I sighed. “Then let’s just use your body as jail for both of them and get them out of here.”
“We can’t share a body,” Tjuan’s wraith interrupted.
“You mean we have to find another mule? Why? What would happen if you shared?”
“The new one forces the old one out.”
“The way you ricocheted out of the chapel because of the holy-ground thing? And you ended up—” A bolt hit me from the blue. “Claybriar, go stand next to Winterglass.”
I wasn’t sure whether it spoke well of me or ill of him that he did it without question.
“Now, Mr. Morozov,” I said, careful not to order him, “would you please tell Tjuan’s wraith to enter your body?”
Claybriar made a sound of dismay. “But then won’t the—”
“Do you trust me?” I interrupted before he could reveal my line of thinking to the wraiths. I moved to stand near the refrigerator, putting some space between myself and the fey.
Claybriar looked grim. “Of course.”
I was half expecting to get into another debate with the king, but before I could even confirm Claybriar’s consent, Winterglass murmured something in the Unseelie tongue. Tjuan’s knees went out from under him, and he sank to the kitchen floor. At almost the same moment, Claybriar snarled and lunged toward me. I opened the refrigerator door, ducking behind it as I pushed it into Claybriar, sending him staggering back. It wasn’t much of a defense, but it was enough of a delay for Winterglass to realize what had happened.
“Stop, wraith!” he cried at Claybriar. The wraith we’d brought from the soundstage, seizing the chance to attack me when it found itself inside a free body, now had no choice but to obey its king.
“Dumbass,” I said to it, trying to hide how badly my hands were shaking as I closed the refrigerator.
The wraith snarled at me. “Better to get trapped than waste a chance to end you. You don’t even know what you’ve done, by killing the countess. You—”
“Silence,” said Winterglass.
“Well there you have it,” I said to him with fake nonchalance. “Both wraiths identified. Take out their claws however most pleases you, Your Majesty.”
As Winterglass processed what I’d done he looked poleaxed, maybe even impressed. Reluctant to look at Claybriar, I moved toward Tjuan, who sat on the floor with his head tucked between his knees. When I tried to bend down, a cruel twinge in my spine made me suck air between my teeth. I straightened up again quickly.
Winterglass began to murmur something to Claybriar—or to the wraith inhabiting him—in the Unseelie tongue.
“You okay?” I asked Tjuan.
“Head hurts like fuck,” he groaned. I opened the cabinet where harmless quantities of over-the-counter pills were kept and got a couple of Excedrin, then filled a water glass. Tjuan watched me through pain-squinted eyes without getting up, then took what I offered. As he quickly downed the pills, I turned back to look at the two fey.
“It is done,” said Winterglass. “I have specifically forbidden either wraith to cast spells, alter memories, take control of their host bodies, or even to communicate with other wraiths until released in Arcadia.”
“Why free them, then? Once they’re free, what do you suppose they’re going to do?”
“I have no idea, but commands must have limitations included, and that seemed a reasonable one. I have no thoughts on how to control them aside from imprisoning them in a body—which has drawbacks—or stranding them in an abandoned building such as your soundstage, which I have already promised not to do to these. The best I can do is take Claybriar back to Arcadia with me and release the both of them there. I do not suggest that this is a solution to our problem; it is simply my only reasonable option.”
“How soon can Claybriar come back? I need him for something tomorrow. Actually, you would be useful too, but I understand if you need to get back to ruling the world or whatever.”
“There are travel formalities to which rank-and-file fey are bound, in these matters. Monarchs are free to come and go as they like, in theory, though I am the only one who has ever done so. If Claybriar leaves, he would not be able to return by tomorrow.”
“I’ll need him for this. Can you both stay another day?”
Claybriar winced. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“With whom? Caryl’s been relieved of command by Alvin, who just flew off to London. Who does that leave in charge?”
“Phil,” said Tjuan from the floor.
“You and Phil are pals, right?”
“We get along.”
“So tell Phil how we cured you, then talk him into sending these two back tomorrow night instead of this morning. Morozov, are you and Claybriar safe with the wraiths in you until then?”
“Until they reach Arcadia, they can take no action at all,” said Winterglass. “They will, however, be able to see and hear whatever we do and say. I’ve no idea how to blind or deafen something that has no eyes or ears.”
“You’re saying you could blind them if they had eyes? Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“He can’t do anything to you, Ironbones,” said Claybriar with a wry smile. “So what’s this plan you’re plotting?”
“Do you still have the fake LAPD badge you used on me last summer?”
In answer, he whipped it out of seemingly nowhere, holding it up about two feet from my face.
“Whaaat?” I said. “You just carry that thing around with you?”
“What thing?” I was now staring at his empty hand.
“Wait, that was an illusion? That time on the street, too?”
“One of the easiest spells there is. I don’t even have to detail it; your mind does that.”
“You are dangerous,” I said. “Tjuan, you feeling up to working with us on this?”
He hesitated, elbows resting on his knees. “What do you need me for, besides handling Phil?”
“Handling doorknobs, cars, that sort of thing. And me if necessary.”
Tjuan gave me a long, wary look, but after a moment’s hesitation began pushing himself to his feet. “If it’ll help stop these things,” he said, “I’m on board. But let me get cleaned up first. I smell like Satan’s gym bag.”
“I wasn’t going to say.”
“Good call.”
“You talk to Phil; I’ve got to call Inaya and find out when would be the best time to duck out of work and do a little snooping.”
17
The international headquarters of Cera Pest Control was located in a business park in Santa Monica, its looming corporate evil just a stone’s throw from a 24 Hour Fitness and an El Torito Grill. Of the four of us, Tjuan not only had seniority with the Arcadia Project but was also the only one with a car, so he ended up in charge by default even though the plan was mine.
The building was shaped like a Tetris S-piece, four stories high. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so large, but given that it was the center of administration and R&D for a couple dozen different countries around the world, it shouldn’t have surprised me.
Until I’d done some research, I’d had no idea how huge Cera’s reach was, because in Los Angeles it wasn’t the first or even the third name that came to mind when people found swarms of ants in their kitchens. But while most chain pest control companies were owned by larger corporations that handled other types of business, Cera was unique in that it specialized in wholesale critter slaughter and had a presence in more countries than any other exterminator in the world.
Its founder? A woman. Pretty outrageous in 1970. Edna Cera had started the company out of her home with the help of her common-law husband as front man. He’d died once the company had gained a solid footing, and in 1998 the increasingly reclusive Edna had passed control of the company to a newcomer, Vivian Chandler.
Of course, both Edna Cera and Vivian Chandler were just two in a long line of facades for Countess Feverwax, exile of the Unseelie Court. There was only so long a woman could live
among humans without aging before people would begin to notice—even in Beverly Hills.
Now the L.A. headquarters was a hive of international activity; much of its workforce was involved in navigating legal and cultural landmines, as well as undertaking groundbreaking research and development. As the four of us walked blithely through the front doors of the building on Monday morning—appearing to be two of us, thanks to some don’t-look-at-me magic Winterglass had cast on Tjuan and himself—I felt my nerves fail me and my hands get cold and sweaty.
Master magician Winterglass had fine-tuned the invisibility spell so that our own team wasn’t fully affected but instead saw the enchanted ones in a hazy, grayed-out fashion that let us know the spell was still working. The original idea had been that Claybriar and the newly groomed Tjuan would be visible and pose as cops, since L.A. was full of white guys with goatees and clean-shaven black guys. Neither of them would call that much attention. But the snag was that the king couldn’t cast a don’t-look spell on me, which meant I had to pose as a cop instead of Tjuan. Even with trousers concealing my prosthetic legs, I was going to be memorable thanks to the scars on the left side of my face.
At the last moment Claybriar had come up with a genius idea. I’d borrowed a really nice ginger-colored wig from Valiant, and Claybriar had cast one of his charms on it. Anyone who noticed me would now be so mesmerized by my beautiful hair that it would be all they remembered. All the same I’d put on about six tons of stage makeup, and I tried to keep the right side of my face toward the security guard as Claybriar flashed his “badge” and asked how to get to the office of Adal Garcia.
“I don’t like this,” said Tjuan in the elevator. “Not even a little bit.” He was starting to look wild-eyed, which was vastly preferable to the dead, distracted look he’d had while possessed. All the same, it was probably just as well I had to play cop instead of him. Tjuan’s new close haircut looked sharp, but he was at least a month away from healthy. Even back in the summer, the man’s cheekbones could have cut glass; now they looked downright ghoulish.
Meanwhile the fey were instinctively crowded together at the center of the elevator; their distaste for metal had the two foes all but cuddling.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. “Anything bad happens, Morozov can make it disappear. Right?”
“Do not spend my talents recklessly,” said Winterglass in a resonant murmur that made gooseflesh rise on my arms. “Unseelie energy is a poison to this world.”
“It is?” I said in alarm. I’d stood right next to Caryl casting spells back in June. “How, exactly?”
“Shh,” said the king as the elevator doors opened onto a gray hallway.
Vivian must have thrived off the existential despair of her employees, because there was no art hanging on the walls, not even the most perfunctory attempt at warming the space. Just a long, ash-colored corridor with charcoal-colored doors set into it at regular intervals.
“There aren’t even names on the doors,” I said as I emerged. “No wonder Caryl had so much trouble.”
“Vivian must have been worried about corporate espionage,” said Tjuan. “Cera has some proprietary stuff that’s been giving them an edge in the last few years.”
I raised a brow at him. “You know about Cera?”
“You can’t work for the Los Angeles Arcadia Project and not know all about Cera.”
“What kind of stuff are they protecting? Maybe it ties in.”
“Whole different approach to pest control. Plague, not poison. Contagious diseases that are harmless to humans but wipe out colonies of ants, termites, whatever.”
“That’s so Vivian.”
“Environmental disaster if you ask me, but customers love it because after one visit you won’t see an ant for years. But then of course some ants survive, and evolve, and they have to come up with new plagues—so their R and D is pretty intense. They—”
Tjuan’s mouth clamped shut as a door opened down the hall. A tired-looking bald man began to head toward us with the expression of someone lost in his own thoughts. I tried to figure out how to look more like a plainclothes cop, but then the guy turned at the T-intersection and I let my breath out.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said.
When we got to Garcia’s suite, I turned the metal door handle, since the only other human was functionally invisible. The three men went in ahead of me, Winterglass and Tjuan trying to position themselves out of the way as Claybriar and I approached the desk in the cramped, drab reception area. It didn’t look as though they expected to entertain many visitors.
The young Indian woman in the burnt-orange jacket at the reception desk took one look at Claybriar and turned up her smile about eight hundred watts. I glanced at him to remind myself of what she was seeing for the first time. His facade wasn’t L.A. gorgeous, but it was nice enough if you liked blue-collar boys.
“Hi,” she said. A handmade placard at her desk, a stubborn flag of individuality planted on a barren landscape, told me her name was Pooja. “What can I do for you?” she said to Claybriar.
He held up his “badge”; I couldn’t see it since he wasn’t casting the spell on me, but I saw Pooja’s face change as she “recognized” it.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Garcia as soon as he’s available,” Claybriar said. Then he smiled, and Pooja’s expression shifted yet again.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, unconsciously winding a strand of hair around her finger.
“He’s not in any trouble. We’re just looking into what happened with Vivian Chandler.”
“Oh, isn’t it horrible?” said Pooja. “I’ve been carrying pepper spray. I really hope you can find out who’s behind all this.”
“All this?” I said.
She turned to look at me, and her gaze went straight to my wig.
“Yes,” she said to my bangs. “The abductions or whatever they are. Do you know they’re happening in other countries too?”
“Our main focus is on Vivian Chandler,” I said, “but anything you’ve heard might help.”
“Well it’s not just women disappearing,” she said. “A guy in New Delhi was missing for three days and then came back to work, with no idea what had happened to him. Didn’t even realize he’d missed three days. They’ve put him on medical leave or something, tried to hush it up, but a friend of my family works with him and says that he had weird cuts and bruises. He couldn’t explain those, either, said he just woke up with them.”
“And you think it’s related?” Even though she was still staring at my hair, I did my best to keep my scars angled away. That meant looking at her in a sidelong fashion that gave me a permanent look of skepticism.
“If it were just the one thing,” she said, “I’d write it off. But I’ve heard of three different employees in different cities disappearing temporarily, and at least five—not counting the New Delhi guy—having weird injuries they didn’t remember getting. And well, of course, the owner of the whole company disappearing permanently as far as anyone can tell. Those are just the ones they didn’t hush up, and all this in less than a year? I’ve been sending out my resume, and I’m not the only one. Honestly, it’s weird you guys don’t know about it all.”
“Officer Clay is better informed than I am,” I said. “I’m just the rookie tagging along.”
“Don’t worry,” said Claybriar, leaning slightly on Pooja’s desk in an obvious gambit to get her attention off me and my wig. “I’m aware of the man in New Delhi, and the other disappearances; and I’m investigating how they might be connected. Chances are we’re not going to be able to solve this without some international cooperation, but for now we’re gathering all the information we can about the local missing person.”
“Well, I wish you all the luck, seriously,” Pooja said, picking up a phone at her desk and pressing a button. “Mr. Garcia, the LAPD is here about Vivian again.”
Again. Of course the cops had been here before. Oh God, there were so many ways we co
uld screw this up.
After a few moments of small talk with Pooja, we were greeted by Adal Garcia. A stout man with tired eyes and a neatly-groomed iron-gray moustache, he shook both of our hands briskly and then invited us back to his office.
It must have been the most comforting, homey place in the entire building; it felt like an anti-Vivian zone. Potted plants adorned every surface, and the walls were littered with pictures of what were presumably a wife and three children. From his choice of decor, he didn’t seem like the sort of man who would devote his life to wholesale extermination.
“I figured the FBI would have taken this over by now,” he said. “Or Interpol.”
“We have no concrete proof yet that the crimes are linked,” Claybriar surprised me by saying. I found myself wondering just how many cop shows he’d binge-watched during his long visits here searching for me. “Ms. Chandler’s disappearance, especially, doesn’t match the details of the other crimes, and it’s still under the LAPD’s jurisdiction.”
“Do you have new information?” Garcia asked.
“I can’t go into the details,” Claybriar said, and I tried not to frown as I remembered him using that line on me in June. “But we do need to take a look at Ms. Chandler’s files. We have reason to believe that she may have been complicit in some illegal activities.”
Garcia looked uncomfortable. “You have a warrant, I presume?”
Claybriar held out a handful of nothing toward Garcia, who actually took hold of the near “end” of it as he leaned forward to examine it. After he had finished skimming the illusory paper’s imaginary contents, he “took it” from Claybriar and set it on his desk.
“Right this way,” said Garcia. His manner was decidedly less cooperative now.
I squinted at him. “Is there some reason you don’t want Ms. Chandler’s files searched?”
“Naturally I’m protective of our company’s interests,” he said as he withdrew his keys from his desk. He had yet to even look directly at me, so in his case I didn’t have to endure a weird obsession with my wig. “It’s taken thirty hard years—most of which I was here for—to fight our way to the number three spot, and we owe that to Vivian as much as to Edna.”
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