by J. K. Beck
"Bloody hell, Serge," Nick whispered, moving slowly through the place. "What the fuck are you into?"
He heard it then--a single, low growl that had him racing to the far door that led into Serge's private playroom.
Serge was there, naked and prostrate over a huge broken mirror. Deep gashes marred his arms and legs. Fresh, Nick knew, as they hadn't yet begun to heal.
"Serge."
His friend twitched, but didn't look up.
"Serge, look at me."
He turned, and Nick saw the daemon in his eyes warring for control. And the horror of what he'd done--what he would do--etched on Serge's face.
"Can't get it out. Can't bring the Numen, " Serge said, taking a shard of glass and digging it deep into his arm.
The blood ritual.
Even now, Nick felt the cold, hollow grip of fear. The terror he'd experienced 131
when he slid into the netherworld for that ultimate battle. And the sinking knowledge that he could even then lose the battle despite the Numen at his side. And if he did, he would be forever trapped, the daemon Nick evolving, while the other Nick dissolved into nothing.
In front of him, Serge howled with pain, but didn't stop mutilating his skin.
"Come, you bitch! Get it the fuck out of me. Push it back!"
"Serge. Serge! " Nick knelt beside him, grabbed his shoulders with one hand, and with the other took the bloody glass. "You're you. You're still you. It's working. You're fighting. You don't need her yet. You're pushing it back. I can see it. You're pushing it back."
"No, no, no." With a terrible, heart-wrenching squall, Serge looked up, met Nick's gaze with drunken eyes. "I lost it. It killed her." Nick stiffened, a cold terror racing through him. "Who?" he asked carefully, afraid that Serge had spilled Tasha's blood. That he had staked her, and that she was no more. "Focus," he said, shaking his friend. "Tell me. Who? Who did you kill?"
"The girl with kaleidoscope eyes," he said, his smile crooked and his voice singsong. "Came here selling herself. A faunt, " he said, referring to the humans who sold their blood to feed vampires. The word sent relief coursing through Nick. Not Tasha. Thank the gods it wasn't Tasha.
"Wild hair," Serge was saying, which meant that this girl wasn't the one Nick had seen in the tunnel. "Practically pink. Chatty. Liked her, too. Killed her anyway. Didn't like the rest. Didn't even know them."
Nick closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the damage a powerful vampire like Serge could cause. "How many?"
Pain flashed in the daemon-red eyes. "Don't know. Just killed them. Found them, and had them."
"Fight it back," Nick said, his body tensed for a fight, his words wary. "Kick it back to hell where it belongs."
"I am in hell," Serge said.
"There you go," Nick said, and earned a slow smile from his friend. "That's it. Come on back. Fight, dammit. Fight. "
"Want to," he said. "Getting harder every day." He reached behind him, and from the mess of blood and glass managed to produce a wooden stake. He thrust it at Nick.
"Take it. Use it."
"The hell I will."
"Dammit, end me. "
"No." Nick snapped the stake in two. "Listen to me."
"Son of a bitch. You goddamn, fuck-faced fool." The daemon was coming out, riding the crest of Serge's anger. Well, fine, Nick thought. After all of this, he was gunning for a fight anyway.
"Listen to me," Nick repeated, but he knew Serge wasn't listening anymore. He was sinking inside himself, and something else was coming up. Nick wasn't going to let it get there.
Without warning, he hauled back and punched Serge in the face. His startled friend howled, then pounced, but Nick was ready, leaning back so that he had leverage, and then kicking out and catching Serge hard across the throat with the sole of his foot. 132
Serge staggered back, blood in his eye, and came forward again.
"Enough," Nick growled, as Serge barreled into him, knocking them both on the ground. "I won't kill you, no matter how damn much you provoke me."
"Fuck you, Nicholas."
"No, fuck you." And he reached down, grabbed his friend's naked balls, and twisted.
The effect was pretty much what he'd anticipated. Serge dropped like a stone and clutched his crotch, which gave Nick the opportunity to get back to him, crouch down, and place half the broken stake right at his buddy's temple. "It won't kill you," he said,
"but you won't be the same."
"Knock my brains out, and at least I won't know what I'm doing." The pain that colored Serge's voice had Nick lowering the weapon.
"You're back."
"You twisted my nuts into a knot, damn you. You think the daemon's gonna hang around for that kind of torture?"
"You clear? Good and clear?"
Serge looked up, met Nick's eyes, then shook his head no. "But I'm steady. I can fight. I can, " he added, in response to Nick's doubtful expression. "Dammit all, it's been building. Growing in me. Taking over. Fucking nightmare. Fucking goddamn life."
"You should have told us."
"What? Hey, dudes. Losing myself here. If I fall, don't piss too hard on me?"
"You should have told us," Nick repeated.
Serge sighed. "I know." He ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair, sweeping it back out of his face. "Dammit, I know."
"Where's Tasha?"
"You think I'd let her see me like this? I got Graylach to stay with her."
"The goblin's dead, Serge. It's dead, and Tasha's gone." He could see the shock flash in Serge's eyes. More, he could see the flash of opportunity--the daemon taking a tentative peek out once again.
"Focus for me. Focus, damn you. Where is she? Did someone know she was staying with you? Someone who'd want to hurt Luke?"
"I don't know." He pressed his hands to his skull. "I don't know. I left. Had to keep her safe."
"Safe?" Nick repeated. "Safe from what?" Pure pain glowed in Serge's eyes. "From me."
He drew in a breath, then clutched his head even tighter. "By the gods," he whispered. "Lucius. He will have my life for this."
"No," said Nick, standing up and looking away from his friend as compassion warred with disgust. "Right now, I don't think your life is worth the debt." Luke buried his rage--his fear--under an icy calm, knowing that if he lost control now he would be hard-pressed to ever get it back.
"You cannot feel her at all?" Nick asked. "There is no blood connection between you? Not even the slightest?"
133
"You know there isn't," Luke said. It was one of the reasons that the Covenant prohibited the turning of the addled. With any other, he would be able to seek them out, discern their feelings, come close to actually reading their mind. With a mind such as Tasha's, though, that was not possible.
"Dammit." Luke grabbed the edges of the small sink in his cell, fighting once again for control, feeling it slipping away. "The dolls," he said, forcing his mind to think clearly. "You said that her dolls were gone?"
"All of them. Her clothes, too."
He considered the fact, focusing on the scenario, pushing emotion out of the mix so that he could think clearly. Because unless he was clear, he couldn't find her. "A killer would not take such things."
"There'd be no reason," Nick said, agreeing. "Neither would someone holding her to send you a message."
"And where is the message?" Luke asked. "There is none, because it is not my enemies who have her."
"She left on her own," Nick said, nodding. "But that's not a whole hell of a lot better."
"No," Luke agreed. "It isn't." She may have left Serge's of her own free will, but so far she had not contacted Nick again. And to Luke's mind, that meant trouble.
"She would have come to Los Angeles," he said.
"To you," Nick said. "Of course."
"And we know that Caris is in town."
"Fuck," Nick said. "You don't think--"
"I think it's a possibility," Luke said. "Payback for my taking out Hasik and Tinsley.
For fucking up Gunnolf's little plot." Nick had briefed Tiberius, who had in turn paid a visit to Gunnolf. For now, Gunnolf's plan was on ice, and as Tiberius had agreed not to inform the rest of the Alliance about Gunnolf's treachery, Tiberius had acquired a powerful political marker. As had Luke.
"You think she'd know it was you?"
"Tiberius knows it was me, and I'm sure she still has sources within his organization. But even if she doesn't know, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd snatch Tasha simply out of spite. Damned ancient history." Back when Luke had turned Tasha, Tiberius had spurned Caris's argument that the girl shouldn't be allowed to live. The vampire master had thrown his weight around, supporting Luke's plea for special dispensation. At the time, Caris had been furious, and he knew that she still blamed Luke for the wedge that had been shoved between her and Tiberius.
"If that traitorous bitch really has laid a hand on Tasha, she'll soon feel the sharp end of a very hard stick."
"We have to find her first," Nick said.
"I know. I want you on the street. Find out where Caris is holed up."
"In case you've forgotten, you have a bail hearing in a few hours. A hearing that I had to do a particularly complicated tap dance to get moved forward."
"Then get Slater," Luke said. "Tell him it's a favor to me."
"Will do," Nick said. "If Caris is still in town, we'll find her."
"Tell him I want a location by the time this hearing is over. I haven't seen Caris in decades. I think it's time to renew an old acquaintance." 134
"What about Serge?"
Luke sagged. "He is more than kyne, Nicholas. Of all of us, Serge is the only one I can truly call brother. But if he did this ... if he touched her ..." He closed his eyes, a barrier against the horror of his friend's betrayal, and incongruously, he thought of Sara. Sara, searching for justice in a world where it was so rarely found. Sara, in whose arms he had forgotten, for just a moment, the sharp edges of the world in which he walked.
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Chapter 25
The Los Angeles branch of the International Order of Therians was housed in a refurbished 1940s historic mansion on South Highland Boulevard, two blocks from the local Starbucks. Doyle and Tucker had stopped in for a caffeine hit before heading on to their scheduled interview with Ytalia Leon, the organization's acting president. So far, the coffee had been the best part of their day, as the investigation was turning up a big, fat zero.
Specifically, their inquiries into Braddock had revealed a dozen or so colleagues who thought the shape-shifter was a royal prick, but nobody was spouting specifics other than the bribery and blackmail charges, and at least to Doyle's way of thinking, that was old news.
"Our man's either very good at keeping secrets," Doyle said, "or Constantine's got us running in circles." The prosecutor had insisted they dig, so they were digging. And while Doyle agreed with her in theory that bribery often cloaked a multitude of sins, so far the theory wasn't panning out.
Tucker flipped through his notes. "Sanctioned for taking bribes. A few allegations of blackmail. Some undisclosed financial accounts. Yeah, I'd say the guy was a natural on the secret front."
The steady clip clip of heels on wood echoed down the hall, shutting off further speculation. A moment later, the sound was followed by a petite woman with short red hair, an angular nose, and sharp, small eyes. Following her was a young woman with long straggly hair and a face bent perpetually toward the floor. She shuffled to a corner of the room and began to sort a stack of papers into neat piles. Ytalia ignored the girl, but focused exclusively on the agents, her hand extended in a formal greeting. Doyle took it, gave it a firm shake, then indicated for her to sit. He mentally flipped through her file, remembering that Ytalia was a were-coyote. Yeah, he thought. That fit.
"You wish to discuss Judge Braddock?"
"That's right," Doyle said, noticing that on the far side of the room, the younger woman stiffened.
"I'm happy to help in any way I can."
"You were his secretary when he was on the bench, right?"
"That's right. And after his retirement, he was very active in the Order. In the fight for equal rights for all were-creatures. He was a most vigorous advocate for our cause, and we're all extremely distressed by his unfortunate demise."
"Yeah, murder's a bitch."
She peered down her nose at him. Beside him, Tucker cleared his throat.
"We've talked to quite a few people, ma'am," Tucker said, "and the picture we're getting is interesting, to say the least."
"The man is dead, sir. I'll not have you besmirching his good name."
"Did he have a good name?" Doyle asked. At Ytalia's glare, he spread his hands. 136
"Just asking."
"The judge had some vices, it's true. But he worked very hard to overcome them. He should be honored for his fortitude and determination. Not vilified."
"What vices, exactly?"
"Is this relevant?"
"Everything's relevant in murder."
She sighed, then shifted so that she was speaking more to Tucker than to Doyle.
"He was ... proud of his position. He had worked very hard to rise so far, and while he deserved the honor, I think in some ways it went to his head."
"Sure," Tucker said, nailing the role of good cop with such precision that Doyle was sure an Oscar was in the boy's future. "Who wouldn't get a swelled head?"
"Exactly," she said, clearly pleased to have found an ally. "And that is exactly what happened. That power ... well, it can be heady."
"He took bribes. He used his position to blackmail," Doyle said.
"He did, he did." She looked positively miserable at the admission. "And he recognized the error of his ways and worked hard to overcome it." She leaned forward, speaking earnestly to Tucker, whom she obviously saw as the more reasonable of the two. "And he did overcome it. He really did."
"All that heady power," Doyle said, "it push him toward anything other than blackmail?"
Her back stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."
"Just thinking aloud," Doyle said, but he was focused more on the girl--who'd become frozen in the act of sorting papers--than on his witness.
"Even rumors," Tucker said. "We're looking for a motive here. Maybe his killer got it wrong. Heard something untrue, but acted on it."
"Well, I don't know what," she said, turning back to Tucker. "The judge was a good man at heart, and nobody says otherwise. Certainly not around here. He did some rousting in his youth--packs of were-creatures tearing through the nicer neighborhoods, stirring up the humans. It's ridiculous, and of course it's frowned upon. Frightens the humans something awful, but there's no real harm. And of course he was sanctioned for it. But that was ages ago. Long before he was ever put up for the bench."
"Even whispers," Tucker pressed. "Irate phone calls. Anything."
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing." She shook her head. "I can't believe he's dead. I simply can't. It's not like him. He'd worked so hard to clean himself up. He was even dating again. Seeing a nice young woman, he was. Too young for him, if you ask me, an elder statesman such that he was. But still, he seemed smitten."
"Got a name?" Doyle asked.
"Oh, no. I don't. He never brought her here. I heard about her, of course. Saw her in his car once. Just a glimpse. I'm sorry."
"How about Lucius Dragos?"
"The vampire?" Her nose crinkled, and Doyle's estimation of the woman rose a notch.
"Did Braddock have any business with Dragos? Any of the blackmail or bribery schemes touch on him?"
"Not that I'm aware."
"Did he keep any papers here?" Doyle asked. "We'll need to take them back to 137
Division for review."
"Just the file that the Order maintains on all the Therians." She stood up, as if grateful for something to do. "I'll run and get it for you." She slipped out, and Doyle stood up and started walking casually around the room, ending up at the table with the girl. "Got a pile of work
there, kid." She nodded, but kept her eyes down.
"How old are you?"
She lifted her head. "Sixteen. My mother works here. I've been coming here for years and years. They gave me a job last year. I do the filing."
"Sounds like a good job. What's your name?"
She blushed ferociously. "Shana."
He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Nice to meet you, Shana. I'm Doyle. You know Judge Braddock?"
She swallowed, then nodded once.
"What do you think of him?"
A shrug. "I don't really think of him, you know?"
"Like the guy? He friendly?"
She focused on her papers. "Sure. Yeah. Whatever." She looked up. "He's dead now, right?"
"That he is."
She held his eyes for a moment, then looked back down at the tabletop. She didn't say a word, but Doyle would have sworn the girl smiled. Not that he got a chance to ask, because Ytalia was returning, a small box in her arms.
Doyle moved toward her, ignoring the pursed look of disapproval she shot his way as he moved away from the girl.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"I think that about does it," Doyle said. And if Tucker's open mouth was any indication, the wrap-up was a surprise to him.
"What are we doing?" Tucker asked once they were outside the building, the box in the Catalina's trunk, and the two men leaning against its polished mustard-yellow body.
"Waiting," Doyle said, an activity that took another ninety minutes and included sending Tucker on a Starbucks run. He'd just returned when Doyle saw what he was waiting for--Shana, leaving by the side door and walking away from them down the sidewalk.
He hurried to catch up, leaving Tucker and the coffee behind. "Hold up there, kid."
She slowed, looking back over her shoulder, and frowned. Then she kept right on walking. He fell into step beside her.
"Anything you want to tell me?"
"No."
"The man's dead. He can't hurt you now."
She stopped, facing him with wary eyes. "If he's dead, what does it matter?"
"Goes to motive," he said. "Hard to put a killer away if you don't know why he killed. Even with solid evidence." At the same time, if Doyle's suspicions were correct and Braddock had been secretly boinking little girls, he was going to come off as even 138