Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  “I guess it’s not so bad,” I said. “They have chocolate.” I threw a longing look at the desert table.

  “So does the store on the corner.”

  “Hey, this was your idea. I’m just riding shotgun.”

  A grin pulled at his lips. “So that’s what you’re hiding under that skirt?”

  “Of course not.” I caught his eyes. “It wouldn’t fit.”

  Creed accepted two glasses of champagne from a smiling server. He handed me one. I hesitated before taking it. Ronnie’s death was still a heavy shadow, and Ronan’s request hovered at the edge of my thoughts. But Marnie was home. That alone was reason to celebrate.

  Mayor Anderson’s speech ended with a round of applause and the first chords of a lively waltz. After pausing for pictures, he continued upstairs. Less than two dozen people were on the upper floor, milling about in small groups. Anderson joined one as he reached the top.

  Face-time with the mayor was the first step toward going home.

  I pivoted toward Creed. Tracking his eyeline, I knew he was thinking the same thing. “After you,” I said.

  We made our way around the dance floor. He had an easier time of it. There were no puddles of pain for him to avoid, and my skirt was like my own personal bumper guard. A few guests stopped Creed and shook his hand; a court jester with elaborate face paint, Zeus, the Little Mermaid, Marie Antoinette, and the Man in the Iron Mask. There were compliments on my dress and his appointment of the task force. I held onto my polite façade through the crush of the crowd, but the number of masks made me uneasy. It kept bringing my thoughts back to Arno’s stitched-on skin. And Ronan. Always Ronan.

  I breathed easier as we reached the second floor. The air was cooler, the space wide. It was quieter too, as my heels clicked noisily on the blue-veined marble floor.

  Mayor Anderson was in the balcony between the stairs, overlooking the festivities. Two muscular men in black suits and stony expressions hovered nearby. The major dismissed them as we approached. They nodded but didn’t go far.

  He and Creed had met several times. As they shook hands, I waited for the upbeat attitude Karl Anderson was known for to grate on my partner’s nerves. But there was no pretense or tension in their exchange. Either Creed had been practicing, or he genuinely liked the man.

  “Mayor.” I dipped my head. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “General Antony at your service,” he joked, taking my hand. “I see my secretary outdid herself. You two look fabulous.”

  “Thank you.” I forced a blush. “The costumes are perfect. And the personal service was very kind.”

  “Consider it a show of gratitude. My citizens sleep better at night knowing we have such dedicated crime fighters protecting them.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, I’m not sure everyone feels that way. That leak to the press on our current case was terrible timing.” Feeling particularly protective, I added, “If the captain hadn’t been prepared, it could have been much worse.”

  “Yes, we’re all grateful Gattlin is such a resourceful man,” Anderson said, his tone sobering. “And they’ll be looking at us even closer now with the death of Officer Lane. My condolences on her loss,” he said automatically, with a glance at Creed. “Such a dreadful tragedy. I assume everything is being done to apprehend the culprit?”

  “Yes, sir,” Creed said. “We’ll find him.”

  “I have no doubt,” Anderson replied. “Your tenacity is notorious, Detective. Which is why you deserve a few hours off. I’m sure Gattlin would agree. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be here tonight. But the captain speaks highly of you both. I believe his words were, ‘bright and indispensable’.”

  “Indispensable?” Creed glanced at me.

  “What a nice thing to say,” I jumped in, covering his confusion.

  “I understand you were in law enforcement before, Miss Nite,” Anderson said. “We’re happy to have your consulting expertise, but have you considered making it official and joining the SCPD full-time? Surely you’d like a more permanent home?”

  “Call me Dahlia, please. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mayor, but I’m happy with the current arrangement. It leaves me time to pursue other interests.”

  “Understandable. But I may change your mind yet. Detective Creed isn’t the only persistent one,” he grinned. “For now, though… Eat. Drink. Enjoy. And I do hope you two will regale us with your dancing skills before the night ends?”

  I bit my lip on a laugh. “Alex does love a good tango.”

  “Perfect,” the mayor beamed. “I’ll request one for you.”

  Creed slid me a glare strong enough to make a grown man whither.

  Now, I was having fun.

  Anderson’s gaze turned to the main floor. “Ah, there’s my lovely date,” he said, both voice and gaze softening. “You two must forgive me. I’ve been told I act more like a school boy than a mayor when she’s around. We’ve only been seeing each other a few months, but I haven’t been this happy in years.” He waved to someone below. “I’d love to introduce you. If you don’t mind putting off your tango?”

  “Not at all,” Creed assured him.

  As their conversation turned to the mayor’s re-election campaign, I tossed back my champagne and tried to decide which of the women on the staircase was the mayor’s girlfriend. I discounted the elderly flapper and the much-too-young 1950’s starlet. That left one contender: a curvaceous Cleopatra in a floor-length white gown, split on the sides to reveal enough pale skin to be sexy but acceptable.

  The woman’s walk was as much class as seduction. Pin-straight, silky, black hair brushed her thighs like a lure with each step. She angled her head down, causing the golden beads of her elaborate headpiece to fall forward, and keep her face a mystery that every man watching wanted to solve. “Wealthy socialite” was more than a label to her. It was a learned skill. Whatever hooks the woman had planted in the mayor, were done so with skill.

  I wondered if he knew. He was said to be intelligent. His bio put him at almost fifty, yet he didn’t look it. Fit and moderately attractive, he moved in all the right circles. Public office hadn’t revealed any skeletons. Plenty of women, with a more genuine aura, would consider him a nice catch. But plenty of women didn’t look like her.

  At the top of the stairs, Cleopatra lifted her head. The beads fell away from her face—and the breath dried in my throat.

  Her makeup was heavy. Shimmering gold and blue eyeshadow accented the black lining her lids. Her hair was equally dark, with no glimpse of the lavender I remembered. But it was her. The mayor’s girlfriend wasn’t a gold digger. She was a dragon.

  Recovering from seeing the queen here in her human form, my shock moved onto why, followed by a raging panic. Creed was beside me. The museum was full of humans.

  I had to play it off and stay alert. But I could barely breathe.

  Head spinning, heart pumping, I raised my glass for a drink. Nothing came out. Nabbing Creed’s flute from his hand, I drained it. “Sorry,” I said, at his frown. “I was thirsty.”

  “Apparently.” He flagged the waiter walking by, and I traded our empty glasses for two full ones. Creed squinted at me as I held onto both, but it was a desperate, strategic move that left me with no free hand to shake with Cleopatra as she joined us.

  Naalish gave Mayor Anderson a meaningful kiss on the lips. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he proclaimed proudly, “Detective, Dahlia, I’d like to present Nisha Allen. Nisha is a freelance art historian. We met right here, when she was in town working on a piece for the museum.” He leaned toward her. “Detective Creed is the man I told you about. He’s heading up the City’s new, Unexplained Crimes Unit.”

  “Doesn’t that have a nice ring?” she said, locking eyes with Creed. Not even giving me a glance, she slid her hand into his with a slow, elegant smile. “Prince Charming and a dashing hero all rolled into one? If I were truly Cleopatra, I’d be having you brought to my tent before this night was out. But I suppose I’ll h
ave to settle for a dance…since my heart is already taken.” With a playful laugh, she turned moony eyes on the mayor.

  Anderson beamed, eating up the attention, while I struggled not to clench the glass in my hands hard enough to break. Creed, visibly uncomfortable with her flattery, replied with an awkward, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nisha” held his stare. Her dark brows raised in anticipation.

  The silence dragged on, and her expression sunk in.

  “Oh,” Creed said. “You mean, you’d like to dance now?”

  I was good at improvising. Off-the-cuff lies and excuses were a specialty. More than ever, I needed one now. But my shell-shocked brain was slow to respond, and before I knew it, Naalish and Creed were arm in arm on their way to the dance floor.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” the mayor breathed, staring after them. He watched a moment, before backing away. “Enjoy your evening, Dahlia. We’ll speak more later.”

  Losing interest in the champagne, I deposited both glasses on a table and moved back to the rail. It took mere seconds to spot the queen’s lyrriken bodyguards. Six, in total, were stationed at various points on the lower floor. Their build put them as formidable. But their charge, as she took to the dance floor, was far deadlier.

  The five minute and twenty-eight second dance took forever. I hit the bar for something stronger, then found a clear viewpoint to watch. I studied every move Naalish made as she successfully, and effortlessly, projected herself as the mayor’s stunning, graceful, charming—slightly flirty—date. No one would suspect she was a shapeshifting dragon-queen with no regard for humanity. Least of all Creed, trapped in her intimate embrace.

  They looked no different than any other couple on the dance floor. Yet, their closeness, how her arms draped around him, how her hips swayed to the romantic melody, clenched my stomach. Easily, she could slide a blade in or plant something damaging in his head. Except either action would out her, and Naalish loved the long game.

  She won’t hurt him, I thought. Not here. Not yet.

  I still wanted to walk over and yank her away. But cutting in, no matter how politely, would raise eyebrows. It would also place a layer of importance on Alex Creed that Naalish wouldn’t hesitate to pounce on, and she already had enough ammo to use against me. I wasn’t giving her more.

  I held my breath until the song ended and their bodies parted.

  Naalish slipped into the crowd. Creed joined me at the edge of the dancefloor, and I struggled not to interrogate him. He was unharmed, his mood seemed unaffected. To him, it was just a dance. I had to treat it the same way.

  For the next few hours we ate and mingled. Creed introduced me to the city officials he was acquainted with. They chatted about our accomplishments with the UCU. I smiled as their wives talked country clubs and manicures. Both of us interjected the occasional inquiry into the museum’s former curator. But no one seemed to know or remember the name, Arno Gant.

  Hoping a spin on the floor might show me where Naalish had scurried off to, I accepted the offer of a dance or two. The men were chatty and attentive. I walked away with the Assistant DA’s phone number, but no dragon.

  By the time I’d eaten enough tiny cubes of cheese to bust the zipper on my dress, the party was thinning out. I finally caught sight of Cleopatra, then, near the front entrance. Wherever she’d been all night, she was now saying an affectionate goodbye to General Antony. A woman at the coat check handed her a shimmery, black shawl. As Naalish draped the cloth over her shoulders, she turned and found me in the crowd. Her eyes zeroed in on mine like a missile. She held my stare a long moment, then turned and left the museum.

  I’d never spent a more uneventful evening in the presence of a dragon.

  What the hell was she up to?

  Mayor Anderson came straight over. His animated, eager expression implied the easy departure I was hoping for, wasn’t happening. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “The caterers are anxious to get to work. While the museum graciously allowed me to use the space, they insisted it not smell like champagne in the morning.”

  “That’s understandable,” I said. “It’s a shame Nisha left so early, though. She seems like a lovely woman. I was hoping to talk with her more.”

  “I’m afraid business takes her from me once again,” he replied. “But that doesn’t mean the night has to end. Some of my closest friends and associates have retired to a more private setting downstairs.” He gestured at the shiny, gold-painted elevator bay to the left of the entryway. “I’d like you to join us.”

  Creed tried to decline. “That’s kind of you sir, but—”

  “It will give us time to discuss the future goals of the UCU,” Anderson broke in, “and perhaps, Detective, your personal goals within the department?”

  Creed blinked, surprised at the mayor’s interest in his career.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You go on. It’s almost midnight, and this Cinderella can’t wait to get home and put her feet up.”

  Anderson laughed at my jest. “A moment I look forward to myself. But I’m careful who I bring inside my inner circle, Dahlia,” he said, sobering. “And we still need to discuss that job offer.”

  Creed and I exchanged looks. He wouldn’t force me to stay, but I couldn’t let my reluctance reflect poorly on him. “Thank you, Mayor Anderson,” I said. “We’re honored to be included.”

  “Wonderful. Shall we?” He offered me his arm. I took it with a smile, and the three of us crossed the expansive arched entryway to the row of elevators. The first one was open. We stepped inside, and Anderson keyed in to access the private, lower levels. The initial jerk as we started moving gave birth to a small twinge of anxiety.

  First mirrors. Now elevators. I was really racking up the phobias lately.

  “I didn’t realize the museum had so many underground levels,” I said, distracting myself from a ride that felt much longer than it should.

  “Oh, this place is a treasure.” Anderson turned toward me. “Did you know it was built in the early years of the Sentinel, entirely by donations from a prominent family? They had the forethought to build down, to accommodate all the behind the scenes work. Concealing the scientific research and the business side of things underground left an impressive amount of space on the upper floors for displays and interactive family activities. You should allow me to give you a tour. I know all the ins and outs. Many a youthful afternoon was spent roaming these halls,” he announced with a nostalgic smile. “I still come here at least once a week.”

  “You’re a history buff,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “A trait I inherited from my grandmother,” Anderson replied. “Thanks to a grant from her employer, she graduated with a degree in archeology back when many women were still waiting at home with their husband’s slippers.”

  “Sounds like a strong woman. And a generous employer.”

  “Yes,” he said, as the elevator came to a stop. “The Gant family always looks out for their own.”

  Creed tensed. I kept the reaction off my face as a pleasant ding announced our arrival. The doors opened, and Anderson ushered us out into a room far less private than he’d let on. Dimly lit, and laid out like a dinner theater, the large space was filled with rows of tables facing an elevated stage. The platform was decorated with scenery, making it resemble an ancient, vine-draped, stone castle. The tables each had their own mini-bars with a variety of drinks and cigars. Most of the seats were occupied. Some of the attendees were in costumes I recognized from upstairs. Others had changed. Not all were human.

  Creed turned on the mayor. “What is this?”

  “The room is generally reserved for private showings of plays and symphonies, strictly for the museum’s most generous donors. Last night, Nisha and I were treated to a stirring performance of Macbeth. The staff had no time to remove the scenery, I’m afraid, but I think it adds a nice ambiance. It is Halloween, after all.”

  “He wasn’t talking about the room,” I said. “Wh
at is this?”

  A memorable masculine voice slipped out of the darkness. “It’s what you’ve been waiting for, Dahlia.” A rotting smell preceded the strike of his shoes on the floor. “Your invitation. I told you it was coming soon.”

  Creed’s glare was like the sun, burning into my skin, as I pivoted to face our true host: Arno Gant. His costume, the lavish dress of a medieval king, took me off guard. More so, because I’d seen it upstairs; padded golden robe, ruby-encrusted crown, black wig and a feathered, porcelain mask to hide his identity. He’d been at the gala, mingling with the guests. Watching me, I thought. I really walked into this one.

  Now, minus the accessories, his slight form was swimming in the robe. He more resembled a boy playing dress up than a king—if the boy was bald and shirtless with half his skin sewn on and the other half rutted and covered in strange markings. What are those? I wondered, trying to see past his gruesome appearance to identify the tattoos on his head, parts of his chest, and outlining his collar bone.

  They were symbols or pictographs. Almost like hieroglyphics or… Native American. The symbols had to be part of the ritual Arno invoked to try and heal himself. With his burned skin so raw, tattooing them on must have been extremely painful. If the ritual had worked like it was meant to, Arno would have gained access to the nagual’s healing powers and other abilities. Fresh skin would have grown to replace his damaged flesh and hide the symbols beneath. Instead, he was a mess.

  Gant dropped the king’s robe off his shoulders. One of his uniformed “men” moved in to retrieve it. Another replaced the garment with the full pelt of an ulfar. I scanned the eyes of the other hooded guards surrounding us. None were Ronan’s. Though, I might have preferred his cold expression over Creed’s penetrating scowl.

  Gant’s smug-ass, stitched-on grin wasn’t great either.

  “I had high hopes for you, Dahlia,” he said. “Your skills would have been invaluable to my organization. Then you broke into my containment facility and robbed me like a common criminal.”