by Jane Kindred
He was beginning to think this wasn’t her first bottle of champagne. “I was told you might be able to answer a question or two for me. I’m prepared to offer a fair price for—”
“My ears!” Polly set her glass down and pressed her hands to the sides of her head, screwing her eyes shut. “You have absolutely no manners. Were you born in a bog?” After a dramatic pause, she peeked at him and moved her hands carefully away from her head. “I provide information for people who need it. Grateful recipients bestow me with gifts.”
“My apologies.”
“You said a question or two. The second, I suspect. The first, I’m absolutely in the dark about. I might even give you two answers for a single gift because I’m so curious about what that first question might be and because I’m in a generous mood.” She reached across the table and squeezed his left biceps. “And you are just scrumptious. So what’s question number one?”
Oliver was having trouble keeping a straight face—and keeping the heat out of it. “I’m looking for a safe house for a boy. A boy who fears for his life.”
Polly raised a golden eyebrow. “Aren’t there agencies for that sort of thing among the mortal world?”
“There are. But he’s evidently not of the mortal world.”
“I see. So he’s a danger to others, no matter which world. And you want to foist him off on one of our kind rather than deal with him yourself.”
“Uh...that’s not exactly...” It was, though. Oliver sighed. “Shouldn’t he be with his own kind?”
“You tell me, son of Gwyn.” Polly laughed at his bemused expression. “At any rate, I’m afraid you’re on your own with that. I’m not running an orphanage. Now, on to your second question. You want to know about a certain raven-haired beauty and her connections. Am I right?”
“You are, in fact.” He wondered how she could know that. “Specifically about her company’s connections with a group called Darkrock.”
Polly’s expression went from flirtatious to threatening, and she leaned toward him, her hand sliding down to his forearm in a hard grip. “Let me tell you something about Smok International. I happen to be old friends with the new CEO, and he would never tolerate those insidious mercenaries. As for his sister, I can’t speak for whom she chooses to associate with, but I would be very surprised to find her in league with such an underhanded operation. She is the chief financial officer, however, and I’m absolutely baffled by all things monetary. Perhaps if there’s enough money in it, she might compromise her principles. But it would be a compromise. And for future reference, do not mention that name in my grotto again.”
“I...see. My apologies. And thank you for being so candid.” Not that he was entirely sure what she was getting at, but it seemed she was at least trying for candid. “What do I—What would be an appropriate gift to show my appreciation for the information?”
Polly’s hand was still on his arm, and she squeezed his wrist with a mock expression of remorse. “Goodness, you’re adorable. I ought to feel bad accepting a gift for telling you next to nothing.” She smiled brightly. “But I do like a good gift.” Polly tilted her head at him. “Perhaps in your case, a kiss would do.”
“A kiss? That’s it?”
“Darling, if you do it right, a kiss is everything.” She leaned close, expectant.
What could it hurt? Oliver leaned in to meet her lips. They were surprisingly cool and damp. Not cold, by any means, but lower than normal body temperature—and salty, like she’d been swimming in the ocean. A prism of color seemed to swirl over her skin, flowing outward from her lips where they met his, and the color encompassed her hair, which shifted through multiple hues like a color-changing LED candle. She made the kiss a great deal more intimate than he’d planned before pulling away and breathing in deeply with her lips parted and a smile on her face. He had the distinct impression she was breathing something out of him.
Polly put her fingers to her lips and extracted what looked like a perfect pearl from between her teeth, holding it up in the dim light. “Marvelous. Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” She dropped the pearl into her champagne glass and took a sip, the pearl glowing golden at the bottom. “I feel like I owe you a little more for such a lovely gift. Perhaps I’ll answer the question you didn’t think to ask.”
Oliver was still fixated on the pearl and wondering where the hell it had come from. “What question would that be?”
“This is not to go beyond this room, you understand. Not to be whispered to anyone else. Least of all those nasty little friends of yours.”
“Of course. And they’re not my friends.”
“Lucy Smok has a number of weighty responsibilities—incredibly weighty for a woman of her age, though she seems well equipped to handle them. And one of those responsibilities is protecting her brother, Lucien.”
“Protecting him?” This was getting interesting. Perhaps he was about to get confirmation of the rumors about Lucien’s drug addiction problem. Or worse, maybe Lucien was mentally unfit to manage a multinational corporation.
“Lucien presides over more than just Smok International. He also presides over the underworld.”
Oliver’s brows lifted in surprise. “You mean mob connections?”
Polly laughed and touched his hand lightly. “You’re delightful. Not the mob. The underworld. In local parlance, he’s the reigning Prince of Hell.”
Oliver blinked at her, not sure he’d heard correctly. “The Prince of...”
“Hell. Or at least the underworld of medieval Christian interpretation. It’s more complicated than that, but let’s just say he presides over a great many things—beings—that don’t belong in this world. By way of comparison, take a look around you. There are lots of people here who aren’t human. But they do belong in this world. Things that cross over from that world to this, however, can be far more dangerous than those inhuman creatures who choose to prey on their human cousins.”
It was a little much for Oliver to take in. “I’m not sure what this has to do with Lucy.”
“It has everything to do with Lucy. She shares Lucien’s blood. She may have avoided his inheritance—his place on the throne—but she’s not entirely unmarked by the cursed strain. And her role as an infernal public servant is the guardian of the gates.”
He barely had time to absorb the word infernal before he registered the latter half of the sentence. “The gates? Of hell?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“What I want to call it? You’re the one who’s talking about hell.”
“You’re cute, sweetie, but I’m starting to get bored now.” She emptied her champagne glass, the pearl still glistening at the bottom, and stared at him pointedly. “You’re welcome.”
It took him a moment to realize he was being dismissed. “Oh. Well, thank you very much for taking the time to answer my questions.” Oliver rose, and Polly ignored him, reaching over the side of the booth to greet someone the were-tiger had brought by.
As he left the grotto into the surprising light of day, Oliver realized she hadn’t really answered either of his questions. She’d just given him more.
Chapter 12
Lucy tried Theia’s number just to cross it off her list. As she’d expected, the number was unavailable. Theia was about as out-of-range as you could get. The next best means of reaching Theia was her identical twin, Rhea. The call rolled directly to voice mail. Rhea had obviously gotten tired of Lucy using her as a go-between. That left Ione and Phoebe, the two older sisters. In Lucy’s experience, Phoebe was the most approachable, even if her husband was a bit overprotective.
Phoebe answered on the first ring. “Hi, Lucy. Theia’s still out of range.”
Lucy was evidently becoming predictable. “I know. I’ve tried her number. And Rhea’s. I just really need to get in touch with Lucien. It’s not about the company,”
she added. “It’s...infernal business.”
Phoebe was quiet for a moment. “You don’t mean some kind of infernal deal? If someone needs help with a shade or a ghost, Rafe and I are happy to offer our aid, but I’m not comfortable helping you get people to sign away their souls.”
“No, it’s not about getting more people into hell. It’s about what’s gotten out.”
“Gotten out?” There was a pause and a muffled side conversation. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker. Rafe is here with me.”
“Hello, Lucy.”
“Rafe.”
“What’s this about something getting out of hell?”
“Do you remember when Carter Hamilton kept the gates open before Lucien descended?”
Phoebe groaned. “Not that bag of dicks again. Tell me he isn’t back.”
“No, he’s safely locked away.”
“You mean when Hamilton was trying to absorb hell’s power,” said Rafe.
“Exactly. He delayed Lucien’s descent before you and Leo showed up to help. And during that delay, the gates were open both ways.” Lucy realized this was the first time she’d admitted this to anyone. It felt like her own personal failing, somehow. Because she’d been susceptible to Carter’s necromancy, he’d been able to control her through a step-in shade to lure Lucien into his trap.
“And things got out,” Rafe said.
Phoebe cut in. “What kind of things are we talking about here?”
“Demons of various assortment. Hell beasts, in short.”
“Hell beasts?”
Lucy tried to keep from sounding curt. “I can’t go into all the kinds of things that are relegated to the underworld right now, but there are some things that are relatively benign and others that are absolutely antithetical to this world.”
“How long have you known about this?” Rafe asked.
“Pretty much since the gates were opened. And I’ve been tracking them down and returning them, which is why you haven’t heard about it. But there’s one thing I haven’t been able to catch.”
“Why didn’t you let anyone know?” The irritation was unmistakable in Phoebe’s voice. “We could have been helping you.”
“Because it’s not your job.” Lucy cringed at the harsh way that had come out. She hadn’t wanted to snap—particularly when she was asking them for help—but her fuse was just too short right now for her to be civil. “This is what it means to be a Smok. You may not agree with our methods, but it’s the job your ancestor saddled us with. Madeleine Marchant’s last act was to curse our family with the responsibility for managing hell.”
“Maybe Philippe Smok shouldn’t have denounced her as a witch and had her burned at the stake.” Phoebe was always quick with a comeback.
“Point taken. But regardless of how it came about, it is our responsibility, and we take that responsibility seriously.”
“Some of that responsibility is Theia’s now, too,” Phoebe reminded her.
“Which is why I’m hoping you can help me contact her.”
“She’s been away for a while, so I expect she’ll be surfacing before too long.”
“I can’t really wait for her to surface. People are dying. Is there anything at all you can think of? Maybe a spell Ione could do?”
“I don’t think it works that way. Why not just have Polly open her infamous door for you like she did for Theia when Lucien first descended?”
“I have a policy of not being indebted to my brother’s ex.”
“Even if people are dying?” Rafe pointed out. Maybe he was right. If it was her only option, what was a drop of blood or a tear for Polly’s trinket collection next to saving lives?
“Maybe,” she began.
But Phoebe interrupted. “There might be one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Theia’s been known to dream-walk.”
“Dream-walk?”
“She’s entered Rhea’s dreams a few times while she’s been below, to check in on her and pass on information.”
“And Rhea can do this, too?”
“Well...not exactly. But she might know how to attract Theia’s attention in a dream so that she’ll enter it herself.”
It sounded like a long shot, but it was better than being beholden to Polly if she didn’t have to be. “Could you call Rhea for me? I think she’s blocking my number.”
“I can do better than that.” Phoebe said something muffled, as though she’d covered the mic. “Rhea just walked in the door. Hang on a minute.” The phone went silent as Phoebe put her on mute.
When the sound returned, the phone no longer had the echoey quality of being on speaker. “Hi, Lucy. It’s Rhea. Phoebe says you need to get in touch with Theia. How do you feel about a semipermanent tattoo?”
“A what?”
“An inkless tattoo. It causes some scarring, but it usually fades in less than a year.”
“And why would I want that?”
“Because I assume you wouldn’t want to permanently mark yourself with the symbols that would get Theia’s attention in the dreamscape.”
What Rhea proposed was a series of archetypal symbols that she would tattoo without ink onto Lucy’s skin. The images were commonly used in dream interpretation, which Rhea thought Theia would be drawn to while Lucy was sleeping. Apparently, a tattoo had worked once for Rhea when she’d been trying to reach her twin. As a tattoo artist, Rhea was constantly adding ink to her skin, so permanence hadn’t been an issue for her.
The idea of using scarification on her body even temporarily wasn’t something Lucy was wild about—and tattoos were definitely not her thing—but it was almost certain to fade, especially if she didn’t bother the wounds. Unlike tattoos with ink, inkless tattoos used as semipermanent body modification called for the opposite of meticulous follow-up care, since scarring was the goal. So if she did the careful follow-up, she would minimize the scars.
It seemed likely to be less permanent than bargaining with Polly. Lucy agreed. Rhea penciled her in for the end of the day at her tattoo shop. Lucy would have preferred to do it immediately, but Rhea insisted on honoring her existing appointments. It was just as well, since the second step of this communication method required going to sleep. Something that might prove more difficult for Lucy than getting a tattoo.
Rhea’s Viking chieftain boyfriend was there when Lucy arrived. The two of them always made a striking picture together, his tall, brawny physique somehow perfectly complementing her diminutive spunk.
He gave Lucy a pointed look. “So that child-killing demon I pointed you toward—that was a hell’s gate escapee.”
Rhea’s dark brows drew together in consternation as she pushed a wayward spike of bleached blond streaked with blue out of her eyes. “You helped her find a demon? When was this?”
“Four days ago. She said it was routine.”
“I didn’t actually say it was routine.” Lucy shrugged off her overcoat and handed it to him. “I said it was right up your alley. It’s a killer, and you track down killers that belong in hell.”
“Náströnd.”
“Same difference.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“At any rate, your instincts were a little off. I ended up going after a reptilian diner waitress who apparently has never hurt a fly.” Lucy paused. “Well, probably definitely a fly. But nothing bigger.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
Lucy shrugged. “Anyway, the hell beast I was looking for found me.”
“What is this hell beast?”
She had to fight not to roll her eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to find out by contacting Theia. I need more information from Lucien.”
Rhea stepped between them and steered Lucy to the back room. “You can grill her while I work, Leo. We need to get this started.”
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Leo followed them in to hang Lucy’s coat on the coatrack and leaned back against the counter as Rhea prepped Lucy’s skin. “Do you mind if I observe?” He glanced at Rhea. “You’re not going to need her to disrobe, are you?”
Rhea glanced up with a patient smile. She was prepping Lucy’s forearm, and Lucy had worn a T-shirt. “No, Leo. I can get to her arm just fine.” Leo Ström wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. Good thing he was so easy on the eyes.
Lucy drew back her arm. “Maybe the arm isn’t the best idea after all.” She didn’t relish having to make sure she kept it covered for a year. She pulled her shirt up to the band of her bra. “Can we do it here, below the navel?”
“Might be a little more uncomfortable if you’re sensitive there.”
“I’m not sensitive anywhere.” Lucy glanced at Leo. “And you can stay.” Anything for a little distraction, as far as she was concerned. She could handle pain just fine, but having dozens of little needles jabbing into her skin repeatedly wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
She and Rhea had settled on the simplest possible symbols that could convey the meaning Lucy sought, things that would call to Theia’s subconscious: the Lilith mark, a crescent moon with a simple cross descending from it that both Theia and Rhea had tattooed on themselves as descendants of the demon goddess; a serpent twined around an apple to represent Lucien as the archetype of the devil; and two overlapping infinity symbols to signify twinship. With Rhea’s magical ability to read tattoos like tarot cards, she could impart more details than just the symbolic meaning as she created them, a sort of reverse reading for Theia to unravel.
Getting tattooed turned out to be more uncomfortable than Lucy had imagined. She’d heard people talk about the endorphin rush, but hers never kicked in. It was only afterward that Rhea mentioned the lack of lubrication from the inkless needles being a possible factor in the level of discomfort.
Leo’s pestering helped to keep her mind off it. “The information I gave you from the Hunt was that the killer you were seeking had traveled to Jerome.”