Hotter Than Helltown: An Urban Fantasy Mystery (Preternatural Affairs Book 3)

by SM Reine

“Am I ever a jackass?” She opened her mouth. I cut her off with a gesture. “You know what, don’t answer that. You met Sister Catherine in Helltown. That alone says a lot about her character.”

  She batted her eyelashes at me. “I live in Helltown sometimes.”

  “Not really. You live in an RV and it’s sometimes in Helltown. Big difference.”

  Isobel slipped away from Fritz’s desk and started plucking at my tie. I had loosened it coming out of the interview room, and now she untied it completely, tugging on it until it slithered from around my neck. “You’re just making excuses for me because you like me.”

  “I wouldn’t make excuses for Sister Catherine even if she was as hot as you are,” I said. “Murder is murder.”

  Her hands hesitated on my chest. “Is it?”

  “Usually. Yes. Definitely. I don’t know.” She had pressed the full length of her body against mine, and it was getting awfully hard to think. “Wait, are you trying to seduce me into letting Sister Catherine go?”

  “You would be a lot more fun if you stopped thinking for a few minutes.”

  “Gotta say, that might be the first time I’ve been accused of thinking too much.”

  “I’m not trying to convince you to let her go, per se,” Isobel said. “I just think that you’re wrong about her. You need to keep looking for the truth. If you don’t, then there will only be more death—and you’ll have incarcerated a helpless old woman in the meantime.”

  She was right. She might as well have been reading my mind for all that she was speaking my thoughts.

  “I’ll keep looking,” I said.

  “That’s all I want. Thank you.”

  She’d just scored the victory she wanted, but it was hard to think of anything but how soft her curves felt. “So you bake a lot of cookies, huh?” I asked, because that was the only thing I seemed to have gotten out of Isobel’s relationship with Sister Catherine.

  “When I have a kitchen to do it in.” Her embarrassed smile was pretty damn cute. “It’s not easy in my RV.”

  “I have a kitchen.” It slipped out before I could think to stop myself.

  Isobel’s full lips spread into a smile. She looped the tie around her neck alongside all the bone and feather necklaces. “Just tell me when, Agent Hawke, and I’ll be there.”

  I cleared my throat. “I should go find Suzy. Can I, uh… Can I have my tie back?”

  She ignored my outstretched hand and tied it loosely in a neat Double Windsor. The long strip of black cloth looked happy to be nestled between the globes of her breasts, but maybe I was just projecting my own feelings onto an inanimate object. Just maybe. “I’ll give it back when I come over to your apartment to bake cookies.”

  God, I wanted to be that necktie.

  Isobel leaned toward me, stretching up on her toes.

  Don’t kiss your boss’s ex-girlfriend in his office. There are probably cameras. Don’t do it. He will kill you.

  “So, uh, where’s Fritz?” I asked.

  Best way to kill the mood? Bring up the ex.

  “I think he’s in a meeting,” Isobel said, immediately stepping back.

  Victory. “Did he say who he’s with?” It was a lot easier to think with some breathing room between us.

  “Let’s see.” Isobel helped herself to the planner on Fritz’s desk. “It just says ‘Vice President.’ The meeting ends in about five minutes if you want to ask him about it.”

  Shit. Lucrezia de Angelis would be heading straight toward me in five minutes.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  Isobel looked like she was about to say something else, but I didn’t listen to her. As soon as she opened her mouth again, she was going to say something that turned off my ability to think rationally, and then I’d be really screwed.

  It wasn’t the most dignified exit, but I left Fritz’s office, abandoning my tie to the blissful chasm of Isobel’s cleavage.

  And I ran right into someone outside the door.

  The first glimpse of a woman with blond hair froze me to the floor, but it wasn’t Lucrezia de Angelis.

  It was Janet from the forensics department.

  She was slightly better than the vice president in the way that a plague is slightly better than a nuclear bomb.

  “Cèsar,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  I edged away from her. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Director Friederling and the vice president. They asked to meet with me.”

  “You’re in the wrong place. They’re down in the conference rooms. You better go find them.” And get the hell away from the office Isobel is hiding in.

  She called after me when I tried to walk away. “Aren’t you attending the meeting, too? I know that Lucrezia wants to speak with you.”

  Better and better. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of something,” I said. “Rain check?”

  I left Janet gaping at me in the hallway outside Fritz’s office.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I HAD TWO CHOICES at that point: Stick around to talk to Lucrezia de Angelis, or go back to Helltown looking for more information about Sister Catherine.

  For once, Helltown was the slightly less unpleasant option.

  I made my second trip at one in the afternoon, right when the sun was at its apex and the shadows were at their fewest. That was the safest time to visit, which wasn’t saying much.

  Instead of heading in the way that Isobel had taken me that morning, I went my usual route. It was on the south side of the neighborhood. Not so coincidentally, it was farthest from Silver Needles territory. And then I only had to go a block to visit my not-so-favorite infernal contact, Monique.

  If you think you’ve seen ugly before, you’re wrong, because you’ve never seen Monique. She didn’t have a nose, lips, or eyebrows. She was about as tall as my hip standing up, but she usually crouched on a stool like a mutant frog so it was easier to see her mangled face. Her gnarled hands were blistered from numerous accidental burns while blowing novelty glass sculptures. And then there was the smell.

  Now, I’m not a guy who judges based on appearance. I could get past her looks if she was good company. I’d dated too many beautiful women with horrible personalities in college—I knew what mattered most.

  So when I say that Monique’s ugly, I’m not just talking about the way she looks. I’m talking about her from the inside out. She’s a misanthropic, self-centered bitch. She used to sell bongs infused with infernal energy to college students, knowing that it would open them to demonic possession. Monique didn’t care as long as she got paid.

  She didn’t look happy to see me stroll into her shop. She was never happy to see me.

  “Smile,” I said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Fuck you, asshole,” Monique said, lipless mouth flashing jagged teeth.

  I had to duck to get into her shop without knocking glass off the shelf over the door. You know where I keep all my fragile stuff? Low on the wall where any guy over six feet tall could destroy them by walking past.

  Knowing Monique, it was probably a tactic to get customers to accidentally break her crafts and have to pay for everything.

  “You’ve been busy,” I remarked, sliding between two bongs that were hung from the ceiling by leather cords wrapped around their shiny glass testicles.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “You always think the worst of me, Monique. Maybe I want to buy something.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna buy something, all right,” she said. “You come into my shop, you constantly disrespect and threaten me—you better at least give me cash, asshole.”

  She needed an insult thesaurus. I was so many more things than just an asshole.

  I had brought cash, though. I knew what I was doing.

  What I didn’t know was what Monique was doing. Now that I had stepped into her cramped little shop, I could see that her production had seriously gone into overdrive. Her shelves were filled from floor to c
eiling two layers deep. Hazy sunlight shone through glass bulbs and cast a kaleidoscopic glow on the floor, red and green and gold and blue.

  “I don’t even recognize half of this stuff you’re making,” I said.

  Judging by Monique’s expression, she thought I was a huge moron for confessing that. Hey, at least “moron” wasn’t “asshole.”

  “Tell me what you want and get out of here before your smell scares off the real clients.”

  “I smell great,” I said.

  “You smell like meat. Annoying, whiny meat.” Monique rolled a glass ball in one hand while she painted it with a tiny brush. The jagged, spidery symbols reminded me a little bit of the circle of power Suzy had cast in the hospital boiler room.

  “Is that the demon language you’re drawing there?”

  She set the ball on the counter and just looked at me. “Mind your fucking business.”

  Okay. Not in a chatty mood.

  I pulled out the one thing guaranteed to cheer her up: a wad of cash. Her eyes brightened. Her black tongue slithered over her lips.

  “I’ve got an easy question for you today, Monique.”

  “Ask,” she said, extending a hand for the money. I held it beyond her reach.

  “What kind of demon stops clocks, shuts down electricity whenever it murders, kills kopides in its proximity, and takes souvenirs from its victims?”

  Monique’s instant of receptiveness vanished. She snatched the ball from the counter, like she thought my words might shatter it, and hugged it to her sunken chest. “Get out.”

  I produced more money. Her expression didn’t change.

  “I’m trying to find a killer. This demon is connected to the Compassionate Heart Ministry. I already arrested a suspect, but she’s not helping me find the demon responsible. I need to know what I’m dealing with, Monique.”

  “You’re suicidal.”

  “Not any more than usual. To be fair, though, I am in Helltown.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You think you’re so funny. Don’t you, asshole? You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  “Nobody goes to the Ministry anymore,” Monique said. “The slavers haven’t been letting the meat attend. Not since we found out what lives there.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I don’t want your money. Get out of here.”

  If Monique wasn’t taking my money, then she was serious. Dead serious. “Okay. If you’re not going to talk, then who will?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do. You always know.” Monique seldom gave me answers of her own volition, but four times out of five, she pointed me in the right direction.

  “Other suicidal assholes will definitely talk about this,” she growled.

  “In specific…?”

  Her lip curled. “Okay. Fine. Try Bates’s Barbershop. Two blocks directly north on the corner.” She checked the clock. “It’s getting to be a little late, but you might catch him if you hurry.”

  “Wait, a barbershop? For demons?”

  “You ever seen how fast a well-fed succubus’s hair grows?”

  No, and for that I was eternally grateful. “Who’s at Bates’s that I want to speak with? The barber?”

  “A client,” she said. “He’s been getting his hair trimmed at eleven-thirty every Monday.”

  Her vagueness did not inspire confidence. “You know if you send me into a death trap, I’ll never be able to give you money again, right?”

  “I mourn and weep,” Monique said. “Boo hoo.”

  Right.

  I gave her twenty bucks. “Thanks for your company,” I said. “It’s always such a pleasure, Monique.”

  “Fuck off, asshole,” she said.

  Considering that the incubus mafia would kill me if they realized I was snooping around Helltown, going deeper into their territory seemed like just about the most terrible idea I could ever have.

  But the only alternative was going back to the OPA office to talk to Lucrezia de Angelis, so I followed Monique’s directions north.

  The barbershop was located in a building that used to be one of those cute little bungalows from the forties, though it definitely wasn’t cute anymore. Human bones were scattered around the lawn. The rocking chairs on the stoop were listing on broken legs. Tattered curtains fluttered without any wind and the barber’s pole didn’t spin.

  When I stepped inside, I was surprised to find a room that was mostly clean. No blood, no bones, no bodies. Just two leather chairs in front of a long row of dusty mirrors.

  One of the chairs was empty, but a man sat in the other chair with a black drape over his shoulders. He was a Latino-looking guy with graying hair and a friendly face. His eyes were mocha-brown, not demon-black. And he seemed to be having a nice talk with the demon trimming his hair.

  The barber wasn’t using scissors or a razor—he was using his goddamn claws. I assumed that this was the eponymous Bates. I wasn’t exactly surprised to see how he plied his trade, but I was kinda grossed out.

  “Take a seat,” said Edward Scissor-demon in a gruff, gives-no-fucks kind of tone. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Running a hand over the back of my hair, I contemplated the leather seat. I did need a haircut. I just wasn’t sure how much I trusted a demon to have those claws so close to my jugular.

  Suzy’s taunting voice echoed from the depths of my skull. Stop being a pussy, Hawke.

  Imaginary Suzy had a point. After all, I had a gun. I had good reflexes. I could shoot the asshole if he went for my throat.

  So I sat down, and my reflection in the dust-encrusted mirror didn’t even look all that worried about it.

  “You don’t seem like the usual visitor to Helltown,” said the man in the other chair. His voice was as friendly as his face. Made me trust him in an instant.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m just looking for information.”

  “You’re either a brave soul or a fearful one to resort to looking for your information here.”

  “Can it be both?”

  He chuckled. “You’d have to be a fool if you weren’t somewhat frightened by Helltown.”

  “You’re not afraid. You’re the biggest fool of all,” growled Bates, slapping the man’s shoulder. My hand made it all the way to my sidearm before I realized the barber was just teasing him.

  “I bask in the comfort of knowing God is on my side.”

  Bates snorted. “Delusional.”

  “Wait, are you the priest in residence at the Ministry?” I asked the client.

  “That’s right. I’m Father Phillip.”

  “I’m Agent Cèsar Hawke,” I said. “I think I’ve been looking for you.” I kept an eye on the demon barber as I spoke, but he showed no interest in attacking me. This was a guy who kept to himself. I could admire that, even in a demon.

  “Nice to meet you, Agent Hawke. How can I be of service?”

  No nice way to say it, so I just had to be blunt. “Sister Catherine has been arrested under suspicion of murder, but I’m thinking she didn’t do it. I want to be able to let her go. If you know anything that would help me do that, I’d appreciate the information.”

  Bates snort-laughed. Smoke spiraled from his nostrils. “You’re done here,” he told Father Phillip, brushing the hair trimmings from his shoulders to the floor. “I’m going to go sit somewhere that I’m not likely to hear sensitive information.”

  “Smart man,” Father Phillip said. The demon peeled the drape away. The priest was about as traditional as Sister Catherine; he wore a v-neck tee and black slacks. No white collar or cassock for this guy.

  He offered money to Bates, but the demon didn’t take it. He waddled off into the back room and left us alone.

  “Sister Catherine is innocent,” said the priest.

  That seemed to be a common sentiment. “She’s confessing to the murders.”

  “Lord above.”

  �
��Yeah. Any thoughts on that?”

  Father Phillip gave me an appraising look in the mirror. “If she’s confessed, why do you think she’s innocent?”

  “Character testimony from a mutual friend. Plus, she doesn’t seem to have a clue about the murders she’s claiming to have committed.”

  “She must be trying to protect someone,” he said. “Sister Catherine puts the parishioners first. Always. She gives everything for them: her money, her time, her soul. I completely believe that she would admit to a crime that a parishioner committed if she thought her confession would help the actual perpetrator live a better life.”

  “A real woman of God,” I said.

  “To her very core.”

  I wondered if the real killer was someone I’d seen at the soup kitchen. The guys cleaning the front yard? Volunteer Mary? The cook who ran off the instant I set foot in the kitchen? Or maybe the homeless guy who had attacked Jay Brandon?

  I didn’t realize that I’d been musing out loud until Father Phillip said, “It could be any of them. They’re all family to her.”

  “She’s got bad taste in chosen family.”

  “Sister Catherine’s heart is pure. She sees the goodness in us all.” He sighed. “But yes, she’s also naïve. I’m not surprised at all to hear that she’s in trouble.”

  At least he was willing to admit it.

  “How long have you been working with her?”

  “About eight weeks,” Father Phillip said. “I volunteered to spread the word of God in Helltown last year, but the Ministry only allows one visiting priest at a time for safety’s sake. The demons have welcomed our presence for now, but they are mercurial. Better for only one of us to die should they change their minds. I had to wait for Father Webb to leave before I could take his place.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a job I’d volunteer for.” I got out of the chair. Didn’t seem I was getting a clawed haircut that day. Bates was still nowhere in sight.

  “It’s a higher calling.”

  It was downright suicidal. “Who does Sister Catherine see the most in Helltown?”

  “The priestesses,” Father Phillip said. “Catherine believes that all gods are one and that God is all, so she considers even infernal priestesses to be allies.”