by Skye Knizley
“I doubt modern faeries would join her, but that isn’t the point. She’s an ancient vampire with faerie magik and an unquenchable bloodlust,” Storm said.
Archer sat forward. “And you, Fürstin Storm, just gave her to the enemy.”
He set his glass aside. “That is our primary concern.”
Raven shook her head. “I disagree. We found the skull by accident, I don’t think it is why Lash was killed.”
“I am disinclined to listen to your theories, Fürstin,” Archer snapped.
Raven stood and glared at him. “And I’m not interested in taking orders from a tin-plate Embraced who holds his throne by trickery rather than leadership!”
She leaned close, the pain in her head was making her grouchy. “If Lash thought Titania was important, it would have been her name written in blood. But he wrote Black Eon. I’m going to find out why.”
Archer’s smile was genuine. “Oooh, I love it when you get feisty. What’s your plan, keep handing artifacts to the enemy until they give you a prize?”
Raven felt her anger rise and her fangs extend. “I’ve caught and put far worse things than you in the ground, Archer, do not test me.”
Storm clamped a hand around her bicep. “Okay, kid, I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Heel!”
Raven let herself be pulled away from Archer, her blood boiling. “I swear I’m going to pull his head off. Did you say ‘heel’?”
“Find Titania, Wulf. She’s the threat, not this Black Eon, whatever it is. Find Skorzeny and kill him,” Archer yelled.
Storm stopped in the doorway. “We’ll do what we need to, Archer. The kid is right, there is something else going on, I’m going to find out what.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Stevens, Michigan Avenue, Chicago IL 1943
Night had fallen by the time they arrived at the hotel, and the lobby was choked with a surprising number of middle-aged guests. Raven did her best to hide the blood that had soaked into her blouse and wound her way through the well-dressed crowd to the elevator. She adjourned to the room while Storm ordered yet another meal from the kitchen.
This case was getting on her nerves. It wasn’t a murder case, nor was it about Titania’s skull, Skorzeny had said as much. It was even odds that Lash had been killed for Titania’s skull, but why would Skorzeny kill him if he’d already hired someone else to get it for him? The double and triple crosses made her head ache.
After the meal, Raven lay on the sofa and watched the city outside. Aircraft, what looked like fighters, were flying random patrols, she could see their silhouettes against the building clouds in the distance.
Storm lit a cigarette and leaned against the window. “What’s our next move?”
Raven sat up. “You’re asking me? I thought this was your beat.”
“Kid, I’m a gumshoe for the city. I catch ordinary humans. Muggers, thieves, the occasional murderer who caught his wife sleeping around, this is outside my wheelhouse. I don’t do inhuman crimes,” Storm said.
“No such thing,” Raven said.
Storm exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Beg pardon?”
“No such thing as inhuman crimes. All crimes are human ones, with the same elements. All monsters are human, which is what makes them so damn frightening,” Raven said.
She stood and crossed the room. “There is always intent, motive and opportunity, nothing more and nothing less.”
“What about a lycan pulling someone’s head off?”
“Murder, bloodlust and the guy was standing within arm’s reach,” Raven replied without missing a beat.
“Sounds like nonsense. Something else the older me told you?” Storm asked.
Raven shook her head. “No. Something you repeated often enough, though.”
She picked up a glass and filled it halfway with water. “I never wanted to be a cop, you know.”
Storm’s eyebrows rose. “No? You seem to have a knack for the work.”
“No. I was sixteen when−”
“Enough, Ray. I know what you want to say, and as your friend I want to listen. As your father, I can’t. I can’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” Storm said. “I might make a different decision and change what’s already happened.”
Raven turned away with tears in her eyes. She needed to tell him, she wanted to change it, maybe if he knew he could stop it and not leave her for fifteen years. Her life could have been different, Sable’s too. Twins should grow up together, not apart and hating each other. It wasn’t right that they’d been kept apart, that she’d thought Storm was dead.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. “I know, Raven. But like you said before, what happened to you has already happened. We can’t change it, no matter what we want. You are the person you are because of what you’ve survived. If we change my future, we change yours, too.”
“I’m okay with that,” Raven said.
“I’m not. I’m kinda proud to know one of my kids is going to not only survive, but be a strong, liberated woman who fights the bad guys,” Storm said. “Now can we buck up and get this job done?”
Raven sipped her water and set it aside. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Let me get dressed then we can visit the morgue and that Nightingale’s place.”
Storm checked his watch. “The morgue? At this hour?”
“It should be quiet.”
She turned to her room and heard, “It’s always quiet, it’s a morgue.”
Chicago City Morgue, Chicago, IL 1943
Raven stared through the windshield of the Packard. Outside was the morgue, the same brick building that dated back to the 1800s and had once been a slaughterhouse. It wasn’t restored like it was in the future, the bricks were crumbling in places and the eaves were sagging, but the concrete steps, metal railing and basement entrance were almost the same.
“What’s wrong?” Storm asked.
“I was hoping it was a different building. I don’t suppose you have any cough drops, do you?”
“Nope. I don’t like the smell any better than you do, let’s get this over with.”
Raven sighed and followed him out. At his insistence she’d worn a clingy gown beneath a black fur that made her feel like she was wearing a lycan disguise. Storm had argued they wouldn’t get into Nightingale’s if she was dressed like a motorcyclist, and he was right, but the thin gown, satin gloves and fur felt odd against her skin. How did women survive in this era?
The corridor at the bottom of the steps led to a doorway that, in Raven’s day, was glass and watched over by a low-ranking patrol officer. This one was metal with a simple lock and pull handle. Storm unlocked the door with a key from his pocket and Raven followed him into the foyer beyond. The lights at the bottom of the next flight of stairs flickered, the same haunting pattern she was used to, though these were bare bulbs rather than the harsh fluorescents she was familiar with.
She was halfway down the stairs when the odor of blood and rotting meat hit her like a hammer. She gagged and gripped the railing hard enough to bend the steel.
“What’s wrong?” Storm asked.
Raven raised one hand and said through gritted teeth, “The smell.”
She fought her stomach back and opened her eyes. Storm was standing a few feet away, a look of concern on his face.
“I’m fine,” Raven said. “Let’s just go look at this body.”
They reached the end of the stairs and entered the main cooler, where Storm pulled out a drawer. It seemed odd that the modern morgue still used the same drawers, but if something wasn’t broken the city wasn’t likely to spend money fixing it. They weren’t likely to fix things that were broken in the first place.
Lash lay beneath a white sheet stained with his blood. He’d been a man of average height and build, with brown hair blackened and curled by heat. His torso was crusted with burned
skin and blood, and though some effort had been made to scrub him clean, the charred remains of clothing still stuck to him. Milky, burned eyes peered out from beneath heavy lids and made Raven feel like she was being judged. She rolled the sheet back and fought off another wave of nausea. A large circular burn filled the center of his chest, so deep his ribs and organs were blackened.
“Dear God, what can do this?” Storm asked.
Raven shook her head. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
She picked up the chart and flipped through it. “Your coroner’s name is Ichabod Foster? Really?”
“Everyone calls him Icky. What are you looking for?”
“Cause of death. Here it is, Icky writes that the cause of death seems to be from extreme radiating heat, such as being near, but not within an inferno or similar raging heat source,” Raven said. “There was a sulfur residue in the wound he couldn’t identify.”
“But he was found on the street,” Storm said, “and there were no big fires last night.”
Raven nodded, but her eyes were on Lash’s hands. He had defensive wounds on his arms and his knuckles were bruised, he hadn’t been killed instantly and he hadn’t given up without a fight.
“Icky found traces of black cloth beneath Lash’s nails and pulled a nine millimeter bullet from his thigh,” she said.
“You think it was our friend Skorzeny?” Storm asked.
Raven pursed her lips. “Mm…no. I think if Skorzeny had something that would have cooked us like this he would have used it instead of attracting the attention of the human world. Speaking of which, what did you do about the lycans we left at Poole’s?”
“Archer. It’s part of his responsibility as Master. I’m sure your Mistress does the same,” Storm said.
“Yes, but Archer doesn’t seem to be much of a Master,” Raven said.
“He’s a jerk, but he has his moments. He takes his oath to the Totentanz serious enough.”
Raven pulled the cloth back further revealing the pale, charred flesh of his legs and let her vampire senses come alive. She could smell cleansers and the stench of blood and death, but there was another scent. A sickly sweet smell usually confined to the rooms of the dead and dying.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
“I don’t have your sense of smell, Ray,” Storm said.
“It’s like vanilla mixed with bad breath,” Raven said.
Storm made a face. “Does the victim have dirty feet?”
“I doubt it, this is an odor he picked up somewhere. It’s clinging to his skin like cheap cologne,” Raven replied.
She lowered the sheet and put Lash back into some semblance of order. The odor was stuck in her head, but she had no idea what it meant.
“Learn anything?” Storm asked, shoving the drawer closed.
Raven pulled her fur tighter and turned to the exit. “My gut tells me we’re looking for some kind of caster, though I’ve no idea who or what.”
“Magik? I hate sorcerers, they’re always unpredictable and sociopathic. It’s the magik, it does something to their heads,” Storm said.
“I think some people are just natural born psychopaths. Aspen is the most balanced person I know,” Raven replied.
Outside, Raven breathed deep of the cold night air, letting it fill her lungs and clean the scent of blood and death from her nostrils. She knew she would recognize the scent clinging to Lash if she smelled it again, otherwise the morgue hadn’t been helpful. Most men she’d seen were wearing black coats and dark suits, making the fabric under Lash’s nails useless without technology that wouldn’t be invented for about forty years.
Storm started the Packard and leaned out the window. “Come on, kid, I could use a drink.”
He was learning, Raven had to give him that. He hadn’t tried to open a door for her all afternoon. She slipped into the warm car and slammed the door. “You can buy me a tequila and lime.”
Nightingale’s, North Broadway, Chicago, IL 1943
Nightingale’s was some distance from the District, but as Storm said, it operated with Archer’s blessing. The idea of a preternatural business so far from the vampire zone gave Raven the creeps, but there was no real difference between humans rubbing shoulders here or a few blocks north, they were still in the belly of the beast, as it were.
The club was large, with a wide entrance made of polished wood and brass. Frosted windows overlooked the street and city beyond while ensuring the privacy of customers and two heavily armed bouncers made sure only high-end clientele was allowed beyond the velvet rope and heavy antique door.
Inside was different from any club Raven had ever been to. Most of the guest area consisted of two and four person tables arranged in a semi-circle in front of an oval stage where an eight piece band was playing Big Band music. A small dance floor was placed on the far side of the club and the bar was opposite. It looked as if the stage could be pushed behind the curtain to enlarge the dance floor, but then where would the music come from? Raven was still musing when a young woman offered to take her coat. Raven slipped out of it while Storm accepted the check slip. They were then seated at a two person table one row back from the stage.
“Okay, now what?” Storm asked.
The waitress returned with the drinks Storm had ordered. Raven stopped her with a smile and gentle hand.
“Miss, I’m wondering if you know a Napoleon Lash? He asked us to meet him here over a business matter.”
The waitress shook her head. “No, ma’am, but I’ll ask Ms. DeGrey to stop by, she knows most of the regulars.”
“Is she the manager?” Raven asked.
The waitress’ face froze. “No, ma’am, she’s tonight’s hostess and singer. Excuse me, I have other tables. Let me know if you need anything.”
When she was gone, Storm leaned close. “You have to remember, kid, women in this age aren’t cops, managers or business people. At least, not most of them.”
“Idiotic,” Raven muttered under her breath.
“I don’t disagree,” Storm said. “My mother was a warrior and shaman. Given what I’ve seen, this age of women being subservient is new.”
He sat back and pulled out his cigarette case. “My mother would have liked you, you’re a warrior. You even have her hair, if I’m honest.”
“I never knew her,” Raven said, sipping her martini.
Storm looked away. “She died long before the current age. A dragon roasted her.”
Raven spit vodka onto the table and choked. Storm unwrapped his napkin and sopped up the mess.
“Relax!” he ordered.
Raven coughed again and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “A what?”
“Hush! People are staring!”
“Let them stare! Did you say dragon?” Raven asked.
“Yes!” Storm hissed. “And I shouldn’t have!”
“Is there a problem here?” a familiar voice asked. Raven turned and looked up into the beautiful face of Francois Du Guerre. His hair was cut short and parted on the left, but it was him. He wore a black and white tuxedo with a carnation in the lapel and red sash at his waist. His “I’m so amazing I impress even myself,” grin was in place, making his dimples pop and his eyes sparkle.
“Her drink just went down the wrong way,” Storm said. “She’ll be alright in a minute.”
Du Guerre ignored him. “Do I know you, Miss?”
Every inch of Raven wanted to hit him, to drive a stake through his lying heart and save herself the betrayal. She forced a smile and extended a gloved hand. “Storm. Ms. Storm, and I don’t believe we’ve met.”
He accepted her hand and kissed it gently. “Strohm. Francois Alek Von Strohm. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Raven had to fight not to yank her hand free. “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.”
Strohm. Alek Vo
n Strohm. That explained a lot, including his betrayal. What didn’t make sense was Valentina letting him anywhere near the family with that moniker. Was he Strohm’s son…no, he couldn’t be, Francois was Embraced, which meant he was a childer of Strohm. Interesting…
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked when she realized Du Guerre was still talking.
Du Guerre laughed and Raven felt his power wash over her. “I was asking you to dance.”
He extended a hand. “Please?”
Raven felt Storm’s hand on her thigh, a paternal touch of warning. She shook him off and stood with Du Guerre. “I’d be delighted to dance with you.”
Du Guerre smiled wider and Raven let him lead her to the dance floor, all the while pretending to be smitten. As soon as her foot touched wood, the song changed to a less upbeat tune, something more suitable for a slow dance. Du Guerre spun her around and pulled her into his arms, his perfect smile still in place.
“I’ve never met a dhampyr before. Does your escort know?” he asked.
Raven smiled. “He does, I don’t keep my life secret from my friends. You’re a vampire, Embraced, if I’m any judge. I’m guessing Lord Strohm is your Master?”
Du Guerre’s smile froze while the rest of his face shrank away. “Was, yes. We parted ways many years ago.”
“It’s so sad when families fall apart. But then, your Master was a psychopath.”
Du Guerre stopped smiling. “How do you know of him?”
Raven smiled. “It’s a long story, let’s just say we aren’t friends. Tell me, is this your club?”
Du Guerre’s face hardened, it was clear he wanted to ask what Raven knew, but he nodded. “It is, I purchased it a few years ago. Others handle the day to day tasks, but the club is mine. You’re lucky, I’m not here very often.”
His smile came back and again his power washed over her. Raven gritted her teeth and leaned closer to his ear. “Try that again and I will gut you right here on the dance floor. Your influence doesn’t work on me, it just makes my teeth itch.”
Du Guerre’s smile widened. “That is very interesting, I wasn’t aware any dhampyr’s had the ability to shrug off my influence.”