It had only a pair of period lamps near the front entrance, meaning the rest of the building was this dark, looming mass against the darker night sky.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I muttered.

  Hudson scoffed as he popped open his door on the beast. “You can’t go into an interview with preconceptions. Everything you see will be tainted by confirmation bias.”

  As we stepped up to the foreboding house belonging to Marcello Salvay, the rumored leader of the Timuritan cult, I thought about suggesting I wait in the car, or accompany Hudson in the otherplane. It would be safer—for both of us, probably, since if anything happened, I could get help. But I didn’t trust that I’d be able to hold myself in the otherplane for the duration of the interview.

  A butler opened the door. I didn’t even know people in Canada had butlers. But from the background Hudson had dug up once he’d decided questioning witches was a better idea than vampires (thank god), Marcello had enough money to hire a whole stable of house help if he wanted. His great-grandfather had been a lumber baron, and the generations since had been savvy investors. At least, that’s what it said on paper. I suspected the truth was a little more magical.

  The butler guided us to what I could only call a parlor. It held antique furniture with curlicues and dainty fabrics and showcased a number of (in my opinion) tacky objets d’art that were probably far more expensive than they looked. I wouldn’t pay much for them, but there was no accounting for taste. The coffee table looked like a harsh breath would send it tumbling to the floor, but it was solid enough to hold a tray with a silver coffee carafe and matching sugar and cream containers, and a trio of delicately flowered porcelain cups.

  A short, rotund man rose from a fancy armchair on the other side of the coffee table and waved his hands expansively to welcome us into the room. “Come in, come in.”

 
“Marcello Salvay?”

  “Indeed.” He grinned, showing off teeth too white and straight to be real. His face was just as round as the rest of him, and his hair was thin, a few strands combed over his bald spot in a sad attempt to camouflage it. I pegged him in his midfifties to midsixties. “You must be Mr. River and Mr. Baker.”

  Something gleamed in his smiling eyes, but I couldn’t identify it. Did he suspect our names were aliases? Because this wasn’t part of the official investigation, Hudson had wanted to keep his identity to himself—so we were posing as potential recruits to the Timuritan cult. Lexi had assured us that Marcello would take our story at face value. It wasn’t like he was a criminal and we were trying to infiltrate his organization—okay, it kind of was, but Marcello didn’t know that, and he wouldn’t suspect it, either. Technically the Timuritans weren’t breaking any laws—mundane or otherwise—unless they were actually doing sacrifices, and there was absolutely no proof that was the case.

  Marcello had no reason to fear two randos asking for a meeting to discuss entering the cult. So why did I have the feeling that he saw right through our ruse?

  “Thank you for seeing us.” Hudson’s usual gruff demeanor was replaced by barely contained enthusiasm. “I can’t believe you were able to make time for us so quickly.”

  Marcello waved away the imposition. “It’s no trouble. I’m always happy to meet likeminded individuals.”

  “Such a relief,” Hudson said. “Edmonton had a horribly dull community. No imagination. No...heart.”

  “Not surprising,” Marcello said with the air of someone who thought anything west or east of mighty Toronto wasn’t worth his time. “Coffee?”

  Hudson and I both accepted, and Marcello poured servings for each of us. Hudson continued chattering away as he doctored his cup with cream and sugar, even though he normally took his coffee black, and sipped it as he answered questions using the guidance Lexi had shared. Since when was Hudson so effusive and expressive?

  Then I realized—I was seeing undercover Hudson for the first time. The guy who could don a different persona to lure in suspects, and who’d been so good at it he’d done it for half his career. Who’d literally given his life to that role. As he charmed Marcello, I finally understood why Hudson had pursued this aspect of his career for so long.

  He was good at it.

  “One of the things I hated about the community in Edmonton was the lack of access to relics,” Hudson lamented.

  “You had to have been able to order—”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s not the same as having markets like they do here.” Lexi had shared that magical markets were indeed a thing—rare, even in Toronto, but not as rare as elsewhere in the country. “Have you ever been to one?”

  “Oh yes, I try to attend as often as I can. There’s nothing like that sort of energy. It’s almost...” Marcello grinned conspiratorially. “Predatory.”

  Hudson shivered. “That sounds exquisite. Have you found any treasures at one?”

  Marcello made a noncommittal noise. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’ve heard rumors of rare, powerful items in the Toronto community.”

  “Have you?” Marcello said softly. He turned quizzical eyes on me. “Mr. Baker? Do you share your partner’s enthusiasm?”

  I blinked and realized I’d slouched in my seat. I struggled to sit up straight, but my body didn’t want to cooperate, and when I tried to answer, all that came out was a nonsensical grunt.

  What the hell?

  “Are you—” Hudson turned to me—and tilted sideways for a second, bracing a hand on the coffee table to prevent himself from sliding to the floor. In an instant, the simpering enthusiasm was gone from his voice, replaced by a cold chill. “Shit. What’d you give us?”

  “Something to make you more amenable to changing locales.” Marcello’s demeanor was as changed as Hudson’s. Gone was the friendly, welcoming host. In his place was a calculating bastard.

  In the instant before everything went black, I recognized that gleam I’d spotted in his eye.

  Greed.

  * * *

  “‘The vampire bar is too dangerous,’ you said. ‘Better to go talk to the witches,’ you said.” I rattled the chains holding me. “How is this better, Hudson?”

  Hudson glared at me as best he could from where he was tethered to the tiled wall with a steel collar around his neck. “You wanted to talk to the witches too.”

  “Not the point. You made the decision.” I let my head fall back on the table I’d been stretched out on and waited for the room to stop spinning. I hated the strap across my chest, but at least for the moment it kept me anchored. “We’re too Canadian.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “We should have said no to the coffee, no matter how rude.”

  Hudson let out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Lesson learned.”

  I assumed we were in Marcello’s secret room—our voices echoed, and the wall behind Hudson was covered in tile. I yanked on the bindings again. There was a little give, but not much, and I certainly didn’t have the strength to break them.

  “Can you ghost?” Hudson asked.

  “No. The fight last night wore me out, and then with the drugs...”

  “Shit.”

  “How about you? Can you break the chains?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What happened to ‘rawr, I’m a predator’?”

  “My head hurts too much for this.”

  “You’re supposed to be extra strong!”

  “Extra strong, not super strong.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Hell yeah, there’s a difference. I’m not Superman.”

  “Okay, so on a scale of me to Captain America tearing a giant log in two with his bare hands, where’re you at?”

  Hudson was quiet for a minute. “That was a great scene.”

  “You saw the gif?” I might not want to have sex with Chris Evans, but I could appreciate his physique from a purely esthetic perspective. And watching the repeat of that movement over and over again...

  “Yeah.” His voice was full of unvarnished appreciation, which I chalked up to the fuzziness from the drugs.

  “So?”

  “So? Oh, right, the scale. Uh...probably about that strong, yeah.”

  I made an exasperated noise. “Then—”

  “Steel is not wood.”

  “That it is not.” There was a note of amusement in Marcello’s voice as he stepped into the room. I turned my head to watch him, but the weird angle made my stomach churn, so I went back to contemplating the ceiling. “How are you both feeling?”

  “Come a little closer,” I suggested. “I want to make sure I get vomit on your shoes.”

  “About as I expected, then.” Marcello’s footsteps moved around the room, but he made sure to stay out of reach.

  I dared move my head again to watch him, and this time it was a little better. “What the hell is the point of all this?”

  “I admit my actions were a little impulsive. But when I saw you, I couldn’t resist.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one we’ve been looking for. The one called Ghost?”

  Three people now had hinted they’d been looking for me: Marcello, the vampire who’d attacked Iskander, and the unknown creature who’d grabbed me in the otherplane. Why the hell was I so popular all of a sudden? And were they working together? Separately? My brain was spinning too hard to make any sense of this.

  “Hey. Shithead. C’mere,” Hudson growled.

  “I think I’m plenty close, Mr. River.”

  “I’m chained to the damned wall and my head is pounding. You think I’m a threat?” Hudson made a dismissive noise. “Come check out my pocket.”

  After a moment where I ass
umed Marcello was weighing the pros and cons of action, he moved in Hudson’s direction. I couldn’t see much, but I heard the rustle of clothing, and he pulled back with a familiar leather wallet in his hand.

  “You know what that is? My motherfucking badge. I’m a detective with the Toronto Police.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh. Oh, he says. You think I’m here without people knowing?”

  Marcello seemed to regroup. “I wasn’t aware the Toronto Police worried themselves about paranormal matters.”

  “They do now.”

  “I see.”

  “What was your plan here?” Hudson demanded. “Kidnap us and damn the consequences?”

  “I—” There was a bead of sweat on Marcello’s brow that hadn’t been there before.

  “Tell us about the missing artifact from Shawn Cartwright’s house,” I said. “Then let us go, and you’ll never see us again.”

  Hudson groaned. “Wes—”

  “Hey, if Mr. Salvay here learns his lesson about kidnapping random police officers and their friends, I’m happy to let this slide. Whaddaya say, Marcello?”

  Marcello turned and left the room.

  “Shit,” Hudson muttered. “Way to go.”

  “Maybe he’s gone to get the key,” I said. “Or, uh, something.”

  We waited a few minutes, but it became clear that wherever Marcello had gone, he wasn’t in any hurry to return. I tried to shift into the otherplane, only to meet a metaphorical brick wall. The events of the past handful of days had drained me to the dregs, lower than I’d ever been in the years since April resurrected me. I gave up my attempt when my ears rang with the effort, and it took me a few minutes to hear over the racket.

  “Wes! Wes, Jesus, talk to me.”

  “I’m okay.”