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

by Isobella Crowley

  Taylor had realized her blunder with half a second to spare. She hated herself for having been caught that badly off-guard but it was enough time to save her life.

  The ensuing struggle was as confusing and uncertain as any fight she’d been in with her struggling for her very existence against a foe more powerful than any she’d seen in a long while. She still didn’t know exactly what had happened.

  Not all the blood that was shed on the walls and floor of the tunnels was her own, though. Moswen had paid for her efforts.

  She knew that the Egyptian still lived, but unless she was grossly mistaken, she had given as good as she got. Both vampires were now fleeing, weakened and in pain, to recuperate, knowing they would meet again.

  If the newcomer had brought her small army of thralls with her, the results might have been devastating. The fact that she hadn’t simply meant that her servants were elsewhere, quite possibly pursuing Remington, Alex, or even Presley.

  The situation had produced one fortunate coincidence, however. She had one ace in the hole for which Moswen had not been prepared.

  The Egyptian vampire was still new to New York. This was not her home turf. For all her power and wily experience, she was still oblivious to certain things which Taylor was able to take for granted, having lived in this city for many, many decades.

  For example, she had a safe house in these very tunnels.

  They were the perfect place for it—almost totally abandoned and ignored by humans, private and secure, and located in the heart of Manhattan. In addition, they were not too far from any place in the city where she might have business but closer than her own home if she absolutely needed somewhere to lie low and recover.

  This was one of those times. Her regenerative abilities did not operate at their peak due to Alex’s warning having interrupted her rest. The sheer amount of damage she’d taken meant that she would need time before she could fight at anything above a mortal level.

  There was also the disturbing possibility that Moswen’s attacks were somehow augmented by dark magic or even poison. They might well be enhanced by something that made them more damaging, more insidious, and slower to heal than if they were purely natural displays of force.

  In any event, she needed to lie down in friendly earth and sheltering darkness. When she rose again, she could continue the struggle.

  Her steps, limping and staggered, slowed as she reached the secret door to her hidden spare crypt. Slowly, she knelt and peeled away a section of metal to reveal the hole that led to her little home away from home.

  Taking care not to aggravate her injuries, she lowered herself into the opening, replaced the makeshift trapdoor, and descended into a hollowed space tall enough to stand in and with only enough room for her to lie on her back. A couple of emergency supplies in boxes rested beside her feet.

  Her feet touched the ground and she winced. The worst of the pain was under control but it would take significant mental effort to sleep.

  Taylor had little choice, though. Mending herself was a necessity.

  She only hoped that Moswen’s thralls had not managed to intercept her partner and that Remington could stop himself from doing anything too stupid until she returned to the domain of the living.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mall of Manhattan, New York City

  As Remington understood it, in much of the United States, malls were situated at the center of vast parking lots the size of entire neighborhoods unto themselves. In Manhattan, however, space was at a premium, which made him wonder why they had bothered to put a mall there, to begin with.

  He hurried on foot through two levels of the overcrowded parking garage and ignored a few snooty-faced old ladies as well as derelicts and stalwart street vendors who hadn’t yet been noticed and ejected by security.

  Of course, the real horror show was still to come.

  “Terrible, awful places,” he murmured to himself as he strode across the asphalt, slick with the gray residue of melted snow. “Malls might as well have been invented by some pretentious Master of Fine Arts student for the specific purpose of criticizing American consumerism or something. And parking garages are simply terrible in general. What kind of maniac would combine the two?”

  Crossing the street brought him to the mall itself. It was a broad, blocky, unimaginative structure, about as sprawling as any building could be in a place as densely populated as Manhattan. It had extended itself upward rather than outward, with two stories rather than one, as in the suburbs.

  He pushed through the front doors and instantly found himself in a tall, wide corridor, blindingly lit and filled with noise and color. There weren’t too many people around, though. The post-holiday shopping season was over.

  “Okay,” he murmured to himself, “exactly where is the security office? Do they have one of those—oh, good.” He saw a map and glided over to it.

  After locating the You Are Here arrow, he was pleased to see that the guards’ office was around the corner, discreetly sandwiched between the food court and the main central hall.

  A moment later, he was there. Interestingly, the office had a reception window with a slot, like a convenience store or twenty-four-hour gas station kiosk.

  “Hi,” he said to the sleepy-eyed young man behind the glass, “I’m Remington Davis. I’m here to pick up Riley? The girl Officer Macchio called about.”

  The young guard looked confused for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, right. Just a sec.” He pressed a button and repeated the message through an intercom.

  A moment later, a side door opened and a large Italian American gentleman in a white uniform shirt and black slacks came out.

  “Macchio?” Remy ventured.

  “The same,” said the man. “You must be Remington Davis. Come inside, please.”

  Remy followed him into a bare-bones back room filled with communications devices, emergency medical gear, and a couple of security camera monitors, although it looked like the guy up front was watching the majority of the cams on his desk.

  There was also an extra chair in the corner, where a petite form slumped, a blanket over her shoulders.

  Macchio stood back as Remy examined the girl. She did not look at either of them and barely even seemed conscious.

  “She caused a helluva scene,” the guard explained. “Okay, she wasn’t exactly violent or destructive, but definitely…uh, you know, irregular. I could tell something was wrong. First, we had complaints from two stores one on top of the other, then we started getting complaints from customers, as well.”

  The investigator frowned and kept his expression grave but otherwise unexpressive. “What was she doing, exactly?” He had a hunch, of course.

  The man hitched his belt up under his considerable belly. “Based on what all the different aggrieved parties told me, she hopped from store to store, trying to…ah, get the attention of the male patrons and convince them to buy stuff for her. Of course, things started to escalate…”

  “Go on,” he urged and glanced at Riley. She did not react to their conversation and her pale yellow hair had mostly fallen over her face.

  “Well…” The guard sighed. “It seems like it was business as usual at first—you know how some women are, I’m sure—but then she put herself in front of guys and cut them off in the aisles, while she tried on revealing outfits in an unexpectedly impromptu fashion.”

  Oh, crap. Please tell me she’s not looking at an indecent exposure charge.

  “She moved constantly from store to store, repeated the routine, asked for comments and compliments on how things looked on her, and one of the complaints we had from the first store clerk said it seemed like she was having a manic episode. You know, bipolar stuff.”

  Remy nodded but held off on saying anything.

  “So then she starts flirting with married guys, and of course, one of ʼem’s wife asks ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ and hits her with her purse. She runs out of the store, still wearing the tankini she’d put
on without paying for it, and grabs men out of the crowd and tries to get their attention. That was when we showed up and took her in.”

  The investigator put a hand to his face, pinched his nose, and closed his eyes briefly. Common sense told him it would be a good gesture to show the officer that he wasn’t about to argue with their conduct. Plus, it was a perfectly honest summary of the way he actually felt right now.

  “The manager at that store—the one she ran out of—wanted to press charges for shoplifting, but I talked him into holding off on that on the grounds that we might have a…uh, you know, a mental health case here. I didn’t say so to him, but it also seemed like a substance abuse case.”

  He paused and his eyes hardened. “I ain’t gonna leap to any conclusions since it mainly seems like she only needs help. I gave the tankini back to the proprietor, searched her, called the number on the business card, and assumed you can deal with it. But as you can imagine, I have a job to do here—keeping order in the mall—so this kind of thing can’t happen again.”

  “I understand,” Remy responded. “Let me…try to talk to her.”

  He bent over and, with one hand, brushed the girl’s hair aside. “Riley, are you okay? It’s me, Remy.”

  Her face, wan and haggard, tilted upward, and her eyes focused on him. The pupils dilated when she finally recognized him.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Hello.”

  Everything about her, at this moment, screamed bender.

  He shook his head at the pitiful sight. There was no condescension in the gesture, though, no holier-than-thou judgment which he cast down upon her from on high.

  In fact, he almost felt sick to his stomach, considering how many people had probably seen him in the exact same state and shook their heads with much harsher disapproval.

  “Riley,” he went on, “everything’s okay, but you need to come with me. All right?”

  She nodded.

  “Mkay, then,” he said to Macchio and straightened. “I’ll take her home and have a talk with her. Perhaps I can get her some aid. Thank you for not turning her over to the cops and letting her end up in jail. I don’t see any reason why it would need to come to that.”

  “Yeah,” said the guard. “My sister had what I guess you could call similar problems once. I’m glad I could be of help, but make sure she don’t become a repeat offender here or I might not be the one on duty.” He half-smiled. “Hey, have a nice evening, okay?”

  Remy nodded. “We’ll certainly try. Same to you, sir.”

  He took Riley by the arm, raised her gently but firmly to her feet, and guided her out of the security office. Outside, a couple passing by about twenty yards away noticed her and crossed hurriedly to the other side of the aisle and reversed direction for good measure.

  A rude comment almost escaped but he managed to ignore them, and the other patrons, fortunately, ignored him and the girl. He thought about offering to buy her ice cream or something to perk her up, but she still looked so tired and discombobulated that it might be more trouble than it was worth.

  No, I’d best get her to the car and see what condition her mind is in right now once we can talk freely. Sugar could come later.

  They exited the mall and the semi-darkness of the city night and chill of winter were almost refreshing after the hot, stuffy air of the office. He noticed a bench to their left. Very few people walked past so it seemed like as good a place as any to start.

  “Sit,” he told the fairy. She obeyed and slumped onto the seat and he lowered himself next to her.

  “Riley,” he began warmly but in a tone he knew she’d pay attention to, “are you feeling all right? If you can think straight right now, we need to talk. For your own sake, I mean.”

  “Oh, ah…” She half-moaned. “Yes. I think I almost fell asleep there with that man. I’m a little better now. Only…bored.”

  “Well,” he said at once, “there are reasons for that. Pay attention to me, okay? I care about you and I want to help you here.”

  She shrugged and stared at an icy patch on the pavement. “Okay.”

  “Right. You see…like I tried to say previously, sometimes things that are fun or that feel good can actually be…well, terrible. That’s because they trick you into thinking you need them all the time. Does that make sense?”

  “Some,” she replied. “But they’re only things. How can they play tricks if they’re not even alive?”

  He should have expected something like this and now tried to wrack his brain for examples that did not involve horror film references that would only confuse the hell out of her. “Uh, well, it’s not so much that the thing is playing the trick, it’s more like…part of your brain is lying to you. Maybe you don’t believe that’s possible, but it is. I know from experience.”

  She looked up and made eye contact. “What do you mean?”

  “I suppose things are slightly different for me than they are for…” He glanced around to make sure no one was too close. “Your species but really, we’re not that different. Our minds enjoy pleasurable things, obviously. Like booze and drugs, or sugar, or getting attention. We don’t usually have these things all the time, so we assume that we should take them whenever they’re available.”

  She peered at him now with genuine curiosity.

  “So, when we get too much of the pleasurable thing, it’s like our brain can’t handle the idea of going back to not having it all the time. Even though we were doing fine beforehand—when we only had it once in a while—we start to feel like we’ll die or something without a constant supply.”

  He hung his own head, and his cheeks and neck tingled. “That’s how I used to be with drugs. It’s like I needed them to escape and feel normal. I couldn’t accomplish anything and I kept making a fool of myself because I couldn’t talk myself into being normal and healthy again. And I’m sorry to say it, but you’re having the same problem right now. With men and with the feeling you get from having them look at you and buy things for you and say nice things about you. Do you understand?”

  She was silent for almost a full minute. “I think so. But I do need attention. And it’s not like I’m helpless. You make it sound like I don’t have any power over myself. I can stop coming here whenever I feel like it.”

  Oh, hell, have I ever heard that before, not least from myself.

  “Riley,” he retorted crisply, “you haven’t stopped, even if you think you can. Please, trust me on this. You’ll have to keep chasing after more and more. It will never be as good as it was the first time, so without even realizing what you’re doing, you’ll look endlessly for ways to make it better and better, when in fact, everything keeps getting worse. Are you happy right now? Do you feel good about what happened in there?”

  The fairy stared into his eyes and some kind of understanding passed between them. After a moment, she looked away. “No.” She sniffed. “But I need people to like me.”

  Remy nodded with a sharp, almost fierce motion of his head. “Everyone does, to some extent. I needed to feel like I wasn’t a loser. Drugs were how I tried to escape from that. But what I really needed was to do something about my life, to start accomplishing things. That’s the healthy alternative.”

  Riley tilted her head to the side and her eyes widened again.

  He sighed. “Along the same lines, what I think would be healthy for you is if, instead of coming out to these places and talking to all these guys, you focused on the attention you can already get from people you know and who care about you. Such as, well, me.”

  Trying not to blush and feeling a little like an awkward teenager again, he put his hand on hers and held it. She smiled at him.

  “So,” he concluded, “if you’ll let me help you with this, I will. I pulled myself out of the same hole and I can help you out of yours.”

  “Okay,” she said, and it seemed that some of her old sweetness and warmth was already back.

  His phone chose that exact moment to buzz in his pocket.

/>   “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, turned slightly away from her, and pulled the device free. According to his screen, the caller was none other than Alex, definitely one of the last people Remy wanted to get a call from.

  He swiped the green button and raised the phone to his ear. “Remington. Hello?”

  “Listen up, mate,” Alex said immediately. It sounded like he was scared or otherwise agitated but tried—and failed—not to be too obvious about it. “And listen carefully, because this is important. I’m not fucking around here.”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged, “I’m listening carefully. Go on.”

  The Australian cleared his throat and inhaled before he spoke. “I’m goddamn sure you’re in danger. From her, I mean. Remember back when I came after you on her orders? That was only me alone—one thrall. Of course, I was better than the other ones she seems to have picked up, but even so. She’s sending a whole arse-load of minions after you this time. Believe me, it’s true. My brand is burning me again and I can feel what she’s planning to do. It was the same way last time I talked to Taylor. I keep seeing things from her mind. Flashes of images, stuff she’s plotting—”

  “Okay,” he interrupted and tensed when he realized the magnitude of what Alex was saying. “I get the picture. Details, please?”

  “A whole fucking convention,” the intern replied. “I’d say at least fifty people under her control. I think she’s sending them to a few different places, but I definitely have the impression that a good chunk of them will come directly for you.”

  Remy took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “Well, that sucks. Thanks for the heads-up, Alex. Where the hell are you right now, anyway?”

  “I can’t say. Somewhere secure. You need to find Taylor, though, mate. She might be your only hope at this point.”

  The investigator nodded, mostly to himself. “Will do.” He ended the call and re-pocketed his phone.

  Glancing over at his companion, he saw that her face was still morose but in a different way and now, her jaw was set in what almost looked like determination. Her eyes hadn’t narrowed but something within them had hardened.