Grave Dealings

by R. R. Virdi

  “Are the lords and ladies of the Neravene not an option?”

  The puck paled, an odd look for his golden complexion. “Root and bark, no! It would be a slight to queens. One they couldn’t—wouldn’t—forget, much less forgive.”

  That was true. Nobody held onto a grudge like a Faerie Queen. You didn’t get involved with them unless you were monumentally stupid.

  “Good point. But why’d you come back?”

  His cheeks flushed, making his skin look like rose gold. “Well, I couldn’t leave a place—one that I had a rather large hand in mucking up—a mess now, could I?” His face twisted in disgust. “I had to right it.”

  My chest shook, and something built in the pit of my belly. I couldn’t contain it. It spread through my body and the laughter filled the apartment. “You...you came back because you couldn’t stand a messy room?” Tears formed and I had to brush my eyes with the back of my hand. My legs felt like wet string, ready to collapse. “I can’t...” Air refused to fill my lungs as fast I forced it to leave. My laughter intensified.

  “Yes-yes, very funny, mortal. Make light of my suffering. Do you know what it’s like?”

  I fell against the door and laughed harder. “You poor little neat freak!”

  He scowled and crossed his arms. “I was made to do this. Have you any idea what that is like?” The puck quivered like he was going to lose it any second now.

  Boy, do I. That’s all I know, bouncing from one body and case to the next. The puck had normalcy in his life. He had a home, a place he could return to. I had a notebook with thoughts and memories jotted down as I remembered them. Fragments of my life in a journal, nothing more than scratches of ink.

  “I think I can imagine.” Something in my voice must have clued the puck to what I was thinking.

  He folded his lips and adopted silence.

  I ran my tongue against the inside of my cheeks. “Okay, here’s the big question—why?”

  The puck arched a brow. “Why, what?”

  “Why make you come all this way to mess up Daniel’s apartment? What’s the benefit, to you or the freak that set this up?” I propped my chin on my fist and pursed my lips. Something didn’t add up.

  He shrugged. “I was told to make it look like a mortal altercation. Something that would...” He stopped and squinted like he was searching for a word. “Something to confuse your constabulary.”

  That was something. My mind raced with possibilities. This was supposed to look like a robbery, perhaps. One gone wrong? That wouldn’t have explained Daniel’s absence though. There was no evidence of violence. A place being torn up isn’t enough to leap to a conclusion.

  But, then, what was I doing? My job revolved around jumping from one hunch to the next, sometimes without solid clues. Evidence is a wonderful thing. Never let it discount your gut feelings and training though. Everything adds up in the end. Refusing one piece in favor of something else keeps you from seeing the big picture.

  I flexed my fingers and made a fist several times to help me release my frustration. The questions piled up. The leads...not so much.

  When in doubt, ask more questions.

  “Alright, so this was supposed to look like a tussle gone wrong to throw off the cops. Why? What good does that do? Make them think it was a burglary? All that means is his home was trashed and he wasn’t home. Robbery gone wrong means he was here and things took a nasty turn. There’s no blood. No other signs either. Hair fibers, old, if the cops get any at all. Besides, if things got that out of hand to go in concert with that level of mess, the neighbors would have heard. Something would’ve been filed. No.”

  The puck stared at me as I rattled through the possibilities. He held up an index finger. “Are you okay, human? Words are dribbling out of you.” He flashed me a sideways look and took a step back.

  “Yeah. Fine. Thinking.” I held up a hand to silence him. All the wrecked apartment served to do was throw me off whatever trail was there. This was better calculated than some of the monsters I’ve dealt with. But there’s no such thing as a perfect plan. I just needed to find the hole. And if there wasn’t one, I’d make my own.

  The puck blurred past me, grabbing the edge of the toilet paper. He yanked the sheet. The roll unwound, somehow folding upon itself and into his hands.

  A touch of magic.

  He took the wad, ignoring me, and fell to his knees. The little fae scrubbed the soap and shaving cream from the tiles. His hands and arms moved with a fervor found in industrial-level equipment.

  “Was it bothering you that much?”

  He shot me a feral look. “Yes.”

  I raised my hands in a gesture of placation. “Clean on. I’ve got more questions to ask.”

  He grunted and scrubbed harder. “I can hardly wait.”

  I bit back a retort and sighed. The question on my mind was more important than being witty. It was a tough call. I rubbed my brow and shut my eyes for a second. “Okay, were you made to do this”—I broke off and waved a hand to the door—“making a mess out of anyone else’s place?” Reiterating what’s been said can help process facts.

  His arms locked, and he convulsed for a microsecond. “No.”

  I stared at him, hoping he’d give me more than that. “That’s it—no?”

  “Not entirely.”

  I narrowed my eyes and kept up the stare. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means, mortal, that no, I was not asked to ruin another human’s home. But...I was asked to do something just as horrible.”

  “Oh?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, waiting.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  I blinked. “Uh, why not?”

  He gulped and reached towards his throat, stopping as he became aware of what he was doing.

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t involve the owner of this place. Whatever happens outside here is not for your ears.”

  “I’m going to call bullshit there. You’re not bound by a code of honor or fae laws. You’re Free Folk. You don’t want to tell me, or...you can’t?”

  He swallowed again.

  “The monster you can’t tell me anything about?”

  The puck nodded.

  I pressed a hand to my forehead and massaged. “Right, you were threatened.”

  He nodded.

  Of course. The paranormal world was complex and shifting in balance. Not much remained static. What did shift was power. And power could be traded, built through favors. It was a heck of a currency. But, as with any system, sometimes you don’t need to pay to play. There are other avenues you can take. Like throwing around any measure of physical and magical power you might have. Sometimes threats work.

  But the thing about that is, it gets you what you want in the short term. Threats aren’t great for building a working relationship. They get you put on the shit list. If I was right about my brush-headed friend, he had an axe to grind. He was just too weak to do it himself. He needed muscle.

  “You’re worried, I get that. What if I told you I’m out to put a hurtin’ on this freak? I’ll kick its ass, square things out for me and for you. Willing to talk now?”

  He shook his head. “No chance. I don’t know much about you, mortal, but I know enough. And I know you cannot win. You will die, just like the true owner of this place did. If I help you, and it comes to that, then I am next.”

  He had a fair point. I mean, it was wrong, but you can’t blame a guy for self-preservation. Go, go Gadget charming. I flashed him a smile. “This is the part where you say, ‘But I like you, human, so I’ll help anyway.’”

  The puck snorted so hard that I thought mucus would’ve shot out. “I hate you. Look at what you did!” He gestured to the remaining soap and shaving cream.

  “Yeah, and I’m real broken up about it; I am.” I placed a hand over my heart in mock sympathy.

  He scowled.

  “Give me something work with, please. Look, this thing strong-armed you, and I know that doesn�
�t sit well with any fae. You can’t tell me that you’re not itching for some measure of payback?”

  His nose twitched, and his mouth followed. He was mulling it over. The puck looked away, his gaze peering through the walls almost. A long sigh left his nostrils. “Yes, I want that.”

  Never underestimate faeries. They’ve made an art out of getting everything they want. They don’t just get mad; they get even.

  “So, fess up. Whatchya got?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t answer that—”

  I lowered my head.

  “Not for free.”

  “Huh?” I raised a brow and waited. When he didn’t go on, I shrugged and offered a hand. “Like what? You want collateral? A bribe?”

  He smiled. “Something like that.”

  Like I said, never underestimate a fae. They’re tricky, conniving little shits that will fleece you for whatever they can. They can be grade-A opportunists.

  “Fine.” Two could play that game. “I’ll give you something of my choosing.”

  The little fae crossed his arms and fixed me with a sullen look. “You don’t get to decide its value to me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” But if I was right about this, it was invaluable to any fae. He didn’t know how little good it’d do him, but he didn’t need to know that. It had perceived value. Sometimes the perception of worth is good enough. “My name.”

  A hunger built in his eyes as they widened.

  Names have power. They’re linked to our identity, who we are. And there’s another level of power in that. One that stretches back as far as the spoken word. Faeries know that. There’s not much more they love than being able to pull on mortal strings and make us dance like puppets. Even lowly fae like a puck get off on that.

  I had him. “That’s got to be worth something, right?”

  His face morphed into a mask of stone, but he couldn’t hide the light in his eyes. Good poker face. Just not good enough. “It’s worth something, mortal.”

  I grinned. Names can be used to track or summon something, if you had the skill. Worse, you could compel someone to act in a horrible manner. One contingency though. Your name needs to be bound to more than just an identity. It needs a body.

  We’re all more than our body. It’s part of us, and rightfully so. In my case, it’s a different story. Add to that my fractured memories and all the borrowed ones tagging along, my identity is unstable. I clung to it, but it wasn’t as concrete as a normal person’s. Which meant the faerie wasn’t going to be able to do much with my name.

  I’ve dealt with enough fae to know how to game ‘em.

  “So, mortal, are you going to tell me?”

  My grin widened. I told him.

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head low.

  About time I got some respect from the paranormal.

  He dropped the clump of toilet paper and leapt past me. His hands clawed at the door and he wrenched, flinging it open. The puck hurtled into the living room before I processed what had happened.

  Sometimes the supernatural are just cheating assholes.

  “You little turd.” I got to my feet and spun, tearing after him. The door handle slammed into the drywall and left an imprint.

  The puck bolted towards the front door.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  The door opened, and it wasn’t the puck’s doing.

  She was striking. Beige skin complected with a hint of gold. Chestnut hair that fell past her shoulders. Her brows were the same color but carried a hint of smokiness in them. She had full, wide lips that defined her mouth. They were spread wide in shock.

  That happens when you walk in on a guy chasing a faerie.

  Camilla Ortiz. An agent of the FBI. A one-time resident of a mental asylum that had gone through the Hollywood horror treatment. And...my friend. Though she didn’t know it.

  She brushed the side of her slim-fitting, burgundy leather jacket. Her hand blurred to her holster. She pulled and drew a handgun, tucking it to her chest before extending her arms. It happened in a second. It was smooth and practiced.

  I froze.

  The puck didn’t. He threw back his head, letting out a shrill cry. The fae scampered towards the back of the apartment.

  Ortiz bristled, but to her credit, and training, she didn’t fire. Gold on a field of black caught my eye. The FBI badge hung from a silver chain that stood out against her black shirt. I noticed how nicely her jeans clung to her as well. I’m a detective. We pick up stuff like that.

  The puck swiped his hand through the air. The simple gesture was tinged with unseen magic. Daniel’s back window seemed to open of its own accord. The puck bent and leapt through it.

  My mouth mirrored the woman’s, widening at his course of action.

  Light flashed, and the screaming ceased.

  The creature had opened a Way and skedaddled back to his home.

  I turned and offered a hapless shrug and a matching smile. “Huh, that was weird.”

  She blinked twice before kicking the door shut with the back of her heel. Ortiz moved into the room, keeping the gun leveled at me. Her hands were steady, and her molasses eyes carried a fire I’d seen before. It was like looking at molten steel.

  I swallowed. There had been a supernatural creature in the room, and she still had her gun trained on me. Most people would’ve gone after the creature.

  She wasn’t most people.

  “Um, hi.” I waved. It was a dumb thing to do.

  She homed in on my forearm. Her eyes ballooned, and I saw her jaw harden. She nodded to my tattoo with a slight thrust of her chin. “What’s that?” Ortiz arched a brow and fixed me with a stare I was all too familiar with.

  Shit.

  “It’s a tattoo.” I tapped my index and middle finger against it. “You know, ink; it’s cool—fashionable.”

  Her jaw tightened further. “You think that’s funny?”

  Not anymore. I remained silent.

  She took another step closer. The gun was pointed just below my sternum. “Does this tattoo change by the hour?”

  I exhaled then nodded. There was no point lying. Camilla Ortiz possessed an uncanny ability to separate fact from fiction. I’d seen her call out a supernatural creature—an expert on falsehoods—on their bullshit. “Yeah.”

  She tilted her head to look away for a second. The gun remained steady.

  ...Yay.

  “You know, I’ve met two guys with tattoos like that.”

  I opened my mouth but stopped when she flashed me a glare that told me it wasn’t a good idea.

  “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  What could I say? Open my mouth and lie—I’d be called on it. Tell the truth, and I’d likely be shot. I’m allergic to bullets. And if I kept my trap shut, was it just as good as saying yes?

  I kept quiet.

  “I’m going to ask you another question, and you’re going to answer it.” She licked her lips, and her hands shook for a microsecond that I almost missed.

  I nodded.

  “Who are you, really?”

  God. If ever there was a question I wished I could answer. I’ve been wondering that for a long time myself, Ortiz. “My name is Daniel—”

  “Don’t—” She broke off and shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. Not again. Not while you look like—” Ortiz lowered the gun to my beltline before raising it again. “Not while you look like him.”

  A hand coated in ice gripped my heart. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not Daniel Kim.”

  My heart lurched inside the frozen grip.

  A bead of moisture formed at the corner of her left eye. It was mirrored a second later by her right eye. Her hands shook again, but she brought them under control. “Daniel Kim is my friend, and you’re not him.”

  Oh, God. The invisible hand squeezed tighter, and my chest felt like it’d cave in on itself. It’s one thing to tell someone the truth. It’s another
to do it when you’re wearing their friend’s body. How do you tell someone the person they cared for is dead?

  There is no easy answer. Not that the right answers are ever easy. But she deserved to know. Hell, for everything she’d gone through at my side, I should’ve come clean long ago. But, because of everything she’d gone through with me, her life had taken some nasty turns. Where’s the line where it’s okay to hide something from a person to protect them?

  It’s a blurry line. And maybe somewhere along the way, I’d crossed it. The question was: which side did I go over to? And where did that put Ortiz? Someone I used when I needed help? Or a friend?

  Friends deserve straight answers.

  And they deserve to live.

  My mind felt like a swarm of bees on amphetamines.

  “Who are you? I’m not going to ask again.”

  I eyed her then the gun. She wouldn’t kill me. I knew Camilla Ortiz. She was honest, played by the law, and most of all, she was a good person. But...that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cap my ass and drag me to the nearest station. She’d get her answers one way or another; I’d learned that much. So maybe it was best they came from me. Maybe it was time she knew me the way I knew her.

  “My name is Vincent Graves, and I’m a soul.”

  Chapter Seven

  Whatever had gone through my mind must have paled in comparison to what was going on in hers. I could almost visualize wires being undone within her noggin. Sparks were crackling about, and there was a processing error.

  She may have had a built-in polygraph, but I think my little truth had just broken it.

  Her mouth moved several times without sound. The tip of the gun lowered a fraction. “You’re...telling the truth.”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head and shut her eyes for a second. “Or you believe you are.”

  I shrugged. “That’s possible too, but it’s the truth, Ortiz.”

  Her spine went rigid. “What did you say?”

  I repeated myself.

  Ortiz let out a low, almost unheard breath. “It’s Daniel’s voice, but you sound like...” She trailed off.

  My hands came to my side. I hoped it wasn’t enough of an action to prompt her to shoot. “Charles? Norman?”