by Anna Windsor
Each afternoon, Bela processed the results and the samples, and carried all the findings to the Mothers. Jack Blackmore tried to pin her down and demand access to the information more than once, and he got a minor earthquake for his arrogance. Creed and Nick, however, had free access to Bela’s reports. She assumed they shared with Blackmore and the Brent brothers, and that was just fine with her for now. She’d deal with those men when and only when they got a damned clue about how her world worked.
Every night, when Bela got home, she and her quad went on patrol.
Every frigging night.
They hadn’t found one single hint of the Rakshasa, and neither had any of the triads in action in the boroughs.
What they had found was four séance rip-off fistfights, one Vodoun loa out of control on the Lower East Side—and oh, yeah, a Japanese street gang burned down a building in the East Village trying to build a bonfire big enough to repel an ugly horned oni summoned by another gang. Camille barely got the thing beheaded before it beat Dio to death with its gigantic club.
The hardest part, though, was avoiding unsupervised time with Duncan outside of their intense but safe coffee sessions. The stronger he looked, the healthier he seemed, the more she wanted to turn their judicious “not yet” into one big, screaming, sweaty “right now.”
He’s sick, she kept telling herself when they chatted about music and which parts of New York City they liked best and everything else in the world, as if the bandages and cast and constant medical testing didn’t remind her of his tenuous health often enough.
He might be dying.
That part, driven home over and over again by Andy, Bela couldn’t even tolerate considering. So she kept having coffee with Duncan and learning about his favorite foods and books, and what it was like to be an Army Ranger. She took his blood while she told him about Sibyl training, and she scraped cells off his good arm listening to him describe harvesting cotton and peanuts in way-the-hell-south Georgia, and what a hard-ass his father had been about how it was done—and just about everything else, too. Even sweeter, she got to bitch about her own hard-ass father as she watched Duncan go from limping to walking to running on that damned treadmill in just a few days. This morning, before they left to question Reese Patterson, Duncan had been wearing nothing but a bunch of wires and a pair of silk shorts she could have ripped off him with her teeth.
Is it hot in this room?
Bela fanned herself, then noticed that none of the other five people in Reese Patterson’s law office seemed uncomfortable.
She needed to get her mind back in the game—this game, not the wicked little sport she kept playing in her mind.
Reese Patterson’s office in East Harlem reminded Bela of the fourth-floor library at OCU’s townhouse headquarters—paneled walls, hardwood floors, expensive area rugs, a couple of shiny oak tables, and lots of shelves of books. Judging by the size and color, they were law tomes. The pictures on the walls were hunt prints, of course. If there were kits for law office décor, they all came with hunt prints.
The waiting area had been small, almost cramped, but Patterson’s work space was expansive. It didn’t have any big windows, which made it darker than she would have liked, and a little stuffy. The whole place smelled like musty books and lemon furniture oil, except for Reese Patterson. He smelled like very expensive cologne, applied in excess, likely not just on his thick neck. His suit was silk, probably Armani, black with gray highlights like his thick hair, but the tailoring made him look like an out-of-shape linebacker. He was leaning against the front of his huge cherry desk, his eyes glued to Dio, who was seated in one of the two chairs closest to the desk, right next to Duncan Sharp.
After another broken banister and three more screaming matches, Dio and Camille had finally agreed on a black patent leather designer skirt—short—with a stylish black halter top and amazing little Italian heels. The outfit turned Dio’s already svelte figure into runway tall and gorgeous, and the red beads Camille picked out added just the right splash of wild to undo the man. Bela, Andy, and Camille wore much calmer business slacks and blouses, and they were seated on a leather couch along a side wall, with a full view of the whole scene.
“A couple of detectives came by a couple of weeks back,” Patterson said without ever taking his gaze off Dio, “but they weren’t nearly as lovely as you are. They were from a numbered precinct, not a special unit. Occult Crimes, huh?”
Dio nodded.
Patterson’s face colored a deeper shade of pink at her attention. “You think Katrina’s murder had something to do with the occult?”
Duncan shifted the badge hanging around his neck to cover the bulge of the dinar beneath his black T-shirt. They had introduced themselves with his credentials and let Patterson assume that the Sibyls were police officers, too. Not that he had been inclined to care, once he got a good look at Dio.
“The killing had ritualistic elements,” Duncan said. “Similar to some crimes we’ve been tracking in Miami, Atlanta, Charleston, Washington, and Philadelphia.”
Patterson offered Dio a mint from a bowl on his desk. “Somebody landed on the coast, and now they’re working their way north?”
“Maybe.” Dio selected a pink candy, pulling it slowly from the bowl, then using her teeth to tear the plastic.
Bela glanced at Andy, whose expression said, Yeah, that moving-up-the-coast thing’s got merit. She made a note on her pad that Bela could read from her vantage point. Check crime orgs with Miami ties.
“If Dio does that again with the candy, Patterson might fall off his desk,” Camille whispered. She was keeping herself on alert for anything weird or unusual. She had some daggers and a couple of Dio’s African throwing knives tucked inside the waist of her jeans, just in case. When Bela looked at her, she shook her head once, and Bela knew that she didn’t sense any elemental energy here, either.
Dio folded both hands and leaned forward, making the most of her cleavage. “Did Ms. Drake have any ties to splinter religious groups or cults?”
The red beads around her neck moved up and down on her chest as she spoke, and Patterson was mesmerized. “What, you mean friends into crystals and incense and spells?” he asked Dio’s boobs. “Nah. Katrina was a Presbyterian. Went to Central every Sunday—you know, the big Gothic-looking church over on Park Avenue.”
“How about her husband or her brother?” Duncan’s question was smooth and careful, slipped between Dio leaning back and Dio crossing her legs.
Patterson glanced in Duncan’s direction before going right back to appraising Dio. “You know I can’t go there. Merin Alsace and Jeremiah Drake are still very much alive, and very much my clients, at least until the will’s through probate.” He gave Dio a wink. “But no, not that I’m aware of. Just between me and you pretty ladies, and, uh, you, Detective Sharp, Jeremiah and Merin, they’re a couple of puss—er, what I’m trying to say is, they’re not the murdering types. Don’t have the intestinal fortitude for anything violent.”
Dio let her foot bob up and down a few times, showing off her bare, tanned calf to perfect effect. “What about hiring other people to do their dirty work?”
“Just don’t see it.” Patterson’s head was bobbing with her leg, but he caught himself and settled back to some semblance of a professional demeanor. “Not those two.”
Bela had a sense that Patterson might be a bit of a pervert for blondes, but otherwise he wasn’t some slick, smooth legal operator. Kind of basic, just a normal guy. His presence reminded her of how normal Katrina Drake had seemed in her photos.
“Has the will been read yet?” Dio asked.
“Saturday, four o’ clock, but it’s private. Invitation only. I can see to it that you get copies of all the documents, Ms.—”
“Allard,” Dio supplied, with a smile so phony Bela almost laughed out loud. “But you can called me Dio. It’s short for Dionysia.”
“Dionysia. That’s beautiful.” The man grinned, making his square face a lot more app
ealing. “Don’t think there will be any problem getting you what you want, since the boys are all about finding out who killed Katrina. And pretty as you are, Dio, I think I’ve said about all I should for today.”
“We’ll want to interview Mr. Drake and Mr. Alsace,” Duncan said as he stood, folding his small notepad and sliding it into his jeans pocket.
“Call me with a date, time, and place, and I’ll have them there.” Patterson finally gave Duncan the acknowledgment of eye contact. “Like I said, they’re willing to give their full cooperation. Both of them are torn up over this, and burying Katrina, that’s not enough closure. They want some justice …”
Patterson trailed off when his eyes landed on the coin peeking from behind Duncan’s badge. The color drained straight out of his cheeks, and his posture shifted from relaxed to tense in the space of two heartbeats.
Dio got to her feet without rushing, but Bela saw worry in the tight lines of her face. Camille came to attention, too, and her palms drifted toward the knives in her waistband.
Bela did what she could to check things out with her earth energy, but they were several stories up, and she had more trouble sensing anything at this height.
“Nothing,” Andy said where only Bela and Camille could hear her. “He’s freaking out a little, but there’s no weird energy.”
“Detective, may I ask how you came by that chain and coin you’re wearing?” Patterson was obviously trying to keep his voice even, but he wasn’t doing such a good job.
Duncan squared his stance so that he was facing the lawyer directly, crowding him back against the desk like he was ready to throw a punch if he needed to. “A friend gave it to me. Why?”
Reese Patterson didn’t react to Duncan’s semiaggressive move because he was too fixated on the coin. “Was that friend by any chance John Cole?”
At this, Dio twitched, pressing her palms against the sides of her short leather skirt, right where her knives would have been if she was in battle gear. Camille and Andy stood, and Andy’s sleeves got damp in a hurry. Bela got up, too, more slowly, trying not to attract attention. Her throat went dry, and she accepted a dagger Camille palmed over to her.
Duncan was the only one of them who completely kept his cool. He eased back from Patterson and gave the man some room, a friendly smile on his face the whole time. “Did you know John?”
“I did.” Patterson didn’t volunteer more information. He turned to his desk and picked up a sticky pad and a pen, then faced Duncan again. “Could you give me a number to reach him? He hasn’t been answering his cell.”
Bela had a moment of feeling sorry for the lawyer, just in case he was actually Cole’s friend.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson.” Duncan’s smile faded away completely, and his look of sorrow was genuine and heart-tugging. “John’s dead. He was killed in DUMBO nearly a month ago.”
Bela hadn’t thought Reese Patterson could lose any more color, but she was wrong. He went positively pasty, and his shoulders rounded as he lowered the pad and pen, and his head, too. That kind of surprise and spontaneous unhappiness couldn’t be faked to Sibyl senses, not even by a seasoned actor. Bela breathed in at the same time Camille and Andy did, fighting the palpable wave of sadness and confusion that swept across the room.
“That—that was Cole who died?” Patterson’s question was barely audible. When he raised his head, his eyes were wide and moist. “I heard about the killing on the news, but I never thought … I never imagined … do you know who did it?”
“Absolutely,” Duncan told him, obviously watching the man for more reaction to his certainty, but there wasn’t any. “We’ve got them in our sights. Just have to root them out of their hiding place, and we’ll have that murder all wrapped up.”
Patterson took this in, rubbing the back of his neck with one thick-fingered hand. A few moments later, he had hold of himself enough to ask, “Do you know if John Cole had a will?”
Bela’s eyebrows shot up, and she saw similar looks on the faces of her sister Sibyls. What the hell would that matter? John Cole was a retired soldier and active federal agent, not some Wall Street billionaire.
“No, I wouldn’t have a—” Duncan paused, and Bela saw the telltale flicker of black in his winter-gray eyes as Cole’s spirit communicated with him. “Yes, actually, he did have one drawn up.” Surprise was evident in Duncan’s every word, but he played it off well enough after coughing a few times. “Now that I’m thinking about it, he did mention taking care of that. It’s with Bestro and Perman, on Broadway, if memory serves.”
Patterson wrote that down, again without explaining his reasons for asking, and Duncan didn’t seem inclined to press the issue. His expression had turned angry and uncomfortable, and Bela thought those emotions were probably directed at Cole.
“Thank you.” Patterson put down his pad and pen, and offered Duncan his hand.
Duncan shook it as Patterson said, “Let me know when you lock up the assholes who killed John. I want to be sure no one I know agrees to defend the bastards.” He glanced at Dio. “Sorry for my language, Ms. Allard.”
Ms. Allard. Back to respect now, another testament to Patterson’s genuine reaction to the news of John Cole’s death. Bela would have predicted just about anything from this little interview, except what they got. Few answers, and a lot more questions.
And Duncan Sharp, looking almost as shook up as Reese Patterson.
All of Duncan’s energy seemed to be focusing somewhere else, like his mind had forgotten how to keep everything in his body running like it should.
The minute they closed Patterson’s office door behind them and stepped into the building’s long hallway, Bela stopped and turned to Duncan. “Are you okay?”
Duncan said nothing as Bela’s quad surrounded him. His color was draining away, and he was starting to resemble last week’s Duncan instead of this week’s healthier version.
“This was a bad idea,” Camille said. “We shouldn’t have let him do this. That new head of the OCU hasn’t even given permission—”
“Oh, fuck Jack Blackmore, Camille.” Dio popped Duncan with a spurt of wind, driving his chin up and lifting his face. “Duncan’s got weeks to live. Maybe just days. He chooses what risks he takes, not us.”
“And sure as hell not that ex-Army jackass who doesn’t understand that we aren’t his good little soldiers,” Andy added.
Weeks to live. That took Bela’s breath. Days …
No.
Too much. She couldn’t hear that right now. Couldn’t even think it.
Duncan’s eyes flickered from gray to black, and he swayed on his feet.
Bela’s every fiber flared with alarm, giving her power a quick charge despite their distance from the earth below. She pressed her hands into Duncan’s shoulders, holding him up and feeding him a dose of earth energy for strength.
“Something’s happening inside him, Bela.” Andy sounded distressed now. “Something different. I can sense it. We have to get him back to the brownstone now.”
“The townhouse is closer.” Camille’s voice was stronger than usual, and a tiny whiff of smoke followed her as she jogged down the hallway toward the elevator. “I’ll send a signal to the Mothers to be ready.”
Dio doubled her wind, using the force to keep Duncan from crashing to the carpeted floor.
“Move.” Bela caught one of Duncan’s arms as Andy grabbed the one with the cast, just above his elbow. Together, they half walked, half fell toward the elevator Camille was holding.
(18)
Duncan knew his legs weren’t working right. For a few seconds, he stopped hearing, stopped seeing, stopped smelling. The world shifted to gray, then black as he threw every ounce of his energy behind finding John Cole’s essence inside his thoughts and getting some damned answers.
“Talk to me,” he said to John. “Damn it, you talk to me, or we won’t live to see tomorrow.”
Some part of his mind was aware of Bela and Andy holding his arms to keep
him from falling. Were they in an elevator? No. Stumbling out of one. Dio’s air energy lifted part of his weight and Camille knocked open doors and got them out of Reese Patterson’s office building.
Late-afternoon sunlight hit his face like a hot fist, and the smell of bus exhaust made him cough.
Let it go, Duncan. John sounded distant. Restrained.
“The hell I will.” If Duncan could have ripped the voice straight out of his brain, thrown it on the sidewalk, and shot it three times, he would have done so without hesitation. The muscles in his neck got so tight he wondered if they actually might snap. “All that crap you fed me back at the brownstone—what I know, you know, Duncan—that’s bullshit!”
“He’s not talking to us.” Bela’s voice drifted to him, seemingly across a desert as wide as any in his Afghanistan memories. “Look at his eyes.”
“Camille, help them hold Duncan up,” Dio said. “I’m getting the SUV.”
More hands on him now, these smaller, on his back, surprisingly strong, and too hot. His shirt smoldered, singing the skin on his shoulders.
John’s essence reacted to the touch, shifting backward and forward. Coming. Going. Duncan couldn’t think. Couldn’t process anything.
A new sort of fire blazed through the covered wounds on Duncan’s neck, chest, and shoulder. Christ, it felt like they were rupturing. Starting to bleed. The blood smelled like sugar mixed with ammonia, and the stench made him want to hurl. The dinar on his neck vibrated, seemed to send out energy, some kind of bright, pushing power, but it wasn’t enough to touch the pain.
Calm down. John’s tone shifted from distant to desperate. I can’t handle everything at once.