Elven Blood (Imp Book 3)

by Dunbar, Debra

  Modern cemeteries insist on either a grave liner, or a vault for all burials. Their use makes landscaping much easier as the ground doesn’t settle as much, the body decomposition is less likely to affect the ground cover, and the casket lid won’t be crushed by the repetitive traffic of heavy grounds maintenance equipment. It made grave robbing much more difficult. In the olden days, the wooden casket lid would be rotted and splintered by the weight of the ground above. Dig, pry some spongy wood away, then grab the remains. Now, after all the digging, I’d have to blast off a sealed, heavy, concrete, metal–reinforced lid from a tightly confined space.

  I’d been dreading we’d find the child buried deep in a vault. Although not guaranteed to be sealed off from all the natural elements, vaults were over two inches thick, wire reinforced, and often lined in plastic. They were built to last for centuries. Their lids were sealed tight, usually with tar, requiring a jackhammer to smash through to the casket inside. Boomer could get through one, but the noise was deafening, and we’d both be covered in white dust within moments. A huge percentage of graves had the dreaded vault, so I was ecstatic to see a simple liner on this one.

  I shimmied my way into the musty grave, and managed to wedge myself sideways enough to loop the metal cable I’d brought through the liner’s top’s ring. Thankfully they made these things with rings or handles attached so excavations wouldn’t be impossibly difficult. People did relocate loved ones, and the occasional forensic investigation required an exhumation.

  Boomer helped me out of the hole by dragging me out by my arms, soaking them in drool and grave dirt.

  The Hellhound grabbed the end of the steel cable with both of his jaws and pulled, neck muscles corded and straining. There was a faint crack, and the liner top popped free from the grave in a shower of soil. I looked over the edge. The coffin was a beautiful thing, white, even after years in the ground, with barely faded pink roses carved along the top.

  “Just lift the lid.”

  Easier said than done. Caskets are sealed before burial with a line of adhesive in the tight fitting groove that joins the lid to the base. The pretty brass latches along the side and matching hinges in the back were nothing to that adhesive. I swear at the end of times, when the world becomes a fiery ball of death, that adhesive will still be intact, strong as ever. I was glad I’d brought Boomer. The hellhound ran a fang around the edge of the casket lid, literally cutting through the top and bypassing the dreaded stuff. Within seconds, he’d pushed the lid up and out of the grave, revealing the remains within.

  “I’ll hop down and run a scan. I’ll probably just take the head. It will be easier to transport.”

  Boomer looked at me with inquiring eyes before leaping out of the grave.

  “No, you can’t eat the rest of her. We may need to come back.” Who knows if that crazy elf lord would want the whole thing.

  I climbed in. I’m not squeamish, but I was glad to see the liner hadn’t been one of those air–tight vaults that keep all the anaerobic nasties on the inside and the scavengers on the outside of the coffin. I didn’t relish having to slosh around in a sea of liquid, smearing it all over the seats of my Suburban. At least I’d had the forethought to bring the SUV instead of my Corvette. Boomer always made a slobbery mess of my upholstery, and I had a feeling I’d be bringing a head back with me. Not something I wanted up close and personal in a little sports car.

  There was a moderate musty–sweet smell of old decomposition, but the body wasn’t as far along as I had expected. Skin stretched tight, blond hair still curled with ribbons. Such a waste. I reached down and sent tendrils of myself into the body, checking for demon energy and traces of elf genetic material. Frowning, I sent more of my energy in, but found nothing. This child was human: one–hundred percent human.

  I pulled back and looked down at the body, perplexed. Had Joseph Barakel taken the identity of the elf baby to his grave? Or perhaps the other Joseph Barakel had been the correct one, the guy who had died a few weeks back. Either way, they were both beyond my questioning at this point. I was back to having to weed my way through over twelve thousand names. Unless Dar could manage to get something from the demon postman that would lead us to the child, I was screwed. I thought about going back and fighting Haagenti, like Gregory kept insisting. I didn’t want to do it. But I might not have a choice.

  20

  Dar’s messenger never made it to my house the next morning, but Gregory did. He actually rang the bell at my front door and handed me an envelope, pushing past me to walk into my living room.

  “What’s this?” I asked. It looked like a party invitation.

  “A demon was killed while coming through the gate at Columbia Mall last night. He had this on him. It survived his transmutation, and it is warded to be opened only by you.”

  “You killed Dar’s messenger?” I was pissed. “You let every piece of shit Haagenti sends to kill me through, but you kill a messenger sent by my own household?”

  Gregory shrugged. “Demons are not allowed in this realm as stipulated by the treaty. We make every attempt to dispatch all who violate the law, but an occasional one does slip through.”

  “Occasional my ass. Wyatt killed one last night while I was out digging up a body, er, I mean, doing important Iblis duties. Your gate guardian couldn’t catch that Low piece of shit, but Wyatt took him out with a forty–five?”

  “We both have experienced firsthand what an excellent aim your human toy has. Oh, and I wanted to compliment you on the very effective barrier around his home. Eloa was quite impressed.”

  “Michelle’s aunt did it,” I admitted. “She’s some kind of priestess. Unfortunately it doesn’t keep demons from lobbing shit at Wyatt’s house, or trying to set it on fire.”

  Gregory nodded. He’d picked up my report and was paging through it. “Hmmm, yes. That is a significant design flaw. I like how you addressed the deceased’s lack of artistic sensibility in this report. Raphael will be particularly sympathetic to that point.”

  Oh good. At least someone on the Ruling Council would vote in my favor. I had no doubt where the others would stand.

  “So I expect your next four–nine–five report tomorrow?”

  What the fuck was he talking about? “Why would I do another one? That one is for the serial killer I had Boomer take out this fall. I didn’t kill the teenagers in Pennsylvania. Do I need to do one because I fantasized about killing someone? I hope not, or I’ll be doing these stupid reports every few hours.”

  The report vanished from his hands. No doubt it was already being delivered, in triplicate, to the other council members.

  “They are only required for actual killings, not imagined ones. I’m referring to the human in Northern Virginia that you killed. I believe his name was Bagel or something.”

  “Joseph Barakel.” I was sure Gregory knew his name. That angel knew everything, omnipotence aside. He was just fucking with me.

  “Yes, yes. That’s the one. Please have the four–nine–five report in my hands by tomorrow midnight. That should be more than enough time.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I protested. “He stroked out in front of me. I never laid a hand on him. I didn’t even get to serious threats. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Still, he died as a direct result of your presence. Tomorrow midnight is your deadline.”

  I tossed my party invitation on the table, and marched over to the angel. “Fuck you. I am not doing that fucking report for a guy I didn’t fucking kill.” I punctuated my words with a finger on his chest.

  “Tomorrow. Midnight.”

  And he vanished. Asshole.

  I picked up the note the dead messenger had been carrying and checked it out. Pretty, cream doeskin parchment with no name or address. The paper had been folded into thirds and sealed with a wax sigil that burned as I ran my finger over it. The characters in the wax danced with a spray of gold glitter, and the seal released. The writing inside was angelic script in gold. The elves had th
eir own language, but the sender had kindly written in mine, no doubt in case I didn’t read Elvish.

  Greetings to the Distinguished Iblis from Tlia–Myea of the Glorious Kingdom of Cyelle,

  I was most distraught at our meeting, and uncertain that I conveyed all the information I had regarding my shameful actions. When I saw that I had given birth to demon spawn, I had the baby killed and submitted as a changeling. I had the demon I sent to accompany my human kill him after he made the baby exchange, to avoid any future blackmail. I purposefully remained unaware of the demon spawn’s destination, but recently, information has come to light that may help you support my claims.

  I was certain the baby had been transferred to human foster parents alive. Otherwise she wouldn’t need a demon to communicate back and forth. Why was she going to all this bother to send me a note re–iterating the lies she’d told me before?

  There is a child buried in Mount Olivet cemetery, in Frederick, Maryland. That child is elf born. I’m positive with your skills you can find that baby. I’m certain that as the baby is presented to my Lordship, it will be discovered to have demon energy signatures. Although I am facing death, my family will be joyous that the deceased demon spawn has been found, and the matter put to rest forever.

  I only longed for a child to love. A child I could protect with all the ferocity of motherhood. As a mother, I would have done anything for my child, given my life to protect her, cursed with my dying breath any who would do her harm.

  I am grateful for your service to my Kingdom and my Family,

  Tlia–Myea

  I stared at the letter—a carrot and a stick, all embedded in the flowery language of the elves that led to so many misunderstandings among our kind. I’d learned to read between the lines though, and I could understand her need to be obscure, in case the message was intercepted and the ward broken. The baby was clearly alive. Hidden away somewhere, safe to live a human life. She’d offered me a way out. A dead elf changeling baby buried nearby that I could dig up and present, if I could somehow alter it to make it appear part demon. And in return for my participation in the deception, I’d earn the gratitude of her family. A dead woman could grant no favors, but elves would always honor a family member’s request. And then there was the stick. The little paragraph at the end, basically letting me know that if I were to find her half–breed daughter, and lead her to harm, she would curse me. Elf curses were not something to be taken lightly. And a curse could not be lifted once the caster died. I’d just have to live with it forever.

  “Leethu,” I shouted up the stairs. “Can you come down a second?”

  Leethu raced down the stairs like her pants were on fire. They probably were. I don’t think there were enough pizza delivery guys in the tri–state area to satisfy her at this point.

  “The elf maiden you fucked and impregnated, Tlia–Myea, who is she? What family connections does she have?” Leethu would know. Demons don’t bother much with family history, but Succubi have always kept track of that sort of thing. They are master manipulators, and knowing family connections helps in blackmail.

  “Oh she is well connected, Ni–ni. I would not have impregnated just any old elf, although I would have been happy to have sexual relations with any of them or their humans. Her mother was a half–sister to a previous Lord of Cyelle, and her father was a member of the court of Wythyn.”

  “A cross kingdom mating?” I was surprised. “But the kingdoms generally dislike each other and think that the others are beneath them. Why would they cross breed?”

  “Oh it happens all the time,” Leethu assured me. “It keeps the gene pool from becoming overly inbred. They do have diplomatic dealings with each other and invite notable individuals to social events. Even the lower–ranking elves will negotiate to do some skills exchanges with other kingdoms. There is no shame in having sexual relations with an elf from another kingdom, and the joy of birth overcomes all prejudices.”

  “She was clearly raised in Cyelle. Identifies herself as a member of that kingdom. Would she have pull with her father’s family in Wythyn?” If so, maybe this connection could help me get my horse back.

  “Oh yes. Elf children are raised in the highest–ranking parent’s household, but they are still beloved by the other parent’s family. This kind of thing helps solidify alliances between kingdoms and can prevent war if conflicts arise. No one wants to risk the chance of killing his or her offspring.”

  This was looking better and better. But there was one thorny problem to address.

  “Say I want to make something dead look like a hybrid. A dog or something. Any ideas on how I might do that?”

  That shrewd look flashed across Leethu’s face, reminding me she was far more intelligent than she appeared. Succubi were always considered dim bulbs, beautiful, sexually appealing, fragile, with the mental abilities of a box of rocks. They worked that perception to their advantage.

  “That would depend on who you need to convince,” she replied. “Slap some horns on it and the humans will be calling in their exorcists. Drive a bit of your personal energy in it and it will pass a casual scan by demons, elves, vampires, and possibly werewolves, although they would be the most difficult to fool.”

  Her innocent eyes were contrasted by the smug smile. “Okay, what’s the hitch?” I asked.

  “A really good demon scan, really deep, will reveal the deception. Most demons are sloppy and lazy. They’ll just take it on face value. You would notice, Ni–ni. You are curious and greedy for sensation and knowledge. You would sense it right away.” She paused for effect, and I obligingly waited, hanging on her every breath. “Sorcerers would be a problem.”

  Sorcerers. Fuck.

  “So, they have a spell that can reveal a body was altered after its death?” I asked.

  “No. Not as far as I know, but they do have a spell that can tell if the composition is not according to natural law.”

  I was pretty sure this High Lord wouldn’t take my word for it if I showed up with a dead baby. He’d have his own people check. And I had no idea how hybrids were composed, let alone anything about “natural law”.

  “Of course, human embalming and preservation techniques can interfere with spell results,” Leethu continued. “Much of human technology and their medical treatments interferes with spell results. Demon energy is complimentary to human endeavors, but elf magic is not. It is a vexing problem for the elves. Their sorcerers are very useful in Hel, but, increasingly, the humans in this realm can disrupt their magic. That is one of the reasons the elves are partnering more and more with demons.”

  Holy shit. Leethu was a wealth of information.

  “How do you know all this?”

  Leethu smiled her enigmatic, Asian smile. “I have always enjoyed the company of elves.”

  I felt a chill creep across my skin. I was beginning to think Leethu was a good ally to have.

  “I took the liberty of inviting a few of those delivery men over today. I hope you approve?”

  “Yes, of course.” Anything to keep Leethu occupied. An orgy in my guest bedroom was a small price to pay.

  Leethu danced up the stairs to prepare for her visitors, while I pondered my situation. The succubus’ assurances aside, I sincerely doubted either of us could stuff enough energy into a twenty–year–old elf corpse to make it appear half demon. And I seriously doubted either of us had the skill to do it in a way that the elves would believe. It might be worth a shot though. If we could pull off the deception, I’d get Haagenti off my back, ask a grateful elf family to assist in getting my horse back from Wythyn, and stave off a nasty curse.

  My luck never went that way though. Chances were good the fake would be discovered. I’d have two enraged elf lords after my ass along with Haagenti. I’d still be minus my horse, and that fucking elf woman would probably still curse me.

  I indulged in a moment of self–pity. My leads had all dried up. Wyatt refused to help me further, and there was no way I’d be able to sort t
hrough and check over twelve thousand young women for demon energy. This whole thing was a bust, and I was facing certain death at Haagenti’s hands. Why was this happening to me? I’d been a good imp. I didn’t deserve all this shit raining down on my head. Had my ever–present luck finally deserted me? Packed her bags and left for greener pastures? Everything I touched lately went wrong. If only the fates would shine on me once more. If only they’d send that elf–hybrid to my house like a present with a big bow on her head, I’d never ask for anything else in my entire life.

  My doorbell rang, and I jumped, thinking for a moment the fates were delivering on my prayer. Then I laughed, remembering Leethu’s posse of delivery men. Let the orgy begin! Smiling, I opened the door. Instead of a posse of delivery guys, I saw a young woman.

  She had golden blond hair with cobalt blue eyes. Olive pants and a form fitting, button–down shirt highlighted her perfect figure. Her features were oddly symmetrical. She had a kind of aloof appeal, like a queen, or a big name movie–star. I could imagine people trailing around after her, wanting to please her, but remaining at a respectful distance. She smiled at me, and I felt the slight pull of attraction, a hint of pheromones.

  “Ack.” It was the only sound I could get out of my mouth. I just stood there, like an idiot, with the door half open. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t politely invite her into my house. I could only stand there and stare.

  There was an elf at my door.

  21

  An elf hybrid at my door, that is. She didn’t have a bow on her head, but clearly this was some kind of divine gift. The fates were taking pity on my plight and sending me a get–out–of jail–free–card. No digging up dead babies and trying to rig them up to look like hybrids. I had the real thing right in front of me. I could whack her on the head and have her delivered to that elf Lord lickety split.

  “Hi, you must be Sam. I’m Wyatt’s sister, Amber.”

  My thoughts came to a screeching halt. This could not be happening. I couldn’t exactly brain Wyatt’s sister and drag her carcass off to the elves. He’d never forgive me. Maybe she could meet with an unfortunate accident. One involving a truck. One where I had a convenient alibi.