The shopkeeper returned. His wary eyes scanned the storefront before he came around the counter, holding a small item bundled in sky-blue cloth in his right hand.
He held his left hand up. “One moment, please.”
Taylor waited, alert but relaxed, as he ambled across the shop and turned the sign in the front window to the Closed position. He drew the curtains, locked the door, and turned slowly, now holding the blue-wrapped object with both hands.
“Madam, do you know what this is?”
She intuited immediately that he was entirely aware of its true potential but he would not mention that until she said something to indicate her own degree of understanding. If she gave a wrong answer, he would respond by saying that it was merely old and valuable or that it had been passed down through many generations and required fastidious care.
Both of those statements were true, of course, but they did not tell the whole story.
“That,” she began, and pointed gingerly at the bundle with a red-nailed finger, “is the ritual dagger used by the tenth-century magician Teremun al-Harb. He employed it in a ceremony thought to be a mere legend in which he and his followers overpowered and defeated a vampire who had ravaged the Sinai.”
The proprietor’s face might as well have turned to stone.
Taylor continued briskly. “It is said—pardon me, it is known that to this day, it retains some power when properly activated to bind the evil undead—vampiri, lamia, ghul, vukodlak, the walking corpses who feed upon the blood of the living.”
Phrasing it that way made her deeply uncomfortable, but she gave no indication of her feelings. Besides, she had made peace with what she was long before. And she held herself to certain standards. She was civilized.
Slowly, the man nodded. “Yes, this is true. I see that you are knowledgeable. And I suspect that you are interested in this relic for reasons that are more than mere curiosity. You are not only a collector of rare things. Yes?”
She smiled lightly. “Yes. What is your name, friend?”
“Hossam Totah,” he stated, and she had no doubt he told the truth. “And yours?”
“I am called Taylor Steele. In my country—America—I am often called upon to deal with certain problems that no one else can resolve. I have seen many things. I know that there are things which are real and true, even if the modern world has forgotten them.”
With a nod, Totah stepped closer to her and motioned for the two of them to relocate to the back of the store.
They sat at a low table on comfortable cushions and drank a small pot of tea while they continued the discussion of the al-Harb dagger. And, of course, its price. Taylor would have been willing to pay much of her entire fortune for it, at this point, but she did not bother to reveal that fact. Still, her opening offer was quite generous.
After a cursory effort to haggle a little, Totah pretended to consider her bargain and diverted the talk instead to the object itself. He asked permission to switch from English to Arabic, which she granted. She was more familiar with the Egyptian dialect than any other and she had little trouble understanding him.
“The magic in this dagger,” he explained, “is dormant. It has great power but it is useless to you without a spell to awaken it.”
“I see,” she acknowledged. “And how would I acquire this spell or find someone who can cast it?”
He finished his tea and set the cup aside. “Yes, I know of one who can give you the text and perhaps the components. But he is not capable of casting it himself. For that, you will need a true sorcerer—a witch, perhaps. I understand the West has witches of significant talent.”
“True,” she agreed, “but not as true as it once was.”
The shopkeeper wrote down the name and address of the individual he had alluded to and handed it to her. He apologized for his sloppy script, although she found it legible enough.
“Ms Steele,” he went on and his deep, dark eyes gazed into hers, “there is one more thing. Although this dagger is intended to be used for good, one who would wield it must descend into a realm of dark and evil magicks. There is great danger. If I sell this precious object to you, are you certain that it will be worth the price? Not only the money, of course, but the toll that it may extract from your very soul?”
Taylor closed her eyes for a few seconds. She knew of what the man spoke but hadn’t quite expected him to state it so frankly. “Yes. It is of the utmost necessity. Many innocent lives are at stake.”
The old man nodded. “So be it.”
She paid him slightly more than her opening offer, as expected. It was a handsome sum but not one that would cripple her in the months or years to come.
They both stood and moved out toward the entrance. She tucked the still-wrapped dagger into her clothes.
“Sir,” she said, “thank you for this important item as well as for your hospitality and advice. May you prosper in peace and safety.”
He smiled. “May you as well. Take care.”
She stepped outside into the ancient streets. The modern technology of lamps and vehicles seemed almost incongruous, even in a part of Jerusalem that could not be that old. New and flashy cars drove past now and then or parked along the street, and groups of young people—mostly Copts and Armenians and Muslim Arabs, it seemed—strolled past, speaking many different tongues. The air was warm and dry and fragrant.
It took a few minutes to hail a cab, this one driven by a woman who was polite but seemed tired and uninterested in conversation. This suited Taylor perfectly, as her thoughts and emotions roiled within her and demanded attention as she reclined in the back of the taxi.
The battle. It replayed in her head as it had almost every day since that terrible, bloody evening in the tunnel. She vividly recalled the almost overwhelming evil force that Moswen Neith projected, the pain she had inflicted, and the thing she had become.
And, of course, the effect the whole experience had on her. Since then, she had been afraid. Fear was not an emotion she felt much of, these days.
When the memory reached the point at which Moswen transformed, Taylor cut it off as cleanly as if pressing the button on a monitor. She refused to see that again. But it stayed with her regardless and drove her forward, and her hand clenched around the slight bulge where the dagger rested.
She intended to put that fear to rest, once and for all. Soon.
Chapter Nine
Moonlight Detective Agency Offices, Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York
Miss Roberta “Bobby” Diaz sat behind her desk in the lobby, twirled a pencil between the fingers of both hands, admired the perfect hexagonal structure, and realized that she knew almost nothing about graphite. At least she’d discovered that it wasn’t actually lead.
It used to be that her tasks and chores—she was effectively the agency’s secretary as well as its receptionist—took her all day to complete, and she was often slightly behind.
Today, everything seemed easier. Patterns had emerged, shortcuts had suggested themselves, and although at times it felt like her brain reeled and scooted ahead of itself, she managed to keep up.
And, of course, she mentally reviewed every case they’d handled that she could recall, teased out the preternatural elements and wondered, with a kind of subdued shame, how she could have missed some of the glaring clues.
It was strange and even a little frightening but incredible, in a way. If indeed she was under some kind of spell, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be cured of it.
A figure appeared at the front door and pushed its way in, ringing the little bell. It was a tall, old man in a shabby brown coat but aside from that, he looked like he’d done a hurried but effective job of freshening up—shaved, showered, and put on the nicest clothes he had. He took the coat off as soon as he was indoors.
“Hello,” Bobby greeted him. He looked familiar.
“Good afternoon, miss. I’m a friend of Remington’s. You might say even a business partner. Although this is the first time I’ve be
en into the office so I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Don Gannon.”
She recognized the name and Remy had shown her a picture of him. He was taller than she’d imagined, although his posture was a little stooped. And of course, he’d gone the extra mile today in the hygiene department.
“Hi, Mr Gannon. Yeah, Mr Remington told me all about you. How can I help you?”
To be safe, she opted to give no indication of her current level of intelligence. First, she’d wait to hear what he had to say and try to see what, exactly, he wanted.
Remy had told her about their informal deal to exchange information. He and Riley had returned about an hour before but they were busy in his office, going over information and making plans. She decided not to mention that he was present, either.
“Oh,” Don said and smiled with mostly genuine warmth, “I only wanted to drop off a few tips I thought Mr Remington might find useful—word on the street and all that. And, naturally, check to see if you good people have anything for me in return.”
In the corner of her field of vision, she saw Conrad saunter along the far side of the lobby to ensure that everything was alright. He waited there a few seconds before he drifted out of sight, although still close at hand.
“Okay,” Bobby replied. She wanted to look cheerful and a little vacant but found it difficult to emulate her past persona in a conscious fashion. “Um, why don’t you start by asking if there’s anything you want to know about from us? Specifically.”
Don rubbed his chin and seemed perplexed by its smoothness. “Well, my personal investigations of late have turned up a few faces. And I’m fairly sure I have names to go with those faces. What I’d like is to know if your agency has had any dealings with those names or any record of their activities.”
The young woman nodded. Mr Gannon’s gaze had begun to drift gradually toward her cleavage. Clearly, he wasn’t that old.
“I see.” She jiggled her mouse to wake her computer. “So, what are the names?”
He leaned against the reception desk. “For starters…Abel Dusek. Yes, the Congressman. I only want to know if you’ve had any business dealings with him. Or, if possible, with anyone in his employ since a man in his position might act through intermediaries.”
Bobby allowed her face to show legitimate surprise at that and she wrote the name down. She remembered, to her own satisfaction, how it was spelled.
“Wow. Okay. Looking into his associates might take some time, though.”
“That’s fine.” He waited for her to finish scribbling. “Second, Colonel James Russel of the New York National Guard—Army branch, not Air Force. I believe he retired recently—or so the official story goes—but can’t confirm that yet.”
She added the name to the same post-it note as Dusek. “Is that with one or two S’s and L’s?”
“Uh…two S’s, one L.” He seemed taken aback by the question.
“Okay, so,” she explained, “I can run the names through our customer databases quickly and at least tell you that, but anything else will definitely take a while.” She punched both men’s names into the computer and leaned back while it worked its magic.
It took only about two seconds. No results found. She told Mr. Gannon as much.
“Damn,” he mumbled. “Well, please get back to me if you find anything later.” He produced a business card from within his shirt pocket and handed it to hr.
“Sure thing,” she said.
Don plucked a piece of candy out of the complimentary bowl. “Is Remington in right now?” While he enjoyed the sight of her, he clearly would rather have this conversation with a person he knew well.
“Nah,” she lied, “I can take a message, though.”
Again, the man fondled his stubble-free jaw. “Well, I happen to have completed some rather daring investigative work on a stakeout last night, near a locale known as a hotspot for shady, dangerous characters.”
She nodded as if impressed. “Ohh, I see. Really? What did you find?”
His ego stimulated, Don proceeded to divulge more than he probably intended to.
“Oh, you know”—he chuckled—“the kind of thing that might well crack certain cases wide open. What they like to call ‘visual evidence.’ It’s not always easy to come by, but I pulled it off. It might even be related to some of those missing persons you folks are looking into.”
“Hmm, that could be,” Bobby interjected. “Go on. I find this kind of stuff fascinating.”
He smiled. “Based on my intel, it seems there’s some kind of…cult, afoot. That’s what people are saying and I can see it being true. They’re aggressively recruiting members with real influence in society—politicians, entertainers, police and military officers, that kind of thing. Perhaps trying to get a foothold in DC, even. It might also be related to this Snow White business. Some people have even said that this little cult is run by a vampire. I don’t know about that, but it seems like something Remington might be intrigued by so he should definitely talk to me, and soon.”
“Wow,” she drawled. “I will relay the message, Mr Gannon, no problem.”
Satisfied, Don took one last look at her breasts, then said his goodbyes, retrieved his coat, and sauntered to the exit.
Once the man had stepped out the door, she counted the seconds until either two minutes had passed or she heard his car start, whichever came first. The engine started after ninety-six seconds.
She immediately punched the names of Dusek and Russel into both a conventional search engine and another, secret database that Volz had set up before the spell-bomb had all but incapacitated him.
The conventional search turned up nothing of interest, aside from normal political information about Rep Dusek and an announcement in a military publication that Col Russel had put in for retirement about three weeks before. She was surprised that Gannon hadn’t found it himself, but he might not have had time to look.
The other search would take longer. She set it to send the results to Mr Remington’s email. While she waited, Bobby stood and walked to his office. She knocked on the door.
“Bobby?” he asked. “Come in. This is about Don Gannon, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” She opened the door and stepped through.
Remy pored over documents she’d given him earlier between glances at something on his computer screen. Riley was asleep on top of the overturned coffee cup he always kept on his desk.
So that’s what it’s for. I always assumed he turned it upside down to keep bugs out and forgot about it whenever he went to get coffee.
He looked at her. “I heard him out there. Well, kind of. Thanks for running interference since I don’t really feel like dealing with him right now. What did ol’ Don have to say?”
She recounted their interaction in detail and finished by handing him the post-it note with the two men’s names written out.
“And,” she concluded, “the results of Volz’s DarkSearch should be in your inbox at any minute now. If we’re lucky, we can probably get this colonel’s address or some kind of personal info that will help you track him down and talk to him.”
Remington scratched beside his nose. “Nicely done. And—yup, there it is.” He glanced at his PC screen and clicked on something, presumably the search results. “So, do we think this Russel guy is an intermediary, a major player, a defector from decadence, or what?”
Bobby placed her left hand on her hip and gestured with her right as she spoke. “I’ve thought about it myself since Don came in, and I honestly suspect that Moswen turned him into one of her thralls.”
He raised an eyebrow. Judging by his grim expression, he’d quickly grasped the implications of their nemesis having a slave who happened to possess high-level military contacts.
“The thing Don said about this cult led by a vampire is probably true,” she went on. “She’s trying to infiltrate DC via the official channels leading out of New York. And she failed to kill you guys before using brute force, so trying to do i
t with ‘respectable’ agents might work better for her. He has to be either a thrall or, like, she’s holding a member of his family hostage until he does her bidding.”
“Ugh,” he commented, “I think you’re right, unfortunately. No offense, I simply mean that if that’s true, things could get even uglier than they already are. And, yup, I found his address.”
He wrote the new information on the note beside Russel’s name. That done, he used his pencil to gently prod the sleeping fairy on the cup.
“Riley, wake up. Sorry, but I really need to ask you something.”
With a tiny sound of protest, she rolled over, yawned, and returned to consciousness. “What is it? I was sleeping.”
“Yeah, my apologies. Something kind of important has come up, though. We have a lead on one of Moswen’s chief lackeys. The problem is, he’s quite possibly a thrall. Taylor was able to remove that enchantment from Alex, but she…uh, you know, kinda isn’t here. Do you think…your magic could handle it?”
The fairy sat up, rubbed her eyes, and sighed. “I’m not sure. I…give me a moment to think. I just woke up.”
Bobby frowned and imagined how the fairy must have felt pressured. She thought about suggesting that he wait until later, but he was right about one thing—this was important.
“Okay,” he said and his expression softened. “Personally, I never take naps since they screw up my sense of time, so I can…uh, see how you’d need a minute. Do you want some coffee? I’ll even force myself to put sugar in it for you.”
She held a hand up, stretched, shook her head, and sat in silence for about twenty seconds before she spoke.
“Okay, I’m better. I need more sleep, but that helped. Um…I don’t know, though. Vampire magic is different from fae magic. It’s stronger in some ways and weaker in others. Of course, I could try, but we might get hurt in the meantime.” She frowned and blushed.
While Remy considered this, an answer leaped into Bobby’s brain and she relayed it immediately.
“You could take Conrad,” she suggested. “That way, you’ll have backup muscle if things go south. Based on what you said previously, at least between him and Riley, you could probably restrain him and maybe capture him until Taylor comes back and can deal with it herself.”
Under Pressure (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 4) Page 9