Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

  There’s a whine, then the booming voice announces, “The dog dies if you do not reveal yourself.”

  I go to stand. Javy holds up his hand, careful not to touch me. “Wait.”

  “I have to.”

  “He’ll kill her anyway.” Javy twists his free arm around and reaches up to feel along the countertop. He returns with a butter knife.

  I squint at the dull, serrated blade. “That doesn’t look super useful.”

  “Are you listening to me?” The warlock sounds rather enraged about us not acknowledging his presence.

  Javy hands the butter knife to me. “Throw it into the living room. On my count.”

  “What?”

  He checks the gun’s magazine. “Three. Two.”

  Our uninvited visitor yells, “The dog dies!”

  “Now.”

  I peek out from behind the wall and hurl the knife into the swirling smoke. It tings off a chair. A lightning bolt hurtles toward the noise, illuminating the room for a brief moment.

  Time seems to pause as I stare into the warlock’s crazed eyes. They burn with a furious hatred.

  I don’t recognize him. Some sort of mercenary, perhaps. I can see that’s he been driven mad by magus. Too much of it flows through his veins.

  Javy rises and puts two shots in our attacker’s head.

  The warlock buckles, crashing into the files sitting atop the coffee table. Papers rain down amid the smoky carnage. Flames lap at the edge of his coat, using the couch’s upholstery and papers for further kindling.

  I snap my fingers and call out, “El!”

  The husky’s chain jingles as she races into the kitchen. She leaps into my arms and almost knocks me over. She licks my face in appreciation.

  I did not want to be a hot dog.

  I laugh out loud and say, “Good joke.”

  Ella stops licking me and cocks her head. I did not make a joke, Tessie.

  “That’s all right. It was still funny.”

  Her tail thumps against my abdomen as I glance over at Javy. He’s currently checking the warlock’s vitals. He makes a throat cutting motion to indicate the guy is dead. Then he heads through the empty doorway and inspects the hallway. Satisfied that the warlock doesn’t have any backup, he steps back inside.

  I just say, “Thanks.”

  And he just replies, “That’s what partners are for.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The flames aren’t intense enough to warrant an immediate evacuation of the apartment or a call to the fire department. It does, however, take the entirety of the extinguisher I keep under the sink—along with a few blankets and pots of water—to bring the blazing couch under control.

  Afterward, it’s a soggy, charred mess. So much for sentimentality. I should’ve replaced it years ago, but the fact that Mom picked it out led me to hang on way too long.

  A bigger problem is that most of the case files have been ruined along with it—either waterlogged, covered in extinguisher foam, or cooked to flaking ash.

  With Javy’s help, I salvage what I can. But when we’re done, the sum total is about a quarter of the files. I’d make a joke about the silver lining saving us from boredom, but the truth is, we needed every lead we could find, no matter how small.

  And now one of them might be gone forever.

  I look at the coffee table and groan. The glass has cracked from the warlock’s weight.

  Gonna need a new one.

  Again.

  Javy places his hand gently on my shoulder, careful to ensure his skin touches only the fabric. “You can’t stay here tonight.”

  “It’s fine.” I kick at some bits of charred paper littering the ground. “No one’s coming back.”

  After battling a hitman and a killer warlock in an eight hour span, though, it’s hard for that to sound convincing.

  “You don’t even have a door, Tess.” Javy points to the empty space where it used to be. Its wooden remains are scattered in a hundred splintered pieces across the floor. Now I can just see straight into the hall.

  Looks like another call to the locksmith is in order.

  Along with a carpenter.

  I want to protest, but that would make me an idiot. An idiot with a death wish. Because he’s 100% right: someone came hunting for me in my own home. And door or no, it’s not safe here.

  I walk over to my would-be assassin’s corpse to examine him.

  Other than the glint in his eyes when he was alive and casting magic, it’d be impossible to tell he was a warlock. That’s not unusual—most warlocks and sorceresses are made, not born, after all.

  I remove his leather coat and scan his pale skin for marks or tattoos. He has none.

  His pockets reveal a wallet. It’s empty, save for a sheet of paper.

  But after I read what’s on it, it explains everything that just happened.

  “Friggin’ crazies,” I say and hand it to Javy without further comment.

  He grimaces as he reads the contents of the note. “This has gone too far.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  This moron drove all the way from New Mexico upon seeing Marius’s video of me “interfering” with the investigation. Fueled on what has to be illicitly acquired and improperly administered magus, this man—who refers to himself only as “Emmy’s biggest fan”—brought it upon himself to send a message to all those who might ruin the chances of her safe return.

  That message being killing me.

  “He’s not going to stop.” Javy surveys the wreckage and shakes his head.

  “I don’t know, I think this guy’s done for.” I nudge the warlock’s limp hand with my boot to demonstrate that he is indeed very dead.

  “You know who I mean.”

  “Marius?”

  “This is only the beginning.”

  “So change of plan, then? Go pay him a visit?”

  Javy says, “He’ll just keep coming until he gets what he wants.”

  “Revenge?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  But Javy surprises me when he says, “No, Tess. I think Marius wants you.”

  Thirty

  I consider Javy’s words.

  Yes, Marius kicked this whole thing off by inviting me to the Red Whale. But what does the whole Emmy Davis business have to do with me? Six years ago, when that all began, I didn’t even knew what I was.

  Anything’s possible. But I’m not sure I buy that Marius wants me.

  In any event, staying in the apartment to debate who’s right won’t bring us any closer to ridding the town of him. So Javy and I settle on a course of action: clean up, then regroup elsewhere to hash out a plan. Which is going to demand some reflection, given that “killing” Marius would just result in him transferring to a new host.

  That wouldn’t be much of a solution. More like a hellish new beginning.

  And we still don’t know what, if anything, he has hiding up his sleeve. But it’s become too dangerous to play the waiting game.

  One way or another, we need to take the fight to him.

  I gather some clothes, my Glock, and a toothbrush. There’s nothing else in the apartment that’s super valuable or critical, save for Toby’s strange, rusty key. I’m not even sure if that qualifies as either, but I toss it in the box with the surviving files anyway before hauling everything out to the car.

  That’d be it, except for one final issue: the warlock’s body.

  Leaving it here is an option. Calling it in to the police is another. Both fantastic solutions if we want a bunch of attention and cops crawling up our asses. Especially after being on the official record as having killed someone already today.

  No thanks. I have more public scrutiny than I can handle as it is. Another dead body, even if I didn’t pull the trigger, would put things over the edge.

  We wrap the dead idiot in a sheet, drag him downstairs, and throw the body into the bed of my truck. Then we bag up the trash—the ruined coffee table, torched rug, and other broken pieces
—and toss that in next to him.

  The couch and broken door, unfortunately, have to stay for now. I set a phone reminder to call the locksmith and carpenter tomorrow. By the time we’re done with all the cleanup, it’s past midnight. Ella is snoozing on the sidewalk. I nudge her with my foot and she groggily wakes up and stumbles into the truck.

  I close the door and turn to Javy.

  “Thanks for everything.” I cross my arms. “I’ll stay at a motel tonight.”

  “You’re not staying alone.”

  “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  Javy says, “Maybe I’m the one who needs your protection.”

  “Ha, funny.”

  “There’s plenty of truth in it.” Javy wears a somber expression.

  “You can’t die.”

  “There are fates far worse than death.” His top lip curls into a slight grimace that quickly vanishes. But that little twitch hides an avalanche of regret.

  I know because I’ve lived pieces of his past.

  “All right, fine. But only because you’re scared.” I punch his shoulder, careful not to touch his skin. His lifetime flowing into mine is like riding through river rapids while being cattle prodded.

  That Soulwalking experience is not one I’m eager to repeat soon.

  “Don’t knock fear,” Javy says. “It’s what keeps you alive.”

  “Amen to that,” I say. “So where we headed?”

  He starts walking toward his car, which is parked up the street. “My place.”

  Thirty-One

  I’ve never been to Javy’s residence before. Never even looked up where it was in the department database. So I don’t know if he lives in an apartment, a penthouse, a mansion, or a box in the middle of the sewer. I’ve never had reason to ask.

  We were always the type of work partners who would die for each other. But our personal lives rarely crossed. What happened after the case was done or the shift ended was always somewhat of a mystery.

  That’s why I never figured out he was an Immortal until he told me a couple weeks ago. Then again, I’m not sure how that particular subject would have come up anyway.

  My truck’s lights knife through the thick trees, casting a ghostly glow over the back of Javy’s sedan. He turns down a dirt road. My front wheels bounce up and down as I follow him.

  I check my GPS. We’re about halfway between the Groves and the town. Not quite the middle of nowhere, but certainly more than a stone’s throw away from the action.

  His car disappears around a corner. When I make the turn, the trees open into a clearing and I say to a sleeping Ella, “Holy shit.”

  It’s not the size of the place—it qualifies as neither small nor imposing.

  It’s that the entire all-glass structure looks like something out of Architectural Digest. The glass itself is tinted in some sections, clear in others, allowing me to peek at the modern leather furnishings in his living room and glimmering steel kitchen appliances.

  I pull in next to an Accord covered in familiar stickers—Black Flag, Sex Pistols.

  Despite the impressive nature of the house, that’s what really catches my attention.

  Catalina is here, apparently.

  I cut the engine and press my hand gently against Ella’s flank. Her sleepy eyes flutter open.

  Are we there yet?

  I nod and let her out. Javy walks over as I step down from the truck.

  “Nice spread,” I say.

  “A lifetime affords a man plenty of opportunity to amass wealth.”

  “Looks like you have a visitor.”

  Javy blinks twice, having not registered who it was. “Shit. She was coming over for a late dinner.”

  “Oh man.” I snort. “And you thought the warlock was bad.”

  As if on cue, the Accord’s interior light comes on. Catalina pops up on the driver’s side, hair plastering her cheeks. She wipes her eyes, squints, and then her eyes narrow into a nuclear glare when she spots Javy.

  “Better have your body armor on.” I drag the box of files out of the truck and start walking toward his house.

  “I’ll be fine. Just cover for me.” He takes the box and hurries up to the house.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He replies, but the words are swallowed by the chirping crickets.

  I throw up my hands in surrender. Then I whistle and call into the darkness, “El?”

  Ella bounds out from the woods, tongue hanging out. She rubs against my leg. In the clean air, I can smell that she badly needs a bath; her fur reeks of smoke.

  Or that could be me.

  Baths for us both, then.

  A car door slams and I steel myself for the verbal onslaught about to rain down upon my ears. Catalina, clad in an odd combination of trench coat and running sneakers, hurries over.

  “So that’s why Javy stood me up? Work?”

  “Hey,” I say. “We might be doing it behind your back.”

  She flips me the bird. “You love me too much.”

  “Never say never.”

  “I’m gonna kill him,” Catalina says. “I’ve been dressed in this stupid coat for hours.”

  She opens up her trench coat to reveal—well, nothing. Also, nothing I haven’t seen before. She is not what one would call bashful or modest. Then again, if I looked like I owned an entire fleet of gyms, I’d probably parade around naked in front of everyone, too.

  “Well, don’t go too hard on him,” I say as I reach out to retie the coat’s waistbelt. “He did almost die.”

  Her white-hot anger fades into concern. She hugs me.

  “Why didn’t you lead with that, bitch?” She sniffs the air gingerly while we embrace. “You smell like a piece of toast burnt.”

  “Funny, you smell like someone who didn’t get laid.”

  She releases the hug and gives me a gentle shove. “No reason to be a dick.” Then Catalina hugs me again and nestles her chin into my shoulder.

  I wince as her jaw rubs against the bullet graze.

  Her voice is a low whisper as she says, “Are you okay, Tess?”

  I stare up at the starry night, unpolluted by the town’s lights, unsure how to answer. So I just settle on, “I’ll let you know when I know.”

  Thirty-Two

  When Catalina and I head inside Javy’s immaculate house, we find him sitting at his kitchen island nursing a late-night cup of coffee. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, which is slightly jarring, since I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him wearing one. The surviving box of evidence sits next to his mug. The smell of charred cardboard hangs over the large open-air floor plan, which combines the living room, dining room, and kitchen into one seamless area.

  “We’re going to have a little talk later, mister.” Catalina glares at Javy then trots toward the stairwell that leads outside. She pauses in the doorway, lifts up the back of the trench coat to moon him—us, really, since I’m watching, too—then leaves us to the work.

  After her car disappears into the thick trees, I turn to Javy. “I think she might forgive you.”

  “She’s an intense woman.”

  His expression is like a smooth stone wall—blank and unreadable. “Good intense or bad intense?”

  Javy sips his coffee and gazes out at the moonlit forest but doesn’t answer.

  “Hey.”

  He jerks his head away from the endless glass, jarred from his thoughts. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  Javy puts the mug down. “Life.”

  “Our recent near-death experience making you philosophical?”

  He runs his hand through his thick, black hair and offers a small smile. “Must be.”

  I sit down next to him at the kitchen island and say, “Wanna talk about it?”

  He bats the mug back and forth between his two outstretched hands for a bit before answering with, “You know when you asked me wh
y I came to Ragnarok?”

  “My memory is fully functioning now,” I say, referring to the temporary amnesia that pockmarked the previous year thanks to Rillo messing with my memory. “So yeah, I remember three hours ago.”

  “It was like talking to a goldfish sometimes,” Javy says.

  “A very smart goldfish.”

  “Naturally,” he says. “Anyway, the answer is simple.”

  “You said it was a long story.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “Just making up for lost time.”

  “Truth is, I came here to hide.”

  “Hide?” I can’t imagine Javy running from anything. “From what?”

  “Not what. Who.” He stares into the mug as if he’s hoping the remaining coffee will announce the answer for him. Finally, he says, “A woman.”

  “Bang buddy?” I ask.

  “A bit more than that.”

  “Sorry, probably been hanging around Catalina too much.”

  “Here’s to my own vocabulary becoming more colorful,” Javy says.

  I snort. “So I guess that means good intense.”

  “We all have a type.” Javy finishes his coffee. “So yeah, lover and…killer.”

  “Must be one hell of a girl,” I say. Then I put two and two together. “That digging you mentioned earlier. She’s not the—”

  “Shade?” Javy nods and pushes the empty mug aside. “She is.”

  “Damn. So it is a long story.”

  “Depends on how you tell it.”

  “Is she actually in Ragnarok?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” He stands up and drags the evidence box across the granite countertop. “A problem for another day, in any event. Let’s see what we have on Marius.”

  I could ask plenty more questions, but he’s right.

  Better to focus on the immediate task at hand.

  And that’s ridding ourselves of this Marius problem.

  “We could just go to the Red Whale,” I say as Javy removes the lid from the singed box.