Deceived: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Unturned Book 3)

by Rob Cornell

  I craned my neck to look up at my second captor. She stared down at me, making me feel like a specimen trapped in Petri dish. She had a narrow chin and crisp, blue eyes. Her blonde hair was cut short and firmed by gel.

  "What?” I snapped.

  The dude on the other side of the car rapped on the window with his ring.

  I spun toward the sound in time to see him crouch to peer in at me. He gestured as if rolling down a window. I almost made a smart remark that I had power windows, but held back. I had a weird feeling I knew who these two were, just based on the way they carried themselves and the feel of the magic they exuded.

  And I really hoped I was wrong, because I did not want anything to do with Ministry Guardians.

  I buzzed down the window on his side.

  "Can I help you officer?" I asked, unable to hold back an itch of snark.

  His impassive face didn't seem to register it.

  "You're to come with us," he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. "And you are...?"

  One corner of his mouth curled up barely more than a centimeter. "You know who we are."

  I sighed. Sometimes I hated being right. "Okay," I said. "Is there a charge I should know about?"

  "Why?" he asked. "Should there be?"

  I barked a derisive laugh. "I didn't know guardians were allowed to have a sense of humor."

  "Did I sound like I was joking? I apologize."

  I gritted my teeth. He was enjoying keeping me dangling on a hook like a squirming worm. "I haven't done anything wrong," I said. I didn't like the guilty defensiveness clear in my voice. But I really hadn’t done anything against Ministry law. I couldn't think of a single reason they would come to collect me.

  Not knowing, of course, made it worse, and the guy in the tan trench coat loved every worried second of it.

  "Come with us," he said.

  "How? I can't even get out of my car."

  The tremble of magic I felt in the air ceased. A second later the woman on my side pulled open the door like a valet. She stepped aside, clearing the way for me to climb out.

  I stayed seated.

  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.”

  October's biting air blew in through the open door and seemed to suck all the heat out of the car in a single gust.

  "I'll be honest," the man said. "I wasn't informed of the reason for picking you up, only that it was the Ministry's wish to do so."

  Okay, that was weird. Guardians weren't gofers. They were the law enforcement branch of the Ministry. They were deployed only when Ministry law had been broken. At least, that's how I understood it.

  "Well, we wouldn't want to deny the Ministry its wishes."

  "No," he said flatly. "We would not."

  I looked back at the woman. She remained off to the side, one hand still on the door handle.

  I did not want to go with them. Wherever they took me couldn't be good. None of it made any sense.

  Of course, what had made sense lately? I was a sorcerer who should be a vampire, with a magical brand that both kept me from turning and from accessing a goodly portion of my power. I'd adjusted, but nothing was normal about my life. So why not throw in a mysterious visit by a pair of Ministry heavies? Hell, maybe they wanted to take me out shopping. I still needed to get a new wardrobe since mine had gone up in smoke with the rest of my house—I was getting tired of rustling through the bargain racks at JC Penney.

  "Will you come with us?" the man asked. "Or do we have to take you?"

  I had a fair amount of magic, but nothing that could compare to the kind of juice guardians carried. There was no point resisting. I wasn’t in the mood for a fight anyway.

  "Sure," I said. "I'll go. Could be fun, right?"

  The man straightened and walked away without answering.

  The woman jerked her head to one side, encouraging me to get out. Once out of the car, I gave her a smile and a wink. “You’re taking me out for ice cream, aren’t you? Can I get Moosetracks?”

  She slammed the door closed, turned, and headed off in the same direction as her partner.

  They both approached a dark sedan of a make and model I couldn't name. Never looked back at me. Apparently, they weren't worried about me trying to cut and run.

  I shivered against the cold, tucked my hands in my coat pockets, and followed them to the car.

  Chapter Twelve

  I sat in the reception area of the office of Detroit’s Ministry Prefect, on a stiff-cushioned sofa built for two, only my pair of guardian escorts sat on either side of me, smushing me between them. The seating arrangement had been their choice. A trio of modern style chairs that matched the sofa were arranged in a casual semi-circle on the other side of an oval, glass-topped coffee table. Perfectly good seats. Probably no more comfortable than the sofa, but at least we’d have some breathing room.

  Now they were acting worried I might try to slip away. Not at all like their casual confidence that I’d come along back at the hotel. Then it occurred to me: our little cozy lineup was meant more for show. When the prefect came out of his office, they wanted to make sure they looked like they had me, and good.

  Whatever. At least neither of them smelled. On the other hand, since I was trapped between their combined body heat, I had started sweating, could feel it trickle down my sides from my armpits. I didn’t know how long my deodorant would hold out. I half hoped it wouldn’t. And a little juvenile part of me would have loved passing some gas. See how long they held out before giving up and leaving the sofa to me.

  But, lucky for them, we didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes after we sat down, the prefect’s dark, polished wooden door swung open, and he stood aside to leave room for entry. I felt kind of special. The last time I came to see the prefect, I had waited for two freaking hours.

  Prefect Morgan St. James had skin several shades darker than his door. He had shaved his head clean since the last time I saw him, and his smooth pate gleamed in the light through the window behind the receptionist’s desk. A window that had a view of the International Riverfront a few dozen stories below. The Ministry leased three whole floors of the Renaissance Center, the Detroit cityscape’s most prominent feature—seven connected skyscrapers looking over the city like a group of sentinels armored in glass.

  I couldn’t imagine what three floors here cost a month, but it delivered a clear message to those governed by Ministry Law—the Ministry had money, which meant they had power, which meant don’t fuck with them.

  My companions each grabbed one of my arms and hauled me to my feet with them. The move wasn’t rough or harsh. Just firm. In other words, they weren’t treating me like a prisoner, but they did want me to know they had control. Maybe that should have been reassuring, but I wasn’t feeling it.

  As soon as we were standing, the guardians let me go and took a step back as if presenting me to Prefect St. James. Here is our offering, Prefect. Do with him what you will.

  I shivered, attributing it to my sweat cooling now that I was free of the Sebastian sandwich. A little could have been nerves. Just a bit, though.

  Whatever jitters I felt about this meeting, I kept to myself, doing my best to project a “chillin’ like Bob Dylan” vibe.

  St. James invited me in with a short tilt of his head. He had his own chill vibe going on. We were just a couple of dudes meeting up for a chat, maybe sharing one of his bottles of home brew it was rumored he kept in a mini-fridge behind his desk. Which I totally would have gone for.

  But I didn’t get my hopes up.

  I went in, leaving the guardians behind. As St. James closed the door, I took a seat in front of his huge desk: enough surface space to land a plane on, all made of polished-to-a-shine cherry wood. The only thing more impressive was the ornate rug underfoot woven by fairies. Fairies didn’t do rugs anymore, and this was probably one of very few still in existence. If the Ministry found anyone with enough money to pay for it, the cost of the rug could cover the next
ten years of the Ministry’s lease in the RenCen.

  I could smell the thousand years of must permeating the thing. I hated walking on it, but if the sucker had lasted through that many years of foot traffic, I probably wasn’t hurting it much.

  St. James walked around and sat behind his desk, grunting softly as he settled in. He laced his fingers together and rested his hands on his ink blotter. “I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here?”

  I smirked. “Indeed I am, Monsieur Poirot.”

  He laughed, pointed at me. “I see what you did there.”

  His laughter eased the tension that had knotted my shoulders while I hadn’t been paying attention. Eased it, but didn’t kill it entirely. I was glad St. James had a sense of humor. It wasn’t something I had gotten to see the other time we had met.

  His laughing petered out quickly, and his expression turned serious. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard reports, but the Metro Detroit area has developed a sudden vampire problem.” He shrugged. “A more than usual problem.”

  “Didn’t need a report,” I said. “I found myself smack in the middle of a vamp riot in Hazel Park last night.”

  He pressed his lips together, didn’t say anything for a moment. His gaze drifted down to a picture frame on his desk. The frame faced him, so I couldn’t see the picture. Based on the worried look in his eyes, I figured it was someone important to him. It’s easy to forget that someone in a position of power as high as a Ministry prefect was still a regular person, with a family, a personal life, hobbies, and concerns that had nothing to do with politics.

  “Riots are a good way to describe it,” he finally said, nodding his head slightly. He looked up from the picture to me. “I suspect this had something to do with your…confrontation…with Logan Goulet.” So he’d heard about that. “The loss of their elder seems to have stirred them up quite a bit.”

  “I thought so, too. But seems to me there’s got to be something more to it than that.”

  If you let me die, you will set off the largest supernatural war this city has ever seen.

  Goulet’s words rang back to me once more. The prick had taken up a mighty chunk of my mental real estate. I seriously wanted to evict his ass.

  “How so?” St. James asked.

  Moment of truth. How much did I want to reveal to the prefect? I had come to the sad conclusion that someone with a great deal of power lurked behind whatever plan Goulet had had for my mother. And, following that line of thinking, I found it easy to believe that that someone (or several someones) had a position in the Ministry. It tasted like a tinfoil hat conspiracy theory, but what other conclusion could I draw?

  That left one nerve-wracking question—was Prefect St. James involved in that conspiracy?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. Not a lie, but it did omit my suspicions.

  He frowned, narrowed his eyes, and looked at me as if trying to read words tattooed across my face. “No theories?”

  Was he pumping me for information? Trying to figure out how much I knew? Because he was somehow involved?

  I took a slow, steady breath. Jumping to crazy conclusions could bite me in the ass. I had to stay cool.

  I decided to let a little more truth leak free. His reaction might give me a better read on him. “Goulet suggested some larger plan. He didn’t share details before I pumped him full of silver, though.”

  St. James wrinkled his nose as if a bad taste filled his mouth. “What kind of plan?”

  I shrugged. If his question was genuine, then we were both stumped on that front. I didn’t have any magical lie detecting skills, but I went out on a limb and chanced sharing Goulet’s dying claim.

  “I honestly don’t know, Prefect,” I said. “But he did say his death would trigger a supernatural war of some kind. Does that mean anything to you?”

  His eyes widened, and he drew back. “To me? Why in the names of the gods would that mean anything to me?” His eyebrows drew together, and his upper lip curled a fraction of an inch. “Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Light?”

  Oops. Never a good idea to piss off a prefect. “No,” I said quickly. “I apologize if it came across that way.”

  His nostrils flared as he let loose a breathy growl. Then he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on his desk like he had when he first sat down. “I’ll have some people look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, something has to be done about the vampires. If there’s a repeat of the destruction and violence after dusk tonight, it will be hard to contain the truth from the uninitiated.”

  Ah, yes. Worry about exposing the supernatural world to the average citizens, but don’t fret about the livelihoods of those same citizens. Typical Ministry politics. I clamped my mouth shut to keep my opinion to myself. Wasn’t easy.

  “I’ve decided,” St. James went on, “to put together a special task force with the goal of discouraging further lawlessness.”

  “How do you plan on doing that?”

  “By tracking down offenders and dusting them before they ever see another night.”

  A city wide vamp hunt. Sounded like fun for a hunter like myself. “Standard contracts wouldn’t do the trick?”

  “There aren’t enough hunters in Detroit to handle so many undead targets. And I need swift action.”

  “So even if you don’t get them all, you can take a large bite and send a clear message to vamps at large.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

  He drew his hands apart and pressed his palms flat against his desktop. He leaned toward me. “Because I want you in on this.”

  I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t go down. The light seeping through the vertical blinds behind the prefect suddenly seemed too bright, forcing me to squint. “Excuse me?” I croaked.

  St. James grinned, clearly amused by my confused reaction. “You are the best hunter in Detroit. And, due to your recent experiences, have an intimate knowledge of the local vampire population.”

  He was seriously overstating the case. A lot of different vampires called the Motor City home. But I was too tongue-tied to say as much.

  “You have whatever Ministry resources you need to do your part. I suspect you’ll outperform even some of our best guardians. They’re amazingly powerful, but their skills serve a more general purpose.”

  “Are you…” I shuffled words in my head like a deck of cards, but couldn’t find any aces.

  “Hiring you as a temporary employee for the Ministry.”

  No. Not cool. I’d take all the money the Ministry wanted to give for fulfilling contracts. I’d take out vampires all night long if they wanted to put proper bounties on them. But working directly for the Ministry? That shit was not my style.

  “I appreciate your confidence in my ability, Prefect. But I’ll have to decline. I’m strictly a private contractor.”

  He huffed, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “What’s the difference between collecting bounties and collecting a paycheck? You can trust you will be greatly compensated for your work. Certainly more than you do as a private contractor.”

  “Autonomy,” I said.

  “So it’s purely a philosophical objection?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a lot on my plate as it is.”

  “I understand. You’ve been through a great deal.”

  I exhaled and relaxed. I thought he’d give me a harder time about my refusal. I guess even the top dog of a political machine didn’t have to be one-hundred percent a dick.

  I was about to thank him, but he spoke first.

  “I also understand you’ve had to deal with some red tape to get your life back in order.”

  The muscles at the base of my neck tensed. So much for relaxing. “That’s right.”

  “As unfair as it is, a Ministry employee would probably have his destroyed home replaced within days of the incident. Such are the advantages of
being a part of the system.”

  He was not seriously going there, was he? I’m sure he thought that was one juicy carrot he was dangling in front of me. And I couldn’t deny it looked mighty tasty. But where there was a carrot…

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “it could take weeks, possibly months to get through all the rigmarole so often involved with the process. Assuming the Ministry approves your claim in the first place.”

  …there was a stick.

  I clenched my fists in my lap. “So that’s how it is?”

  He stared at me without a word. What else was there left to say? If I ever wanted to get our home back, I had to play along. Otherwise, Mom and I were stuck trying to rebuild the house on our own dime—and we did not have enough dimes.

  The lump in my throat must have been my pride, because when I swallowed, it went right down.

  “Do I need to fill out any paperwork?”

  “My receptionist will provide you with the proper forms.” He stood and held out his hand. “A pleasure to have you on board.”

  I stood, but didn’t take his hand. “Whatever.” I turned on my heel and left his office.

  He might have forced me into working for him, but that didn’t mean I was going to kiss his ass.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You’re what?”

  Sly gaped at me, the broken water bong in his hand forgotten. The three of us—Sly, Mom, and I—stood in the smoke shop among the debris left behind by the vamps. Mom had come over to help Sly with clean up. She leaned on the handle of the push broom she had used to sweep a heap of shattered glass and random pieces of pipes, bongs, and even sections of the metal frames from a few of the destroyed display cases to the center of the floor.

  They had taped plastic sheeting over the broken windows. It rippled and crackled against the wind.

  “I’m working for the Man,” I said.

  Mom furled her brow. “What an odd thing.”