Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

  People oooh as one of the badgers draws blood with a slash to the ear. I ignore the seat number on my ticket and start to climb the bleachers to see if I can spot Stacey Knight amidst the proceedings.

  Mid-climb, one badger leaps on the other, pinning it in the sand. A flurry of blood sprays through the air as it batters its opponent.

  A human referee finally runs in and hauls the creature off, declaring it the victor. The losing badger writhes in pain, coat stained red, its moans drowned out by the crowd’s bloodthirsty roars.

  That’s when Stacey emerges—in human form—from beneath a large open-air tent standing adjacent to the ring. She slips beneath the ropes and struts around the sand in high heels and a pink bikini, smiling and blowing kisses to the cat-calling fans.

  “And the winner, by TKO in Round 1…Mike “The Machine” Johnson!”

  Stacey holds her arms out and the winning badger prances over to her side. Then she leans over and wraps a golden collar around his neck—a clever twist on a prizefighting belt, since it’s a shifter tournament.

  “And next up, we have a light heavyweight fight between two foxes. Put your hands together and give a warm welcome to…”

  The announcement continues, but I’ve tuned it out. Now that I know where Stacey is, it’s just a matter of reaching her.

  Sure, I could contact her PR people or rep. Try to set up a meeting for some questions.

  But it could be next week before Stacey gets around to meeting with a PI she’s never heard of. That’s if I don’t get stonewalled completely for digging into how she planned to stage her disappearance along with her friends.

  Or I could just arrange my own meeting. Right now.

  I navigate back down the bleachers and wind my way along the ground level. Past the hot dog vendor and cotton candy carousel stands a black-shirted, broad-shoulder guy with a clipboard who screams VIP security.

  I look down at my rumpled t-shirt and jeans. Not exactly going to seduce my way in here. I consider alternatives. After buying the ticket, I have about fifty bucks in my pocket.

  With my fingers crossed, I plaster a big smile across my face and skip up to the guard.

  “Name?” he stares at the clipboard, ready to check me off so he can return to doing nothing.

  “My friend’s in there,” I say. “I just need to talk to her for a minute.”

  “Uh-huh.” The guy glances up, looking unconvinced. “And her name?”

  “Stacey Knight.”

  That gets his attention for a moment, then he rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever.”

  “Just go ask her manager,” I say, standing on my tip toes to see past him. But the tent’s flaps are closed to prying eyes.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “And what’s Stacey gonna say when she finds out?”

  “Don’t care.” He grunts and stares blankly past me, done with the conversation.

  “Fine.” Time for the next plan on the list. I take out the fifty bucks and put it on the clipboard. “I’m a PI. I need ten minutes.”

  He pockets the money and immediately opens the tent’s flap. “Welcome to the VIP area.”

  Should’ve started with that approach, I guess.

  I duck under his thick arm into the tent. It’s small—maybe twenty by twenty—at the edge of the ring. The roar of the crowd filters down from above as the foxes square off in the sandy ring.

  Sitting off in the tent’s corner with her bare feet up is Stacey Knight. Her blonde hair billows from a portable fan pointing toward her face.

  She looks bored out of her mind.

  I march straight over to her. “Stacey?”

  She looks over and then, as if she expects security to be nonexistent and it to be totally normal for random strangers to walk into the VIP tent, dismisses me with, “No autographs.”

  “Good, wasn’t looking for one.”

  Her lips turn into a pouty frown as I stop next to her beach recliner. “Excuse me?”

  “The Wolfhearts hired me to investigate Delia’s murder. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  There’s a yell from the crowd, and Stacey blinks hard. “Uh, like, right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You a cop or something?”

  Not too bright, considering I already told her I wasn’t. But I say, “On official business.”

  “This pot isn’t mine.” She points to a half-smoked joint lying in the gray sand that I never would have noticed.

  No wonder she keeps ending up in jail for the night. She’s probably snitching on herself to the cops about minor crimes they don’t even know about.

  I say, “I don’t care about that.”

  “It’s medicinal, anyway.”

  “All I care about is Project Ghost.”

  She fidgets in the recliner and plays with the tassels on her pink bikini. “Uh, is that like a movie or something?”

  Another awful liar. Seems to be an epidemic in this town.

  “No, it’s how you were going to disappear with your two friends and leave all this behind.” I gesture out toward the ring, where round two is commencing between the bloodied pair of washed-up fox shifters.

  “Okay, fine. Emmy wanted to leave everything behind, Delia did anything she wanted, and I said yes because, like whatever.” Stacey holds up her hands. “But I didn’t do it. So, like, there’s no crime.”

  “Didn’t say there was.” I tap my boot in the sand. “But I am curious how the plan started.”

  “Back when we were kids. Ugh, it was dumb.” Stacey starts chewing on her nails.

  “Indulge me,” I say.

  “This super sleazy dude met with the three of us like, forever ago.”

  “And how long ago would you define as forever?” I’m not inclined to take her literally, but you never know these days, what with Immortals and Shades and who knows what else running around.

  Stacey starts counting on her fingers, face contorted in a mask of intense concentration. “I’m not very good at math.” Then she holds up five fingers—before switching her answer to six.

  She cocks her head, blonde hair tilting to one side, as if to ask, is that right?

  “Six years ago?”

  “It was back in junior year. 2016.” Stacey shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing across her tanned shoulders. “God, I’m so old now.”

  “Just wait until you turn thirty,” I say.

  She recoils, horrified at the mere thought. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

  “I need to know a bit more about this sleazy dude and what he said.”

  “Basically that he’d make us famous if we did him one favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Anything he wanted, he just had to ask.” She shrugs. “I mean, I figured he wanted me to blow him or something once I turned eighteen, but he never came back and cashed it in after we signed the paperwork, so whatever.”

  She seems totally cool with that idea, like it’s a reasonable price for getting famous.

  “You signed something?”

  “Yup.”

  “And that was Project Ghost?”

  “No. After we all signed the stuff, then Emmy said it would be fun to get super famous and then disappear. Like, the ultimate mystery.”

  “Ambitious plan from the start,” I say.

  “That was her thing.”

  “Not yours?”

  “I mean, I was supposed to be there that night two years ago. The chief was helping us disappear. It was gonna be easy.”

  “Chief Summers?”

  “Yeah, that guy.” She twirls her hair around one of her fingers. Outside the tent, the fight rages into round three. “But, like, my life is awesome. I didn’t want to just leave it behind. So I ghosted.”

  I can’t tell if she’s making a pun about Project Ghost or not.

  She reaches for a wine bottle beneath the recliner and downs half of it in one gulp.

  “Survivor’s guilt?” I ask.

  “Hell no, I’m c
elebrating.” Her frown suggests otherwise.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.” Stacey’s voice turns hard and her eyes narrow. “You’re not a cop.”

  “Never said I was.”

  “Yes you did.” The crowd roars and she leaps to her feet. I glance over her tan shoulders.

  One of the foxes is out cold in the gray sand.

  “I think your services are required out there.” I point to the ring.

  “I didn’t leave them!” She throws a wobbly right at me with her empty hand, which I easily duck.

  Everyone in the tent is staring over at us. “That’s my cue.”

  I turn to go, but she screams and pulls me by the hair. It catches me off guard, and I hurtle backward, losing my balance.

  Before I know it, we’re tumbling into the sunlight, out in the ring.

  I push her away and stumble to my feet. It’s tricky getting my footing in the uneven sand, which has been chewed up and bloodied by the day of fights.

  Stacey puts up her fists and squares off against me. The still conscious fox shifter darts into the tent. The loser is rolling in the sand, oblivious to this unplanned interlude.

  The crowd roars, loving this special guest fight.

  I say, “Come on.”

  She launches another punch my way as her answer, which I slip, leaving my back to the Rok River.

  “You’re a liar,” she says.

  “Just hang on here.”

  But then she drops her fists and bull rushes me, sending us both tumbling into the bloody sand. We roll closer and closer to the ring’s edge as I try to dodge her scratches and flailing fists without fighting back. Her sharp nails catch me on the neck and instinct momentarily overrides conscious thought.

  I elbow her in the mouth, drawing blood from her lips. Stacey screams and tries to bite me like a feral dog. The crowd’s roar crescendos into a feverish frenzy.

  A wisp of smoke emerges from her nostrils.

  She’s trying to shift. She might not be much of a fighter, but I really don’t want to deal with the fire from a tiny dragon breathing on my ass.

  We’re about two feet from the river’s edge.

  So I make the executive decision.

  And, clutching her neck tightly in a chokehold, I roll beneath the ropes and send us both plunging into the river.

  Twenty

  After Stacey and I are removed from the river, I’m promptly relieved of my wristband ticket and ejected from the arena. Which is fine by me. I’ve confirmed what Project Ghost was about and found out how the three of them got famous in the first place: a literal deal with the devil.

  That leaves just one thing left on today’s agenda: girls’ night.

  Honestly, with the way the day’s gone, I have no desire to go out drinking. But I gave my word. So even after a day that’s included a fake fifty-million-dollar reward announcement, a run-in with my jailed ex-captain, Finn’s denied request to keep tabs on me at all times, and the revelation that Emmy, Delia, and Stacey plotted their own disappearance, I’m committed.

  I want to just collapse on the couch, but I need a shower to wash away all the sand clinging to my damp skin. There’s a stinging cut along my neck from where Stacey raked me with her nails. A quick inspection of the wound upon exiting the shower reveals an angry looking scratch.

  My phone isn’t working after its dunk in the river, which makes further explorations into the nature of the hidden numbers on the sign impossible. After toweling off and slipping into a baggy t-shirt—it’s a no pants kind of afternoon—I find some long-lost rice tucked away in a forgotten recess of the kitchen.

  I drop my phone inside the bag and cross my fingers that it’ll pull through.

  With a few hours remaining before girls’ night is slated to commence, I recommit myself to the boxes of files stacked about the coffee table.

  That, of course, proves to be a lie. I have zero left in the tank. At some point, I fall asleep—only to be awakened by someone pounding at the door. Bleary-eyed, I stagger upright. Night has fallen, cloaking the apartment in darkness.

  Ella falls off the faded couch and shakes herself off.

  “Some watchdog you are,” I say.

  She starts howling. Whether that’s at me or the noise outside is unknown.

  I wipe the dried saliva off my cheek and stumble over to the peephole.

  “All right, fine.” I unlock the door. Catalina—multiple drinks in already, judging by her breath and demeanor—charges in, blue beaded hair smacking against my cut as she comes in for the hug. Keiko is behind her, more reserved, but offers me a warm enough embrace.

  “You expect to get fucked in that?” Catalina wrinkles her nose, then gives my knee-length shirt the up-down.

  “I thought it was girls’ night.”

  She flicks up the edge of the shirt, then remarking on my lack of underwear, goes, “I see your game. Easier access. Interesting strategy. I like it.”

  I bat her hands away and pull the shirt down. “Boundaries.”

  She dismisses me with a drunken wave. “I’ve been skinny dipping with you before.”

  I look past her, at Keiko. “Hard to believe she’s the surgeon and you’re the bar owner.”

  “The mind boggles,” Keiko says, nodding in agreement. “You got any beer?”

  “No beer. Tequilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.” Catalina stomps into the kitchen to ransack my cabinets.

  While she bangs around, Keiko pets Ella, who wags her tail. “I heard about Toby? How’s he doing?”

  “Still at the hospital,” I say.

  “Shit,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Doesn’t look good,” I say.

  “He and his wife were always so nice when we were kids.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t want to say anything more because there’s a lump already forming in my throat.

  “What was their dog before this one?”

  Ella stops wagging her tail and cocks her gray head, like she’s perplexed by the notion that there could have been a previous dog.

  “Max,” I say. “The Golden Retriever.”

  “Remember when the three of us agreed to watch him? Back in what, ninth grade?”

  “That was tenth grade.”

  “And we let him off the leash at the dog park, and he got under the fence?” Keiko shakes her head—whether it’s at the memory, or at Catalina crashing around in the kitchen on her quest for tequila, I can’t be sure.

  “And we’re chasing him all through the woods, but you’re the only one keeping up with him because you’re the track runner.” I rub my forehead. “Thought I was going to have to tell Toby we lost his dog.”

  “Then Max stopped, and I thought it was cool. Ran up to him, got him by the collar and…”

  “Then you both got hit by the skunk hiding in a nearby bush.” I start laughing. “Oh man, you guys smelled so bad. Me and Catalina couldn’t hang out anywhere near either of you.”

  “You’re telling me. I had a date with Robby Samson later that night.”

  “Cockblocked by a dog. Brutal.”

  “People in the theater actually left.” Now she’s laughing, too. “Like seriously, I think it was just me at the end. I was so mad at that fucking dog.”

  “He was too sweet to stay mad at,” I say.

  Ella leaps on Keiko and growls. She laughs even harder. “Oh, is someone getting a little jealous?”

  “Sounds like it,” I say.

  There’s clattering in the kitchen, followed by a triumphant got this shit! Then Catalina calls out, “Where are the limes, bitch?”

  “In the fridge.”

  Keiko stops petting Ella for a moment. “Robby actually came into the Stallion the other week and tried to ask me out.”

  “Bold move fifteen years down the line.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Should’ve taken his shot back in the day instead of running out of the theater and never talking to me again.”r />
  “Harsh,” I say. “But fair.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Speaking of suitors—”

  “Suitors?” Keiko heads for the kitchen, and I follow. We find Catalina prepping shots. “Did we just travel back to Victorian England?”

  “Yeah, whatever you want to call it. Finn has been a mopey puppy ever since you rejected him.”

  “Ohh, hef’s cuffffe,” Catalina says as she slices the limes with a surgeon’s precision, her words muffled by the wedge already in her mouth.

  Or maybe that’s just the liquor catching up to her.

  “See.” I hold my hands up like I’m signaling for a touchdown. “Who better to judge a man’s character?”

  Keiko says, “My mom’s been divorced five times and she looks like a relationship counselor in comparison.”

  Catalina mumbles something and twists her lips into a pout.

  “I’m just saying. He’s putting his heart out there.”

  “I’m good on the twenty-three-year-old heartthrobs.” Keiko points at the row of shots. “We taking these, or just looking at them?”

  “Woooo!” Catalina hands them out somewhat overzealously, spilling tequila all over the counter. “May you all get fucked as hard as you deserve!”

  “Sure, why not,” I say, liking the enthusiasm, although not on board with the exact sentiment. I clink their glasses, touch the counter with the bottom of mine, then down the burning liquid and make a face.

  Not good.

  But it’s a welcome diversion all the same.

  When I finish, Catalina is already pouring another.

  Apparently, it’s gonna be that type of evening. An appropriate night cap to what’s been a long and strange day.

  Twenty-One

  We could go to the Silver Stallion, but that would be a bit like eating pizza after working in a pizza joint all day. Even if you love pizza, a little variety is a welcome change of place.

  Plus, with Catalina in tow, there’s that old maxim about not shitting where you eat to consider. Because with her this drunk, a tornado is apt to descend upon any establishment we visit.