“It’s why I’m here,” I told him.
“I’ll be keeping watch through the eye in the sky,” Zian promised, holding up his smartphone. “As long as you stay in the Indigo, consider yourself covered. After that … well, I’ll see what I can do.”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze before heading back upstairs.
***
It took me a bit to figure out where our mystery dealer was. Sure, he or she was in a dark nook somewhere, but there was no shortage of those, what with the mood lighting. I eventually found my quarry nestled in the shadows beside an ancient “Operation Wolf” arcade machine. The only thing I could make out clearly were the hands, which were long, tapered, and adorned with a few silver rings. The fingernails, I noticed, were decorated with electric blue nail polish. The fingers themselves were tapping the machine in time to the music coming over the speakers, a techno remix of the Stones’ “Luxury.”
As soon as I got close, the fingers stopped their tapping. Then the figure slipped out of the shadows with a prizefighter’s roll and a slight swaying of the hips. The lean face with the laughing smile, the skinny jeans that clung like a second skin, the shoulders and chest that could have been that of a small man or a big woman—everything about this person was a walking contradiction of gender. But that was often the case with changelings. Gender tended to be more of a suggestion than the cold hard fact it is for most people.
“Bellamy Vale …” The voice was as gender neutral as the rest of her. I decided to make it a “her” just to keep things straight in my own head.
“Bran Connor,” I answered.
The rest of the crowd around us was so wrapped up in their individual cyber-worlds that we might as well have not been there.
“Oh, and I so hoped to have you at a disadvantage,” Bran demurred in mock disappointment with an effete wave of a hand.
“I’m a PI,” I reminded her. “Details like names are things we tend to track down.”
“Though not necessarily locations,” Bran taunted, flapping a hand at the ceiling. “I mean, I have been waiting here for you to show up for two nights now.”
I tried not to betray the surprise I felt. “Well, now that I’m here, I’ve got a lot of questions.”
Bran shrugged before using her left hand to gesture for me to join her at a quiet corner table further towards the back.
As the original version of Bowie’s “Jean Genie” began, I sat down on a stool in front of the small café table and waited while Bran settled herself on hers.
“Why don’t we start with something obvious, like how you knew that I’d be here eventually?”
“Well, your connection to the crown prince of information is hardly a state secret,” Bran said, cocking her head at me. “It seemed to me that you’d be coming here sooner or later for a hit of info that you can’t get anywhere else.”
“Which leads to Question Two: why did you want to meet?”
Bran smirked at me and hummed. “Guess I should come out and say something … I was the one who gave you that warning about the Berserker hitting the Thricins.” Her voice shifted to that of Melanie Ramirez. “You didn’t hear this from me.”
This time there was no way I could conceal my startled expression.
Bran laughed in her normal voice. “Nice party trick, huh?”
“I doubt you threw me at that monster just for shit and giggles,” I suggested, resolving to stay as still as possible to counter Bran’s constant fidgeting.
“Far, far from it,” Bran assured me. “But, hey, none of that was my idea. There’s certain … let’s call them ‘interested parties’ … who don’t appreciate that damned Berserker making such a mess of things.”
“Well, seeing as I’m hardly Conan the Barbarian material,” I argued, “I’d say that you threw me in front of that thing as a delaying tactic. If you had an army on the spot, they’d have got the call instead, I suppose. But you had to make do with an anonymous tip to the cops.”
“Oh, really?” Bran all but cooed in a deeper tone of voice that I would have expected. Then she gave me a “tsk, tsk, tsk” and wagged a finger at me. “For all you know, all those good, tax-paying citizens on that block may have made that same call a lot less anonymously.”
“If they realized what they were hearing, sure,” I granted with a shrug. “But the whole plan hinged on Mrs. Thricin surviving the attack. The only way that was going to happen was you making the call to the cops right after you hung up with me.”
Bran hummed again, looked up at the ceiling and chuckled before lowering her gaze. “I’ve got to admit you weren’t supposed to survive that little encounter. I know you’ve got a knack for cheating death but let’s be serious … there’s death and then there’s Death incarnate, right?”
I gave Bran a hard little smile of my own. She had no idea how true that statement was.
“Okay, look,” Bran said, holding up her ring-festooned fingers. “I have to say that the parties I mentioned before were very impressed that you got the better of that Berserker. In fact, they’re so impressed that they want to make you a job offer so that you can join our team.”
“I kind of thought we already were on the same team,” I countered. “Assuming I’ve guessed correctly and you work for Fairwinds.”
“Affiliated teams,” Bran corrected, laying her hands back on the tabletop. “You’d need to be on the same payroll as me to be part of this team.”
I picked my next words carefully. “Just out of professional curiosity, did the people you’re working for have anything to do with the intimidation or murder phase of things?”
“No, no, no … far too direct and messy for them. They just reached out to certain … local entrepreneurs early on to ensure our interests in that area. They proved to be a lot less resilient than we’d have hoped. Funny how they kept turning up dead once Vito started expressing an interest in doing business in that area ...”
I didn’t see that one coming. “Okay, call me a poor, confused schmuck, but you lost me there.”
“Hey, confusion is nothing to knock,” Bran said, reaching across the table to give my shoulder a squeeze. There was surprising strength in the grip. “It gives you incentive to do your job.”
“Well, it’s just that I heard this rumor that you and Vito were doing a little business with each other on certain … recreational substances.”
“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Vitorini was indeed doing a side business with me. He’s enough of a misogynist pig to think that’s a good idea, what with Estella De Soto being one of his bosses and all.”
I nodded at Bran with an expression intended to convey “Well?”.
“Taking that theory a little further,” Bran continued, “any involvement with Vito would have to predate my employment with my new superiors. A lot of our dead people had some involvement in that trade, though they were a bit, shall we say, antagonistic about Vito’s interest in their business. I couldn’t very well justify the conflicting interests in both that baby mobster’s ambitions and my employers’ desire to use the people they had selected, so …”
“You’re cutting Vito loose,” I said. “And talking to me is your way of throwing him under the bus.”
Bran gave me a triumphant pointing of the finger.
“So how does that explain the other part of the rumor, that Vito managed to get some of the substances he was after from you in the first place?” I asked.
“You’ve met Vitorini, right?” Bran inquired, leaning in a bit.
Wincing from the memory of our last little get-together, I nodded. “More than once.”
“Then you know he’s an arrogant, overconfident fool who thinks that somehow his dead father’s genes make him a better criminal. So … how hard is it to imagine that he thinks he’s got enough product to get started in spite of his lack of prior experience?”
“So you’re saying that he’s been killing off these other guys to expand his—”
Bran made a face that stopped the thought cold. “Vito is stupid, sure, but not that stupid. If he’s killing off people he could have recruited instead, he’s doing it for a reason other than to help his little start-up business.”
Bran leaned back and shook her head again. “Of course, while all this is going on, the other team hasn’t been taking a break. Just ask their lawyers …”
“So you’re saying that this Berserker and Vito are both working for Arete?” I asked her, throwing the name out there to make sure Zian’s info aligned with Bran’s.
“You mean, considering that each of their attacks thus far have been a direct assault on Fairwinds’ interests? I would say that is a safe bet, yes.”
“Let’s get back to that offer you mentioned at the top,” I said. “If I say yes, what do you want me to do?”
“Oh, something you are impeccably qualified for,” Bran told me, flashing me a bright smile that looked like it could cut flesh. “Track the Berserker back to his lair.”
“Track him but not kill him,” I said, noticing the gap.
“Who was it who said that you’re not exactly Conan the Barbarian material, hmm?” Bran’s smile widened. “No, a quick report on its location will more than suffice. I’ll have back-up I can call in after that.”
“And the pay?” I asked, leaning forward like I was interested.
“Negotiable,” Bran answered, with an offhand gesture. “I wouldn’t insult you by naming a figure that might be too slight for such a hazardous task.”
It sounded good … if I was a guy who believed that these Arcadian types always played it straight. But none that I had ever heard of would ever fail to use a loophole that would leave me without my promised money—or my life.
“I’m going to have to think about it,” I said. “Money’s only a good incentive if you’re alive to spend it.”
“True, very true,” Bran agreed, producing a business card from what looked like thin air but was more likely just her sleeve. “When you do make that final decision, give me a call.”
She got up from her seat. “Now, as delightful as this conversation has been, I am afraid that I have things to do, people to see. Briefest goodbyes are the best … adieu.”
She moved away so quickly and so quietly, I could have sworn she was a ghost. I got up and walked out of that nook myself. I felt a buzz in my pocket from my cell. Zian had sent me a text: “Just finished looking at Luc’s stash. Positive match for Smoke & Mirrors supply.”
I ducked behind an oversized Star Wars arcade machine that was surrounded by a noisy crowd and leaned against the empty seat of a racing game next to it. Then I texted back, “What about Luc?”
About thirty seconds later, I got Zian’s reply. “Gave him a choice: lifetime ban from the Indigo AND being turned over to the cops or tracking Bran back to that fae’s lair.”
“U sure that’s safe?!” I texted back.
“Do it myself but I’m not in your class,” was Zian’s response.
I was in the middle of a reply when he sent another text: “Like to be, though.”
I deleted my reply and sent something else instead: “You rule the Internet. That not enough?”
I heard a cry of delight from the crowd around the Star Wars machine as I read his reply. “Not anymore. Last night changed my mind.”
“On what?” I texted, feeling a sense of alarm.
“On lots of things,” Zian replied. “Funny how a few real-world bullets can do that.”
I texted back quickly. “Your dad’s already pissed at u AND me. Why push it?”
It was about a minute and a half before I got the reply to that. “I need more.”
A chorus of dismay from the crowd at my elbow matched my feelings and I leaned my head back against the machine. One thing that Zian did not need was to be more dead. A part of me was happy that he wanted to get more involved with the real world, but the rest of me was plain terrified that he’d chosen the absolute worst moment to do it.
“You still there, Bell?” Zian texted.
“Sure,” I replied. “Just thinking over what u told me.” After a few more seconds of thinking it over, I added, “This shit’s dangerous.”
“I know. I got shot at, remember?” came the caustic reply.
“And u still …?” I texted back.
“Crap! Got a problem!” Zian texted me in a hurry.
“What?” I asked.
“Office, behind the above-ground server. NOW.”
I realized that I was standing just opposite the location he was referring to so I walked straight to it. One click of the door lock later, I found Zian sitting in front of another desk and staring at a custom laptop with positive dread. He was wearing a mic headset but had a pair of mini-speakers attached to the audio output jack.
“Luc, I’ve got a friend of mine with me now,” Zian said into the mic. “Tell him what you just told me.”
“Yeah, hey …” The half-broken voice of a panicked teenager sounded over the speakers. “They made me. Now, somebody’s after me.”
“Who?” I asked into the mic on Zian’s head.
I could hear the sound of running on the line, and Luc was panting as he replied. “If I knew who, I’d have said, don’t you think?”
“Where are you right now?” I asked.
“Corner of Sprang and Broome. I lost sight of that Bran bitch about a minute ago before … oh, God! They’re right behind me!”
“What is it?” Zian asked. “What are you seeing?”
The only answer we got was a scream of horror and agony and the call was cut off.
“Jesus! What were you thinking, Z?” I demanded, slapping the desk for emphasis.
“Luc was just supposed to follow Bran back to her hide,” Zian snapped back at me, tearing off his headset. “Then he was supposed to send an anonymous tip that would put the cops onto her faerie ass for dealing illegal substances. No confrontation, no stupid hero moves … just the same sort of snitching Luc’s been doing for years!”
“Well, not anymore,” I said, feeling my voice get louder. “Now he’s probably dead … and that could have been you if you’d gone after her!”
We stared at each other for a minute. Then Zian looked away, guilt coloring his pale face. He sank into his seat, defeated.
I should have left the argument at that but fear got the better of me. “That’s the thing about the real world, Z. Everything ends when you die. You can’t insert a coin and get a do-over.”
Zian’s head whipped my way and his voice rose a level. “Don’t patronize me, Vale! I’m not a child. Despite what you may think, I know how life works, or have you forgotten how we met?”
I raised both hands, palms up, “I know, Z. That’s not what I meant. I’m just …” I passed a weary hand over my tired face, contemplating how to finish that sentence. Angry? Scared? Bone-achingly tired? “Worried,” was all I said.
Glancing at the security camera displays on the wall of the small office, I noted that the world continued to move forward at its usual frantic pace, oblivious of what had just happened. The kids below were dancing, drinking, or tapping away at their computers with an abandonment I envied.
“All right, what’s done is done,” I said, turning back to face Zian. “Any way we can find out what happened to Luc?”
He nodded and returned his attention to the computer, attacking the keyboard like a rainstorm attacks a roof. He stopped a few minutes later and waved me over to the screen. He had pulled up a live Internet feed of the Headliner News. Kennedy was in front of the camera at the corner of Sprang and Broome. Once he was sure I was watching, Zian turned the s
ound on.
“… shocking attack occurred moments ago,” Kennedy was saying. “Initial details are sketchy but it seems the victim died of multiple stabbing—”
Zian shut the sound off again. “How in Tartarus did she get out there so quick?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Was she coming by here to talk to you?”
Zian shook his head. “No, she doesn’t know this place exists. That’s the whole point of the offsite. We were supposed to be comparing notes there tomorrow afternoon.”
I noticed something on the screen that got my attention—Bran being taken into custody. “Hey, kick the sound up again.”
Zian took it off mute just as Kennedy said, “… a reputed drug dealer, who was a mere two blocks away from the scene, was apprehended during a preliminary check of the neighborhood. No evidence has yet been presented to link the dealer with this heinous crime, but police officials are confident that—”
Zian killed the sound again. “Go and find out if Bran did have something to do with this.”
The idea of putting myself in Morgan’s crosshairs made my gut clench in dread. But the only way I was going to know everything there was to know about Luc’s death was to get there without delay.
Another buzz came through my phone as I made a beeline for the front door.
The text I found was self-explanatory: “If my son dies the next time he tries to help you, there will be a VERY stiff penalty. And trust me when I tell you that no-one, not even my dearest uncle, will be able to protect you from my wrath.”
Chapter eighteen
The bad sleep well
There was no sense using the Stingray to get to the crime scene. Not only would it have drawn the wrong kind of attention, but it only took me about five minutes to get there on foot. Prowl cars were swarming the area, gumball lights flashing as the cops did their usual. The body had been covered up with a tarp, but I spotted Luc’s pale right arm sticking out from under it like the proverbial sore thumb. I could make out some sort of tribal tattoo on the inside forearm but no defensive wounds. Maybe they were on his other arm.
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