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

by Isobella Crowley

  “Remy!” Riley screamed somewhere above. “It didn’t—”

  Grayhammer cut her off with a roar of laughter. “Magic? Is that all you have?”

  Remy’s bowels suddenly felt a little squishy.

  “No,” he replied as Conrad attacked.

  The dwarf pivoted with startling speed and, to Remy’s horror, caught the wolf in midair and heaved him at the human.

  “Oh, crap!” The investigator yelped, dropped, and rolled to the side. A dark, furry mass careened past him and the hairs brushed his back. Seconds later, the lycanthrope impacted with the frosty ground beyond him.

  As Remy jumped to his feet, he tried to take everything in at once. Conrad was already recovering but they’d lost the element of surprise. Riley’s spell had done nothing. She drifted down from the tree now and waved her arms, hopefully preparing something else that equally hopefully might work.

  Worse, Grayhammer had opened the black case and removed its contents. His name instantly made complete sense.

  The weapon wasn’t much smaller than he was. A steel bar at least four feet long and as thick as the business end of a baseball bat formed the majority of it, although an iron ball was attached to the lower end as a counterweight. The head was a huge hammer, one side larger than the other and pentagonal in shape, and was inscribed with strange runes.

  It might have merely been his keyed-up nerves, but Remy could have sworn the thing gave off a faint, low hum.

  “You,” Grayhammer rasped, “must be those fucks from Port Morris. Taylor’s impotent pets. She’s grown truly desperate if this is the best she can do.”

  Conrad, back on all fours, crept forward with his massive, fang-filled jaws clenched and drool running from them. The buzz-saw noise that issued from his throat was unnerving even to his friend. He was glad the werewolf was on his side.

  Riley cast her next spell. This time, a spiraling wave of silver speckled with the various hues of the rainbow, coiled around the hulking dwarf.

  Again, his rings flashed, countered it, and engulfed it. Grayhammer didn’t even look at her and had apparently already dismissed her from consideration.

  “Well,” Remy muttered, “it looks like we’re on our own, Wonder Boy.”

  Trusting Conrad to do the same, he charged.

  The werewolf was right at his side. It occurred to him that he had no idea what to do if he reached the dwarf before his teammate. The werewolf could probably bite the bastard’s head off.

  He, on the other hand, didn’t think any of the takedowns he’d learned would work against a man who was built like a dump truck and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds.

  Despite his very real misgivings, he tried not to panic. He could always poke Grayhammer in the eyes or something.

  Conrad drew ahead of him and surged at the dwarf’s face. Their enemy fell back a half-step, and Remy believed for a moment that this might truly still work.

  In fact, up close, their adversary wasn’t that big. Maybe five-seven or so—a little shorter than him although still damned tall for a dwarf.

  The cartel boss’s titanic left hand closed around the werewolf’s throat and his right hand brought the hammer down on his back.

  The air cracked with a flash of eerie grey light. Conrad yelped horribly and hurtled back eight or ten feet while he writhed in pain. A ribbon of blood followed him and a faint, evil-looking shimmer played about the wound.

  Grayhammer laughed again, although the sound was more angry than triumphant. On some level, the dwarf was furious that they’d even considered attacking him.

  “Now,” he rumbled, “you’ve seen what I can do to a lycanthrope.” His gaze fixed on Remy, and he raised his war hammer. “Picture what this will do to a human. Cower!”

  He almost heeded the suggestion. Instead, he turned and bolted, thankful that he’d taken a piss at a gas station shortly before they found the motel.

  As he passed the crumpled form of Conrad, though, he clamped down on his panic. The werewolf was badly wounded but not dead. The hammer had caved in his front right shoulder and torn the surrounding flesh. Worse, it looked as though his preternatural healing factor struggled against whatever dark magic flowed through the dwarf’s weapon.

  A canine whimper transformed itself into something resembling speech. “Remy…”

  He stopped and turned. The earth vibrated a little as Grayhammer pounded toward them.

  Riley appeared behind him and levitated the beach chair he’d sat in to hurl it at him. He stopped, stunned for a barely a second, and spun to face the tiny creature.

  “Come closer,” the dwarf boomed. “By all means, you little bitch. You can’t harm me. Come and find out the reason why.”

  Riley, instead, rocketed away in the opposite direction and was lost from sight.

  While their adversary was momentarily distracted, Remy kicked a crate in front of Conrad to form a slight impediment to any attempt by the dwarf to finish him off.

  That done, he ran around to the side. The water of the harbor was in sight.

  Okay, he brainstormed, Conrad can regenerate, right? Werewolves are hard to kill. He merely needs a little time. Actually, he needs a distraction.

  “Hey!” Remy bellowed, “you, uh…” He tried frantically to think of something to say that would piss the dwarf off even more and draw his attention. “You’re not only a regular moron, but you’re also an oxymoron! Get it? You’re basically a giant midget. That doesn’t even make sense.”

  The dwarf’s thick head snapped toward him and his long dark mane flapped in the cold breeze. “Shut up. Wretch. Motherfucker!”

  Like an enraged bull, he launched toward the human and his thick legs sent vibrations through the earth with each step.

  Grayhammer’s fine motor reflexes were startlingly fast, but when covering any amount of ground, he was still a tad slow. That and his short temper seemed like they might be his only weaknesses.

  So, Remy thought, his brain abuzz with fear and adrenaline, I need to get out of his way before he’s within arm’s reach.

  He jumped to the side but unfortunately, should have waited for a half-second longer.

  The dwarf had enough time to veer to his right and pivot as he swung his terrifying weapon. It passed within an inch of the investigator’s neck, and cold prickles shivered down his spine as though his flesh had sensed the magic in the hammer and recoiled from it. A slight nausea also rose in his gut.

  The enraged attacker growled madly at having barely missed on a killing blow as his target tumbled around the base of the tree. He was glad his MMA instructors had started by teaching him how to fall and roll.

  Unfortunately, Grayhammer was already making his second attack. His weapon pounded into the tree, which groaned horribly as the wood splintered. Remy crawled—faster than he thought was possible to move on his hands and knees—to the side to avoid the falling tree but also away from the dwarf.

  “Ha!” He scoffed as the trunk collapsed. “Not only did you miss me but your unwarranted attack on that big, hard piece of wood makes me wonder if you’re not envious of it. Didn’t you actually use the word ‘impotent’ a minute or two ago?”

  With a roar like a bear, the dwarf swung into another assault.

  “Shit,” Remy muttered and ran.

  Each insult or act of defiance seemed to send the huge dwarf deeper into unhinged rage. Their only hope, he knew, was to trick him into doing something stupid.

  As he bolted away from his foe, he saw a truck near the far corner of the rear lot with its back hanging open. It would not, he surmised, be hard to force the truck into neutral and let it roll into the water. Especially not with a nice heavy dwarf locked in its rear compartment.

  “So yeah,” he called over his shoulder, “you’re fairly fat and slow. I can tell that all that weight isn’t actually muscle.”

  “Hold still.” Grayhammer snarled. “Hold still and find out.”

  The investigator sprinted right to the edge of the tru
ck’s open back. “Hold still? That sounds like something a child molester would say. Or…uh, a really ugly and stupid dwarf.”

  He was running out of good insult ideas by this point, but the cartel boss was so livid that it didn’t seem to matter. The dwarf roared once more and continued the charge.

  This time, he told himself, don’t jump too soon.

  Remy flung himself to the ground barely in time. The dark, heavy form of the dwarf hurtled past him and thudded somewhere within the vehicle.

  “Hell yes!” he cheered and moved hastily to heave the back door shut. He threw the bolt across it as soon as it closed. “Now, hopefully, this thing won’t need too much of a push once it’s in neutral.”

  The back door exploded and the leader’s hammer protruded from the darkness while debris rained around it.

  When his brain seemed to freeze, he smacked himself in the face. “Okay, I give up. We need Taylor to deal with this guy.”

  Grayhammer was already out and after him.

  He did the only thing he could think of—he sprinted wildly toward the chalky, cold waters of the harbor and reminded himself that he was a fairly good swimmer. The dwarf, on the other hand, looked like he’d sink, especially with that weapon in hand. It would have been better if the harbor was frozen. That way, he might have jogged across it while his enemy broke through and slept with the fishes. But he’d take what he could get.

  “Conrad!” he yelled as he ran. “Get out of here! Riley! Everyone! Abort the mission. Retreat!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought saw the werewolf creep away toward the bushes. He had no idea where Riley was.

  Behind him, Grayhammer was gaining. He was a slower runner than his quarry but he also seemed to have unlimited stamina, whereas Remy was nearing the end of his, even with adrenaline still urging him forward.

  The beach had almost come to an end. Rather than take his chances wading out and perhaps being slowed, he increased his speed for a final burst and jumped out into the harbor itself.

  White foam sprayed all around him, and not far behind, Grayhammer yelled in wordless rage.

  “Merciful God in heaven above,” Remy shrieked. After the initial impact with the water—which was almost refreshing after the sweaty exertion of battle—he suddenly regretted his decision in a big way.

  It felt as though the water was a gang of sadistic doctors who’d flayed him with scalpels and squirted liquid nitrogen directly into his bloodstream.

  “Not good.” He gasped, hurled himself forward, and tried to swim as far as he could before he had to return to shore. “Not good. Hoo, boy.”

  Still, his brain reminded him, at least it was better than being meat-tenderized to death by the least-dwarfish dwarf in New York and his hammer of doom.

  He glanced over his shoulder and the agony of the icy water abated for a second as he was swamped with relief. Other dwarves had converged on the back lot, but the cartel’s leader had hung back from pursuing him. He stood a good two yards from the water’s edge, glared at him, and brushed defensively at his suit.

  The son of a bitch didn’t want to ruin his clothes, he realized. For someone who looks like a refugee from an old barbarian comic, he’s more of a stereotypical effete rich guy than I am.

  The stabbing pain and stiffness in his muscles informed him, though, that it was probably better to be effete and stereotypical than dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  David Remington’s Penthouse, Midtown Manhattan, New York

  “I—wonder,” Remy began and still had difficulty controlling the wavering of his voice and the chattering of his teeth, “if—continuing to fight—that huge fucker…” He paused as another spasm of shudders went through him. “Might have been—less dangerous—than going for a—swim at this time of year.”

  Conrad, who’d been driving faster than usual, glanced at him. “Perhaps, sir. You’re looking better now, but I was afraid we might have to take you to the emergency room. Hypothermia is no joke.”

  He wasn’t about to argue with that.

  The reality was that he’d only been able to swim a short distance before he felt his limbs begin to seize up and he’d barely managed to struggle into the shallows where he could stand. He’d worried that he was still too close to the dwarves at that point but a couple of cars drove past and they did not pursue him.

  Conrad, already mostly healed and having started his car, found him only a moment later.

  “Sir—get out of those clothes!” he’d exclaimed.

  Under any other circumstances, Remy would never, ever have heeded that particular suggestion. But when a man is halfway to death via an overdose of ice water, it changes his perspective on certain matters.

  At least it had turned out that Conrad had a large blanket in the back of his car. He’d wrapped the naked investigator in it, helped him into the car, and cranked the heat up to a ridiculous degree.

  By now, it had begun to work. The werewolf looked ahead at the road and sweated visibly from the temperature within the vehicle. “If you’d been out there even one more minute…”

  “Yeah,” Remy acknowledged. “I know. Death and—so forth, probably. Also, now that I’m—better, could you—drive slower? Don’t want—a cop to pull us over—and have to—explain why I’m—naked and wrapped in your—blanket.”

  The man eased back on the gas. “All right, but keep a close eye on yourself. As for the police, if they did pull us over, I’d simply tell them something very close to the truth—that you fell into the harbor and we were trying to get you to the hospital. Medical emergencies are usually justified and any fool can see that you’re half-frozen.”

  He managed a jerky nod. “Fair—enough. And—thanks” He paused for a moment, then inquired, “You’re taking me—back to my condo—right?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Conrad. “That should work, provided your condition keeps improving.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He sighed. “It—will.” He looked out the window. “Where’s Riley? Did you—see her?”

  The werewolf grimaced and responded with, “Yes, briefly. She was flying off toward Midtown. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Remy, to his own surprise, kicked the lower part of the dashboard in front of him. The slight pain in his toes at least meant his extremities weren’t totally numb.

  “Goddammit,” he mumbled. “She’s probably off to—feed the hunger again. Stupid…”

  Even thinking about that, not to mention the stress of having to deal with her problems himself, made him want to do the same thing. Images of mirrors and razors and lovely white powder floated through his brain. They slow-scrolled along with memories of combining liquor with all manner of strangely colored pills and nice clean needles.

  No, he commanded himself. Totally no. That would be approximately the worst thing you could do right now.

  “Well,” Conrad suggested, “she might simply have gone home. To the colony.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded, although he wasn’t optimistic. “We’ll look for her—later. First, take me—home so I can get fresh—clothes and have a cup of—hot cocoa, or something.”

  The rest of the drive passed without incident, and he began to feel relatively normal again. Conrad’s car pulled in at the building where he lived.

  “So,” Remy asked, “I don’t suppose my clothes are dried out by now, are they?”

  “Very unlikely, sir, I’m sorry to say.” His companion glanced over his shoulder at the damp pile resting on a couple of plastic bags on the floor of the back seat. “I’ll bring them in, though, so you can hang them out.”

  The investigator put his shoes on, at least, and got out of the car. He stood awkwardly with his improvised shawl as the only thing between himself and an indecent exposure charge, while Conrad gathered the clothes. The werewolf opened the entrance door and ushered him through. He took a deep breath as he stepped in.

  The current concierge on duty, Nikki, was behind the desk, attending to a four-person nuclear fami
ly who seemed to be asking about housekeeping services while they were in South Florida.

  All five of them, including the two children, stopped talking to turn and stare at the two men who’d come in.

  “Hello,” Conrad quipped. “Pardon.”

  Remy trudged in silence for about two seconds.

  “I fell in the harbor,” he snapped. “Hypothermia is no joke, okay? He has my wet, half-frozen clothes right there, which proves what I said is true.” He pointed to the bundle in his companion’s arms.

  As they reached the elevator, Nikki asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Remington?”

  “Peachy,” he called. “Thanks.”

  The door dinged and opened and they stepped in. He sighed with relief as the elevator ascended. For a few brief, sweet, precious moments, he almost felt like today might not turn out to have been a complete disaster, after all.

  Then, they walked into his penthouse.

  “Christ on a cracker!” He exploded. “What the flying fuck? Did I somehow miss it this morning? I didn’t think I was that hungover.”

  The werewolf shook his head sadly. “No, sir, things were definitely not this bad when we left. Someone has been here since then and worked the place over.”

  If the fight against the two dwarven assassins last night had left the apartment looking like a couple of cherry bombs had gone off, it now appeared as though someone had detonated a respectable payload of C4.

  Every piece of furniture had been overturned and all but one of his plants and art objects had been either shattered in place or hurled to the floor. Cabinets and cupboards stood with doors hanging open—or, in some cases, torn off their hinges—and their contents were strewn at random. The entire kitchen was covered with food debris and spilled garbage. The intruders had even ripped up part of the carpet.

  Remy hung his head and almost struck himself in the chest with his chin. “Oh… Conrad, could you make me hot cocoa, or a cup of coffee, or something? If they didn’t toss it all out the window or into the toilet or something, anyway.”