Demon Fire (Brimstone Magic Book 1)

by Tori Centanni

  She shrugged. “They came by the building. I saw them from my perch.” Penelope lived across the hall from me, the only other tenant in my building. I was pretty sure Silas only had tenants to help pay off his property taxes and other expenses, which were increasing every year along with my rent.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Penelope shrugged again.

  I clenched my fists. “Well, what did they want?”

  “I didn’t speak with them.” She seemed offended by the notion that she might lower herself to asking why Watchers were loitering on our block. “I saw them milling around the front of your office. They made a phone call and then they left.”

  “When was this?” My mind raced. I’d been with the Watchers since early evening, when I crashed their crime scene. It wasn’t like they didn’t know where I was.

  “An hour ago,” she said.

  I frowned. That was when I’d been kicking Conor out to look at the body. Why had the Watchers gone to my office then? They knew I wasn’t there. It didn’t make sense.

  I shook my head at the weirdness of it all. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  Penelope turned into a crow and flew off. I looked around to make sure there weren’t any witnesses. I didn’t see any but still, she was way too reckless about transforming. The last thing the supernatural community needed was a cell phone video of a woman shifting into a crow going viral on the internet.

  Footage of supernaturals popped up online more and more these days, and it was always quickly “debunked” by “experts” determined to prove none of it was real. But there were always a few true believers, and more with every photo or video. No one in the supernatural community wanted those numbers to grow. Life was complicated enough without mundanes believing in magic and monsters. If that tide ever turned, there was going to be a reckoning, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, mundane or supernatural.

  I made a note to myself to find out what the Watchers wanted at my office and headed down to the small parking garage.

  Silas’ car was where I’d left it, keys and all. He had me leave the keys inside since the garage was locked. I thought it was risky but it meant I could borrow the car easily enough even though he was still sleeping. In the summer, the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and a half, around nine-thirty. And since Silas had let me borrow the car last night, I assumed the permission stood.

  Or so I told myself.

  That was because all of the hip, trendy supernatural hangouts were forty minutes south, in Seattle. So that’s where I had to go.

  Silas’ sedan was from 2003 and had a CD player, but no CDs, and the radio was useless, so I drove South in silence. It took me a good hour to find street parking in the same stratosphere as the club and by then it was dark out.

  I left my sword in the car because weapons were not allowed in most supernatural venues. That rule always seemed highly unfair to me: vampires and shifters had built-in weapons, mages and fae had magic they could throw around. Witches, though, could only throw charms they’d spelled beforehand in a fight or drug people with potions. Anything with a bigger bang would require time to open a circle, and there’s no way that would happen if one was being attacked.

  Regardless, I wanted to get inside, and carrying a sword would just complicate things.

  The entrance to Abella was a simple black door with a frosted glass pane on the front and the word “Abella” in curvy black letters. It looked more like the door to an upscale salon than a nightclub, except that there were no windows in the black brick building to allow anyone a peek inside.

  Fae-run bars and clubs usually used dive bars as fronts, but not witches. They wanted trendy and cool. I opened the door and stepped into a small vestibule. There was another frosted glass door a few feet in with a big lock with a keypad on the handle. I waited. A second later, a woman in a red blouse with curly blond hair stepped through holding a cash box. She eyed me curiously.

  “You’re a witch,” she said.

  Witches can usually recognize one another. There’s a faint glow around our auras that other witches can see. “I am,” I admitted.

  She nodded. “Admission is twenty.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.” Most supernatural clubs didn’t charge a cover to supernaturals. If they allowed mundanes, they charged them up the wazoo but I usually got a pass.

  “Nope. Twenty bucks.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I pulled out my wallet and handed over yet another hundred. She opened her cashbox, made change, and then held the second door open for me.

  So far this job was costing me more than it was worth. I was either going to have to charge Savannah more or drop the case.

  Inside, the color scheme was a stark black and white: white floors and walls with black accents and black high-top tables, with black stools. It was kind of ironic, given how the Magic Council tended to see things in black and white.

  The bar itself was made of white frosted plastic meant to mirror the glass on the doors and topped with black. Black booths lined the back and side wall opposite the bar. Soft piano music played over the speakers at a volume that still encouraged conversation. Several of the booths were occupied, as were a couple of the tables in the center.

  Looking around, I felt way under dressed. Like the woman in the red blouse who’d let me in, everyone here wore cocktail party clothes: suits, dresses, and fancy blouses, with styled hair and matching earrings. In my jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket, I looked as out of place as I felt. I wasn’t even wearing makeup.

  I spotted my target, pulled my leather jacket tighter, and headed for her booth.

  Gabriella Crest was the daughter of Marjorie Crest, another of the five members of the Board of Magic, like Savannah’s mother. The Council was full of witches in various ranks, but the Board of Five were the leaders. They were the ones who voted on all matters and enacted new laws. Gabriella had tan skin with dark brown hair that cascaded around her angular face in soft, well-conditioned waves. She wore a teal dress with a sequined top that would not have been out of place on the red carpet.

  She also wasn’t alone. Her booth contained three other equally well-dressed witches whose names I should have known but didn’t. I recognized them all vaguely, the way one recognizes classmates, but that was it.

  They all turned to watch me approach. Two of them looked curious, but Gabriella and the sole man in the group had seriously bitchy expressions. Total mean girl faces.

  Fabulous.

  My desire to cut and run increased, but then I thought of Marcus’ body, cold and alone in an abandoned house. He deserved justice, and Savannah was right: there was no guarantee the Watchers would give it to him.

  “Gabriella,” I said. “I’m Dani Warren.”

  “I know who you are,” she said, turning to roll her eyes at her compatriots, who snickered as if she’d told some hilarious joke.

  “Good. We need to talk,” I said.

  She frowned up at me. “Why would I talk to you?”

  “We just have a few questions.” The voice came from behind me, low and gruff. I turned and swallowed a groan. There stood Conor Ramsey in his gray Watcher uniform.

  My heart pounded but I tried to project calm, act like he hadn’t just startled me. I gave him a sharp look. He ignored me. “If you would, Miss Crest…” He gestured for her to get up and come with him.

  Gabriella faltered and her friends’ smirks quickly turned serious. Watchers didn’t grab people for “questions” without a damn good reason. “She’s not a Watcher,” she finally said, pointing at me.

  “This will only take a moment,” Conor said, ignoring her protest.

  With a small huff, she gathered her purse and slid out of the booth, giving her friends a worried look before following Conor to a backroom he’d presumably gotten permission to use. Or maybe he just used whatever rooms he damn well pleased and the club’s owner, another witch, let him. I followed close behind, annoyed Conor was taking over my
interrogation.

  I shut the door. The room was a break room of sorts, with a circular table and a smattering of chairs. A kitchenette sat to one of side of the room and a row of lockers sat on the other.

  “Have a seat,” Conor said, his tone brooking no argument. From her disgusted expression, I could tell the last thing Gabriella wanted was to sit in one of the rickety old chairs, but she did. Conor took a seat across from her. I sat right next to him, though I had not been invited to.

  “What’s going on?” Gabriella said. “If she did something, I didn’t have any part in it.” She gestured to me. “I don’t even know her.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “How well do you know Marcus Goldsmith?”

  “Not well,” she said, haughtily, with another half roll of her eyes. “He used to be cool but he’s started hanging around weirdos and I refuse to associate with those people.”

  “What weirdos?” Conor asked, flipping open his notebook.

  Gabriella shrugged. “I don’t know, these gross people who need to like, shower more.” She gave a sideways glance in my direction and I glared. I had showered less than six hours ago when I’d woken up, thank you very much.

  “Names?”

  “Why would I know that?” She seemed offended by the implication.

  “I thought you and Marcus were friends,” I said. I’d seen him hanging out with her and her other cronies at the last Council party in December.

  She looked at me like I was a gigantic idiot. “I told you, I stopped hanging out with him when he started being all creepy.”

  “Creepy how, Miss Crest?” Conor asked. He kept his tone even but his jaw was tight and I could tell he was a little bit annoyed, which was literally the only upside to this whole waste of time.

  “You know, talking about increasing his magic and hanging out with mages. Like a witch can learn to be a mage. I mean, it’s not even possible. And hanging out with people like that is always bad news. I would never lower to myself to such things, as I’m sure you wouldn’t.” She batted her eyes at Conor. She could not seriously be flirting after practically throwing a temper tantrum about answering a few questions.

  “Did he explain how he planned to increase his power?” Conor asked.

  Gabriella frowned, more from him ignoring her subtle advances than the question, I thought. “No. But he wouldn’t do anything… you know…”

  “Illegal?” I supplied. I knew we were all thinking of demon magic and tried to suppress the shudder that wanted to roll over me. Even now, the magic flashed hot inside me, like a reminder that it was at my disposal. I was afraid Conor would sense it somehow, though I knew that was absurd. Witches couldn’t see demon shadows. I could, but only because of my demon magic.

  “He’s just going through a phase,” Gabriella said. “It happens.”

  “You speak to him recently?” Conor pressed.

  “No. Like I said, it’s been ages.”

  “What about your pals out there? They keep in touch with him?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “No. We’re not going to like, beg him to come back. He can come find us when he’s ready to stop being a freak.”

  Conor nodded sagely and closed his notebook, tucking it back into one of his vest pockets. “One more thing. Does the name Travis Sutter ring a bell?”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. The name didn’t mean anything to me but it meant Conor knew something I didn’t.

  “No,” she said.

  “What about other friends of yours? Anyone else you can think of who’s close to Marcus?” Conor pressed.

  Gabriella considered and finally said, “Maybe Justin Pasnek.”

  Conor opened his notebook again and jotted the name down. Gabriella shifted impatiently in her seat, giving me a strange look. “Can I go now?” she demanded when he finished writing.

  “Sure. Thank you for your time, Miss Crest,” Conor said, standing. She stood as well and gave a slight bow of her head in his direction, tossing a scowl in mine before sweeping out of the room.

  “She’s a piece of work,” I muttered.

  Conor raised an eyebrow, like he hadn’t noticed.

  “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?” I asked.

  He furrowed his brow, his jaw tightening again. “Why on Earth would I follow you, Miss Warren?”

  “It’s Dani,” I said. “And I don’t know why you’d follow me. I don’t know why you’d send goons to check out my office when you knew I wasn’t there, either.”

  Conor’s eyes widened for just a second but long enough for me to see his surprise that I knew about that little stunt, even though I still didn’t know his reasoning behind it. “I’m here to question people who are associated with our victim. It was the next logical step. I did not need to follow you to figure that out, Miss—Dani. I know how to do my job.”

  I opened my mouth but closed it again. He was right, it was the most logical next step. And he’d probably been told by Marcus’ family where to find his friends, or the people they believed had been his friends.

  “This is Watcher business,” he said, putting his notebook away. “I allowed you to sit in on this interview because I didn’t want you to cause a scene, as you doubtless would have.”

  “You don’t know me,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I absolutely would have but I wasn’t going to admit it.

  “But I need you to remember this is my investigation. I’ll tolerate yours so long as you don’t get in my way and you remain discreet.”

  Tolerate? Ooh, I was going to solve this case just to throw it in his handsome, irritating face.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find this Justin Pasnek fellow.”

  “Funny,” I said. “Because so do I.”

  Conor’s expression remained impassive. So I decided to push another button.

  “Who’s Travis Sutter?” I asked.

  Conor ran his hand through his hair. He cleared his throat and looked around the room as if hoping for a distraction. There wasn’t one.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out. That’s my job.” I smirked at my own cleverness.

  Conor sighed. “He was the first victim. He was killed last week.”

  That wiped the smirk right off my face. So much for little victories.

  Chapter 6

  “First victim?” I repeated. Conor waved me off. Fury rose in my midsection. I didn’t appreciate being brushed off.

  He turned to leave, opening the door to the club and slipping out into the crowd. I followed close behind all the way to the exit. Then I rounded on Conor. “When did this first victim die? How did he die?”

  Conor shook his head and opened the door to his sleek, black SUV. The Magic Council often preached against a heavy reliance on “modern conveniences” that might make a witch lazy with magic, but somehow the Watchers always had nice cars and the newest cell phones. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  I blinked. “I have my own car.”

  Borrowed, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Suit yourself.” He climbed in and shut the door. A small pit of regret pinged against my insides.

  I shook that off real fast. I didn’t need a ride. I wasn’t working with Conor Ramsey and the Watchers, I was just working the same case. Conor would have to catch me up later. I wouldn’t give him a choice. In the meantime, I was going to get to Jason Pasnek first.

  Conor may have already known where to find Pasnek, but I had Google. He wasn’t hard to find. Most people weren’t. It was funny how few mundanes seemed to realize that fact, even though the internet was their invention.

  I sped away from the curb in Silas’ ugly gold-colored car and raced toward Pasnek’s house.

  Conor’s SUV pulled in behind me the minute I’d parked in the gravel driveway. I sighed. I’d hoped to have a little time to interview the guy alone. A lot of supernaturals were more willing to talk openly with a lowly PI than with the Watchers.

  �
�You’re efficient,” Conor said, getting out of his car.

  “I know how to do my job,” I said brusquely, shutting my car door and heading up the driveway.

  The house was rundown and in need of a new coat of paint. The lot next to it was a brand new set of townhouses, painted in cheery blues and yellows, which only served to make this house look more dilapidated. It was an old a-frame with a small front porch and two filthy windows flanking the front door.

  I rang the bell but nothing happened, so I knocked.

  Conor reached around me and knocked harder, as if my knock had been insufficient. I scowled at him. He ignored me, gaze trained on the door.

  Sounds inside indicated someone was home and a moment later, the door opened. The guy who answered had a hazy look in his eyes, which he seemed to be struggling to keep open. He nodded at us slowly and stifled a yawn. He smelled of cigarettes and stale beer.

  “Mr. Pasnek?” Conor asked. “I’m Conor Ramsey, of the Watchers.”

  Conor’s uniform should have made that obvious enough but this guy was slow on the uptake. His eyes widened and he straightened, suddenly a lot more alert. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind if I come in and speak with you for a moment.” Conor did not wait for an invitation. He simply stepped forward and stared Jason down until he moved. I followed him inside.

  The house smelled stale and everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, except for squares in the coffee table that marked where cigarette packs and the remote might have sat. Now both were on the floor near the couch and an overturned (hopefully empty) bottle of beer. Conor wrinkled his nose in distaste when he thought no one was looking.

  Jason flopped down on the couch. He gestured that we were welcome to sit on the filthy, worn recliner but neither of us took him up on the offer.

  “How do you know Marcus Goldsmith?” I asked, impatient to get this interview over with and get myself out of this rank house.

  Instead of answering, he hooked a thumb in my direction. “Who’s she?”

  Conor cleared this throat. “She’s a private investigator consulting with me on this matter. Answer her question.”