Ash in the Blood

by Lyn Forester

  “This is annoying,” Drake grumbles as he shoves his own mask into his pocket. “We should have just broken in.”

  “Stick to proper protocol when under observation.”

  A large man in cobalt steps out of the bus at last. The stars at his collar shine in the bright daylight. A captain. He stands for a moment in the middle of the street, narrowed eyes taking in the scene. When he gets to Drake and me, he pauses. We must stick out like sore thumbs, the only people on the level dressed in black.

  His gaze drops down to my chest, and I jiggle my shoulders to get my ID swinging from its lanyard. Blue Guard Lewis hurries over to the captain, eager and already speaking. Even if I can’t hear him, I know he’s tattling on us. His arms move in wide gestures, first to us, then to the apartment complex at our backs.

  The captain holds up a hand, halting the man mid speech, then crooks a finger at him to follow. Looking bewildered, the traffic guard follows as his captain strides over to stand in front of us.

  “Investigator.” He nods his head at me in greeting. A quick flick of his eyes acknowledges Drake. “My junior officer here has quite a bit to say. Can you tell me what happened from your side?”

  “Of course, Captain.” I keep my arms loose at my sides, shoulders relaxed. Professional, not worried at all I’m in the wrong. “We’re on Level 11 following a lead on a blackout case. When we arrived at the apartment complex, we followed proper procedure and requested access to the apartment in question. Upon gaining access, we discovered a body and requested the manager notify the blue guard.”

  “They were in the apartment, acting suspiciously when I arrived,” Blue Guard Lewis interjects. “With a fresh body, I felt the scene should be preserved until the culprit could be identified.”

  I cut a narrow-eyed look at the young guard. “The body is several days old. The pungent odor and desiccation is clearly visible from the door.”

  “Desiccated?” The captain interjects. “How long?”

  I share a glance with Drake, who gives a micro nod. “Best guess? Four days.”

  The captain’s gaze becomes hooded, distant in thought. Then he turns to the azure-uniformed man at his side. “You are dismissed, Blue Guard Lewis. Return to your rounds at Sector 2.”

  Lewis’s head swivels between the three of us, mouth agape with confusion. He stammers, “But, sir, I’m first on the scene.”

  “And I’m going to choose not to question what you’re doing out of your sector, junior guard,” the captain growls. “Now back to your sector.”

  Lewis snaps a quick salute. “Yes, sir.”

  We wait in silence until the traffic guard mounts his disc-bike and disappears in a stream of blue light. The captain turns back to study us. Once more his gaze shifts to Drake, longer this time. As if taking in new details he might have missed before.

  At last, he looks back at me. “This is related to the Ash deaths, isn’t it?”

  “You know the contracts we sign for blackout cases, sir.” My refusal to answer won’t stop him from connecting the dots, though.

  “And you know I have to call this one into the white guard if it’s linked to the clan man’s death.” He pulls out his palm-port, but hesitates before making the call. Staring at his screen, he asks in a low voice, “You get what you needed from the scene?”

  I rock on my heels. “I feel no immediate need to go back up there.”

  He sighs, punches in a number. “Is the body at least human?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will make things easier.” He glances up, finger paused over the call button. “Stop in at the bus, make sure they know you were in the room, then get out of here.”

  “Any chance the body can get sent down to Carmichael’s freezer on Level 7?” I’m pushing my luck, but it never hurts to ask.

  “File the proper paperwork, Investigator.” He presses his thumb down on the screen, and lifts the palm-port to his ear. Dismissed.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  At the bus, a technician in white scrubs swabs our hands and runs our shoes through the particle extractor. A long and tedious process involving lots of tubes and plastic bags. At the end of it, the smell of disinfectant has burned the sweet decay from my memory.

  “Anything else?” Drake grumbles as he sits in the open side door of the bus to retie his shoes.

  “I really should run your clothing through the particle extractor, too.” The tech scans a barcode on the most recent bag and tags it for the case file.

  “Then you should have brought a decontamination tank.” The traffic guard had messed up their investigation from the beginning. They’d arrived on the scene without half their equipment. Someone was going to get stars docked off their uniform.

  “We could always bag them, give you scrubs to change into.” The tech doesn’t sound hopeful, nor should she.

  “I’m not legally required to allow that.” No way am I’ll lose a set of clothes to this investigation. The blue guard still hasn’t credited my account the additional clothing coupons I’m entitled to from the last time.

  “I’m ready.” Drake stands, stomping his feet a couple times to settle his shoes.

  A pair of disc-bikes turns onto the road, white streams of light brighter than the artificial sunlight. I squint and look away, not interested in being blinded. Even so, white dots of light pepper in my vision. The white guard pulls into the scene, right next to the bus.

  The men who dismount stand head and shoulders above the vehicle. Dressed in similar-styled uniforms to the blue guard, their white dress attire sparkles with golden buttons down the front, gold stars on the shoulders. Even their belt buckles are gold.

  The first, a Troehan clan pureblood, runs a cursory glance over the bus, grass-green eyes skimming over us in dismissal. His clan marking, a crawling vine-shaped birthmark, spirals out of his high-collared shirt and up his throat to disappear behind his left ear. The long length of his green hair is pulled into a tight braid at the base of his skull and tucked into the back of his shirt.

  His Rothven partner, luminescent skin shining in the artificial sunlight, spots the captain closer to the apartment complex. With a brief, black-eyed glance at the bus, he leads the way further into the crime scene.

  “Well, they certainly are flamboyant,” Drake whispers in my ear.

  “Hush.” The Rothven guard looks back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

  “Shit, you think he heard me?”

  “Shut up.” I turn to punch Drake in the arm, moving to stand behind the safe barrier of the open bus doors. “Let’s go before you get us detained longer.”

  “Where to next?” Drake unclips his disc-bike from the back of his belt and steps out into the open.

  “You’re the one with the map.”

  “Follow the plan?”

  I take my disc-bike out of the satchel, glancing back over the scene. Blue guards swarm the street and road barriers are in the process of taking shape. More white scrubs make an appearance as they prepare to enter the building. In front of the entrance, the captain and the white guards stand in a circle, heads close together.

  “Yeah. Nothing else we can do here.”

  ~

  The next stop on our map takes us a couple blocks over. We could have walked there almost as fast. But Drake wanted to ride, and I didn’t argue with him. I like the hum of energy put out by the disc-bike. It vibrates through my body and helps to shake off the feel of papery skin crumbling under my touch.

  We park at the curb of a high-class lounge. The two-story building, with an open gate at the front, has a cobbled path that leads around back. Large panes of glass bordered with red curtains draw customers off the street with a view of the open bar and dark wooden tables.

  The hold up at the apartment complex has brought us here later than we wanted. A server, dressed in black slacks and a bar apron, comes out of the lounge as we dismount. She carries a sandwich board sign, with the night’s specialties handwritten in loopy curls.

&nbs
p; With the front door already open, we stroll straight inside, past the stage where a small band is setting up their instruments. At the back, a long-countered bar juts out from the wall with a colorful array of bottles displayed behind it.

  The bartender looks up with a plastic smile at the sound of our footsteps. He pulls out a clean glass from beneath the counter. “What can I get for you two? We’ve only just opened, so the kitchen is still warming up.”

  “We’d actually like to ask a few questions.” I slide into the space between two stools to lean against the counter.

  “Oh?” The smile gets more forced as the bartender sets down the glass in his hand.

  “Were you here working Wednesday night?”

  His gaze drops to my I.I. badge, and the smile drops away. “You’re here about the death.”

  “Yes.”

  “The blue guards already came through. Not sure what else I could tell you that’s not already in the report.”

  “So you were here?” Drake steps in next to me.

  The bartender’s gaze shifts between us. “Yeah, I was here.”

  “Did you know the deceased? Was he a regular here?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Halrow came here a lot with clients. A lot of local businessmen do.” Perfunctory answer.

  “Was he with someone on Wednesday?”

  “No, he came alone. Sat at the bar. He did that sometimes, too.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, he wanted to be alone that night. I just brought him an hors d’oeuvres tray, poured him a glass of wine, and let him be.”

  I glance at Drake, and he raises his eyebrows at me. Turning back to the bartender. “Do you remember what brand the wine was?”

  “Yeah, it was a new label from our local vendor. Mr. Halrow always liked to try the new stuff before he ordered it for his clients.”

  “Do you have any more bottles?”

  “Yeah, I have the rest of the case in the stock room. It got bad reviews, so we’ve only opened one bottle since then.”

  “Can we take a look?” I tamp down my excitement. Even if it’s the same wine, we don’t know that it will lead us to the dealer.

  “Sure, I guess.” He looks over my shoulder and hollers, “Hey, Deb, look after the bar. I’m going to the stock room for a minute.”

  The server from earlier jogs up from the front of the lounge and ducks through a curtain-draped side door. A moment later, she pops through a door set into the wall to the right of the bar, behind the counter. “Don’t take too long. It’s thirty minutes to Half-Light. It’s going to be busy soon.”

  “Shouldn’t be long.” He waves a hand at us to follow and heads left along the bar. “The stock room is back here.”

  At the end of the bar, he flips up a hinged part of the counter and gestures us through. Then he turns and disappears behind the booze display shelf. I follow his path and find a hidden door, painted to blend with the wall. It stands open and, when I step through, leads into a narrow room that runs the length of the back wall.

  Shelves line one side, stocked with crates that display various distillery logos. On the shelves below the boxes, handwritten signs indicate the type and vintage of the crates’ contents. The narrow room forces Drake and me to walk in single file.

  A sharp alcohol scent mixes with the rich tang of fermented fruit and oaky smoke. Heady and intoxicating. I pull in shallow breaths and pull my arms in tight, try to make myself feel smaller to combat the mounting claustrophobic panic as Drake blocks the only exit at our backs.

  I should have let him go first.

  Ahead, the bartender stops at the back of the room and crouches to pull out a wooden box. On the front, stamped in red ink, shows the logo of a short castle with two peaked turrets. The bartender opens the lid to reveal rows of foil-wrapped tops. Two empty spots in the middle show where the missing bottles were stored.

  I crouch across from the bartender, and Drake stops at my back, close enough for the heat of his body to reach me. His shadow blocks the light as he leans over me to get a look. I lift a bottle out and angle it to see the label.

  “I can’t see it. It’s too dark in here.” Drake’s shadow disappears, and the heat of his body intensifies. His arm reaches around me, and I glance down and see the blunt curve of his knee next to my thigh.

  I pass him the bottle, pull in a controlled intake of air to the count of seven, hold, then push it out to another count of seven. Restlessness shivers through my legs, prompts me to stand. But I can’t. He’s too close. I focus on the box, the grains in the wood, the glint of foil. “Back up.”

  The bartender frowns in confusion, but Drake stills at my back. He taps my shoulder, a light double rap of apology. His shadow blocks out the light once more as he stands, then moves a step back, turning to catch the light behind him. “Yeah, this is the same bottle.”

  “What do you mean? This is supposed to be the first cask.” The bartender stands, staring at another of the bottles from the batch in his hands. “If the vendor isn’t keeping this exclusive, then my manager needs to know. It’s part of what draws in our customers.”

  “Where’s the distillery for this company located?” Drake asks.

  “On the rim of Level 9.” The bartender scratches his chin where stubble creates a red shadow. “Sector 3, I think. I can look it up for you, if you need the exact coordinates.”

  I pull out another bottle. The warm glass fills my palms, tinted a dark green. When I tip it, I can just make out the motion of the liquid in the neck. The embossed logo glints in the overhead light, stamped in gold foil, and I roll the bottle in my hands to make it wink.

  The ugly, squat castle is a really horrible choice for an expensive brand. They must have pulled it from old Earth history files.

  I study the crate with its red-stamped castle, then glance up at the bartender. “Do you have any other products by this company?”

  “Yeah, they make us a smoked whiskey.” He points to a higher shelf. It must sell better because three cases are lined up side by side. An empty spot on the right has a label that acts as a placeholder for a fourth case.

  “I need to see one of the bottles.” The bartender and I return our bottles to the crate, and he pushes it back under the rack to make room.

  “Okay, but then I really need to get back to the bar. Manager’s going to be angry if we get a backup on drink orders.” Then, with a grunt of effort, he heaves one of the whiskey cases down. Glass bottles rattle from inside as he thunks it onto the ground.

  With practiced ease, he digs his fingertips under the lid and pries the case open. I pull a rectangular bottle out and stand. This one, too, has an embossed label in gold foil. I step over to Drake, who leans with one shoulder against the wall, wine bottle tucked into the crook of his elbow.

  “Look at the logo.” I hold it out to him.

  He straightens and bends closer. After a moment, he removes the bottle of wine from his elbow to compare the labels. He shakes his head. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Count the windows.” I press a fingernail into the raised gold, one under each of the three windows in the castle’s right turret. Then point to the same turret on the wine bottle. Only two windows. I tap the bottle in his hand. “This label’s a fake.”

  STAINS BECOME HER

  DRAKE

  Drake stares at the red stamps on the crates for a minute as he tries to figure out how she noticed the difference. A quiet clicking noise fills the room as he bounces his tongue piercing against his teeth in thought.

  At last, he sighs and leans around Reagen to look at the bartender. “Were you here when the wine was delivered?”

  “No, Deb signed for it.” His hands move to his hips as he frowns down at the open whiskey case. “It came earlier than the normal shipment. But that happens sometimes with a new product.”

  He pictures the cute server from the entrance, her hair pulled back into a bun almost as tight as her white uniform shirt. “She’s the one watching the bar righ
t now?”

  “Yeah.” The bartender stares through the racks as if he can see through them to the bar on the other side. “I should get back. She’s sloppy at pouring drinks.”

  As Reagen nods, Drake turns to head toward the door. He can feel her steps close on his heels in her eagerness to leave the tiny room. The bartender huffs out a strained breath before the sound of the case hits the shelf to a rattle of glass. His footsteps hurry to catch up.

  The lounge feels ten degrees cooler than the stock room. Reagen immediately moves out from behind him and draws in a deep breath. For a moment there, in the tight confines of the stock room, he’d thought she might have a panic attack.

  Now her shoulders relax, and she shoves her hands in her pants pockets, breaths even. He stops near the hinged part of the counter and looks out over the lounge. Quiet conversation fills the room to the low sound of a guitar being tuned on stage. Four customers have claimed places on bar stools while the tables in the center fill up with the evening crowd.

  Come Quarter-Light, the place will be packed.

  Deb bounces between the counter and the back wall, pulling different-colored alcohol down to fill drink orders. Her neat bun has started to fray, strands of hair sticking to pink cheeks. She glances over at them with relief before returning to the task of filling the round tray on the counter for a waiting server.

  “I got this, Deb.” Seamlessly, the bartender slides into Deb’s spot and nudges her toward Drake and Reagen. “Please answer their questions quickly, then change and get on the floor.”

  The server stumbles over to their end of the bar, the apron around her waist skewed and a large, amber stain on her white shirt. The damp patch clings to her ribs, showcases the pink hearts on her undergarment.

  She tugs at her apron, trying to straighten it as she glances at Reagen’s badge. Her shoulders hunch, and she bites at her lip. Talking to an I.I. employee makes her nervous. When she speaks, her voice comes out high and squeaky. “You need to ask me about something?”