“I mean who doesn’t dream of getting paid to have a quickie in the afternoon, you know?” When Holly let out a quick bark of a laugh, Chloe jerked a thumb at me. “This one’s always trying to bed the PI who works upstairs from us.”
“Am not!” I argued. Holly’s brows went up and she turned to me. Her embarrassment burned away under a smile and a stab of curiosity.
“Mel?”
“I’m not always trying—”
“You should!” Holly brows jolted, mimicking Chloe’s, and she pushed to her feet. She gestured at me, more at ease than she’d been just a few seconds earlier. “He’s a good lay.”
“You slept with Mel?”
“Oh yeah. Couple months ago.”
I just stood there, jaw dropped open, shaking my head.
“He’s so…” I gave a shudder that matched Jenny’s from earlier. “Mel.” Spitting his name out, I made a vomiting sound. Chloe laughed next to me.
“Oh, come on. You know that one day, you two will go at each other in the supply closet, come out all disheveled and bow-legged.”
“We don’t even have a supply closet!” I countered. Chloe rolled her eyes.
“The records room, then. The counter in there is probably big enough for him to—“ Before the action she was miming with her hands could get too dirty, I stomped my foot, interrupting her.
“Are we done here?” I demanded. Holly laughed, clapping her hands together at my discomfort. I had a feeling she thought I was joking about not wanting to sleep with Mel. Most straight women just don’t seem to understand where I’m coming from.
“Yeah, we’re good.” Chloe turned back to Holly, lifting her chin, her brows.
“You take a break soon, okay? You look beat.”
“I’m not used to all the long days. I’ll be fine once I see the paycheck.”
“Well, I’m sure Mad will be back soon.”
##
Chloe waited until we were upstairs in my office before she caught me up.
“Madeline was downstairs all day Tuesday, so she couldn’t have killed the man at the train station. Otherwise, it’s up in the air. I don’t buy that she did any of this, but I can’t get ahold of her and Holly couldn’t really provide an alibi for the other three murders.”
“And you’re sure they’re murders?” I asked, heading into the records room to get tea started. Chloe followed me as far as the doorway and then leaned on the jamb.
“Train guy was absolutely killed by something, and if I was your boyfriend my first—”
“If you were my boyfriend?” I asked, lost for a second as my brain replayed the image of Chloe thrusting her hips and moving her hands as if doing impure things to a phantom sexual conquest.
“Yeah, you know who I mean. Tall, foxy white guy?” Chloe asked, teasing. “Here to see a woman about a corpse?”
“I know,” I lied, shaking the thought of getting intimate with Chloe out of my head. She was cute and all, but it would never work.
“Right, if I was Owen, my first guess would be succubus just by the way he died. According to his family, he was in great shape when they dropped him off at Union Station but he was a mess by the time he got here.”
“Union Station?” I asked, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.
“Down in Portland. They found him up here, slumped in his seat looking disheveled and sick and, you know, dead.”
“I’m getting to know dead better than I ever wanted to,” I said with a wince. “But, again, how do they know he didn’t just have a heart attack like the others?”
“They’re chalking it up to undiagnosed cancer. His insides were, like I said, a mess. There’s no real way to just explain something like this, but the police will note the death down as natural causes and move on.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. A healthy man stepped onto a train in Portland and got hauled off in Seattle dead of cancer? That doesn’t just happen, does it?”
“No, which is how we know it’s hinky. Okay.” Chloe shifted, standing as if she had to give an important presentation to a bunch of stuffed-shirted businessmen. “Lots of creatures feed on people, right? Some are like Dirk and it’s pretty obvious what happened when you find a corpse with no blood, covered in bite marks. Others feed like Madeline, on the… I don’t know.” Chloe waved her hand as if she couldn’t explain it but her emotions said otherwise; there was an edge of a lie behind her words. “Essence of a person. That still takes its toll on the body.”
“Madeline causes cancer?” I squeaked, horrified that I’d been in her presences nearly every day for over a year.
“No, though if she really pressed she sort of could. But like I said, she knows what she’s doing. Holly said she was in the back room with some guy, right? She was feeding. It’s probably why she has so many customers. Ladies, men, anyone she can get her hands on, if there’s sex to be had, she’s gonna suck it down. Ah.” Chloe snorted as she realized how she’d phrased things, and I felt the smirk she gave me. “No pun intended.”
“But—okay, you lost me. What’s going on with the heart attacks and who’s got cancer?”
“No one’s got—okay, follow along. A succubus can cause an emotion in someone else and, if the person chooses to act on it, the succubus can slurp up the aftermath and chow down. If the person chooses not to act on it, though, the succubus can still feed, but the victim fights it. The essence—the soul,” her voice went hard and this time excitement sparked briefly, “takes the hit. Madeline’s owned The Internets for years, in this same building. She wouldn’t still be around if she’d spent the last decade killing people. She just, you know.” Chloe winked, sidled close like she’d seen something in me she really liked. “Sets her feelers out, tests if someone’s willing and if they are, she gets her kicks.”
I gave Chloe a quick once-over and then caught her gaze, making it clear I wasn’t willing. “And if they’re not?”
“Then she leaves them be and the person goes on about their day wondering why they really want to get laid.”
“I already got laid,” I pointed out, convinced Chloe was about to get her feelers on me. She grinned and winked, grabbing my mug off the counter and moving to pour the freshly boiling water in over the teabag. She was quiet as she tipped the sugar dispenser over the cup quickly, letting barely a pinch drop in. I realized she’d stolen my tea for herself. “How do you know all this?”
“How do I know anything?” she asked, glancing at me. I shook my head, at a loss. Her expression pinched briefly with pity and she shook her head. “I ask questions. Madeline and I have had many a chat.”
“In the back room?” I asked, my tone accusatory. Chloe shook her head.
“Not allowed.”
“Not… allowed?”
Chloe blinked and I felt embarrassment and regret spike out of her as she realized what she’d said. We both heard the outer door open; Chloe twisted without another word and left to greet my next appointment.
“Hey Camilla. You want some tea? We’ve got the water ready!”
Chapter Thirteen
Since Stan had my car, Chloe was driving me home after Camilla left. Because nothing else seemed as pressing or interesting as our current problems with a rogue succubus and my gun-toting lover, I piped up as soon as I was buckled in.
“If we’re so sure Madeline’s innocent, I’ll just give Owen a call and let him know.” Chloe made a sound that seemed to agree with me, but I could feel the doubt in her. “What?
“He believes she’s killing people and she’s sent men to his house to, ah, have a chat with him.” Her tone indicated she was convinced the chat would have involved fists and feet, or maybe guns and knives. “I don’t think he’s going to just back off if you tell him you think she’s innocent.”
“But you think it too. And you seem to know what you’re talking about. You could tell him all about your history and how you’ve talked with Madeline. You said she’s been at this a while, that you trust her. I bet he’d b
elieve someone with your experience.”
Chloe’s face was carefully blank, but my suggestion that she tell him about her past brought up a surge of emotions in such a mix that I couldn’t entirely get a handle on them. Reaching my hand over, I touched her arm.
“What’s wrong?” She was quiet for a moment, opening her mouth twice as if she couldn’t decide how to answer. Finally, she glanced at me, her expression settling on discomfort. The soup of emotions boiled off until she was left with amusement and cynicism.
“He walked into our office, what, twelve hours ago, and you want me to sit down and have a chat with him about growing up around trolls and empaths?” She raised her voice slightly, as if parodying herself. “‘Hi! I’m Chloe Warren! I want to talk to you about the succubus you’re here to kill and why I think she’s keen.’ You think he’s going to back off just because I say so?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling stupid for suggesting it. “I don’t know what else to do. I like Madeline, I don’t want her to get arrested or something, as long as we think she’s not guilty. And that’s what we think, right? That’s where we landed?”
“That’s where I landed. You don’t sound like you’ve made the leap yet.”
“I’m kind of trapped between a rock and a hard place here. I just met the guy, but he saved my life from men Madeline sent, and you’re telling me that the two bodies I’ve stumbled on in the last week probably died from a succubus. She’s the only one I know, and Owen seems capable. He seems like he knows what he’s talking about.”
“I think you’re just thinking about his rock-hard place,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “I’ve saved your life too. And you’ve known me way longer. Don’t assume you know him just because he fed you and gave it to you good.”
I sighed, not liking that she had a point. Despite Chloe getting squirrely sometimes when her personal life comes up, she’s someone I trust more than nearly anyone else.
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t try,” Chloe said after a while. We were pulling into my neighborhood and I realized I’d lost track of time as I sat in the passenger seat pouting. “Give him a call later tonight, tell him what we found out. Let him make his own decision. It seems like Madeline’s pretty capable, too. If she can send muscle after your boyfriend, she’s probably in good shape. It’s not your job to save her.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” We pulled up into my driveway and Chloe patted my shoulder.
“Now cheer up. Maybe you’ll get inside and find that Stan baked you a dozen cakes.”
I perked up at the idea, though I knew how unlikely it was.
##
I opened my door to light and warmth and the smell of food. I froze in place, confused by the sensations, as they were paired with the sight of my living room. I’m often too impatient to prepare and cook real food. My microwave gets more use than any other appliance except my fridge.
Around the bend of the kitchen was my small dining table, at which sat Stan, Sonny snoozing on his shoulder. Now that I was closer, I could hear that the music he was listening to was low-key, something in French pumping out of his laptop. I had never bothered to take any language in school, so I probably wouldn’t have understood anything other than ‘Oui’ or ‘croissant.’ Possibly ‘tiramisu,’ assuming that was French at all.
Stan had stuffed a pillow between his narrow butt and my kitchen chair to lift him to an ergonomically correct typing level. On the stove next to me, a pot of stew bubbled intermittently next to a covered pan that smelled amazing. My oven was on low, but I didn’t bother checking what was inside.
Stan hadn’t noticed my arrival and I found the sight of him at my table too sweet for words. Some vindictive part of my brain reminded the rest of me that this was what I had given up coming home to every night. I had lost nightly home-cooked meals and a sweet, loving husband because I had decided to take the coward’s way out. Ignoring that part of my stupid brain, I moved forward quietly and stood behind Stan to watch his work.
He was typing at a pace I couldn’t have hoped to match even after several cups of coffee. Occasionally he’d back up a few words, delete, rewrite, and then move on. I read over the story he was crafting but realized I didn’t understand it so far in. The word count had just crossed forty-two thousand and kept steadily climbing. Standing, I did my best to bring him out of his writing trance gently. I cleared my throat and stepped to the side.
His fingers continued for two more sentences before one hand paused and the other stopped dead after mashing the shortcut keys to save his work. Turning to me, he blinked twice and then smiled. I tipped my head, grinning as the comprehension slowly filled his bespectacled blue eyes.
“Oh. Hi. I—how long have you been here?”
“Not long. I just wanted to let you know I’m home; you can continue.”
Sonny had awoken, moving to puff out his feathers and stretch himself completely conscious. Absently, Stan lifted a finger to poke into Sonny’s neck and rub. It was almost too cute for me to bear.
“I think I’m okay for now. I should check the food, too. I turned it down to warm… Well, I think it was recently.” His brow creased in distress and he slid the chair back, getting to his feet and moving around me to the stove. I turned to watch him and nearly whimpered when he lifted the lid on the covered pot. Spicy scents hit me, and my stomach growled, trying to keep the threatening hunger at bay. The hunger wasn’t intimidated; it attacked.
“What is that, oh my god, gimme,” I demanded. Stan glanced at me, a small smile on his face. When I reached out to grab a piece of the sausage out of the pan, he caught my hand gently, shaking his head.
“It’ll be better together, I promise. Can you put Sonny away while I set up?”
Despite what my feelings for him had been just a few seconds earlier, I fought off a burst of loathing. Separating me from food never ends well. He just watched me with his sweet face, still holding my hand. Unable to argue with that expression, I sighed, moved my hand out of his and tucked it under Sonny. My traitorous bird danced to the side, trying to avoid my finger, wanting to stay in the curve of Stan’s neck.
“Come on, Sonny,” I insisted. Stan twisted to see Sonny’s face, murmuring something to him quietly. Apparently the bird agreed with his suggestion and relented, stepping onto my finger. I brought him to my mouth, giving his beak a gentle kiss and petting him with my other hand. That seemed to subdue his distaste for me.
Before heading back into the tempting kitchen, I hit the bedroom to put on comfortable clothes. By the time I got back to the dining area, Stan had moved my pots and pans to the sink, made up two plates, and poured two glasses of white wine.
“I love you,” I said. Each plate held one of my brightly colored bowls, a mound of mixed veggies and sausage, and a giant hunk of steaming garlic bread. I could probably eighty-six the vegetables without having to eat them if I really wanted. I’d been pretty good at doing so as a child, though my father had caught me nearly every time.
Stan smiled as he slid between the wall and one of the dining chairs, but kept his eyes on the plates, making sure he didn’t accidentally dump stew all over. I took the seat across from him and dove into the food without considering I was being rude. He ate more daintily than me, his posture perfect. Somewhere around the fourth time I crammed food carelessly into my mouth and whacked my teeth with my fork or spoon, I nodded over at him and made the effort to sit up like a human.
“This is good,” I announced, my fork paused in front of my lips. For some reason, I felt the need to point at the food with my other hand. You know, just in case he thought I was talking about something else. His face lit up.
“Thank you. It’s mostly vegetables.”
I felt myself scowl but I kept eating. He laughed when I didn’t argue or balk. After another bite, I stabbed at one of the sausage chunks and lifted it toward the light.
“This isn’t meat,” I said, realizing it shouldn’t have surprised me. He shrugged a shoulder but did
n’t elaborate. Deciding it was delicious either way, I ate it and then set the fork down, grabbing a napkin. Wiping my face, I waited until I had swallowed and grabbed for the wine.
“How did you teach Sonny Morse code?” Stan asked. I frowned over the rim of the glass and then shook my head after I swallowed.
“Huh?”
“He knows his name, your name, and hello. I figured you taught him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I squinted at my ex and then twisted to stare around the corner, through the kitchen and across the living room. Sonny was standing next to his dish, picking at his own food. I turned back to Stan, confused.
“He rings his bells in patterns that spell, ‘hello.’ I thought it was a fluke but when I said hi back, he spelled his name. You didn’t know?”
“I don’t know Morse code,” I said, baffled.
“Maybe his previous owner taught him?”
“I got him as a baby from a pet store. I don’t think so.” I was getting an idea of who might have taught him, though. I glanced uncomfortably toward my fridge, back to Stan and then immediately back to the fridge. Stan followed my gaze and a bubble of surprise popped in his psyche.
“Oh yes, I wanted to ask you about that,” he said. Before he had finished speaking, I was on my feet, moving between the dining set and the fridge. The magnets had been moved around.
The candy thief had struck again.
Across the bottom of my fridge, some of the words and phrases it had previously laid out had been moved to form several new sentences. Like the first time I’d discovered my magnetic poetry crowding my fridge, I wondered how there were magnets of words that could not have come in any of my sets. Our names, for example.
I kneeled to read them and Stan stood behind me, bending at the waist.
Hi, Stan! Big Fan! :D
Gwen, you forgot your payment.
Business With Pleasure (Empathy in the Preternatural PNW Book 2) Page 13