by Amber Benson
One by one, the rest of the guests found their way back to the drawing room, each looking more curious than the next about what had happened, but Jarvis was refusing to divulge any more details until the detective arrived.
Alameda Jones had taken the time to change into a pair of soft brown leather pants and a thick, camel-colored chambray sweater, her wet hair slicked back against her scalp, while Erlik and Oggie were still in their formal dinner clothes. Uriah Drood ambled in behind Donald Ali, both men in robes and pajamas, but only Donald Ali looked as if he’d been woken from a deep sleep, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and yellow; Uriah Drood’s hooded ones were as fresh and lively as a newborn baby’s.
Anjea never showed up—no one had any idea where she and her owlet had gone—and Kali only popped into the room for a minute to confer with Jarvis before disappearing as mysteriously as she’d come.
Fabian Lazarev was the last to appear. Hair unkempt and shirt half tucked into his pants, he sat down in one of the armchairs and undid his bow tie, letting it hang limply around his neck, his hurt wrist, red and swollen. Dazed, he stared blankly into the distance, elbows on his knees and chin thrust forward from slumped shoulders. He reminded me of a prizefighter who’d just lost his final bout.
With a full house, the chatter in the room was deafening, so I kept my gaze on the fire, tuning out the white noise of their staccato voices in favor of my own thoughts. Beside me, Runt lay stretched out on her back, her belly exposed as she enjoyed the absentminded tummy-scratching session I was treating her to. As I sat there, I found it harder and harder to block the voices out, my annoyance quickly turning into anger as I listened to them bitch about the inconvenience of having to wait for some detective to show up—not even taking two seconds out of their complaining to say a silent prayer in the name of the recently departed. Part of me wanted to stand up and start yelling at them to shut up, but instead of causing a scene and incurring Jarvis’s wrath, I retreated inward, moving closer to the fire and keeping to myself. If being Death meant I was in charge of these assholes, I was going to have to rethink my interest in the job. These were the high-level members of Death, Inc.; they were supposed to give a shit about human life—or any life, for that matter—not act like a bunch of disgruntled barnyard hens, squawking all over the place when something bad happened.
It was a bit sad to think my fervor came from being a convert. Up until recently, I’d been as obnoxious as the rest of them, self-involved and totally unaware of other people’s needs, but in the past few months I’d learned that the internal struggle for selflessness was the only thing that kept the universe in balance. I’d watched my older sister disappear into her own selfishness, almost taking our world with her in the process. As it was, my dad’s death had been part of the collateral damage from her conniving for power—and it was something I didn’t think I could ever forgive her for. Not that I was going to get the chance. She, too, had become the victim of her own greed—dying at the hands of one of her compatriots in what was truly a horrific finale to any human existence.
The memory of her death made me shudder, but it’d been the ultimate lesson in how not to live your life—and I decided the people in this room could learn a lot from her gross, incendiary end.
“Calliope?”
I looked up to find Daniel standing above me, eyes red-rimmed
“I’m really sorry,” I said, my voice breaking as I reached out and patted his shoe, wanting to touch him and finding that his foot was the closest thing.
“Thanks, Cal,” he said, squatting down beside Runt and petting her flank. Her tail started thumping lazily against the carpet.
“It wasn’t pretty,” I said.
He nodded. I guess someone had already filled him in on the details, maybe Kali.
“I’m the reason she was here,” he said, looking into the heart of the fire, where the flames burned the bluest. “It’s my fault.”
I didn’t know what kind of relationship they had. Whether he was in love with her or just “enjoying” her company, but it didn’t really matter anymore. She’d died a horrible death and she deserved my respect.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, taking his hand in mine and marveling at how warm it was. “And we’ll find out who did this. I promise.”
To my surprise, Daniel let me hold his hand and we sat there quietly, two people lost in their own thoughts, waiting for something to happen that would drag them out of their lonely, interior worlds.
There was a knock at the door and the room went still, the myriad of voices silenced by expectation, but when Jarvis turned the knob, it was only the chef, Zinia Monroe, and her two servers, each bearing a tray of coffee and tea.
“Tea?” Erlik said, looking with marked disdain at the silver tea service the mousy woman was carrying. “Don’t you think something stronger would be more appropriate?”
“I have just the thing,” Donald Ali said, getting up from his spot on the couch and, at four in the morning, moving with a halting, exhausted step toward the sideboard that sat in the far corner of the room.
He opened the bottom cabinet door, taking out a squat cylindrical glass bottle of brown liquid stamped with a pale beige label. He opened the bottle and held it up for everyone to see.
“One of Shackleton’s bottles of Mackinlay’s single malt whiskey, left in the ice of Antarctica after the expedition failed,” he said, grabbing a thickly rounded tumbler from the sideboard and pouring himself a shaky finger from the bottle. “It’s over a hundred years old. Cost me a fortune, but I was able to bewitch them out of seven bottles. ’Cause seven is my lucky number.”
He took out more tumblers, setting them up in a horizontal row.
“Anyone else care to try?” he asked, gesturing to the waiting tumblers.
“Please,” Erlik said, joining Donald Ali at the sideboard.
“I’d like a taste as well,” Uriah Drood agreed, but he remained where he was, perched on one of the couches, playing with the sash of his robe, which was belted tightly at the waist.
Yum Cimil motioned to Fabian Lazarev, crooking his finger then pointing in the direction of the whiskey. It took Lazarev a moment to focus, but when his master’s wishes eventually bored through his malaise, he was up like a flash, asking Donald Ali for two glasses of the rare vintage—one each for both him and Yum Cimil.
“Some coffee, miss?”
I looked up to find the male server from earlier standing above me, the coffeepot perfectly balanced on his tray. I hadn’t paid him much mind when he’d originally appeared at dinner, but as he stood above me now, waiting for an answer, I found myself giving him my full attention.
“Yes, I’d love some,” I said, even though I didn’t really want any—there was just something intriguing about the petite, birdlike man. Something mysterious about the way his brown, almond-shaped eyes tilted downward, making him seem perpetually sad.
“Milk and sugar?”
I nodded, watching as he poured coffee into a fragile bone china cup and saucer, my eyes lingering on his dark Mesoamerican features: a high, clear forehead; chiseled cheekbones; and wide, pale peach lips. I had a sense of the familiar, like I’d seen the man somewhere other than the Haunted Hearts Castle, but before I could ask him if we’d ever met, he’d handed me my drink and was on to the next person.
I looked at Daniel, hoping he might have an idea who the man reminded me of, but his gaze was elsewhere, his eyes still lingering on the fire.
Over by the sideboard, Erlik and Donald Ali were engaged in conversation and I frowned, not pleased by the tone of what I was able to catch.
“You would think the women, with their delicate natures,” Erlik was saying, “would be the ones to need something to steady their nerves.”
I guess I wasn’t the only one paying attention to their conversation because as I watched, Morrigan sat up in her chair, disengaging her hand from where it rested high on Caoimhe’s thigh. She glared angrily at the Siberian Vice-President in Charge
of Asia.
“Delicate natures?” she said frostily. “There is nothing delicate about any of the women you see here tonight and I resent your sexist implications.”
Erlik laughed, a throaty guffaw of condescension that made my blood boil. Morrigan took instant umbrage at the affront, and before anyone could stop her, she was out of her seat and across the room, her pale white fingers around Erlik’s meaty throat. As she squeezed, she leaned in very close to his face and grinned at him, her face a malevolent mask.
“I could disembowel you so quickly, your guts would be steaming at your feet long before you even realized they were gone.”
Erlik tried to respond, but Morrigan’s fingers were like stone and he could only manage a strangled growl.
“Morrigan, please, let him go,” I found myself saying as I realized I was on my feet and already marching toward her.
She turned her head, her auburn hair red as blood in the firelight. Even though I was still halfway across the room, I stopped moving forward, truly frightened by the vehemence in her gaze.
“Stay away from me, little Death,” she snarled, her claws tightening around Erlik’s throat.
As powerful as Erlik’s appearance made him seem, he was no match for Morrigan. She was aggression unbridled, her murderous grip just an extension of the all-consuming rage I saw reflected in her eyes—rage that was now directed entirely at me. In a flash, she’d released Erlik from her cruel embrace and was heading toward me, her movements as fluid as a predatory cat.
I didn’t know if I was supposed to run away or stand my ground, but it all happened so quickly I was forced into the latter. I felt, rather than saw, Morrigan’s hands reaching for me—and my body reacted before my brain could screw me over and tell it to freeze. I crouched down, dropping my chin into my chest to protect my vulnerable neck from Morrigan’s grasping fingers, then I shot forward, using all my strength and Morrigan’s own forward motion, to ram the top of my head into the soft fleshiness of her gut.
My head butt was more than effective. Morrigan made a funny gurgling noise as she clutched her belly then dropped to her knees. Instantly Caoimhe was on her feet, but she looked torn: Should she go to Morrigan or to me? I shook my head, letting her know I wasn’t the one who needed her attention. She frowned and turned away from me, but not before Morrigan had seen the exchange, her eyes rigid with pain and rage.
Afraid she was going to come after me again, I took a step back, but Caoimhe’s calming touch seemed to ease her aggression and she dragged her murderous eyes away from my face, her attention now on her lover.
“Calliope,” Jarvis cried, making his way over to where I knelt, my knees still aching from their impact with the floor after the head butt, the Oriental carpet having given them no padding at all. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I was shaken by the attack, my body trembling from the shock of almost having my throat ripped open by a woman’s bare hands. I felt a wet nose pressing against my shoulder and I looked over to find Runt beside me. She started to whine and I looped my arms around her neck, burying my face in the warmth of her midnight coat.
“I’m okay, Runt,” I said, my face against her flank.
I felt a pair of strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me back onto my feet—and I leaned into the heat the other body was giving off, enjoying being in such an intimate embrace.
“You did good,” Daniel whispered in my ear as he let me go, the heat from his body dissipating so fast it felt like it had never existed.
I staggered for a moment, miserable at being wrenched apart from Daniel, but then I found my footing and was able to clear my head. Now was not the time to be getting all mushy over a man—especially when his date was the reason I was trapped in the drawing room with this bunch of crazy people.
“Thanks,” I said to Daniel, smiling up at him, his ice blue eyes anchoring me in place.
The peal of the doorbell echoed throughout the drawing room and my skirmish with Morrigan was forgotten in favor of finding out who was at the front door. Jarvis took the reins, telling everyone to stay where they were.
“I’m sure it’s Detective Freezay, so everyone please remain here in the drawing room until I return,” Jarvis said, looking pointedly in my direction.
Jeez, did the man really think, after all that, I was gonna go jump out a window or something?
“Why do we have to stay here?” Uriah Drood said huffily, once Jarvis was gone.
“Because this is a murder investigation now and the detective will want to talk to us all,” Daniel replied. I could tell Drood wanted to argue the point, but he knew Daniel’s logic was unassailable.
“It’s four thirty in the morning,” Alameda said, yawning. “And frankly, I’m exhausted.”
“I second that,” Oggie said, nodding in Alameda’s direction. “Everyone is exhausted after the ball and dinner—it’s been a very long night. Maybe we could adjourn now and take this up in the morning?”
Erlik remained silent on this topic, too busy trying to breathe through his bruised windpipe to stir up any more controversy. I looked at the others, waiting for them to weigh in, but all complaints ceased as the door opened and Jarvis returned with what appeared to be a bear of a Nordic man trailing behind him. The man possessed a shock of white-blond hair and muddy green eyes the color of ancient swamp water, the dark green polo shirt and baggy gray-and-black-striped woolen suit pants he wore making him look like a golf caddy. To complete the odd outfit, he had a solid black bowler hat, ringed with a fuzzy red band, perched jauntily on top of his head. As I studied the new addition, he was busy doing the same thing to the rest of the room, his eyes all over the place, taking in the fire, the hellhound, the whiskey, and the assembled guests in their various states of dress. I sensed no judgment, just a healthy curiosity about everything he encountered.
“Detective Inspector Edgar Freezay from the Psychical Bureau of Investigations,” Jarvis said, presenting the detective to the group.
“Thank you, Jarvis, for the introduction, but you may all call me Freezay,” Edgar Freezay said, his gaze lingering on each face in turn as he continued to study the contents of the room. “I try not to stand on ceremony, especially in cases like this. I want you all to feel like you can tell me anything that flits through your pretty little heads. Regardless of how absurd you might think it is.”
I instantly liked Edgar Freezay. He was an odd bird, but I sensed there was more to the man than appeared at first glance. I would’ve bet a hundred bucks he didn’t miss anything, his eyes constantly flicking here and there, curious about everything he saw. With his towhead and unlined face, it was hard to tell just how old the detective was, but I gathered he was somewhere in his mid- to late forties—though with supernatural creatures, there was no way to know if their physical appearance related to their biological age; because usually it didn’t.
“Now, who of you don’t I know?” Freezay continued, pointing to Naapi, Morrigan, and Donald Ali in turn. “You, I know. You, I know. And you, I don’t know.”
“I’m Donald Ali and this is my Castle.”
Donald Ali was getting testy, either from exhaustion or from the fact that someone didn’t know who he was.
“Nice spot,” Freezay said, then he pointed at the whiskey bottle still open on the sideboard. “Excellent taste in whiskey. Nice to know those stolen bottles made it to a good home.”
Donald Ali’s mouth dropped. I’d never seen a man of his caliber looking so flummoxed before. Usually they were the ones doing the flummoxing, not the other way around.
“I assure you, this bottle is not stolen—”
Freezay shook his head.
“Nope, still stolen. Even if you paid for it, the guy whom you bought it from did not.”
“This is outrageous!” Donald Ali said, his face turning a surreal shade of green. “I want this man out of my house!”
Jarvis stepped in, trying to calm the old man down—though I thought Jarvis had a
better chance of calming a raging bull than someone like Donald Ali.
“We are lucky to have Detective Freezay—”
“Just Freezay,” Freezay said.
“Yes, well,” Jarvis went on. “We are lucky to have Freezay here to help us. I and the Board of Death trust him implicitly.”
Donald Ali walked up to Jarvis, shoving his finger into my Executive Assistant’s chest.
“Now you listen here,” he bellowed. “I will not be talked to this way in my own home. I am going upstairs to bed, where any sane person should be at this hour.”
He removed his finger and stormed out of the room on slippered feet, glaring at the detective all the way to the door. The rest of the room was silent as he nearly slammed the door off its hinges on his way out.