Greater Treasures: A DragonEye Novella

by Karina Fabian

  "Not without risking client confidentiality." Santry sneered at this. "I can tell you I'm looking for Grace's attacker."

  "Any success?"

  "Some."

  Santry waited, but when I didn't elaborate, he tried a different tactic. "We'd like to look around the place."

  I yawned and stretched, extending my claws, then settled back into my original position. "Fine. Come back later with the search warrant and a crew of about twelve. It's a big place. Think you could ask them to sweep as long as they're fingerprint dusting?"

  "Don't get smart with me—"

  "Can't help it. Says so in the Yellow Pages: Wisdom of the ages, knowledge of eternity. Virginity confirmed. Though that doesn't mean as much to you Mundanes—"

  "Cut the crap!"

  "Then tell me what this is about." I forced myself to keep my voice even.

  "What this is about? Your partner is barely alive, and I’ve got two dead men! I want answers. Now tell me where you were last night—in detail—or we can take this downtown."

  "Two dead men?"

  "Don't play stupid. One has dragon attack written all over it. You want to come quietly?"

  "You got a warrant?"

  "I don't need a warrant. I know the immigration laws, especially when it comes to you. You are not a person in my government's eyes, and you've been exiled from your own. I don't have to arrest you. I can just impound you like an animal—"

  "Like Lancelot, you will! I already spent my time in your precious city zoo, and you're not taking me back." I reared up, wings unfurled, cheek crests flared, every inch the wild dragon.

  I've never yet met a knight that had anything on a burned-out copper with a distrust for magic and a grudge against private investigators. Santry met me glare for glare.

  Kel stepped in between us. "Look, Vern, we just need to know where you were last night. Help us narrow this down."

  I settled back into my original position, and Santry backed off. "I've been all around this town tonight. Even to the Broadmoor. Don't ask why. The doorman can probably give you the times. Otherwise, I was keeping a low profile. You should know that, Kel. You were the one that warned me in the first place.”

  I fixed my gaze on Santry. “Your turn: Who were these two guys murdered, and what do you mean one had dragon written all over?"

  "We couldn't find anything on the guy Grace was shadowing, so I wanted to see the crime scene again. It'd already been cleaned up, but you never know.

  "We found your perp. Dead. His arm torn off. He bled to death through an artery. We found a dart matching the one that hit Grace in his pocket. The bones look like they were hacked with hunting knives." He looked significantly at my canines.

  I twisted my head with annoyance. "Then they probably were. If I'm going to kill something, I'm going to eat it, no matter how distasteful. Further, these teeth—" I indicated my canines. "—are for piercing and holding prey. If I want to bite through bone, I use the front ones. Don't believe me? Ask a vet, or maybe a paleontologist. Finally, if I thought this guy poisoned Grace, do you think I'd kill him without getting the antidote?"

  "Maybe you did. Maybe it's being made right now."

  "In which case, I'd be at Grace's side, telling her to hold on, help was on the way."

  "Why aren't you at the hospital?"

  "Because, like you, I've been trying to track down a killer. Unlike you, I didn't have a night of sleep beforehand. If I'm going to be any help to Grace, I need to be sharp. I came home for a short nap until I could start checking out my leads."

  "You got any?"

  "Nothing conclusive. And nothing I can share without putting my client—or Grace—in further danger."

  "I could bring you in." I wasn't sure if Santry meant it as an offer or a threat.

  "Santry, we are dealing with things that go beyond the Mundane. I need to be free to work in my own way. I'll get to the bottom of this, believe me. The dragon always wins."

  "Another Faerie cliché?" Santry smirked, and Kel relaxed.

  I smiled, too. "Almost as much as the Good Cop/Bad Cop shtick."

  His smile faded. "It's not a shtick. Two people are dead, and one I happen to admire greatly is just hanging on. If you have any information that can put that murderer behind bars, I want it—but, do what you have to do."

  "Just don't eat anyone until we have a chance to question him," Kel added, trying to lighten the mood. Santry glared at him. He never has appreciated that kind of humor.

  I escorted them out. As we passed the kitchen area, Santry noticed Junior's gun, which I'd carelessly tossed on the table on my way in. "What's this?"

  "Found it last night. I was going to destroy it as soon as I got up."

  "You should have turned it in to us right away. It could have been used in a crime."

  "Tell you what. Dust it for prints and run a ballistics check. If it's evidence, it's yours. Otherwise, I get to flame it."

  "There's always more where it came from."

  "If you can't beat them, inconvenience them. Hey, Santry."

  He paused with his hand on the knob. Kel had already gone out and was giving the dogs the petting they'd been begging for. "Yeah?"

  "The dart."

  "Empty and clean."

  "Sure it wasn't a plant? Seems to me someone's trying to set me up."

  Santry pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "It's never easy around you, is it?"

  "Not for eight hundred years, Santry. Not for eight hundred years."

  Faerie-Go-Round

  Actually, it was eight hundred and fifty years since St. George—God bless him, the magically overpowered pain in the tail—trapped me in a spell and took away everything that made me a dragon. He couldn't kill me, couldn't even properly convert me. Dragons are immortal and soulless—if by "soul" you mean the human version. So he did the next best thing: my size, my wisdom, my magic, my flight, my fire, all became holy hostages. I can only earn them back through good deeds to others and service to God through the Faerie Catholic Church—which, of late, I accomplish as a private detective to the particularly desperate. It hasn't been easy, but it has been interesting, especially the years I've spent on the Mundane side as a PI.

  Some days were a little too interesting.

  Thanks to Santry, I wouldn’t get back to sleep anytime soon, so I padded over to the office to do research. One thing I'd learned fast in this business was the value of a good computer. While mine warmed up, I moved Grace's keyboard off the steel plate where my virtual keyboard would shine. I can do very delicate work, even spent a few decades doing copy work with the Jesuits, but dragon claws are hard on plastic.

  The phone rang as I was scanning the articles about the murders. "Vern, it's Anita from Little Flowers. Father just told us about Grace. Madre de Dios! Are you all right?"

  I didn't trust myself to answer. "How'd he say she was doing?"

  "They think her kidneys are failing. Vern, the papers—"

  On page one of the local section was a lovely photo of our suspect, or at least of his stump of arm soaking in a dark pool. One for the scrapbooks. The accompanying article was full of "No Comments," by law enforcement, but that didn't stop the reporter from putting in enough innuendo to set my rep back eight and a half centuries regardless of the facts. I glanced at the byline: Kitty McGrue. Figures. I'd saved her life once, but ruined her story in the process. She's never forgiven me.

  "Guess my red color makes me a herring," I bemoaned to Anita.

  "Kitty McGrue is muy estupida. I think it's the Fellowship of the Fourth Reich, hurting Grace and trying to make you take the fall."

  "You read too many detective novels," I teased. Anita had good instincts and knew it. She made sure we knew it as well.

  "You know there are some of them in Gina's school? They beat up a Faerie human—a freshman, I think—and one of Gina's friends who tried to stop him. At Martin Luther King High!"

  "That's irony."

  Anita offered
to call our friends and cancel Grace's appointments for me, so I emailed her the information, and then went on with my research.

  Two hours later, I was more convinced than ever that no matter what evil magic could bring to the Faerie side, we had nothing on the imagination of the Mundanes.

  I went to morning Mass.

  Naturally, we prayed for Grace in the special intentions, and afterward, some of the regulars offered to stay and pray the rosary with me on her behalf. I spent some time answering questions and listening to speculations. Quite a few were convinced it was the Neo-Nazis, and they were worried.

  "I have offered to go to the schools and tell them about the real Nazis, but the district is afraid it could make things worse," Joseph grumbled. His family had fled Germany after their parish priest was arrested and sent to a concentration camp. "Bah! We must speak now, before the day comes when we cannot speak at all."

  Next, I went to the hospital. I dropped by the florist shop first and used my sniffer to pick out some flowers. If Grace wasn't awake to see them, she could at least smell them. I paid the tongue-tied cashier with some of the money I'd gotten from Eva, but remembered the price to add to my expense list.

  I spoke gently to Grace, telling her what I'd learned. Then I waved the fragrant flowers under her nose.

  "I got these for you. Spent our good money on them, too, so you may as well open your eyes and appreciate them because you'll probably be paying for them with voice lessons when you get out of here."

  Her nostrils didn't even twitch at the sweet, spicy scent.

  "Hang on, Grace. I'm going to find who did this to you, and I will find the cure. The dragon always wins."

  *

  Eva was next on my to-do list. As I landed on the balcony, I saw her reading the paper, her mouth curled in something between a smile and a grimace. Her expression changed, however, as soon as I knocked on the door, and she hastened to open it. "Oh, Vern! I was just reading about the deaths!"

  "Seem kind of pleased."

  "I hated that man!" she spat. "He deserved what he got. Oh, but it doesn't help us, does it? Have you located the Lance or my brother?"

  Interesting priorities.

  *

  Given the day I was having, it came as no surprise that when I got home, I found the dogs sprawled in a drugged sleep and the sounds of things being overturned from within the warehouse. I decided not to bother with subtlety, but I did resist the urge to burst in with flames going full-blast. I had questions first.

  Naturally, I walked straight in to find an automatic weapon—yep, a bona fide black-market AK-47—and I thought only Faerie lived their clichés—and six other weapons of various types pointed at me. I didn't stop, just closed the door with my tail while I strolled in slow and placid-like. My visitors had shaved heads, faces painted white with clown paint, and black t-shirts with swastikas in white circles.

  "If you're the housekeeping service, you're fired."

  "You stay right there, or we gonna fire you!" said one guy from the sidelines as he held his nunchucks at the ready.

  What'd he think he would do—whack me on the nose? I turned to the one holding the assault rifle. "Scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one, weren't you?"

  "He's right. You just stay still while we search the place."

  "The place" was a ten-thousand square foot warehouse with offices on the upper floor. Boxes I still hadn't opened line the walls and made a maze in the second warehouse room. I settled myself on the floor and rested my head on my crossed arms. "Go ahead. I get half of anything you find."

  They stared at me, unbelieving. I smiled back. Mr. Cooperation, that's me. Finally, Big Gun snarled for the others to get to work. As he turned his back on me, Nunchucks muttered, "I got your half. Don't think I don't." Guess he learned such witty repartee in Hitler Youth Summer Camp.

  I watched and listened and waited. With eight teenage skinheads trashing my place, it was only a matter of time.

  "I wouldn't go in there if I were you," I suggested as Nunchucks made a grab for the doorknob to Grace's workshop.

  "You gonna stop me?" He turned the knob.

  "Nope," I said as I closed my ears and my eyes. Even so, I saw the otherworldly light and heard the harmonious roar of Divine Vengeance followed by Mundane screams.

  "The Heavenly Host on the other hand…"

  I waited until the screams died down to whimpers before opening my eyes and rising.

  Four of the skinheads were unconscious. Three may as well have been; they were curled up in the fetal position, whimpering. Nunchucks was actually crying for his mommy. Big Guns had collapsed to the floor as well, the gun thrown away from him. He was sitting and rocking and making high-pitched keening through the roof of his mouth.

  I'd tell Grace to tone down her wards some, except that the effect is directly proportional to the evilness of the intent. Suddenly, I was feeling a little shaky about my earlier entrance.

  Knights out of the armor now. I went around, collecting weapons in the office trash can and poking through pockets. I found the usual stuff—driver's licenses, credit cards, petty cash… One kid had a condom; wishful thinking on his part, I knew. Another had a report card. MLK High. Wonder if he was the one beating up Faerie kids? Honor roll grades, too. Of all the years I've battled evil, there were still some things I didn't understand.

  As I was returning Big Guns' (aka Rick Matherston's) wallet back into his jacket pocket, he blinked and focused on me.

  "What was that?"

  "Angels, kid." Actually a kind of magical shadow of the real thing, but close enough.

  "But I thought angels were—"

  "There's a reason why their first words are usually 'Fear not!' whenever they meet a human."

  His eyes returned to their unfocused stare. I almost felt sorry for him. Then I noticed the letters FARISLAR tattooed on his knuckles. Faerie slayer.

  Santry

  Grace's wards also contained a spell to repair or clean up much of the damage done by a would-be intruder. In fact, there have been times I’d been tempted to set the spell off just to straighten up the place. I’d come in from finishing up and checking the dogs when Santry again graced me with his presence.

  "Where you been?" he demanded.

  "Throwing out the trash. They should be conscious in an hour or so."

  Santry hissed through his teeth and turned to the officer with him. "Go."

  The uniform swept past me, pulling out her gun as she went. Smart girl knew the neighborhood—or me.

  "Something I can do for you, Santry?" I asked before he could start asking me questions. From beside the building, the officer called out, "There's six of them in here. Uh, gross! I'm calling a wagon!"

  "Check the other bin, but it sounds like a couple recovered!" I called back.

  Santry looked like he could use a stiff drink. "Recovered from what?"

  "Grace's security system. I came home to find eight FFR-types searching the place. One of them made the mistake of trying to open her workroom."

  "Are they going to be all right?"

  "Nothing some counseling and, if they're so inclined, absolution— wouldn't fix. So what can I do for you?"

  Santry pulled out Junior's gun and tossed it to me. I ringed the trigger guard with my claw. "It's clean and unregistered. Think it belongs to your yahoos?"

  "Nah, not their style." I headed into my office with Santry following. He gasped when he saw the felonious pile on my desk. "This is what the well-dressed skinhead is wearing these days."

  Santry sighed as he used a pencil to push a switchblade off the automatic weapon. "What'd they want with you, Vern?" He seemed more exasperated than concerned. It almost hurt.

  "No idea. Grace's Karma shield got to them before I found out. Found this, though." I gave him a copy of the note I'd found. I'd figured it out while I was relocating my visitors, so I told him the translation while he wrote it down with the pencil. It was a location, and meeting time a week from now, along
with three names to pass the message to. "My guess is those are gang leaders, not individuals," I concluded. "They may think they're being clever, but they're fooling themselves. The Faerie may seem like a submissive, peaceable lot, but if they see an organized threat, they'll unite to protect what's theirs—which your society has made sure they know is their freedom and their equality. You're going to have a nice little war on your hands if you don't do something."

  "What if it's just a rally?"

  I shrugged. "Last time anyone in Galen's duchy saw a rally, Baron Gascon LeSalle's troops invaded their land. They're not going to believe a bunch of people calling for their deaths will stop at motivational chants—unless they do the stopping."

  "And I left LA for this," he sighed. "You sure about the date? All right, then. Let's talk about the murders. We got an ID on the Doe—Lance Pointiers, a dealer in antiquities. He got anything to do with Grace's and your case?"

  "Not that I know of. Anything stolen? There's an artifacts conference in town, and the papers made it sound like a mugging."

  "Could be, but God knows what they might have taken. He was shot in the chest, close range, but he didn't look like the kind of guy who'd put up a fight or even have the wit to run. His assistant's gone—kidnapped or skipped town, we don't know. We're having a hard time tracking down anyone who knows him. He's a private dealer and something of a recluse. No next of kin, exclusive clientele. We're trying to contact the New Orleans police, but they have their hands full right now with Hurricane Serena."

  I nodded. Only humans would believe a "once in a century" storm would have the manners to not happen twice within decades, and that their fancy technology could thwart the worst Mother Nature had to offer. That same mentality kept some humans believing they could actually destroy a dragon once and for all. Whether it was optimism or stupidity, it annoyed me. At any rate, the devastation left by Hurricane Serena seemed to have also destroyed our lead. "Nothing about him on the Net? Kind of merchandise, clientele?"

  "Just his name, photo and business address in New Orleans, which is about all they had on him at the conference. Why?"

  "Just fishing for connections. What about the other guy?"