The Courtship of Julian St. Albans

by Crook, Amy

  Alex reached out to touch the black pearl on one of Alex’s cuffs, and smiled. “You’re using my gift, too, so I think I can handle a little rivalry if it makes you feel better.”

  Julian grinned, then turned away and blew his nose, looking more composed when he turned back, if a bit red around the edges. “That’s why I like you, you know, because you’re so much more interested in being sensible and getting things done than following convention or being all properly inoffensive.”

  Alex thought that was rather the best compliment he’d ever received, and it must have shown on his face because Julian’s expression softened and warmed. “Thank you,” said Alex, not knowing what else he could say.

  For Julian, that seemed to be enough.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alex got a few more clues about the running of the household, but he left the St. Albans estate more confused than when he’d arrived. Julian had given him another of those distractingly soft kisses to his cheek when he left, and then whispered in his ear, “Next time, you’ll kiss me properly.”

  Alex had been completely unable to argue with that, and he wondered how Smedley would take the news. He wasn’t sure, given his reputation for being a thoughtless bastard at crime scenes, if he could get away with claiming it was all acting.

  He was very frustrated that it was no longer all acting.

  “But I don’t want to run the St. Albans estate,” said Alex petulantly.

  “Sir?” said the driver, rolling the window down between them. “Did you have a request?”

  Alex laughed. “Nothing you could help me with, no, I’m just talking to myself. You can tell Victor I’m just as eccentric as ever.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” said the driver, giving him an appropriately strange look in the mirror before rolling the privacy panel back up.

  It was almost a relief when Lapointe called and asked if he could still consult on perfectly normal murders, or if his social calendar was too busy.

  ~ ~ ~

  “So, what’s the deal?” asked Alex. He’d stopped by his flat to get out of the ridiculous suit and back into his comfortable black, then convinced Victor’s driver to take him out to the crime scene, confident he could get Lapointe to drive him home. He had cookies.

  “Shady magical artificer,” she said, gesturing toward the shopfront. “Killed apparently by one of his own creations gone amok.”

  The dingy-looking windows held a variety of magical items, some dusty and some in need of repair but all with a look about them of malice or menace. The sign above the door was broken just below the hinges so it gave no clue as to the actual name of the shop, but that never was important for a place like this. People who came here knew what they wanted, and those who didn’t want it would likely steer clear just from looking at the displays.

  “Never happen,” said Alex. “Are you sure it wasn’t something he was trying to repair?”

  “Nope,” she said cheerfully. “That’s your job.”

  “You’re so helpful,” said Alex sarcastically. “Have they already removed the body?” Alex started to pull out his usual white cotton gloves, then thought better of it and grabbed some latex ones from the box by the door.

  That got him a raised eyebrow from Lapointe, but she answered his question anyway. “No, they know by now you like to hear the vibes or whatever,” she said, making a wavy-fingered gesture.

  He chuckled. “It’ll help me determine what’s his make and what’s not,” he said. “In back?”

  “Yeah, though the uniforms keep telling me they feel like something’s not right out here, so you’ll need to check this area out afterward,” said Lapointe, her levity falling away. She knew when to be serious about a job, and that was one of Alex’s favourite things about her, second only to her tolerance for him.

  “Perhaps I should check in here first? Or are they waiting on me,” he said; he’d had his phone off during the Courtship tea, so he wasn’t sure how long the crime scene had been cooling before he got here.

  “Techs are already done, but the coroner would like to be home before it’s too late,” said Smedley from the doorway.

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “Why’re you on this?” he asked, though it wasn’t hostile, just curious. He’d been under the impression that Smedley only went after bigger fish.

  “You’ll see,” said Smedley, and Alex rolled his eyes.

  “Of course,” Alex said, pulling out a tuning fork. “Body first, then.”

  “And leave your phone on next time,” said Smedley, leading them deeper into the back rooms of the store, which was more spacious than it looked from outside.

  Alex raised an eyebrow at Smedley’s broad back. “Jealous?”

  Smedley snorted. “You wish. I’m not so easily swayed by your creamy mounds as the good doctor.”

  Lapointe didn’t even try to hold back her laugh.

  CHAPTER 12

  In Which Someone is Hurt, Someone is Helped, and Male Bonding Occurs

  Alex ignored Lapointe’s laughter in favour of the sight before him, which was a gruesome scene indeed. The man had been sitting at his workbench when the device attacked, and it had evidently been armed with some sort of claws or small blades from the look of the body. Alex would have been surprised he was allowed in at all, if Smedley hadn’t said the crime scene techs had already been through, given the inevitable smudging of blood evidence.

  “Has the device been found?” asked Alex dubiously.

  Smedley chuckled. “Worried for your pretty face?” He slapped Alex on the shoulder, and Alex got a wash of his personal magic, the melody martial and strong. “Don’t be, we took care of it already.”

  “Armistead’s even promised not to reassemble it,” said Lapointe with a wicked chuckle that told Alex that Armistead had not dealt well with being called out to a scene like this one.

  Alex chuckled at the thought of it. “Make sure it doesn’t reassemble itself, either,” he warned, then stepped forward and struck the tuning fork on his palm, rather harder than usual, given the change in gloves.

  If he’d thought the St. Albans reception was a cacophony, he’d been sadly mistaken. The magic in here was nearly all discordant, some of it broken or repeating like a scratched record, and none if it was pleasant. Alex stepped forward and, after a nod from Smedley, touched the body.

  He was shocked to find that this man was the source of the charm that had felled Alex himself not too long ago. “How long ago did he die?” asked Alex, stilling the tuning fork and turning to the waiting agents.

  “Six, maybe seven hours,” said Smedley. “Kept it cold in here, so not much smell yet.”

  Alex’s nostrils flared involuntarily, and he was assaulted with a wash of iron-bright charnel reek, which he’d managed to mostly ignore until now. “He’s the man who made the inkwells,” said Alex, stepping back over to them, his shoes leaving little smudges on the bloody floor. “I’d recognise that sound anywhere.”

  It also explained why Julian had seemed less affected today — some enchantments could be cast to survive the caster, but it was at a greater cost in personal energy. Alex wondered if the killer had known that his charms would lose their efficacy, or if he’d been told they’d last past the man’s death.

  “So you don’t think this was an accident,” said Smedley, and it wasn’t a question.

  Alex snorted. “The day after his enchantment inadvertently gets someone at the Agency? Not likely.” He turned and sighed. “Are there any pieces of the attack device left here?”

  “Not that we could find, but you’re allowed in the lab, as long as you don’t touch anything,” said Smedley.

  Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, it could easily have been one of the others, you know, I’m not the only mage on your payroll.”

  “You’re the only one who handles evidence with such disregard for your personal safety, though,” pointed out Lapointe.

  “Details, details,” said Alex. Then he sighed. “I suppose I have to go over this whole plac
e, don’t I?” he asked, unhappily rhetorical. He turned back to the room and struck his tuning fork, and prepared to do his job.

  He was going to send them a huge bill for this.

  Alex had a system with Lapointe, and he was happy to find that Smedley’s presence didn’t disrupt it overmuch. He would pick up an item and listen to it, then dump it into the waiting evidence bag with some sort of abstract comment, and she’d seal it up and make notes, then get another one ready while he kept on.

  In a place like this, it seemed to take forever.

  Alex’s world narrowed to the dissonant threads of magic, picking them apart and following each one to its source, then categorising it and moving on to the next, and the next. At some point around the sixth or seventh time he’d struck his tuning fork, Lapointe made him stop for some water, but then he kept on, moving through the room in a manner that might seem random to anyone outside his head. His pattern was dictated by the sounds he heard, and once he started following the threads, even such broken and evil threads as the ones in this room, he never seemed to want to stop.

  It was only when he tried to deposit something in a bag and there wasn’t one waiting that he noticed something was wrong.

  His ears seemed to pop and time to stretch and warp as he turned and saw Murielle, lying on her back in a pool of blood, though it was anyone’s guess whose blood it was.

  “Help!” yelled Alex, annoyed that they’d been left alone though of course that was how he always demanded they do it, and he moved forward cautiously, slipping his amplifying charm out of his vest pocket and into his palm under the glove. Men rushed into the room and froze, looking around with a new terror of their already horrifying surroundings, wondering who might be next.

  There was something buzzing with insect-like magic under Lapointe’s body, nothing from this room, though, a new voice in the unpleasant chorus. “Be careful, she’s been attacked by something,” he said, moving around her, slowly, slowly.

  Alex saw a flash of movement, and his foot came down instinctively, crushing the little automaton beneath his expensive shoes. “I’ve got it, help her!”

  Dr. Tamlinson pushed past the two officers who’d been holding him back, rolling her over to find a small wound in her shoulder that bled much faster than it was meant to. “I think there’s magic, but I can’t get a hold on it. Benedict?”

  Alex knelt but he could just barely hear it, so he stripped off a glove and gently touched her shoulder, following the spell on the wound until it was all he could hear. “Salt, it’ll hurt but it should disrupt the spell,” he said distantly, trying to get the feel of the caster while one of the techs sealed the nasty, broken doll into one of their little magic-proof chests.

  Those weren’t standard on crime scenes, so the first device must have really freaked someone out, to have them still on hand.

  “Where am I going to get-” began Geoff in exasperation, laughing when Alex handed him a small packet of the stuff.

  “Get it right into the wound, and apologise later. She likes French macarons,” he said, still trying to follow the thread of that magic. He knew he’d heard it before, from someone he’d met only once or twice, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure it was one of the suitors. It was familiar, but… No, he couldn’t place it, and it was already fading under the wash of pure salt, until it sputtered out entirely and the blood flow stopped.

  Geoff grinned. “Brilliant,” he said, getting a bottle of saline out of his kit to clean and dress the wound properly.

  “She’ll need blood,” said Alex, standing, brows knit. “Three or four units, from the look of the floor.”

  “We’ve got it in the infirmary,” said Geoff, competent and confident now that he was in his element. “I should put some more magical remedies in my field kits, I guess.”

  Alex shrugged. “Salt is usually more useful in my line of work than yours,” he said, looking down at Murielle’s frighteningly pale face. “I’m just glad I had some on me.”

  “We all are,” said Smedley, and then they were putting Lapointe on a gurney and wheeling her away. “Now, I saw what she was doing, do you think you can handle me as a substitute? This place needs to be cleared tonight, before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alex, straightening. “I’ll be less methodical and look for the fully functional pieces first.”

  Smedley laughed. “If that was methodical, I’d hate to see it when you just wing it,” he said. “Let’s get some food into you first, you’ve been at it nearly three hours.”

  Alex blinked again, then shook his head. “No, you’re right, this is more important,” he said, trying to get past Smedley to the box of gloves.

  “We’ll keep everyone out until you’re done, but even I know that you’re using up energy doing this and you can’t stand to get any thinner.” He paused and then added, smirking, “You might lose some perkiness in those creamy mounds of yours.”

  Alex laughed and consented, though he did do a quick sweep of the outer room. He made them box up anything that looked remotely insectoid, after Smedley confirmed the first had been a macabre sort of beetle, and the second a seemingly innocent honeybee sculpture.

  Then he let Smedley treat him to a wonderfully mediocre curry down the block, and no less than three mango lassis and a half-dozen orders of gulab jamun. The sugar would do him good, and he even drank the sickeningly sweet syrup the treats were served in, washing it down with a cup of perfectly-made chai. “Get me two more chais to go, and I won’t tell them you got mild like a big girl,” said Alex, getting up. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Smedley chuckled, but when Alex returned from the loo there were three steaming cups of chai, and a fat styrofoam tub with another half-dozen orders of gulab jamun inside. “In case we’re still working after they’re closed,” he said, handing Alex one of the drinks and the sweets to carry.

  “I almost don’t hate you right now,” said Alex, impressed.

  Smedley laughed. “You might even accept my assignments someday,” he said, steering Alex out into the street and back to the scene of the crime.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was nearly dawn by the time Alex and Smedley stumbled into the infirmary, giddy with exhaustion. “Have you kept our dear Murielle alive?” asked Alex, throwing an arm over Geoff’s shoulders in a manner he suspected he might regret, once he wasn’t punch-drunk on fatigue and too much sugar. It turned out the Indian place was open all night, which is about all that had kept him going through the truly dismal contents of the shop.

  But it was done, now, and they could finally visit Lapointe.

  “She’ll be fine, she got her four units and woke up sometime during the third to yell at me for potentially compromising evidence,” said Geoff with a chuckle.

  “You did preserve her clothes?” said Smedley.

  Alex laughed this time. “The spell’s on the creature, the salt will have disrupted it on her and her clothing both, no evidence to spoil unless it left a stinger behind.”

  “But I put her shirt and jacket in evidence bags anyway,” said Geoff dryly. “There wasn’t a stinger, Armistead confirmed that it stayed intact for stinging someone else. You’re lucky it didn’t go right through your foot, Alex.”

  Alex grinned. “Not lucky,” he said, “well-shod.” The spells that kept the soles of his shoes intact through wear and tear and crime scenes would have also deflected the stinger, unless it had been specifically designed to go through them.

  They both looked down, then up, wearing identical expressions of confusion.

  “They’re spelled. Custom-made, paid for with the sort of private commissions that the department can’t afford,” said Alex with a grin. “Ridiculously posh.”

  Their laughs held different timbres, Geoff’s full of warm understanding and Smedley’s wry. “Well, good thing for all of us you don’t go around in department issue, then,” said Smedley.

  “Can we see her?” asked Alex, trying to make himself stand up str
aight and not quite managing.

  “Only if you promise not to try to drive home,” said Geoff. “Either of you.”

  “On my honour,” said Smedley, holding up a hand that wavered a bit. “Gonna put us in separate cabs, no creamy mounds for me!”

  They all laughed at that, and Geoff let them in to see Lapointe anyway, for which Alex was grateful.

  “Have you been in my whisky?” asked Murielle, laying in bed in a white hospital gown. It was the sort that wrapped across the front rather than tied up the back, and Alex thought better of Geoff for letting her wear it despite the difficulty it would add to cleaning the wound.

  “Nope,” said Alex, “Just too much magic.”

  “Too much chai,” said Smedley.

  “Too much sugar,” added Alex, swallowing back a wave of reaction-nausea. “Urgh, way too much.”

  “Sit,” said Geoff, steering Alex into a chair, and then producing one for Smedley, too. “I’ll get something for both of you.”

  Lapointe chuckled weakly. “You look worse than I do, Benedict,” she said, “Did they make you clear the whole place in one night?”

  “I volunteered,” said Alex, scooting the chair until he was by her bedside properly. “It was awful, wondering how long you’d been bleeding and I hadn’t even noticed.”

  “You always did tune the rest of us out when you had magic to chase,” she said, but there was no real rancour in her tone, just dry amusement.

  Smedley grinned. “I helped, you know,” he said.

  She smacked her forehead. “I’ll never figure out what’s in the bags now!”

  Both men laughed. “I showed him your system,” said Alex. “He fed me curry.”

  “Two curries, three lassis,” corrected Smedley, “and another two on our second break.”

  “Not to mention enough chai to drown a caravan,” said Alex.

  She looked from one to the other and put her face in her hands. “Oh, lords a-leaping. Male bonding. I’m doomed.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be back to normal tomorrow,” said Geoff, handing each of them a steaming cup of restorative. “You remember what it’s like getting attuned to him.”