by E. A. Copen
Young Al led me away from the main room, up another set of spiral stairs and to a balcony on the other side where two pretty girls wearing nothing but glitter and a headband with a single white feather manned a curtain. Al stopped so suddenly just short of the curtain that I bumped into him. He frowned at me and adjusted his suit jacket. “Mr. Fellows is in there,” he said and gave me a slight bow before walking away.
“Wait,” I said but he didn't stop. He'd completed the minimum requirements of his job and was off to go stand at his post like a good drone. I growled a curse under my breath and turned back to the ladies at the curtain. They gave me plastic smiles and pulled the curtain aside.
The room beyond was larger than I expected and held different décor. There was a desk with all the typical trimmings of an office but that was shoved back in a corner. In the center of the room there was a stool where a woman stood while a man took her measurements. She was wearing a black leather vest, black knee high boots with more buckles than a belt shop and a short purple skirt with petticoat ruffles, also black. Her hair was an impossible flame of cherry red with blue streaks. It looked like someone had set her head on fire. She regarded me with disinterest as I turned to address her tailor. “Mr. Fellows?”
The tailor looked up and shook his head. “No. And be quiet. I'm working.”
“That's enough, Basil,” said the woman in a British accent and she hopped off the stool. When she turned toward me, I realized she didn't have a shirt on under her vest but, hey, she had a tie. I guess that counts for something, right? She gave me a flirtatious smile and a wink. “Don't be mean to our guest.”
I couldn't help myself. I'd had all the confusion I could take for one day. “You're Mr. Fellows?”
“Miss, as it happens at the moment.” Basil the tailor gathered up his tools and walked by me in a huff. Miss Fellows waited until he was gone before she started peeling off her clothes, starting with those boots. “God bless you, woman, how do you do it?” She dropped her skirt and marched over to a wardrobe against the far wall.
“Excuse me?”
“You know,” she flicked a wrist at me while she sorted through a closet full of clothes, eventually settling on a pair of leather pants. “Go out looking like that. It must be so liberating, not caring what you look like. It's so much pressure, being a fashion icon. You can't just go out in jeans and a t-shirt. The paparazzi would eat me alive.”
I couldn't decide if that was a veiled insult or a genuine statement of jealousy. It seemed more like the former but with the day I was having, it was hard to tell. “You're a fashion icon? I've never heard of any Mr. or Miss Fellows.”
“Obviously.” She said rolling her eyes. “And it's Robbie. I don't like it when women address me that way.”
I waited for her to get changed in awkward silence. “So, um, you're going to have to help me. I'm a little confused about the whole Mr.-Miss Thing.”
“Humans!” she exclaimed. “Always so hung up on the outward display of sex and sexuality. You're dogs, all of you. But, if it clears things up for you...” She lifted a hand above her head and snapped her fingers. As if someone had simply rolled out a new version of Robbie Fellows, she changed into a he. All those feminine curves shifted, the weight redistributing from the hips and chest to the shoulders and arms. The slender, feminine neck suddenly had an Adam's apple and the tight leather pants Robbie had put on filled out in completely different places. He smiled at my surprise and lowered his hand, leaving the other resting on his hip. “It's called a glamour, honey. It's my number one sale here, as long as we're being honest. People love it when they can come in and order up whatever they want.” He walked over to sit on top of his desk, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands on the top knee. “Now, what can I do you for, love?”
I held up the leather binder. “You can start by explaining this and the check for twenty-five thousand dollars inside. How'd you even know I'd come here?”
“It's a logical conclusion that you'd come eventually,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, I had no idea when you'd show. I honestly didn't think it would be so soon but I know the rumors are out there. Aisling,” he spread his arms wide. “Where everything's for sale, no dream too big or too small. That is why you're here, right? Someone somewhere told you that we were selling more than sex and booze downstairs?”
“Is it true?”
He lowered his head a little and smirked. “Oh, totally. If people wanted to get laid, they could go anywhere. If they wanted to get drunk, they'd go to any old bar. Aisling sells fantasies as reality. People come here because they want what they can't get at home. They come here to escape, to feel strong or helpless or powerful. Whatever you want to feel, I've got someone here that can make you feel it.”
“What about drugs?”
“Aisling has a very strict no drug policy,” said Robbie in an official tone. “Although I can't be held responsible for where people go and what they do before or after they arrive. I'm not going to turn away a paying customer just because he's had a little PCP. I can't drug test everyone who comes in here, love.”
I stepped closer to Robbie's desk. “Cut the crap, Robbie. I'm not here for a shake down. You heard about Elias Garcia? I'm chasing a killer, a killer that had access to a very special drug. One that cures werewolves.”
Robbie's eyes went wide. “Bugger all,” he whispered and turned his gaze to the floor. “I'd heard the rumors but I thought it was a load of poppycock, to be honest.”
“I know Elias hung out here. He was last seen with this woman.” I pulled out Elias' phone and scrolled to Maria's contact page, showing it to Robbie.
Robbie gave the phone a halfhearted glance. “Never seen her before.”
“You ever have a Zoe Mathias in here?”
“Honey, every girl that comes in here uses a fake name. I honestly don't have two fucks to give about their real names as long as I get my cut.”
“Look at the picture again,” I insisted. When he didn't, I reached forward and grabbed his tie, jerking his attention back down to the phone. “And look really good because she's wearing a glamour that was damn similar to the one I just saw you undo.”
Robbie made a choking sound and I let him go. He gasped and rubbed his neck. “Damn, woman, you've got a grip. I haven't ever had a woman choke me like that...”
“The picture, Robbie! Who is she? And I want a real name, not this Maria Castella crap.”
“Okay, okay,” Robbie said and pushed the phone away. “I know who she is but I can't tell you.” I reached for his tie again and he scampered back behind his desk. “It’s against my policy! This business runs on discretion, love. I can’t just go giving out names and addresses to the coppers. Half my employees would walk out on principal alone!”
“God dammit, Robbie! Tell me or I swear I’ll run you in for obstruction!”
He took a deep breath and stopped cowering. “He...uh... She worked for me.”
“Was she fae?”
“No, no. Not everyone here is. I can glamor anyone.” He sighed and rubbed his nose. “Look, I can confirm that much but I can’t be further involved. And, before you go threatening me with obstruction charges, you should know I’m already aware that you’ve got your killer in custody. No judge is going to give you a warrant to search this place. I’ve got no connection to the perp you’ve already got in custody.”
I let out a growl of frustration. I was so close and yet so damn far. Without Robbie's information, I couldn't proceed in any direction with this. I needed to speak to Maria. That didn't necessarily mean I needed to know her real name but it did mean I had to see her. Phone conversations could be tapped or intercepted and, since I still didn't know how the bad guys were getting in and out, I couldn't risk that they might be listening. We had to meet in a secure place.
“Look, love,” said Robbie quietly, “I want to help you. But I don’t want to go out of business doing it. If word gets out that I just han
ded names over willy nilly…”
“Robbie,” I said thoughtfully. “Even though you can't tell me where she is or what her real name is, you know where she is, don't you?” Robbie nodded. “And you know how to make contact?” He nodded again. “Could you talk to her? Convince him to set up a meeting?”
He rubbed his chin and sank back into his comfortable looking office chair. “Maybe. That would take time. At least a few days.”
“There are children in danger,” I said, putting my hands on the surface of his desk and leaning forward. “I don't have a few days.”
“I'll try,” he promised. “But I can't make any guarantees she'll go for it. She was pretty sure that, after Elias, she would be next.”
“Do it,” I said and wrote my cell number down for him. “And call me as soon as you know something.” I straightened my back. “And about this check, who the hell is Kim Kelley? Her name is on this check, too. And why did you both want pay me twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Kim and I co-own the club. I’ve got nothing to say about her. You want to talk about Kim, you go talk to Marcus Kelley, her father.”
“Who’s Marcus Kelley?”
Robbie blinked. “Bloody hell, woman. You must be fresh around here. Marcus owns half of Eden and is one of the biggest investors in the Paint Rock reservation. He's CEO of Fitz Pharmaceuticals and half a dozen other ventures. And how the hell should I know what the money is for? Kim handles all the money. I just sign the checks she sends me. If you want to know so badly, go ask Marcus yourself. He's in the club downstairs. You must have seen him on your way in? Red hair? Godly jaw? Green eyes to die for?”
I turned on my heels and pushed through the curtain, almost knocking over the glitter girls as I did. The vampire party was still going on below me, the dancers still spinning around their poles. But Marcus Kelley was gone. There wasn't even any evidence that he'd been there at all.
* * * * *
I drove home, taking stock of what I knew and what I didn't about Elias' last few hours. After he left Sal's around midnight, there was a four-hour gap where I had no idea where he was or what he'd done before he wound up in the laundromat. Wherever he'd gone, that's where Leo and the other kids would be. I'd assumed he'd gone there with Maria and that assumption seemed to be correct, since Maria had gone to ground. I knew I would want back up from someone I trusted if I was going to engage an enemy stronger than me.
Whoever had killed Elias had access to magick but hadn't used it to kill him. The whole laundromat was rife with it. In fact, I couldn't yet prove that magick was involved at all in any of the cases. The kidnappers were probably using magick to get in and out of the houses but I didn't know how, especially since Donald had his walls and windows warded. What kind of thing can get through wards without disturbing them?
An innocent man was sitting in lock up and, for some reason, his ex-wife had probably impersonated a BSI agent to gain access to the Summers house several days in advance of the kidnapping. She had a turbulent emotional history when it came to children based on what Sal said. For all I knew, she was disturbed enough to be behind it all. After all, I could probably link her car to at least two of the three scenes and she was acting a little erratic. She'd been more than eager to point the finger at Sal. I liked her for the kidnappings but not the murders. There was just no way she was going to overpower a full grown werewolf like Elias. To further complicate things, she didn't have magick so she wasn't able to get in and out of the houses however that was being done.
Somehow, I didn't wreck the truck on the way home and fumbled my way inside, sure to lock the door behind me. I called Chanter to tell him I'd come pick up Hunter as soon as I was awake enough to drive safely and he assured me all was well. Then, I dragged my sorry butt to bed and passed out before my head hit the pillow.
When a loud thump woke me up, it was dark out again. I groaned and rolled over, trying to go back to sleep. I just bumped my hand against the headboard of my bed, I told myself. Go back to sleep. No matter how many times I mentally chanted the phrase, though, I couldn't close my eyes again. So, I got out of bed. I checked all the windows, the doors and everywhere else I could think of including the front porch. There was nothing.
Half awake and in a slew of curses that would make a sailor blush, I trudged into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. I put the water on and tried to tug open the cupboard where I kept my coffee. It held fast. Odd, I thought and pulled harder. This time, when I pulled on it, it came open and something big, black, red and heavy came tumbling out on top of me. It wasn't until I was scrambling out from under the pile of black fabric and dead weight that I realized what had fallen out of my cabinet.
“Father Reed?” I stammered. “What the hell are you doing in my cupboard?”
Chapter Nineteen
Reed was conscious but bleeding from several slices to his arms, legs and one place in his side. He tried to make a reply to my simple but obvious question, though I interrupted him before he could. The contents of my cupboard, tea and coffee mostly, had dumped out all over him.
I had started brushing away coffee grounds and tea bags from him when I noticed his right hand clamped tightly to the hilt of a sword. My knowledge of swords is limited at best so I honestly couldn't tell you what kind it was other than sharp, menacing and covered in blood that probably wasn't his. I reached over to try and pry it from his hands, since it would be easier and safer for the both of us if I wasn't afraid of him swinging the thing at me when I poked and prodded his cuts. Reed's hand shot up and tightened around my arm. His eyes wild and face pale, he said something frantic in Latin.
Latin isn't near as difficult to understand as most people believe. Once you get a handle on the grammar aspect, the vocabulary is surprisingly easy. Since my specialty was demons and malevolent spirits, Latin is just one of those tools I picked up and keep handy at all times, even going so far as to work my way through one or two books in Latin a year to keep sharp. That doesn't mean I go around talking in it, especially not at the rate he was using. I caught one, maybe two words before I managed to jerk my hand away. “English,” I insisted. “English, father. Or at least slow down.”
“Ward the cupboard,” he managed, still in Latin. “Quickly.”
I searched frantically through my junk drawer for a magic marker, tossed off the cap and got to drawing. There's no magic in a magic marker or in the symbols I was using. They're gibberish. The power in wards comes from the same place all magic does: the aura. When I pressed my hands to the cupboard, I infused the wood with a little of my own aura, activating the wards. Wards, of course, are only as strong as the person placing them. If anything particularly nasty wanted to come through the cupboard after Reed, say, a Shelob sized spider, my wards wouldn't stop it. Reed seemed satisfied with what I'd done, though, and finally unlocked his grip on the sword.
I hopped down off the counter—I'm too short to have drawn on the cupboards without climbing up onto it—and knelt to assess his wounds. All I managed to figure out was that I couldn't see how bad he was hurt with that cassock in the way and while he was lying in a heap on the floor. “Think you can stand if I help you?” He nodded. It took some doing and I had to carry most of his weight but I finally managed to move him onto the sofa in the next room. There was a pair of scissors sitting on the coffee table and I used those to start cutting away large swaths of the black cloth of his cassock.
I should have called EMS to the scene. A trained nurse or EMT would know more about what to do. My medical knowledge begins and ends with first aid. Still, I couldn't help but think of the Summers as I took in the damage Reed was wearing. He was the only other person I'd talked to. The more people I got involved, the more people there were at risk. Besides, it didn't look like he needed anything other than cleaning and bandaging. At least, not until I uncovered a nasty looking open wound on his upper shoulder. It looked like something had taken a big bite out of him and blood was oozing everywhere. I g
rabbed a wad of cloth and shoved it over the wound, pressing his opposite hand to it. “Hold this,” I commanded. “I'm going to call for help.” I stepped away, intending to phone Chanter. Maybe he could help. But as soon as I took my hand away, blood started seeping through around the fabric.
“No time,” he said weakly in Latin. I knew he was right. If we didn't get the bleeding under control in the next few minutes, he was going to slip out of consciousness and likely die. I didn't know how he was still holding on as it was. “Sword. Get my sword.”
I didn't know what he was planning and I didn't have time to argue so I went and fetched the sword from the kitchen, fumbling with my cell phone as I went. Even if help got there after the fact, it was better than not calling out at all. The phone started ringing as soon as I brought the sword back in and handed it to Reed. “Come on, come on. Pick up.”
I pressed the phone between my chin and my shoulder, kneeling to try and gather up more of the cloth I'd cut away. After three rings, Chanter finally picked up. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I need you at my house yesterday. Father Reed is-”
At that moment, I happened a glance up just in time to see flames race down the sharpened edge of the blade Reed was holding. He let it burn for just a few moments before it went out. Then, he pressed the red hot metal of the blade against his shoulder where it hissed. The only sound out of Reed's mouth was a small grunt and a calm, collected rendition of the Lord's Prayer in Latin. The smell of burning flesh filled the room.