A Girl’s Best Friend (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 3)

by Isobella Crowley

  A tremor went through the bald guy’s whole body as he wavered from the bottle blow and slumped against the dumpster. Remy gasped, the punch having knocked the wind out of him. But he was still standing and his adversary was not.

  By now, the long-haired white guy had already sprung to his feet and looked almost like he was about to foam at the mouth. The investigator settled into a basic combat stance with his right hand holding the broken neck of the bottle facing his enemy.

  Rather than try another broad swipe, though, the man thrust his fingers at his quarry’s face. He flinched and cursed as the guy’s other hand descended on his wrist and clawed at it.

  Remy let the bottle fragment go, backpedaled, and slipped away before his attacker could seize hold of him. But already, his foe was winding up another attack.

  This is the takedown. It looks like a golden opportunity to—

  The strike came so fast and hard and at such a strange angle that the golden opportunity quickly decayed first to silver and then to bronze. That was still a medal, though.

  He inserted himself into the man’s space and pulled on his arm and shoulder while he pushed against his legs with his own. It wasn’t the identical move he’d learned in class, but the basic principles were the same. The objective was to interfere with the opponent’s balance and use inertia against them.

  His assailant tumbled forward and tripped over the legs of his partner.

  “Hah!” He laughed, only to realize that the bastard would find his feet in another second and he might not be able to outrun him. Quickly, he looked around for another weapon.

  A large section of pavement was cracked and loose. High on adrenaline, he pounced on it and lifted it, broke it off, and hoisted it over his head. It probably weighed a good twenty pounds.

  Remy hastened to the side of the man he’d thrown and hurled the concrete chunk at his leg. It landed on his ankle with a satisfying crunch, and the man screamed, partially pinned to the ground. The weight might not have held him under other circumstances, but it was different with a broken bone.

  That was his cue to sprint past the assassin and keep running. He slowed only a little when he reached the next street at the end of the block. There, he turned right and detoured slightly to get off the same course and lose himself in the nearest crowd if he could find one.

  A few people seemed to sense something was amiss and veered away from him as he hurried between them. He drew in a deep breath and tried to look normal.

  After a moment, he glanced down and saw that his wrist was bleeding slightly where the man had snatched at him. Frowning, he put his gloves on and pulled his sleeves down over their ends to cover the wound.

  “Well,” he said quietly enough to be barely audible, “it looks like the training has already paid off. That Egyptian bitch will have to do better than that if she thinks she can beat us.”

  Remy almost burst out laughing, suddenly giddy with the rush of victory, but stopped himself with a few more measured inhalations.

  In the next moment, he froze in place as a thought descended from on high to strike him.

  If Moswen’s henchmen had attacked him, they might also have tried to strike at Taylor. And she needed to sleep during the day—for at least the next ninety minutes and maybe two hours, she was almost helpless.

  “Shit,” he muttered and broke into a run. “Shit shit shit shit shit—”

  Recalling also that his attackers hadn’t been permanently eliminated, he increased his run to a sprint. A few people yelled or swore at him as he tried to dodge around them.

  He could be back at his car in only a few moments. But from there, it would take a bare minimum of forty-five minutes to reach her estate in Harrison and he’d have to pay the goddamn toll.

  His only hope was that Presley, her butler, felt on the ball today. If not, he might already be too late.

  Chapter Four

  Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  For Christmas, Taylor had finally given Remington a remote device that would open the gate at the front of her property. In the past, he’d always had to stop, get out, press the button, and wait for Presley—or occasionally, Taylor herself—to buzz him in.

  Well, except for the time the gate lay busted and hanging on its hinges after the vampire Gabriel attempted a coup d’état and sent his minions to steal her coffin.

  Of course, she’d given him a stern admonishment that he was not to abuse the privilege of free access to her mansion and its grounds, and he’d agreed, smiling, happy to be free of the inconvenience.

  Now, he felt like he hadn’t thanked her enough.

  “Okay,” he mumbled and pressed his thumb against the device’s button, “come on, come on…”

  The gate opened, seemingly far too slowly, as his car sped up the drive toward it. Gritting his teeth, he was forced to actually apply the brakes for a second to slow down enough so as not to sideswipe the iron lattice in his haste.

  He supposed it was a good sign that the gate wasn’t broken again, at least. But Moswen’s thralls, with their preternaturally augmented strength and agility, could have simply scrambled over it.

  No one had answered the phone on any of the three times he’d called, either. He’d tried once as soon as he got into his car, once in Manhattan, and once when he crossed the Westchester county line.

  Speeding past the gate, he fishtailed a little around the uphill section of the driveway until the house itself came into sight.

  “It’s about time,” he grunted. His rear bumper knocked over a stone birdbath and the bowl separated from the column to spill cold water and half-formed ice over the dying grass.

  He ignored it, confident that he could repair the damn thing later if need be.

  Stamping on his brakes sufficiently hard to make the tires squeal, he turned the steering wheel in such a way that his car spun in the broad paved area in front of Taylor’s massive garage and came to a stop with his driver’s side door conveniently pointed toward her front walk.

  “So far”—he gasped, threw off his seatbelt, and shoved the door open—“so good.” Nothing looked too suspicious.

  Still, even with the century-old trees that surrounded her estate blocking out most of the sky, he could see fading blue sky and reddening sunlight overhead. Taylor was still sleeping, oblivious to what might be coming for her.

  He jogged down the walkway and jumped over the steps to land on the broad stone porch. The wooden double doors remained shut. Usually, Presley opened them as soon as he knew he was coming.

  “Come on, Jeeves,” he protested quietly, “don’t make me break through a window. I will if I have to, but—”

  Remy delivered three rapid knocks on the wooden surface and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. It clicked open and he dashed over the threshold, feeling suddenly vulnerable with the realization that he didn’t have a weapon. Right now, he’d feel much better holding something like, say, an AK-47. Or perhaps a flamethrower.

  He darted a few steps in, his shoes thudding on the massive rug, and stopped.

  The butler stood in the hallway beyond the edge of the foyer, wiping his hands with a rag.

  “Presley!” he exclaimed, suddenly seized by multiple simultaneous emotions. “Jesus. Are you okay?”

  The man half-turned toward him. He looked every inch the elderly, old-fashioned English gentleman he was, with a reserved and dignified demeanor and an air of strength that seemingly contradicted his advanced age.

  Given this, Remy had been more than a little surprised to discover that the old man was a lycanthrope, or so Taylor had said. He’d never seen him change into his wolf form.

  “Oh,” the butler drawled, “quite all right, sir, thank you.”

  Remy shuffled forward a few more steps. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of Taylor’s creaking and antiquated mansion and he took a closer look at the butler and his surroundings.

  His tuxedo was a tad ruffled but otherwise unmarked. The piece o
f cloth with which he cleaned his hands, however, was mottled with deep splotches of rusty-red and bright crimson stains were still smeared across the insides of his fingers and parts of his wrists.

  The investigator gaped. “What the hell happened?”

  With a few more brisk rubs and wipes, the old man finished his task. There was still a trace of residual ruddiness to his hands, but at least he wouldn’t wipe blood on whatever he touched at this point.

  “We had a few unexpected visitors, I’m afraid,” the old man stated. “A somewhat disturbing development although fortunately, not a serious problem. As I was engaged in greeting them and seeing to their needs, I’m afraid I was unable to get the door. I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”

  Remy clapped a hand to his face. The tension had begun to drain from him, replaced mostly by relief although, to some extent, also annoyance.

  “I really, really,” he began, “do not give a crap about the goddamn door. As long as you and Taylor are all right. Some pricks attacked me while I was in Astoria picking up a lead on our current investigation. I’d be very surprised if they weren’t Moswen’s people.”

  Presley nodded curtly. “Mm, yes, so would I. Undoubtedly, Ms Steele will be interested in discussing the matter when she awakens. Might I persuade you to stay until nightfall?”

  Breathing out, he collapsed into his usual chair. “No persuasion is necessary.”

  Usually, when he arrived at Taylor’s house, he went out of his way to make fun of the butler. The old man’s buttoned-down formality and old-world politeness made him such an easy target that he simply couldn’t help himself.

  Now, though, while still worried about his business partner’s continued existence and with Presley scrubbing literal blood from his hands, it somehow did not seem like such a good idea.

  The man disappeared somewhere into the rear of the mansion and it sounded like he exited through a back door.

  Remy sat and listened. While waiting for the sun to set, he grew increasingly disturbed. The noises sounded like someone dragged something oblong and heavy, followed by what could only be digging out near the rocky hill which blocked the estate’s grounds from the sight of the neighbors.

  “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “I guess this means the old boy was on the ball today.”

  He recalled his own experiences with lycanthropes. They were nothing to be fucked around with. He’d killed one himself, a South Carolinian named Tucker who was old enough to personally remember the last days of the Confederacy. But despite Remy’s bravado after the fact, it hadn’t exactly been easy.

  Without Riley and a little fortuitously placed silver, he might not have prevailed at all. His various brushes with death since he started work at Moonlight Detective Agency had gradually begun to humble him.

  Time passed and while he waited, he took a leak in the downstairs toilet and, feeling fatigued, wished he’d drunk a second cup of coffee at Sally’s, even if it did threaten his sleep. He sensed he would need a fair amount of energy for the coming talk with both Taylor and her butler.

  Presley walked in, seemingly from nowhere. The man—werewolf—could move with one hell of a soft, sneaky step, Remy had to admit.

  “It’s now dusk, sir,” the old man pointed out. “Please excuse me as I prepare Ms Steele’s tea. She’ll likely wish to drink it before she engages you in conversation.”

  “That’s quite all right, Jeeves,” Remy said absentmindedly and waved a hand. “I used to know a few of those people who effectively turned into were-monsters themselves when they woke up and only became human again after a cup of coffee. Or, in some cases, coffee followed by a trip to the bathroom.”

  Nodding, the butler strolled off. “My name is Presley, though, sir. Do please remember.”

  “Oh. Right. I completely forgot.” Plus, even he had to admit the joke was getting old by now. Besides which, Presley had been nothing but good to him, really.

  He stretched and mentally replayed the backstreet attack in his mind, the better to describe it to Taylor in detail.

  Something shifted and scraped in the basement. Footsteps, so smooth and gentle as to be almost inaudible, worked their way up the staircase. A door opened and a slim, dark silhouette stood in the hallway near the door to the kitchen, barely in sight of where Remy sat in the foyer.

  The vampire nodded her head. “Hello, Remington. Whatever the bad news is, you can tell me in a few minutes.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up, and she walked into the kitchen to greet Presley and receive her red salt tea.

  With a shudder, the investigator wondered if it had been made, as usual, with their humanely-obtained stores from the blood bank or whether it had been stretched somewhat with the au natural stuff which Moswen’s thralls had generously provided. He cut that line of thought off and instead, turned his consideration to where he and Riley would look for clues tomorrow.

  Four or five minutes passed. Taylor emerged from the kitchen, sipping the last of her tea from a cup with a rusty-stained interior, and allowed her black eyes to settle on him. She wore, as usual, a thin black silken night robe that greatly flattered her svelte figure.

  “Now,” she began, “it seems both of us had unwelcome guests a couple of hours ago. I want both you and Presley to describe your respective experiences so you can compare similarities between your accounts. Let’s all relocate to the sitting room, shall we?”

  Remy trailed behind her but in front of the butler.

  The sitting room was, like the rest of the house, furnished in a somewhat outdated style but nonetheless tasteful and elegant. They arranged their chairs so they faced one another in a circle.

  Presley cleared his throat. “If I may begin, Ms Steele, I shall recount what happened here, and we’ll move on to Mr Remington’s story.”

  The vampire drained the last of her cup and motioned for the old man to begin.

  “About two hours before you awoke,” he related, “someone tripped the silent alarm and on the security cameras, I saw three figures trespassing on the estate. Two came over the wall in front, and a third snuck up from the back, climbed around the base of the hill…”

  He went on to explain how, in order to minimize damage to the house, he had left a window open for the flanker and placed a trap for him to fall into, although he did not specify what kind of trap. In the interim, he personally went out on the front lawn to engage the two who attempted a frontal assault.

  “They were clearly branded,” Presley pointed out, “very likely by Ms Neith, I would assume. Their abilities were noticeably more formidable than those of average humans although still nothing to warrant intense concern.”

  Hearing that, Remy felt his gut tighten. No matter how tough he thought he’d become, the preternaturals still always seemed to find ways to casually dismiss the competence of mere mortals.

  Taylor nodded. “I see. Moswen probably knew she couldn’t expect to overwhelm us with only three of her thralls, even with me asleep. This was a feint of sorts to test our strength. When her lackeys do not return, she’ll know what she needed to know. Which means”—she sighed—“that her next move will be far more decisive and far more dangerous.”

  “My thoughts also, madam,” the butler agreed. “I had planned to save the last of them for interrogation, but it seems he did away with himself out of fear before I could get to him. I’ve already hidden the bodies and you may decide how best to dispose of them at your convenience.”

  The vampire smiled grimly. “Thank you.”

  She turned her face toward Remy. “Now, what kind of trouble did you get yourself into? And, in all fairness, out of.”

  “Fairness is right,” he remarked. “I didn’t require the slightest help to deal with the situation personally.”

  “Oh, of course not.” She looked like she wanted to glance askew at a corner of the ceiling but had managed to stop herself. Her self-control was admirable.

  Remington went on to describe his encounter in as much detail as
he could recall. He tried not to embellish the parts that made him sound kickass, but it was difficult. After all, he’d won the fight single-handed.

  “I see.” She set her empty cup down along with its saucer and drummed her fingertips rhythmically upon the end table. “Did you happen to see which direction they fled in?”

  He cursed himself silently. “Uh, no, sorry about that. As soon as the battle turned in my favor, all I could think about was whether or not you were okay.” He shrugged.

  Taylor smiled in a subtle but gentle way. “I appreciate that and I’m being quite honest. However, we have, unfortunately, learned nothing except that Moswen now has enough pawns that she can afford to sacrifice a few. Which means she’s preparing to turn the heat up.”

  The vampire’s face shifted into an equally subtle frown. “What I don’t know is whether she’ll simply launch a bigger attack against us or wait for us to react and try to draw us into a trap. The former option may be cruder, but if she has enough strength—be it in numbers, firepower, or anything else—it’s as viable as the latter. We have friends, but not an army.”

  Remy allowed his hands to flap up from the armrests. “So, what do we do next?”

  “Well,” she replied, “first of all, I’ll have to talk to Alex. As he still bears the residues of Moswen’s brand, he should have…felt or sensed something coming. He is close enough to us that Moswen directing her will in our direction ought to have tripped the alarm, so to speak.”

  “By all means.” He snorted. “Talk to him, then. At least he’s backed off a little lately with the smart-ass remarks. I suppose it’s finally sunk in that we saved his ass instead of simply letting Moswen kill him. He’s not completely stupid.”

  Taylor agreed and asked a question of her own. “And what have you discovered thus far?”

  He adjusted his position and took a deep breath.

  Presley, at that moment, raised a hand. “Would you like some tea, sir?”

  “No thanks,” he replied. “Something alcoholic might be nice, though. Only one drink, of course.”