by Amber Benson
“And what about that bastard, Lazarev?” Erlik asked, not wanting to go until Freezay had assured him on that front.
“I promise he will be the next person I speak to,” Freezay said judiciously. “Now run along and stay out of trouble.”
Erlik did not like being condescended to. Brandishing a fist in Freezay’s face, he said: “Don’t push it, Detective.”
And then he pivoted on his heel and was gone, his thick, muscular legs moving him quickly out of our view.
“You think there’s anything to what Erlik said about Lazarev?” Jarvis asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Freezay said. “Ask.”
“Hey, what about the bodies?” I asked.
“What about them?” Freezay said, eager to get back up to the main house and talk to Fabian Lazarev.
“We can’t just leave them where they are. It’s disrespectful.”
“The Harvesters will pick their souls up at midnight, Calliope,” Jarvis said, trying to reassure me. “We can magically deal with the bodies afterward. Until then there’s no point in moving them just to move them.”
I started to protest, but I could see my argument wasn’t going to get support from anyone.
“I still feel bad—”
“Speaking of feeling bad,” Jarvis said, pushing up the sleeves of his dinner jacket, “I have to find Kali and let her know what Wodin said when I telephoned him. I was actually on my way to brief her when I discovered Constance’s body.”
“So we’re not gonna move the bodies and you’re just gonna leave?” I said, trying not to be a baby about him going. “Like right now?”
“You’ll be in Freezay’s capable hands—”
“Okay,” I said, feeling annoyed.
“Don’t pout,” Jarvis said. “We’ll all be back together in the drawing room before you know it.”
Jarvis didn’t wait for me to protest, just took off before I even had a chance to state my case.
“Whatever,” I said under my breath.
“You think he’s just going so he can take a nap?” Runt asked, and I laughed, feeling my anger starting to dissipate.
“Why don’t you go to the drawing room and take a nap,” I suggested when I noticed the poor pup’s eyes drooping.
“I’m okay,” she said, yawning.
“Then how about fetching Fabian Lazarev from his room and meeting us in the drawing room,” Freezay said. “That’ll keep you on your feet.”
Runt looked more than happy to oblige.
“On it!” she said, perking up. She liked being needed and was probably excited about doing something other than just following me around.
“Shall we?” Freezay asked as we watched the hellhound pad off down the corridor.
“Only if you promise that the night will get better from here on out,” I said.
Freezay laughed, shaking his head.
“If you’re with me, then your night is already off to a better start,” he said—and then he gave me what I can only term a “saucy” wink, before taking my arm and leading me down the hall toward the drawing room.
twenty
Being with Edgar Freezay was nothing like being with Daniel; there was no crazy sexual electricity, and no feeling of being utterly connected to another human being—but that wasn’t to say it was all cold fish, either. There was definitely something sexy about the detective that drew me to him. He was intuitive, smart, and I liked the eccentric way he presented himself.
He was a hot “weird” dude.
But as much as I wanted to forget about Daniel and not give a damn who he was shacking up with, I just couldn’t seem to move on. Even when I had the perfect opportunity to scrub him from my mind—Edgar Freezay, for example—I just couldn’t do it. I was stuck waiting around for the man who I knew was my soul mate to realize his life just wasn’t as sweet without me in it.
“So I heard what you said to Jarvis and I want you to know that there’s nothing to feel bad about. You can’t do anything for them until All Saints’ Day starts,” Freezay said, scratching at the blond stubble on the bottom of his chin. “But at least you know their souls are going to continue on, that they’re going to be recycled through the system. Imagine dealing with death and having no proof that there even is an Afterlife. Before I got conscripted into the Psychical Bureau of Investigations, I was a normal policeman, working cases without a clue that the supernatural world even existed—”
“Wait, you were a real policeman?” I said, pretty sure the Psychical Bureau of Investigations wasn’t known for bringing normal human beings into its ranks.
“My father, Wodin, is notorious for taking up with human women, never enlightening them to the fact that he’s a God—even after impregnating them,” Freezay said dryly. “So I had no clue about my heritage until I was contacted by Manfredo Orwell, the head of the PBI’s Crimes Against Humanity Division when I was twenty-six. I’m sure you, of all people, can imagine my surprise at finding out exactly who and what I was.”
And I thought I’d had it bad. I’d always known who I was and what my family was capable of … I’d just chosen to ignore it. Freezay, on the other hand, had lived in isolation from others of his kind, probably having all kinds of odd experiences that he couldn’t share with anyone because no one would believe them.
“You must have had an inkling about your true nature,” I said, but Freezay shook his head.
“I thought I was crazy. As a child, I’d see things I couldn’t explain, and then I’d share them with my mother, who was a no-nonsense second-grade teacher and had no idea the man she’d picked up in a Detroit bar one dark and stormy night was a God. It felt like I’d spent my childhood in a psychiatrist’s office—until I turned ten and realized people would leave me alone if I just kept my mouth shut.”
“Wow,” I murmured.
“Believe me, magic makes the job much more interesting,” he said. “And you don’t have to follow the rigid procedural stuff you’re forced to adhere to with traditional police work. You’d have never caught me touching a body without gloves when I worked a murder scene in the real world.”
“Jarvis said you retired. You seem pretty young to be a man of leisure,” I said.
Freezay laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“A man of leisure I am, but not of my own volition. I didn’t retire. Let’s just say I was asked to leave the PBI and let it go at that.”
We reached the door to the drawing room and Freezay held it open so I could go inside first. It was just as we’d left it: fire dying in the grate, dirty breakfast dishes spread across the coffee table.
“Well, here we are, Ms. Death,” he said, closing the door behind him and smiling at me.
“Who do you think did it?” I asked, plopping down in an armchair and “resting” my eyes for a moment.
“I have no idea who did this,” he said, sitting down on the love seat across from me. “But I believe the book is at the epicenter of it all. Follow the book and you’ll find our killer. Find our killer and the book will present itself.”
“So, if Constance, aka Connie the Server, stole it, then what did she do with it? Why not give it to Uriah Drood like she’d planned?”
“You got me,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I haven’t got a clue why people really do the things they do. I mean, I can logically take the crime apart and see its psychological aspects, but when it comes to motivation, the details vary so greatly, all you can do is quantify them into the big three basics: money, love, and power—but that never gives you a free pass into their psyches.”
The rest of our conversation was put on hold by a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Freezay called.
Runt entered the room first, followed by Fabian Lazarev and his boss, Yum Cimil.
“He wouldn’t let him come on his own,” Runt whispered to Freezay, gesturing with her nose at Yum Cimil as she came in and sat down by my chair.
I could understand
why Yum Cimil didn’t want his employee left to his own devices: Lazarev looked like a different man. His face was drawn, exhaustion hollowing dark gouges into the flesh above his orbital bones, making it appear as if someone had punched him in both eyes. He slumped forward where he stood, his loose white V-neck shirt and black linen pants hanging like rags on his taut frame.
“Please have a seat,” Freezay said as he got up and gestured toward the love seat. Yum Cimil stared at the recently vacated spot, but Lazarev, who moved like a man in a fog, did as he was told, sitting down and putting his head in his hands.
Dressed in a modified version of an undertaker’s uniform—black suit and high-necked white button-down shirt—it was hard to tell what Yum Cimil was thinking as he looked around the room, but I guessed he was none too happy about being included in our little soiree.
“If you’re not into the love seat,” Freezay said, “please, be my guest and sit wherever you’d like.”
Yum Cimil furrowed his brow, his eyes shifting back and forth between me, Freezay, and Lazarev. After a few moments of interior debate, he seemed to decide that this wasn’t a trick question and shuffled over to the love seat, sitting down next to his second in command.
“As you know, Coyolxauhqui was murdered last night—”
Fabian Lazarev sat up at the mention of Coy’s true name, his mustache twitching as his normally tan face went a pale, milky white.
“But that’s not the end to the tragedy,” Freezay continued. “Constance Partridge—Uriah Drood’s Undersecretary at the Harvesters and Transporters Union and the serving woman here at the Haunted Hearts Castle—was killed this morning.”
Lazarev looked confused, his dark eyes unfocused.
“I don’t … understand,” he mumbled. “Why was Drood’s secretary here? And why did someone kill her and the serving woman?”
Freezay leaned against the fireplace mantel, twisting the brim of his bowler hat in his hands.
“The serving woman and Uriah Drood’s Undersecretary are one and the same.”
Lazarev glanced at Yum Cimil, who frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening into furrows.
“You guessed this?” Freezay asked, his ability to read Yum Cimil’s facial expressions, impressive.
Yum Cimil stared at him for a second then leaned over and whispered something in Lazarev’s ear.
“Yes, I understand,” Lazarev nodded. “Okay.”
He returned his gaze to Freezay, licking his dry, cracked lips.
“She was wearing a wig. We noticed at dinner she kept scratching her head. Not so good for hygiene and food cleanliness.”
Yum Cimil was way more observant than me. I’d only noticed her nervousness and lack of grace with a tray full of sherry, but he’d seen through the artifice of her façade.
“Does her death have any connection to Coy’s murder?” Lazarev asked, this question his own.
“We don’t know. We have to assume that two separate murders in the same location within a twenty-four-hour period are not coincidental,” Freezay replied. “You looked surprised when I called Coy by her given name? Why?”
Lazarev, if it were possible, got even paler, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably.
“I … well … I knew Coy. She is … was my girlfriend, until she was seduced by another, more recently than I’d like to admit.”
“Erlik stole her away from you,” Freezay said—and it wasn’t a question.
Lazarev swallowed hard then looked down at his hands.
“Yes. He told you, I assume.”
“Actually, he said you’d stolen her away from him,” Freezay said.
“Ha!” Lazarev nearly shouted as emotion brought him to his feet.
Erlik had been upset by Coy’s death, but there’d been something almost selfish about his reaction. Lazarev was a different beast altogether. He was devastated by Coy’s death—you could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the gaunt look in his eyes—and it made me feel sorry for him in a way that I hadn’t for Erlik.
“He said women you’ve dated have a way of disappearing—”
“He said that?” Lazarev cried. “He truly said that?”
Freezay nodded. “He truly said that.”
“An unbelievable monster,” Lazarev spat, “to say that about me when he is the one…”
Lazarev trailed off, his energy waning, as he sat back down beside Yum Cimil.
“A projection of himself onto you?” Freezay offered—and Lazarev nodded his head weakly.
“I suppose.”
“Where were you last night when Coy died?” Freezay asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Lazarev’s eyes flicked around the room, his brain working overtime to cobble together a timeline of his evening that wouldn’t get him in trouble.
“We know you were here in this drawing room with Jarvis, Caoimhe, Morrigan, and Naapi,” Freezay continued, turning his gaze on Yum Cimil. “But of Mr. Lazarev’s whereabouts—”
“I went into the kitchen. Zinia Monroe and the two servers were there. They can tell you,” Lazarev cried.
“Well, one of your witnesses is dead,” I said. “So hopefully the other two can back you up.”
Lazarev glared at me.
“Don’t judge me, Death,” he snarled. “You know nothing about my life.”
I didn’t like being growled at, but I knew the man was suffering, so I tried not to take it too personally.
“We’ll definitely be talking to—” Freezay started to say, but his words were interrupted by the sound of raised voices in the hallway.
A moment later, Morrigan threw open the door and stormed inside, her mouth puckered in anger.
“But I have to tell her,” Caoimhe cried as she entered the room right behind her. “It’s my right—”
Startled by our presence in the drawing room, both women came to an abrupt stop, silence stealing over them as they realized they had an audience for their argument.
“Hello, ladies,” Freezay said, his gaze sliding over Morrigan and settling onto Caoimhe. “Nice of you to join us.”
“We didn’t know anyone was in here,” Morrigan said, glaring at the detective. “We’ll just go—”
“No, stay,” he said, his gaze riveted to Caoimhe’s face. “You’re on my list, and since we’ve just finished with Mr. Cimil and Mr. Lazarev, your entrance is pure perfection.”
Lazarev stood up stiffly, anger buzzing through him as he continued to glare at me. Yum Cimil got to his feet and put a restraining hand on Lazarev’s arm, the younger man’s rage diminishing at the touch.
“I’ll probably need to speak with you again,” Freezay said as the two men departed, passing the women without a glance. “So don’t disappear on me.”
As they reached the doorway Yum Cimil turned around, shooting me a cool, appraising look. I held his gaze until Lazarev tapped him on the shoulder.
“Let’s go, sir,” he said, offering his arm to the older, smaller man.
Yum Cimil accepted the proffered arm, disengaging from our staring contest to follow Lazarev into the corridor. As I watched them go, I decided that Yum Cimil was a weird old man. Specifically weird because he dressed like a mortician and always had a sour look on his orange face. I didn’t know what the schmuck had against womankind, in general, but I knew I was not a fan of his—and it had nothing to do with him having a penis.
“We were in the drawing room when all the shit went down,” Morrigan was saying when I tuned back into the conversation. She was facing the fireplace, resting her hands on it as she spoke, her bloodless fingers pressing into the mantel.
Behind her, Caoimhe was on the edge of the love seat, her hands in her lap as she listened to her partner speak. Her patrician profile and dark coiffure made her look like a model half her age, and I could see exactly why Morrigan had chosen her as a consort; she was beautiful, polished, and full of life. Sensing my gaze, she caught my eye, giving me a shy smile. I smiled back at her, enjoying the shared moment, but
as soon as Morrigan turned back around, Caoimhe’s gaze flicked away from mine.
As a modern woman, I couldn’t help but be bothered by the subservient way Caoimhe behaved around Morrigan. I found it degrading and odd that a woman who had so much going for her was cowed at the hands of her lover. It was just weird.
“Yes, I know where you were last night, but this morning?” Freezay asked, pushing Morrigan for an answer.
“Why don’t you ask your little poppet how she murdered that girl in her bedroom?” Morrigan hedged, throwing me under the bus to get the attention off herself. “Who else would’ve killed her? She was shacking up with Ms. Death’s old boy toy, so there’s your motivation right there—”