The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Those words tease my lips, but of course, coward that I am, all I do is take a long pull of my brew and gesture for her to do the same.

  To her credit, she drinks from the battered tin cup like it was a cut-crystal—fit for a queen. This hits me in the stomach like a windshot, and my next words storm out accordingly.

  “You killed your own grandfather. Why?”

  Her mouth tightens and her cup begins to shake.

  “Why did you do it?” I demand, doing my cursed best to ignore her injured look. “Was it the estate? His wealth?”

  “No!” Her denial is punctuated by the slamming of her cup down on my desk.

  I cringe at the action, nearly believing the vehemence in her voice. I recover enough to point at the book.

  “Underly genealogy,” I say. “I remembered hearing that name back when I studied there. Something about a student named Underly who excelled in potions and poisons. And that book right there tells of a quaint story of an arcane mage marrying into a wealthy family. The Herchsten family.”

  Vayvanette stares at the book.

  “You’re half arcane,” I say.

  Her shoulders stiffen and her hands stop trembling. She doesn’t reply but at least she doesn’t play the denial game anymore.

  I keep my voice to just above a whisper, afraid if I speak too loudly I’ll lose control of the situation. “You’re working with the Arcanium, aren’t you?”

  “I am not.” There’s a smatter of indignity in there, and I’m impressed.

  Oh, how well this one lies, and how well do I fall for it. Fell for it. No more.

  “You’re arcane and you kept it from me.”

  The tears begin to well as she whispers, “It’s not what you think, Gideon.”

  “Then why keep it a secret?” I lean forward. “Why not tell me from the beginning?”

  Her lower lip trembles and tears drip from her precise chin as she shakes her head. “You have no idea what it’s like,” she throws at me. “Being condemned for what your father was, being judged not by your own actions but by those of a man who is long dead. You will never know what that’s like, so you have no right to tell me I should have told you from the very beginning.”

  I lean back, away from the growing venom in her voice.

  “People treat you differently,” she goes on, “accuse you of heinous acts. Not because of who you are but because of who your parents were.”

  Stupid. Stupid me, stupid her. I, of all people, understand what she’s gone through, and though she has no clue about my own heritage, she should have trusted me from the very start. If I had all the information going in, I could have treated this case differently. I can’t fully blame her for keeping her dark blood a secret, though I can fully hate the fact that she didn’t tell me.

  But, either way, it remains that she is her grandfather’s most likely killer.

  I wrestle my emotions down and tell her, “We found the will.”

  Her face freezes, the stream of tears seem to stop dead cold on her cheeks.

  “That’s right,” I say. “The Head Magistrate has it. She intends to be the executor of your grandfather’s will and testament. One funny thing, it appears that this amethyst of indeterminable value? It’s yours. By killing your grandfather, you became one of the richest people in Wrought Isles.”

  Vayvanette inhales sharply and holds her fingers to her mouth. “What?”

  “Anderest left it to you, among quite a number of other things.”

  Her hands drop to her lap. “How did … How did the Head Magistrate get the will?”

  “Best guess is Haurice,” I say. “Don’t know how he got a hold of it, but he did, and he passed it along to the College. It was his safest move against you.”

  “Against me?” Vayvanette repeats with indignity. “Am I now this criminal mastermind? Murder and theft and … and … whatever else I have been accused of?”

  I open my mouth, but common sense begs me to shut it again.

  She searches my eyes. “You just told me the amethyst was left to me, right?”

  I nod.

  “And you and gods know who else now claim I killed Grandfather to get my hands on it?”

  Nod.

  “Then you tell me, Master Detective, why would I kill Grandfather, steal something he legally left to me, then leave the will for Haurice or any other sycophant to whisk away, thus creating doubt as to the proper beneficiary of my grandfather’s estate?”

  Vayvanette stands up and puts her back to me and it’s like I’ve been stabbed in the heart.

  “I loved my grandfather,” she says, “more than anything in this world. Whatever this amethyst is, whatever else he did or did not leave me in his will, it doesn’t matter. None of it does. All I wanted was to find the man who killed him, who took the last of my family from me. I had thought you wanted the same.”

  I watch as she hugs herself. Her shoulders tremble and she sniffles more than once.

  “If I had killed him,” she says to room, “I would never have come to you. And if I had never come to you, then I wouldn’t have started to feel this way …” She inhales deeply and her hands drop to her sides. “Never mind. What I feel doesn’t matter anymore.”

  That blade in my heart twists and turns. So much so that the next thing I know I’m up and around my desk. She hears me approaching and she stiffens. I don’t know what to say, so I let my body do the talking.

  I envelope her from behind. Though she resists at first, I don’t relent. I pull her into me, hold her tightly, and take in her familiar scent as I bury my face into the hair at the side of her neck.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, tickling her with my breath, hoping to break through.

  She turns her head to the side, away from mine.

  “Vayvanette, I am truly sorry. Please.”

  “You have no idea how alone I have felt,” she says. “Keeping such a hideous secret about who I am, knowing that if anyone found out they would treat me like, well, like you’re treating me now, like the Head Magistrate and probably the Captain of the Watch are treating me this very moment.”

  “You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” I say as I gently turn her around. Our faces are inches apart as I look down at her and still she refuses to look at me. “Vayvanette, I wish you would have told me all this earlier. Your father being arcane, how you felt about me, about everything.”

  She speaks without looking up. “Would it have made a difference if I had?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you think. It would have taken this investigation in a whole new direction. I could have gone straight to the Arcanium, busted some heads there to get some answers.” I square my shoulders in my best show of bravado.

  A wry smile teases her lips and now she does look up at me. “Bust some heads? At the Arcanium? Gideon Knell, you are positively insane. One does not ‘bust heads’ at the Arcanium. Everyone knows that. It’d be suicide.”

  “But not everyone one has a client worth dying for.”

  She stares into my eyes, takes in every feature of my face. Her wry smile is replaced with something else, something much more inviting. I find myself being drawn into her and am blessed when she meets me halfway.

  I melt into her, squeeze her as we kiss. When we finally come up for air, I breathe out, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I wanted to,” she says.

  I laugh. “Not that, definitely not sorry about that.” I hug her tighter. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  One more kiss later and I’m leading her upstairs to my room, where I apologize to her, over and over, but this time without words.

  19

  TRUTH OF THE MATTER

  There’s nothing like waking up next to a beauty to make a man feel like a new person. Vayvanette’s breathing is shallow and soft, and my own breath stirs the fine hairs of her bare arm that’s draped from behind over my shoulder. If I could have anything, it would be to lie here ’til day’s end. But that’s not to be my lot in life.r />
  I stir ever so slightly and in response she snuggles up even closer to my back. Her polished fingernails graze through my chest hair and I can barely repress a shuddering laugh at the sensation.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs, voice angelic and dreamlike.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Just a little ticklish.”

  “Hmm,” she purrs, giving her nails another go across my chest.

  At that I twist around, grab her up, and pull her tight. She laughs and pretends to pull away, but who’s she fooling? We both know neither one of us isn’t going anywhere.

  After a brief but properly intense good morning to the both of us, I sit up and run my hands through my hair. The bed rustles as she gathers the sheets about her shoulders and joins me, leaning her cheek against my shoulder.

  “I can get used to this.” Her voice vibrates my very soul.

  “So could I,” I say. But I’ve got a big day ahead of me, so I reach around, pull her face forward, and plant a heavy kiss on her forehead.

  “Oh, so it’s like that?” she says, scrunching her face up, doing a very good impression of a woman scorned.

  “Trust me,” I say, examining every contour of her face, every minute detail. I drink the vision of her in like a warm cup of coffee, and force myself to untangle her from my body. I get up, and after a few seconds of searching, find our discarded clothing and start divvying up the pieces.

  As we dress, she asks what my next move will be.

  “Knowing what I know now,” I say through my shirt as I wrestle it on, “I plan on having this case wrapped up in two days.”

  “Really?” She’s as pleased as Durmet with a sweet pie. She stands before me, inches up on her tiptoes, and runs her fingers through my hair in what I assume is an attempt to make me presentable.

  I look down at her and marvel that even in the morning, after a night of heavy activity, she’s as presentable as if she’d spent hours before a mirror. Magic, mageworks, and gods alike will never have the power of a beautiful woman.

  She slips an arm around my waist and rubs my back. “Care to let me in on how you plan on solving the case?”

  “It’s a bit convoluted, but don’t worry. If it works out, we can put this all behind us.”

  “Not all of it, I hope.”

  I brush her cheek with my lips. “Not all of it.”

  I see her off, though it takes longer than expected as every other good bye is punctuated with a kiss or hug, and when I close the door and put my back to it, I know I’ve got the most ridiculous grin on my face.

  “Hope you got that out of your system, boss.”

  My eyes drop, as does my grin, and I take in Durmet perched on the bottom of the stairs.

  “Please tell me you made yourself scarce last night, Durmet.”

  A shiver ruffles him from wingtip to tail. “Trust me, boss, I much rather prefer the Ninth Hell to being around human mating rituals.”

  A curious thought flaps through my mind: What exactly does demon mating look like? I cringe at the thought. Best not to ask. In fact, best never to think of such a thing again.

  I ignore Durmet’s look of disgust and head to the bathroom. I debate bathing but I can’t bear to wash the lingering scent of Vayvanette from my skin. As I wash then dry my hands, Durmet calls out, “I hope you weren’t too distracted last night to have put some thought into what we’re doing next.”

  I walk past the little morph-imp on my way up the stairs. “Learned quite a bit last night,” I say.

  His leathery wings beat me upstairs to the office. “If you’re going to go into details about the woman, don’t,” Durmet snips at me as he disappears from view.

  I give him a quick one-two of what happened last night—up to the human mating ritual part—and by the time I’m done we’re both sitting at my desk. Well, one of us is sitting on the desk, to be precise. I end with, “It still doesn’t all fit.”

  “Well then?”

  “If we can’t get them to fit, I’m about to force the pieces together. Make Anderest’s murderer admit himself to me what he’s done.”

  Durmet inches forward, caught up in my enthusiasm. “How?”

  I flick my eyebrows at him. “A little trick I’ve learned during my stint as an investigator is that if you don’t know, fake it. If I could be glad for one thing my father taught me, it would be that deception is most often the truth of the matter.”

  “So, we act like we solved the case?”

  “Exactly. And we need to get the word out that we did.” I pause, feeling for the little guy. He’s part of the team but never gets recognized. A silent partner, if you will. “Or, at least, I did.”

  “And then we finally get paid?” he screeches, bashing the silent partner moniker out the window.

  “Yes, and keep it down, will you?”

  His eyes become mere slits and I can sense a caustic remark coming my way like a bull charging a waving flag. I cut it off at the pass.

  “If,” I say quick enough, “all goes well, we’ll be set for a good amount of time. Months, even.”

  His little dark tongue darts out and licks his chops. If he were human, I suspect he’d be rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a huge windfall. “What first?” he asks.

  “First,” I say, grabbing my pen and several sheets of paper, “I need to get some letters written. Four of them, actually.”

  “That … doesn’t sound very conclusive, boss.”

  “Have faith, my friend.”

  “I’m a demon, Giddy. Faith isn’t in my vocabulary.”

  “And yet you just proved yourself wrong.”

  I open one of the drawers and riffle through our stuff, pulling out the necklace from Anderest’s bedroom and the dragonfly from the old crone at the Crag.

  “That’s mine!” Durmet exclaims at seeing the dragonfly, though I suspect his blanket statement includes both items.

  “You have to spend coin to make coin,” I tell him. “I’ve got to hawk the necklace for all it’s worth.”

  “And the dragonfly?” he asks. “It’s not worth that much.”

  I glance around my office at all the knickknacks and random pieces I’ve accepted over the years as payment, things that held sentimental value to those that parted with them in order to acquire our services.

  “Value is in the eye of the beholder,” I say with a philosophical air.

  “I don’t think that’s how it goes—”

  “Besides, there’s a chance we might even get the dragonfly back.”

  Durmet’s head lifts. “If and when we do, I’m taking it.”

  I let him win this one. “Of course. Now, I’ve got to get to writing. While I’m about it, I need you to gather all the magework crystals we have. It’s time to put on one hells of a show, partner.”

  —-

  There’s a bite to the air as I leave Hunden Square, and even with the protection of the buildings along Commonwealth, the wind is strong enough to tug at my jacket. The leather satchel is a different matter now as it’s heavy with plenty of coin from the recently hawked necklace to give the wind a challenge. I can’t remember the last time I walked about the city with this much coin on me and I try my hardest not to whip my head around to make sure no cutpurses are following.

  I’m comforted by the fact that if there are any thieves trailing me, they’d melt away back into the gutters as soon as they realize my destination: a market square not too far from the Central Watch Station.

  Aunt Lily’s Laundry is neither run by a Lily, nor is it a laundry. Perhaps long ago it was in fact named truthfully, but these days, Aunt Lily’s is a respectable diner on the corner of two well-maintained streets, frequented more by turbine-cab than carriage.

  Its outer façade is pale green plaster and ancient pine trimmings, and the large patio boasts six small wooden tables surrounded by cushioned chairs. Four of those tables are currently occupied by men of the Watch and when I scooch into a corner table and settle in, all eyes are on me.

>   Now, I’ve got to believe that Trip’s truce with me still stands, and I act as if it does. Even so, it doesn’t hide the fact that I’m an outsider here, the first ant at a picnic. I pretend not to hear the grumbling and curses directed at me. In fact, the disdain shot my way is one of the reasons I chose this place. I’ll have to swallow my pride for the time being.

  I pull out the various letters I’ve written and set my half-empty satchel on the chair next to me. Moments later a tall and lanky man in a tan vest and a stark white shirt that balloons out at the shoulders approaches my table.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Derrick Partine, the current owner of the diner, greets me with a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I mimic his smile. “Afternoon.”

  “Will you be dining, sir?”

  “I will,” I tell the man, who I guess could be considered the current “Aunt Lily.”

  “Very well then.” He folds his hands. “Have you seen our menu?”

  Meaning: Can you afford to dine here?

  “I have heard of your fare, yes.” I give him my most manicured voice and say, “I believe I’ll start with two orders of meat dumplings, one vegetable, and I do wish to try one of your sweet dumplings. Whichever fruit is in season, of course.”

  Aunt Lily doesn’t take too kindly to my pseudo-snobby attitude. He asks again, “And you are sure you have seen our menu before?”

  I sigh, roll my eyes, then reach over and jingle my satchel. Aunt Lily’s eyes widen at the sound and his voice registers a new respect for me. “Very well, sir. And to drink?”

  “Tea. Two glasses, please.”

  He glances at the empty chair across from me then back at me. “Your order will be out shortly.”

  And that would be the second reason I chose this place. The dumplings here are flash-steamed, using extremely potent rubies to boil the water quicker than any fire could. The method seals in every ounce of savory juice, to the point that biting into one of Aunt Lily’s dumplings is like sending your mouth on a white-water river ride through heaven. Also accounts for the exorbitant prices he charges for each serving. But price is not something I’m worried about right now, especially since my unwitting dinner partner is cutting across the street to join me.