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

by Isobella Crowley

  Fuck, it looks like they’re having a good time. I wonder how long it lasts. Usually, street people can only afford the cheap stuff that’s over and done with after a few minutes.

  The two who’d shot up first twitched. Actually, jumped might almost have been a better term.

  Remy squinted at them. “What the heck? Are you guys—”

  The two who’d jerked in place began to spasm and splits appeared in their clothes. A few seconds later, the other two followed suit.

  “Uh…” Remy gasped. “Oh, shit.”

  Their bodies swelled and muscles puffed outwards. Veins became starkly visible and pulsed with soft white light and their skin and flesh turned a chalky color. In the next moment, they began to make ape-like grunting and snorting noises, leapt up and down, and smacked their own heads with their fists.

  The investigator took two steps back in an attempt to avoid detection and regroup with the fairy and the werewolf before the three of them fled out into the snow. As he began to take his third step, one of the mutating junkies saw him.

  His blood went cold at the mindless, crazed anger in the man’s eyes, not to mention the literal foam that formed around the edge of his mouth. Riley screamed somewhere behind him.

  In a heartbeat, the first two had attacked him. Their distended limbs clawed and thrashed toward his face while their teeth gnashed around guttural cries of primitive rage.

  Remy’s reflexes kicked in and bypassed the lingering effects of his hangover as he ducked under the first one’s attack. It was fast but clumsy and unbalanced, and he shoved at the man’s back while he launched a kick at his leg. His assailant sprawled into the nearest stack of crates.

  Conrad, who stood behind those same crates, took a couple of neat steps to the side to avoid the collision. Otherwise, he did nothing and only watched.

  Riley had already entered the fray by the time the second mutant was within arm’s reach of the investigator. She shouted something in her strange native tongue, gestured at the monstrous woman, and glowing sparks, bluish-silver in color, leapt toward her target.

  The woman moved in virtual slow motion as if she’d plunged into a tank filled with invisible molasses. Remy had enough time to get around her to the side but immediately stood face to face with the third of the mutants.

  “Christ!” he snapped and lunged with his fist to strike the man hard in the jaw and distract him for a split-second. The delay was enough for him to stumble back, away from the augmented junkies and toward his supposed bodyguard.

  “Conrad!” he shouted, “do you plan to actually do something?”

  He flung himself away and rolled to evade the bum-rush of the next mutant, only to take a powerful knee to the stomach and barely duck under the grasping of four hands. Riley threw another spell to slow the two who tried to seize him.

  “Oh,” Conrad replied, “sorry. You had instructed me to stand back and let you take the lead in all matters. However, if you’d like to specifically ask for my help, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  The first man to attack had recovered by now and began another charge. Remy seized him under the arm, thrust his hip against the man’s side, and hurled him across the floor.

  Before he could even fully draw breath, the woman broke free of Riley’s spell and punched him in the side of the face. He allowed the blow to drive him back and pedaled rearwards to stay clear of the next few blows while he struggled to control the pain and dizziness.

  The fairy tried something else and a few more sparkles flashed in the dim air. “I can’t put them to sleep,” she cried. “That stuff they put into themselves is blocking it.”

  He snatched an empty wooden crate and thumped it directly into the face of the advancing mutated woman. She howled and toppled backward. The other three, having recovered and overcome the slow spell, were only a few feet away and gaining.

  “Okay, fine,” he yelled to Conrad through gritted teeth. “Help me. I kinda need it.”

  Saying that stung almost as much as his cheek did but it was true.

  Remy tossed the crate at the other mutants and cursed when one of them shattered it with a swipe of his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Conrad rapidly stripping clothes off while his form seemed to distort and elongate. Dark hair now bristled from his flesh.

  A black shape streaked between the investigator and his assailants, and the one in the lead who’d destroyed the crate fell back, gurgling and thrashing. His throat had been ripped out and deep gashes had clawed through his chest.

  “Hah!” Remy scoffed, suddenly surging with both relief and confidence. He stepped forward, but it was unnecessary.

  In the space of about five seconds, Conrad annihilated the remaining three attackers to scatter limbs and chunks across the floor and leave what remained as little more than twitching, bloody heaps.

  The investigator’s jaw hung open as the lupine beast, mostly black or very dark brown, panted and snarled over the corpses. Then, seeming to remember who he was, Conrad darted toward the pile of his clothes while his fur already began to thin and retract.

  Riley flew over. “Remy! Are you okay?”

  He put a hand on his cheek. It was bruised and there was a chance he might have a slight fracture to his cheekbone, but the woman in her crazed state hadn’t hit him hard enough or directly enough to do severe damage.

  “Mostly.” He gasped. “Thanks.”

  Off to the side, the werewolf stood, dressed again, and brushed himself off.

  “Right,” Remy said, “yeah, okay. I am hereby altering my rules. In general, you stand back and let me deal with things. But if you see me having my ass kicked or about to have my ass kicked, then…” He hesitated for a second. “Please help me.”

  Conrad smiled and nodded. “Of course, sir, understood.”

  The investigator knelt and examined the carnage. He didn’t want to look very hard at the poor bastards mutated by the drug, especially now that they’d been ripped to shreds.

  One of the syringes caught his eye, though. There was still a trace of the glowing white liquid left in one of them. He knelt, picked it up, and carefully avoided the needle or any of the residual drug.

  “Hmm.” He placed the syringe inside a ragged fanny-pack that one of the junkies had dropped. “Well, at least now I know where we need to go next.”

  Chapter Seven

  Farmers’ Market, Tuxedo, New York

  “Conrad,” Remy said and projected his voice toward the backseat without looking at its inhabitant. His eyes were focused on finding the correct road. “How long ago was it that I popped those allergy pills?”

  The goateed young man glanced at the clock. “Twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six minutes ago, sir.”

  “Good job.” He raised his right hand in a thumbs-up gesture where his rear passenger could see it.

  Riley, meanwhile, sat on the passenger seat. Remy had thought it appropriate to allow her to ride shotgun as a nod to her seniority, rather than force her to make do with the dashboard while Conrad rode in her rightful place.

  They were driving out of the actual town of Tuxedo, a little upstate from Metro NYC, and into the rural area where the market was held. At this time of year, it was much smaller and slower than in the summer and autumn, but a quick phone call had assured Remy that it hadn’t shut down completely.

  Under his breath, he muttered, “We’ll have to hope Maps hasn’t packed up and curled in front of a fireplace or something.”

  “Ah,” Conrad began, “may I ask who Maps is? And what are we looking for at this farmer’s market?”

  The investigator sniffed, mostly to make sure his nose wasn’t clogging up. “A farmer,” he stated. That answered both questions, really.

  “Oh,” said the other man.

  Remy caught sight of the correct turn—a small dirt road, partially covered with packed snow—and turned the Lincoln slowly onto it. He glanced at the foot area of the passenger’s seat, where the fanny-pack lay inconspicuously jammed into the poc
ket of the door.

  A short drive ahead brought them to the field where the market was held. One of the sellers had cleared the snow with a plow attached to a pickup truck. He noticed that he’d only bothered to plow about a third of the field since that was about how many of the marketeers showed up in winter.

  Seven or eight customer vehicles stood in a line near the edge of the field. He parked beside them when he found enough room to squeeze the car in without having to step into snow en route to the market itself. He got out, permitted Conrad to follow him, and opened the door for Riley to retrieve the satchel before locking the vehicle with the remote.

  The werewolf frowned as he looked at the covered stands and the few heavily bundled people milling around. “Are these…humans?” he asked. He squinted and fidgeted like a man about to plunge into a crawlspace who suddenly realized it might be infested with bugs and spiders.

  “Oh, not quite,” he replied absently. He was distracted as his mind considered where the poor druggies had obtained their fatal dose of Snow White.

  They walked quickly down the length of the field, passed most of the stands, and waved to the proprietors. A small, discreet table set up near the back was where Remy suspected the seller he was looking for could be found.

  Oddly, everyone stared at them with expressions colder than the weather.

  Conrad swallowed and fell in closer behind Remy’s shoulder. He was sweating.

  “Ah, sir,” he inquired, “are these people…werecats?”

  “Yeppers,” the investigator replied cheerfully. “A whole commune of them. Vegetarians, too, interestingly enough. How did you guess? The smell or something?”

  Saying this, he thought he felt his sinuses tingle, but it might have only been his imagination. So far, the allergy pills worked to fortify his nose against the dark forces of feline dander.

  “Correct,” the lycanthrope replied. “I…ah, really wish you had warned me. Our kinds do not get along. You might say werewolves and werecats are about as contentious as…well, dogs and cats.”

  He shrugged. “Damn. Well, I’m allergic to them myself—hence the pills—if that makes you feel any better. Don’t worry, though, they’re nice.”

  Ahead of them, a sleek, black-haired woman in a white parka “accidentally” knocked a large can of beets off her own table with an elbow and it rolled directly in front of Conrad’s feet. The werewolf tensed for a second but skipped over it easily, then paused to pick it up and hand it back to its owner.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, his tone mild, “it looks like you dropped this.”

  The woman pretended to ignore him as he set it on the table and hurried to catch up with Remy.

  They passed two men who’d been having a conversation. Both stared briefly at the lycanthrope and returned to talking amongst themselves.

  “You know,” one of them said loudly, “a cousin of mine was murdered by a werewolf. It ran him up a tree, then reverted to human form, claimed to be the cat’s owner, and flagged someone down to ask for help in getting his cat down. He didn’t dare transform in front of a human, and the son of a bitch ate him as soon as the Good Samaritan left.”

  Conrad’s face had gone completely stony, although he continued to nod politely to everyone he passed. Remy almost wondered if acting like a swaggering asshole might have been the better approach. He actually began to feel sorry for the guy.

  The glares continued all the way to the far corner when at last, he caught sight of Ishmapps’ distinctive market-stand.

  Almost hidden behind a snowy bush, a thin man who appeared to be in his early forties sat behind a small table with a few examples of handmade bric-à-brac resting on its surface. Reddish hair fell to his shoulders and most of his face was covered by a scraggly beard of the same hue.

  The knickknacks were mostly a distraction. His true business lay in the all-natural herbal remedies which he dealt, quietly and carefully, from the locked case resting on the ground at his feet.

  The man’s head had begun to turn toward them and his nostrils flared so Remy, not wanting to give him the opportunity to escape, broke into a jog. After a second, he heard Conrad follow suit.

  Ishmapps’s yellowish-green eyes fixed on him. “What the shit?” he burst out and snapped to attention from his previous languor.

  “Maps Cat!” Remy called and waved. “Look, guys, it’s Maps Cat.”

  The werecat’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Goddammit, I told you not to call me that. How many times now? Do you have Alzheimer’s? Or do you seriously think it’s still funny?”

  The investigator came to a halt about two feet from the table. Steam formed in front of his mouth as he breathed more heavily from the brief jog and he smiled innocently. “Well, yeah.”

  Maps Cat bristled and seemed more like a feline than ever for a moment. “It isn’t. Now, what do you want? And—wait, who the hell is this guy? Did you bring a fucking werewolf here?”

  Remy glanced briefly over his shoulder and still pretended to be casually amused and unconcerned. “Oh, him? Yeah, Taylor made me bring him along. You know how she is.” He chuckled and looked the werecat in the eye. “She always makes people do things whether they want to or not. Defying her is a bad idea, as we all know.”

  Ishmapps practically fumed. “What does she want this time? What errand has she dispatched you on, errand boy?” He shot a couple of death-glares at Conrad.

  The werewolf, for his part, attempted to look neutral and innocuous and failed dismally. In all fairness, this was in part because a few other locals crept toward them, like feral cats stalking a bird. It was the first time Remy had seen his companion look flustered.

  “Oh, ha,” he chortled, “no one has ever called me an errand boy before. It’s funny because it’s untrue.” He adjusted his tie. “But yeah, I’m conducting an investigation, with Taylor’s full support, and I kinda wanted you to have a look at something. Can we talk in private?”

  Ishmapps’ eyes flicked toward Conrad. “Not with him around. I refuse to go anywhere ‘private’ with a goddamn lycanthrope. Their kind can’t be trusted.”

  Remy shrugged. “Okay, fine, I’ll leave him here and it will be only you and me.”

  He looked at his bodyguard. “Hey, Conrad. Stay right where you are, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. We need to have a talk. Everything will be cool.”

  “Ah…” the werewolf started and directed a nervous glance from Remington to the approaching werecats, “that might not be a good idea. Or if you must, please hurry, sir, if you could.”

  “Oh, come on,” he retorted and flapped a hand. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like you guys have a Crips vs Bloods thing going on.”

  Conrad coughed. “Actually…it kind of is like that. At times.”

  One of the werecats closest to the goateed young man licked his lips, perhaps disappointed to remember he didn’t have whiskers at the moment. “You,” he said to Conrad, “don’t smell like you belong here, boy.”

  Remy told Riley to keep an eye on things and left his two companions behind, taking the sulky Maps Cat to the edge of the woods with his ragged fanny pack in hand.

  “So yeah,” he began once they were out of sight and earshot of the general public, “I found some junkies in an old warehouse in Harlem shooting up with this.” He opened the pack. “Do you know anything about it?”

  Frowning, the werecat took the syringe out. He was smart enough to handle it gingerly and kept the needle away from both of them. His feline eyes lingered for a moment on the luminescent fluid.

  The investigator told him the rest of the story, including how Surrly had come into the agency’s office, seeking protection.

  Maps Cat made a low sound, half-growl and half-sigh, in his throat. “I’ve heard a few rumors that some of the dwarves have been moseying into the preternatural drug trade lately. They’re apparently importing and reselling crap that’s far more dangerous than what I sell. Why you moronic humans made a medicinal herb illegal is beyond me.�
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  Remy nodded and waited for more.

  “In any event,” the man continued, “I don’t know any of the details. It’s not really my business. But—” He tensed, and his eyes widened. “To be honest, I’m shocked that they would sell something like that to humans. In fact, I’m shocked that any drug could have that kind of an effect. It makes PCP sound like, well, cannabis. Whoever allowed mortals to get ahold of this shit made a big mistake and all of us might end up having to clean it up.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “And cleaning up other people’s mistakes is my and Taylor’s specialty. You don’t have to like us, but I think you’re smart enough to grasp the wisdom of working with us on this.”

  Maps frowned but conceded. “Yes. Anything to keep the human authorities off our backs.”

  “Good.” He glanced toward the stand. Violence had not yet broken out between the different species of were-people, so that was a good sign. He looked at Maps. “Let’s share information, then. I’ll tell you anything I hear that might be useful, and you do the same. Right now, if possible, but I’ll give you the new office number and you can have Bobby patch you through to me or Taylor if need be.”

  The red-haired man scratched behind his ear and seemed to think about something. After a moment, he spoke again. “Tomorrow evening, there’s a party, one where both preternaturals and humans will be. I sold a ton of product to the attendees. If the dwarves intend to try to compete with me by pushing this Snow White crap, that might be the place to look.”

  He produced a pen and a scrap of paper, wrote an address down, and handed it to Remy, who slipped it into his pocket.

  The investigator patted Maps on the shoulder. “Gotcha,” he told him. “Thanks, Maps Cat. Now, let’s go rescue Conrad.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Ishmapps snarled. For a moment, it looked like he might ball up and start hissing. “And that guy is yours to rescue. I don’t care what happens to him.”