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

by Isobella Crowley

  Another dwarf, also a bodyguard type, stepped between her and his master. To her shock, Grayhammer brought his weapon down on the dwarf’s thick head, all but obliterated it, and shoved the corpse aside. In his drug-fueled rage, he could no longer distinguish friend from foe and would destroy anything that got in his way.

  Taylor surged toward the cartel leader, felt his eagerness to engage her, and darted to the side as his hammer moved to kill her.

  The weapon cleared air far quicker than she would have liked, and she almost balked at the power the drug had given him. A bludgeoning tool like that should have generated far too much air resistance to keep pace with her.

  Already, she had somersaulted back the way she’d come to complete her flanking maneuver. As Starik pivoted to meet her, the blade of her sword passed through his hip.

  He ignored it and strode toward her.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  A miniature sonic boom resounded in the tunnel as the huge hammer thundered toward her head again and displaced air at unnatural speeds. The vampire vaulted upward and over the weapon before she forced herself down and sliced and hacked with her blade as she descended.

  Blood welled from almost a dozen gashes that opened in Grayhammer’s arms, shoulders, neck, and even the thick, almost concrete-like bone of his skull. He did not fall.

  “You!” he roared. “You! You!” He hoisted the hammer over his head and flung himself toward her. His onslaught seemed as if he no longer even tried to strike her and only aimed to envelop and crush her petite form with the mass of his body.

  Among humans, Taylor recalled in the brief moment she had to plan, there were levels of adrenaline that ignored pain and even most types of damage. A person in such a state could only be brought down by force so massive as to short-circuit the body’s bioelectricity or by dismantling those structures which it required to move.

  She went down instead of up, ducked between Grayhammer’s legs, spun, and swiped her sword through the bones and ligaments of both knees. He screamed, not in agony but in frustration at having again failed to kill her, despite the fact that both his legs fell aside and effectively crippled him.

  He spun his torso and the hammer arced toward her face.

  In response, she bent back, allowed herself to fall, and brought the sword up in time to intercept the blow. The blade of her weapon shattered and some of the shards left cuts in her body as they shrapneled.

  The hammer, fortunately, did not strike her and she grabbed Starik’s arm, broke it at the elbow with one twist and shattered his wrist with another. His accursed weapon clattered beyond his reach.

  An easy vault landed her on Grayhammer’s broad shoulders. She stared into his crazed, half-blinded eyes as she dug her claws into his neck. With both feet braced against his body, she tightened the firmness of her grip and launched upward with all the power she possessed.

  Cracking and tearing like stone being demolished, the dwarf’s head came off in her hands and ascended with her to the tunnel’s ceiling. The hulking body finally toppled and thrashed a few more times as if to protest its own death.

  The vampire descended, landed on her feet, and threw the huge head aside. It landed on the body with a thud, cushioned by its attached mane of hair but too blocky and heavy even to roll.

  Her gaze assessed the scene. The werewolves, with some help from Riley—and to a lesser extent even Remington—had dispatched the last of the thralls. A few echoes of combat vibrations rippled down the length of the corridor before silence set in.

  Taylor brushed herself off and noted, with dismay, that she would need a new sword. The one lost to Grayhammer had served her well while it lasted.

  Gasping and near exhaustion, her four companions stumbled toward her. She nodded briefly to the fairy and the lycanthropes and focused her attention on the human.

  “Remington,” she said and employed her best tone of icy calm, “I have a question.”

  He simply stared and mouthed stupidly at her before the realization set in that they’d won and he was still alive. “Uh…yes?”

  “Why,” she grated, “did you bring a thundering clusterfuck like this directly to the place I had specifically designated as a safe house? This is one of those things that requires a supremely good explanation.”

  Remy hesitated and seemed to turn over a couple of possible responses in his mind. She imagined him considering some sarcastic bullshit like, Well, I didn’t want you to miss out on the fun, ha. Or something similarly stupid.

  Instead, he looked honestly happy to see her and said, “I thought I’d take you up on that offer of yours and ask you for a key.” He cleared his throat and smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

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

  David Remington, whether known by his birth name or by Remington Davis or by Remy, had never been the type to forego a reasonable and generous offer made by good friends who wished him the best. No, he was the type to take full advantage of whatever was available.

  “Make yourself at home,” Taylor had said.

  Therefore, he had. And already, Presley seemed to have developed a strange resistance to his employer’s clearly stated wishes.

  “Ah, sir,” the butler called as their guest hoisted a big neon sign and carried it toward the second-floor staircase, “is that really necessary?”

  “What? Why do you ask?” he retorted. “It’s not as though all this ornamental stuff from the twelfth century you guys have is necessary, either. Besides, Taylor instructed me to make myself at home. Didn’t you hear?”

  The old man’s jaw moved up and down for a second or two but no coherent sounds emerged. Again, he took advantage of an opportunity as soon as it presented itself and started up the stairs.

  “Sir,” Presley said again and started after the younger man, “we do have…ah, power bills to consider. Wasting electricity on a neon beer sign is hardly what Ms Steele had in mind. Of that, I can assure you.”

  By now, he was already halfway up the stairs and the butler had barely reached the base.

  “Oh?” he inquired. “Did you specifically ask her? Wait, don’t bother. I’ll do so myself after I get this set up. It’s one of the few of my things that Moswen’s thralls didn’t smash into oblivion, so it has sentimental value besides. Maybe they thought it was beneath contempt?”

  The old man started up the steps behind him and commented, “Yes, I’d say that’s entirely possible. You don’t plan to put that anywhere near the window, do you? Especially that brand? You might at least have gone with Newcastle Brown—”

  Ignoring him, Remy carried the sign into the room that was to be his and decided that the best place for it was on an open space of wall directly opposite the window. He held it up in that location to confirm.

  “No.” Presley almost moaned. “Sir, you mustn’t.”

  The elderly chap glanced also at the other things that littered the room, all objects he had salvaged from the ruins of his apartment. It was odd, really, that the thralls had mostly obliterated his classy belongings but left all the cheesy bachelor pad accouterments. Like his beanbag chair, his sports posters, or his gaudy neon advertisement of an iconic, if under-respected, US alcohol brand.

  “Wellllll,” he drawled, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  They descended together as he headed to the next load and paused briefly as they passed the sitting room where Taylor sat reading from a leather-bound tome on wartime economics.

  “Remington,” Presley scolded, “I simply can’t allow this. It’s true we don’t have many visitors or onlookers, but there is still the possibility that someone might approach the house, look into the window and see…that. Glowing brightly, suggesting that persons in this household actually drink such rubbish.”

  He scoffed. “It’s the sheer ironic kitsch appeal of it, don’t you see?” he explained. “Everyone makes fun of it for being borderline tasteless and generically cheap, corporate, mass-produced, o
verly American, and so forth. Even though I think the brand was purchased by a company from…I don’t know, Luxembourg or someplace a while ago.”

  The old man cleared his throat. “Belgium, sir. At least you were close.”

  “Right, Belgium. Whatever.” He flapped a hand dismissively. “The point is, when a girl comes over, of course she’ll make fun of it. I can then respond with a witty, self-deprecating remark and use that as a launching pad to make fun of her. It’s all part of the gradual strategy of getting into her pa—er, I mean, into her good graces.”

  The butler, frowning even more deeply, looked at his own sleeve and brushed away a tiny piece of lint. “Whatever you say, sir. However, I don’t think Ms Steele will approve of you trying to entertain young ladies in her home, even if your only purpose is to enter their ‘good graces.’”

  “Hmm, yes,” Remy responded and placed his hands on his hips, “why don’t we ask her? Straight from the vampire-horse’s mouth. I bet, knowing me as well as she does, she wouldn’t necessarily object to—”

  Taylor looked up from her book. “No casual sex on the premises, please. It creates a certain smell that persists for far longer than you might think, depending on the sensitivity of one’s olfactory receptors. Not to mention that I don’t want to have to change your tires if they get slashed a week later.” She turned her gaze back to her reading.

  “Oh,” he replied. “Damn.”

  Presley folded his hands behind his back and smirked. “There, you see? We have standards in this household, I’m afraid. And at the end of the day, sir, you’re still a guest, which is to say you are dependent on our goodwill as hosts. Thus, you will abide by our rules while under our roof.”

  “I knew it,” he muttered. “You’d get along great with my parents. In fact, why don’t you apply to work for them? I bet they’d be thrilled to meet a genuine werewolf. My mother would have any number of questions about body hair and its proper care and removal. Meanwhile, I’ll take over as butler here, I guess.”

  “Mm, no,” the butler retorted. “You will recall that I trained for years at the academy for precisely this kind of duty. You’re not qualified.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Remy picked up a two-foot square box filled to the brim with neckties. “That’s what they all say.”

  Meanwhile, Riley had floated around outside and amused herself by licking the bases of icicles hanging off the eaves. She seemed fascinated by how long it took to get all the way through them so they would plummet earthward like vengeful spears of frigid death. It was good to see her enjoying herself at something other than bilking random men for clothes she’d never wear.

  Now, she flew into the house.

  “Is Remy almost moved in?” she asked the butler.

  He spoke for himself before the old man could. “Yes, Riley, I’m almost done. I’ll be here for a while, it seems. Not that long, but still. It’s the same room we spent the night in a few months ago, in fact.”

  “I remember that,” she quipped. “When you woke up, you had a—”

  “Need for coffee.” He cut her off. “Thanks.”

  “Well,” she went on and her small face grew a trifle pouty, “if you’ll be here all the time because it’s dangerous, I should have a room here too. You know, to keep an eye on you.”

  Presley hastened up to them. “Another entire room given over purely to a single fairy is not very economical, sir. Might I suggest…”

  After a few minutes of arguing, justifications, rationalizations, and thinly veiled threats, they all agreed that Riley could have a drawer within Remy’s room all to herself.

  The butler remained downstairs to clean up the mess created by the moving process. Remington and Riley went to the former guest room.

  He sighed. “I suppose that with Moswen trying to draw and quarter us and turn our skulls into teacups or whatever that it wouldn’t hurt to have my own live-in bodyguard. There’s no way in hell I’d let Conrad sleep in the same room as me, after all.”

  The fairy smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “And,” he added, “this way, I can keep an eye on you, also. You know, paying attention to you and such. You’ll get enough attention, in fact, that you won’t even want to think about borderline-pornographic swimwear and the imbeciles who are willing to shell out for it because a hot girl asked them nicely.”

  “Yay!” She clapped her hands.

  She’s starting to resemble her old self again. Perhaps the Fair Folk recover from addictions faster than we do? It’s a shame that they’re susceptible to them at all, to begin with.

  An hour passed, during which he arranged his things, set his alarm clock, hung his clothes, and so forth. Here and there, he spared a moment to look at Riley as she wasted time and said pleasant things to her. Despite the distraction, it didn’t bother him too much.

  Conrad called as he finished settling in.

  “Sir,” the werewolf asked, “will you need me today?”

  “No, we should be fine for the moment, and you deserve a day off.” He took a deep breath and finally continued with something he knew he ought to have said before now.

  “And, Conrad, well… I’m sorry about how I acted when we first met and…uh, some of the shit I’ve said. It was… uncalled-for. The BDSM shit, and the dog jokes. Wolf jokes would have at least been more accurate. I was afraid, at first, that you’d turn out to be another of those Ivy League types who looks down their nose at everyone, especially me since I practically washed out of High Society. In fact, though, you turned out to be…tolerable. And you saved my ass a number of times. So, thanks. I’m not good at being emotional, but I mean it. Truly.”

  The lycanthrope was silent a moment on the other end, as though he hadn’t expected to hear that.

  “Well, sir, you’re welcome, and thank you. I understand, but your apology is appreciated.”

  “Right. Maybe we can have a single beer together next time we meet or something. Enjoy your time off, talk to you later, and so forth.”

  Conrad said goodbye and hung up.

  Soft footsteps ascended the staircase, and someone knocked gently on the door before they eased it open.

  “Good evening,” Taylor said.

  Remington turned away from his tie rack to face her. “Good evening, although I’m fairly sure we already had that exchange when I first arrived. We won’t keep going through the same formalities over and over again every time we bump into each other around the house, will we?”

  The vampire almost smiled. “That ridiculous comment leads us directly into what I wished to discuss. Namely, the…ah, specific arrangements of our cohabitation. As Presley already said, this is my house. However, I’m willing to make a few small, reasonable compromises.”

  She glanced at his neon beer sign. “Since you won’t be here long.”

  “Right,” he confirmed. “This is strictly temporary. Too bad we have to leave it at a vague term like ‘temporary’ since that can mean…a while, but it’s definitely not the same thing as ‘permanent.’ So there’s that.”

  “Yes.” She flicked her eyes to the side and drummed her fingernails against one arm. “You’ve arranged for your mail to be forwarded here until further notice, haven’t you?”

  He waved a hand. “I’ll do that tomorrow. There’s been enough horror and tribulation lately without having to go into the post office before it’s strictly necessary.”

  “Do so,” she instructed. “Also, speak to Presley about his schedule so that you can coordinate things like when to keep the noise down relative to each of your sleep times. I am virtually impossible to awaken via mere sound, so you needn’t worry about me.”

  Remy smirked, sensing the irresistible opportunity for an incredibly lame joke. “So what you’re saying,” he began, winding up dramatically, “is that you sleep like the dead.”

  She rubbed her forehead as though afflicted by a sudden migraine. “Something like that, yes. Of course, I will also respect your privacy—within reason—a
nd will expect the same from you in return. Over the course of this evening, I’ll try to think of other things you should know, such as safety protocols, and write them down for you to study in the morning.”

  “Protocols.” He sighed. “The fun never ends.”

  “Do recall, Remington,” she added, “that this is only for the sake of your protection. Your apartment was attacked twice within less than the span of one full day. Not long ago you were…understandably offended at the idea that I was merely using you for bait.” She frowned in what might even have been shame. “I hope that my inviting you here demonstrates that I…would prefer nothing bad happen to you.”

  She was, he realized, attempting to express something dangerously close to emotion. Never one to neglect an opportunity, he decided to see how she reacted to the unexpected.

  He smiled with genuine warmth, stepped closer to her, and without even a trace of sarcasm in his voice, said, “Thank you, Taylor. Not many people have proven that they really care about me beyond what I can do for them financially or socially or whatever. You, however, have. I am grateful, and I mean that.”

  It seemed a perfectly natural gesture to put a hand on her shoulder.

  Taylor took a step back and tensed and her hands rose to neck level in what almost looked like a defensive gesture. Her black eyes bulged with confusion.

  “I—ah, you’re welcome. Thank you. Yes…”

  She’s almost flustered, he marveled. And for a split second there, it almost looked like she was blushing. I wouldn’t have expected to see that in a woman who is kinda-sorta technically a walking corpse.

  In a moment, it passed and she was again cool and aloof, very much the mistress of the house. “You’ve earned the privilege,” she stated, “since you’ve been most helpful to me and to the agency’s goals. Of course, it will be important that you not impede my work while you’re here.”

  “Oh, of course,” he replied vaguely. “Very professional.”

  Again, it looked like she might smile, but she managed to stop herself beyond a barely perceptible softening of her expression.