Smoke Show
Tess Skye (Book 2)
D.N. Erikson
Copyright © 2021 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.
Published by Watchfire Press.
This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.
Watchfire Press
www.watchfirepress.com
www.dnerikson.com
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Smoke Show/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.
v1.1
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
One
I stare at the clock on the edge of my desk, waiting for its glowing red numbers to hit seven. It’s currently dueling the office’s peeling yellow walls for my attention. The air conditioner rattles behind me, the ancient window unit little match for the Ragnarok summer heat.
A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead and I sigh. If anyone had told me passing on all the morally gray PI jobs—you know, snapping photos of shitbird husbands and investigating disputes between small-time crooks—was going to be this fucking boring, I might never have committed to turning them all down.
Okay, that’s a lie. I was sick of that garbage from the minute I lost my job on the force. But you do what you gotta do when you have bills to pay. Especially when a deranged billionaire is about to poison the water supply like this is some sort of 1940s noir movie.
Now that the threat of Dominic Rillo has been eliminated, though, I’m free to work only the jobs I choose. Suffice to say, the phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook.
I flick the cover of Properties of Rare and Exotic Creatures open with my index finger. I’ve read the four pages devoted to Soulwalkers countless times over the past weeks, but who I am—what I am—remains something of an onion-like mystery.
Each new layer reveals additional depths of complexity.
Ella growls by the side of my desk, her strong jet-black legs churning as she chases rabbits in her sleep. Her owner, my neighbor Toby, was supposed to return from his vacation a week ago. All I’ve received is a single text asking if I can keep watching her a little longer.
I’m cool with it. But I think Ella’s feelings are a bit hurt.
Another minute crawls by. Technically, I run this show, so I could leave at any time.
But my business card says I’m open 9 to 7—and who am I to be accused of false advertising? Lying isn’t a great way to turn over a new business leaf.
There’s also the issue of cash. Being a hero doesn’t pay as well as one might think. While the cops and the Feds sent over their hearty thanks for saving the town from Dom Rillo, billionaire sociopath extraordinaire, it didn’t exactly come with a fat reward check.
As for the funds Finn and I, ahem, liberated from preeminent defense attorney Carrie Zane during our mad dash to save Ragnarok, those all went toward rebuilding the Big Zipper. You can’t even tell that a pyre golem basically wrecked the entire interior and torched most of the thrift store’s merchandise just two weeks ago.
I dare say the renovations might be an improvement. Not that I’d mention that to Miranda’s face. Even if she is still recovering from the pyre golem attack, that old lady is about the last person I’d mess with in this world.
Plus, Miranda did me a huge solid with the herbs she procured from Robert, the apothecarial healer who patched her back together in record time. Whatever this blend is, I’m not sure, but the bullet wound in my shoulder from the motel room a couple weeks back is basically healed.
Such is the power of high-level magic.
Not everything is looking up, of course.
While the Big Zipper might be set to reopen within a few weeks, there wasn’t any cash left over after Miranda’s treatment, my healing herbs, and the remodel.
And alas, my landlord doesn’t trade in town-saving tales.
He deals in dollars. The lease made it clear as such.
The phone rings. Ella jumps up so fast she slams her gray snout against the desk’s leg.
I scratch her ears, running my fingers through her coarse fur.
I’m okay, Tessie. She wriggles away from my touch.
This is one of those Soulwalker abilities I’m still coming to grips with. So long as I’m touching part of their body, I can talk with animals.
Well, an animal. I haven’t tried conversing with any of them other than Ella yet.
“Embarrassed, huh?”
The husky curls her lip.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I glance at the caller ID as the phone continues to ring. It’s Marty—the magus extractor that came by the office last week. Wanted to see if some of his sub-contractors were stealing from the local vein a few miles north of town, out by the Groves.
First I’ve heard back from him since.
I take a deep breath, smile, then answer with, “Marty, it’s good to hear from you. How are things?”
“I, uh…” I can practically hear him wringing his hands together on the other end of the line.
“What is it, Marty?”
“I don’t think I’ll be needing your help.”
I bite my lip. Not exactly what I was expecting. “Last week, you wanted to get started ASAP.”
“I understand that, but…”
“Don’t tell me.” I know where this is headed. “Sherlock.”
“I just think this is a multiple person case. He has an entire team of investigators.”
Calling this petty thievery a case would be stretching the definition of the word. Not exactly the heist of the century. But I hold my tongue and say, “Did any of his investigators save Ragnarok, though?”
“Assisting an official FBI investigation doesn’t exactly qualify as saving the town, does it?”
Oh, Marty’s getting a little feisty. Knew I should’ve demanded more credit in the official report and media. Instead, I settled for a footnote role—even though the only reason this town isn’t buried underwater or dead from neveria extract is thanks to me, Javy Diaz, and Finn Nash.
That’s the problem when you do things because they’re right rather than for credit. All the wrong people claim it. And you wind up with idiots getting promotions and running the show.
Or idiots hiring your competition. As is the case with Marty here.
“Are you still there?” Marty asks in a tentative tone, afraid of what my response might be.
“That’s okay, Marty. I understand.”
“I’m really sorry—”<
br />
“There’s a call on the other line. Gotta run.” I hang up before I can say something I regret.
Ella cocks her head and squints. Her emerald green eyes burn with curiosity amid her unusual markings: an all-gray face set against a body that’s jet black.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I swing my boots up on the desk and lean back in the chair. It groans as I bounce on its wheels.
Another case lost to this douche. Granted, most of them I didn’t want, but Marty’s sounded promising enough.
But it would seem Sherlock Anderson has built-in branding courtesy of his namesake. Branding that I, town savior, apparently cannot hope to match. I’m very much convinced that this can’t be the guy’s real name. On the other hand, I’ve spent plenty of my ample free time over the past couple weeks trying to prove as such without much luck.
Real name or not, every time I walk past his shopfront—an all-glass affair next to the local Starbucks—there are people sitting in the waiting area, people talking with his staff, people just fucking everywhere.
Quite frankly, I’m convinced they have to be actors. Otherwise, everyone in Ragnarok should be concerned about the number of investigations being commissioned.
I mean, really, I’ve lived in this town for twenty years. No way there could be that many petty crimes and deadbeat spouses.
The clock ticks over to 6:59 PM. I reach for the cold coffee. Time to clean up and call it a—
A sharp knock makes me kick the coffee off the desk.
The mug crashes to the floor. Ella howls and scrambles to the corner, claws scraping against the hardwood. She looks indignantly at her back, which is showered in damp coffee grounds.
“Shit.” I look at my jeans, which now look like I just went off-roading out in the Groves. There’s another knock. “Coming!”
I grab a paper towel and try to clean myself off as I rush toward the office door.
Then I muster up my best smile and fling it open. “Welcome to Tess Skye Investigations—”
Except there’s no one to greet. Footsteps echo down the hallway.
“Hello?” I call.
The footsteps pick up their pace, and then the front door to the building slams. I step forward and my boot kicks against something lying on the floor.
I glance down. There’s an envelope—small, but not letter sized. About the dimensions of a wedding invitation or birthday card.
I pick it up and walk to the end of the hallway. Crane my neck to look down the stairwell.
“Anyone there?”
No answer.
Worth a shot, I guess.
I work my finger underneath the envelope’s flap as I head back to the office. The clock reads 7:00 PM as I slide out a piece of thick card stock emblazoned with the logo for the Red Whale.
Ella sidles up next to me. I pat her flank.
What is it?
“Fancy place.”
He smelled good, Tessie.
I sniff the air. She’s right. Definitely a man’s cologne.
I flip the card over.
When I read the name, I almost fall over.
113 million followers.
Hasn’t been seen publicly in two years.
One of the biggest pop culture mysteries of our generation.
I’m tempted to chalk it up as a prank or joke. Even if it’s not, the case is colder than a Siberian winter.
Ella’s bushy black tail thumps against my leg. Read it out loud!
I take a few extra moments and she growls in a playful way and headbutts me.
“All right, all right.” I laugh and scratch her back. “We want to hire you to find Emmy Davis. 7:30 PM at the Red Whale.”
The thumping intensifies. Oh my gosh, really?
“Didn’t take you for such a big fan.”
I love her Insta.
I glance down at Ella, who has a wide doggy grin on her face. “You don’t have an Instagram.”
Toby leaves E! on the television. I see her on it all the time.
“Of course he does.”
Do you know when he’s coming back?
“Soon, girl.” But I sound less than certain. And she can sense it, because her tail slumps down and stops wagging.
Worrying about Toby’s whereabouts is an issue for later, though. Because right now, it looks like I’m not quite off the clock.
I need to do what no one else could: find the girl who disappeared into thin air.
An impossible task, maybe.
But hey, I found out who I was just recently.
Should be pretty good practice for tracking down the most famous shifter in the world—right?
Two
I should probably change clothes before heading to the Red Whale, but I feel the coffee stains on my jeans add to my grizzled private investigator charm. Or maybe I just don’t want to be late. The Red Whale is also downtown, so it’s not too far from my office, but a trip back to my apartment would be cutting things a bit close.
Ella, for her part, stays in the truck out in the Red Whale’s parking lot. The summer breeze makes it cool enough to leave her with the windows down. I set a water dish on the passenger-side floor so she has something to drink. She’s not exactly stoked about not being invited to come with, but I’m pretty sure this place has a strict no dogs policy.
A raft of paparazzi buzz outside the club as I walk up. A couple of them throw me half-hearted glances, and one even raises his camera for a split-second before abandoning the notion. They’re hunting big game, and I’m a microscopic piece of plankton.
I enter the swanky club to find women in elegant evening dresses milling about, men in tailored suits by their sides. Even in the dim light, it’s clear that I don’t exactly fit the dress code, coffee stains or no. I’m left with little time to reflect on my sartorial choices before I’m accosted by the tuxedoed host.
“Excuse me, miss.” His diminutive chest puffs out, as if he’s offended that I would even consider gracing the Red Whale’s hallowed interior. He carries himself with the borrowed superiority those without actual power sometimes adopt to inflate their own egos.
I flash the invitation. “I’m on the list.”
“Allow me to check.” He reaches for the card.
“No can do,” I say, pulling it back. “Strictly confidential.”
“We’ve had a rash of fakes leading to undesirable patrons.”
“Undesirable, huh?” I pretend to wipe at the stain on my jeans. “It’s the coffee, isn’t it?”
The host’s neck muscles constrict. “If I cannot verify your invitation—”
A throat clears behind him, and he turns toward the noise. A bearded man with bright eyes pushes past. “Miss Skye is with me.”
The host opens his mouth to protest, then reconsiders. “Absolutely Mr. Jameson. My apologies.”
He steps aside, hiding seething rage beneath a placating smile.
I give the host a sarcastic thumbs up and then turn toward my bearded savior. “And you are?”
“The man who delivered that note to your door.”
“And then ran away. Kind of weird behavior, buddy.”
“Discretion is of the utmost concern. You understand, given the matter at hand.”
“There’s discretion and then there’s paranoia.”
The bearded man glances over at the tables. The patrons are stealing glances toward us, whispering in hushed tones. “Come. Let us talk somewhere more private.”
“My office would’ve been pretty damn private.”
“You never know where unwanted ears lurk,” he says. “Unless you’re on your own turf.”
“Hiring a PI you don’t trust. Seems like we’re off to a good start.”
He looks about the dimly lit club, at all the prying eyes. “If we could discuss this in—”
“Is this some sort of scam?”
“Why would it be a scam?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Cryptic note. Fleeing the scene. Being terrified of being seen
with me in public.” I shrug. “Even if I wasn’t a former cop, alarm bells would still be friggin’ screaming.”
The bearded man grits his teeth and says in a lowered voice, “You’re here at the personal request of Mr. Davis.”
That catches my attention.
Emmy Davis has been missing for two years—and her father, a renowned restauranteur and club owner, has been largely absent from the public eye for almost as long. I knew he was the owner of the Red Whale.
But it didn’t cross my mind that I might be meeting him tonight.
Then again, time to reflect has been at a premium since the man before me dropped a strange invitation at my office door just half an hour ago.
“Hex Davis wants to see me?” Not his actual name. Supposedly he got it from being cursed by repeated failure early in his career, only to turn his fortunes around. The nickname stuck.
“Indeed.”
“Then why didn’t he come by the office himself?”
“You saw the greeting party on the sidewalk, I presume.” The man gestures toward the closed doors at my back. “Anywhere he goes it’s a tabloid sensation. Hence why he rarely leaves his office.”
“What does he want from me?” I ask.
“I cannot speak for Mr. Davis,” he says. “I’m only his daughter’s manager.”
“Does he actually want me to find Emmy?”
“As I said—”
“Surely you know something.”
“Your story,” he says. “Which is why Mr. Davis wishes to talk with you.”
“My story is I’ve got one skill.” And a couple secret ones. But I’m not quite sure what he means by my story, and I don’t plan on oversharing right now. “Solving cases.”
Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2) Page 1