The Elementals Collection

by L. B. Gilbert

  “And what about this?” Doyle asked, indicating the other photos of the alley fight.

  Cocking her head to the side, she smiled at Romero. “Do you always let your partner do all the talking?” she asked him.

  Doyle banged his fist on the table, forcing her attention back to him. “Look at me, bitch. I’m the one asking the questions.”

  Serin raised one fine dark eyebrow, leaning forward in her chair. “I don’t like that word,” she murmured.

  The room grew colder by several degrees.

  “Like I give a shit.” Doyle snapped. He didn’t notice the temperature change, but across the room, Romero frowned and glanced at the air vent as if it were responsible.

  “The entire Devil’s Hand motorcycle gang wants to press charges against you,” Doyle continued.

  She doubted that. No district attorney worth a dime was about to bring a case on behalf of a bunch of killers and drug traffickers already in prison.

  “I don’t see why,” she replied with flawless confusion. “The woman in these photos isn’t me.”

  Serin pretended to study them more closely. “I can see a superficial resemblance, of course. We have similar hair, but this woman is much skinnier than I am.” She added a wistful sigh, deciding to play on some tried and true feminine stereotypes. “I really need to lose five pounds.”

  Against the wall, Romero snorted. “Nice try, but every curve matches exactly.”

  Serin blinked, her laugh light. “Really now? You sound so certain. Just how closely have you studied this video and my body?”

  Across from her, Doyle twisted to throw his partner a pointed glance of exasperation.

  Romero glowered, but didn’t answer. Serin realized with some surprise that she enjoyed baiting him.

  You should be ashamed of yourself. Getting picked up by human law enforcement was a huge no-no. Avoiding government agencies was Elementals 101. Gia should have her stripped for this. But that thought didn’t stop Serin from batting her eyelashes at Romero.

  Doyle grunted. “Listen, lady, we know you. We both saw you at a crime scene in Texas.”

  “Well, my bathing suit was rather memorable,” she said, acknowledging their first meeting. When had that been? Almost thirteen months ago…

  Doyle pounced. “So you don’t deny you knew the Reaper?”

  The what? “I don’t know anyone by that name. I was an invited guest of a man called Felix Desjardin—a very well-known art collector.”

  “So we’re supposed to believe you were consorting with a known drug dealer for some sort of art deal?” Doyle was deadpan.

  “That’s what I do. I buy art for people who can pay—the hard-to-find pieces. I travel extensively for my work, from Texas to Paris, Rome to Afghanistan, and back again. I go where the art or antiques are.”

  “And do you always go to these places at the behest of criminals?”

  Her fingers fluttered. “I don’t ask my clients where they get their money, only if they have it.”

  “What did you buy for the Reaper?”

  She tapped her chin. “If recollection serves, Felix asked me to acquire a fine Louis the Sixteenth writing desk for him. It was a bit ostentatious, but to each his own. I don’t question my client’s tastes.”

  “Really?” Doyle was dripping sarcasm now. “Did you by chance give him a taste of something else? Something that knocked him out like you did with Rainer Torsten? Is that why we found him face down in his jacuzzi?”

  Gasping, Serin sat up straighter. “Rainer thinks I drugged him?”

  She waited a calculated beat before frowning. “Well, I’m not surprised his memory is a bit off. He was drinking heavily the last time I saw him—he was in a celebratory mood, more so than I. But I’m crushed he believes I did something to him.”

  She paused, languorously tracing her collarbone and staring off into the distance as if lost in memories. “It was a memorable night. Well, for me, anyway.” Straightening, she turned back to Doyle. “I should give him a call. I’d like to make sure he’s all right.”

  “If that’s what you want to use your last phone call for, go right ahead. But you’re not fooling anyone. You’re in a lot of trouble, girlie. We’ve got enough here to put you away for a very long time.”

  It was the girlie that did it.

  Serin dropped her hapless facade. Ice infused her tone. “What you have is a whole lot of nothing. I’m an art dealer. I work with colorful characters at times. As long as they can pay for the things they want me to get them, I don’t judge. My business is licensed and above board. I’ve never done anything illegal. Furthermore, I would bet my last dollar you didn’t find any drugs in Rainer Torsten’s system aside from alcohol. I won’t make the same claim for Felix Desjardin. Word is the man liked to party. But he didn’t do so with me. And this—”

  She pushed the grainy picture of her fighting in the alley back at the agent. “This is some other woman.”

  Doyle narrowed his eyes. “How quickly you’ve forgotten the body at Charmed Antiques—Henry Hobbes, the owner.”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything. I had an appointment with Mr. Hobbes. I was in search of an antique clock for another client, and he said he had one. It’s why I thought nothing of entering when I found the door open. I was just about to call the police when you showed up. But I certainly didn’t kill him. I’d never even met the man before. It was our first meeting.”

  Sprinkling truths in with the lies made for a better argument, but Doyle was a seasoned cop. “Maybe you killed him for the clock.”

  She tried not to roll her eyes. “I can afford to pay for my wares. It’s better business practice.”

  The door opened, and a uniform poked her head in. She whispered something to Romero.

  Stiffening, he turned to her. “How did your lawyer know where to find you? You haven’t made any calls.”

  They hadn’t charged her with anything either, so she wasn’t in the system.

  “A friend must have called them.”

  The agents wore identical frowns. Serin huffed in genuine exasperation. “Networking is part of my job. I make lots of connections, but you never know what you’re walking into so whenever I’m meeting someone new, I tell a friend where I’m going.” She shrugged. “A girl can’t be too careful these days. My friend must have seen you take me in without cause.”

  The door burst open. Loki hurried in wearing a middle-aged Nordic goddess as a disguise, a well-known lawyer if her guess was right.

  “Don’t say another word.” Loki turned to the agents. “You’re questioning my client without her attorney. I’ve spoken with the officer in charge, and he’s confirmed she isn’t a suspect in the death of Henry Hobbs. There was no blood on the jacket they confiscated.”

  Loki, disguised as a female lawyer, showed them the jacket, still neatly wrapped in an evidence bag.

  Turning to Serin, Loki patted her on the shoulder in a demonstration of comfort, but Serin could feel his anxiety transmitting through the small touch.

  Serves him right. He’d gotten her into this mess.

  Romero peeled himself off the wall. “We’re not done questioning her. She’s a suspect in dozens of other crimes.”

  Dozens? Damn, she’d been messy if it was dozens. That or Romero was a better hunter than she’d thought.

  Loki smirked. “If you value your jobs, then yes, you are done. I’ve already contacted your superior to let him know we’re willing to file harassment charges against you.”

  Doyle pointed a stubby finger at her. “That woman beat a gang of bikers to a body pulp. Seven ended up in the hospital.” He proceeded to play the video on his cell phone.

  Loki dismissed the video with a wave. “Please. That’s obviously a fake. A woman alone couldn’t take out that many men. Someone probably staged the whole thing to sell self-defense classes. That or it was shot for some budget web series. Have you even bothered to check YouTube?”

  He poked Serin in the shoulder and she rose,
taking her jacket out of the plastic wrapping and slipping it on. She nodded at the agents in turn, lingering on Romero a little longer than was strictly necessary.

  “Well, gentlemen, thank you for an interesting evening. I would say let’s do this again, but I find you both very unpleasant company. Well, Agent Doyle, anyway…”

  She sashayed past them, deliberately slowing to swipe her finger along Romero’s folded arm. It was as hard as corded steel, but it heated under her touch. Loki tugged her away, hurrying to a waiting sports car, one he no doubt ‘borrowed’.

  He threw the car in gear, snapping back into the handsome greaser after the first turn. “What was that? You were so va-va-voom with that cop. It was fucking hot.”

  Ignoring him, Serin waited until he pulled up to a light before twisting to punch him in the arm.

  Loki yelped, holding his arm to his side. He pouted. “Is that a way to thank me for cleaning up after you with the humans?”

  She glared at him. “I wouldn’t have needed cleaning up after if you hadn’t set me up.”

  “I didn’t know someone was going to ice the old guy! I swear. I thought the intel I gave you was good.”

  “Well, someone killed him and then called the cops just in time for my unscheduled visit,” she grumbled. “They must have been watching you. Hobbs died just after you took the bait and brought me his name.”

  The light changed, and Loki stepped on the gas. He was still sulking and rubbing his arm. “I haven’t felt any eyes on me, and I’m pretty damn good at spotting that sort of thing.”

  She didn’t doubt it. Lokis were known for pissing people off. Quick exits wouldn’t be worth a damn if they were easily tracked. The careless among them didn’t last.

  “I guess Puck knows you’re hunting for him, huh?”

  “So it seems.” Serin glowered out the window as the passing streets. Her ill humor brought the rain, the steady miserable drizzle opening into a downpour, something hard enough to clear the streets of people.

  Loki peeked at her sideways, tsking. “Poor bastard doesn’t know what he just started.”

  9

  Loki grinned when he got the text. He hurriedly swallowed the last of his whipped-cream Frappuccino before waving goodbye to the cute barista behind the counter, then rushed out into the frigid autumn air.

  He finally had a line on Puck.

  Serin had told him to drop the whole thing now that her adversary was aware of his involvement. She said they wouldn’t be able to trust any of his sources. The best they could expect was another trap. But Loki wasn’t willing to accept that. Not only had he disappointed Serin, but he’d also been duped and used to mess with a friend. He lived by a code. Only he got to mess with his friends.

  Loki had also learned Serin had lost her mate. He didn’t know the details, but it explained why she’d been so distant and short-tempered. She was simultaneously grieving and out for bloody revenge.

  Sending her into a trap, especially under those circumstances, was the grossest violation of his rules to live by. Crossing an Elemental was bad for anyone’s health. More importantly, he liked Serin. Few other Supes of that caliber tolerated his company long.

  But Loki was confident he could make it up to her. Since they had parted company a few weeks ago, he had pumped every source he had. He was going to find Puck, then he going to serve him up to Serin on a silver platter. Afterward, they’d go dancing. For someone so serious, the girl could cut a rug…

  Today, he was in the east end of downtown Detroit. According to the latest rumors, Puck was a frequenter of a fae club in the area.

  Dionysia was an old hotspot, but it was in a different spot each time. It ran on a circuit, shifting locations across the country at will. He hadn’t been there in decades. It wasn’t exactly select. The rougher elements of the fae always knew when and where to find it.

  Loki zipped up to Midtown, the location for Dionysia for the past three or four months. He left the shiny Porsche he’d borrowed from a trust-fund brat parked in front of a fire hydrant before heading out on foot.

  Dionysia didn’t have valet service—a small consideration to those of his brethren who couldn’t tolerate much iron in their presence.

  As if those special snowflakes would ever step foot in Dionysia. Iron sensitivity was for upper-caste fae. Tricksters were immune. So were most goblins, which was what Loki believed Puck to be…

  He was almost to Dionysia’s door when his ears caught an out-of-place sound. It was the slide of a leather shoe—one perfectly in sync with his steps. He was being followed.

  Loki turned around with exaggerated casualness. The car window next to him exploded with a loud bang.

  Fuck. He dove for cover, tripping over his feet. Spinning through the air wildly, he nearly knocked over the human police officer from Serin’s arrest.

  Agent Romero pointed a gun at him. Horrified, Loki froze as the man pulled the trigger.

  Romero winced as his shot was followed by a volley of return fire. Bullets flew, glass broke. In the distance, people screamed as random pedestrians ran away from the busy thoroughfare.

  “I told you to get down,” he hissed at the young man he’d just saved from getting his head blown off. He pulled the kid behind the rear of a nearby sedan, wondering how the hell this had gone south so fast.

  After having to cut Eileen loose, he’d been forced to reevaluate the evidence against her.

  Her ice-queen lawyer had been right. They didn’t have anything concrete. Though he knew it was her in the photos, getting a jury to make the same determination would have been impossible. As for the murder of Harry Hobbes, the time of death was hours before they faced off over the body.

  Ray had argued Eileen could have doubled back, but his gut told him otherwise. She hadn’t killed the old man. But he hadn’t been willing to let it go and move on. Too much weird shit had happened around the woman. And the way she’d left, touching his arm like that…

  His arm had burned, sending streaks of electricity to his damn heart, jolting it like freaking cardiac paddles. He’d been hard for hours afterward. It had been both embarrassing and a bit painful.

  Roy had a field day with that. He’d also given him shit for the ‘every curve’ comment, deservedly so.

  A bullet hit the windshield of the car he and the boy were crouching behind. It exploded, raining blunt shards all over them.

  Daniel hugged the car’s bumper, peeking out to aim at the black figure firing on them.

  One. Two. Three. He breathed in time with his heart, calling on his training and something deeper for calm and focus.

  Tunnel vision was sometimes a gift. Daniel was blind to his surroundings. All he could see was the masked man twenty yards or so away.

  He fired, but the guy was too fast. Romero shook himself, his eyes were playing tricks. It was as if the gunman blinked out of existence, reappearing to his left where he had the partial cover. Firing resumed.

  Daniel chanced another quick glance. Cold seeped through his gut as he saw the assailant drop the gun and pick up another one—a semiautomatic this time.

  Not happening. Daniel fired again. This time, he didn’t miss. His bullet passed through the man’s palm, and the second weapons clattered to the floor.

  The firing stopped as abruptly as it started.

  He waited, wondering if the assailant was going to try to pick up the other gun despite the wound, but it stayed quiet. Daniel’s shoulders dropped, and the noises of the outside world rushed in. The wail of sirens began.

  “I think he ran off,” he muttered, turning to check on the boy.

  Fuck. The kid was gone. Streaks of an oily silver blue substance were left in his place.

  Was it paint? It couldn’t be blood, not unless it belonged to an alien.

  Dismissing the weird mess, he poked his head out. No bullets came flying at it. The gunman had gone.

  Loki stumbled, holding the balled-up remains of what was once a choice cashmere sweater to his midriff. H
e couldn’t afford to leave a trail of fae blood while crawling up the stairs of the six-story condominium where Serin was staying.

  No Jordan meant no hotels. Her former mate had always insisted on having their own space. The top floor suite of this place was an Elemental safe house, one he wasn’t supposed to know about.

  Loki dragged himself up the final flight of stairs, swearing a blue streak. Damn Elementals. Why couldn’t they take quarters in places with lifts?

  He knocked on the door before trying the knob with the last of his strength. It held fast. He swore under his breath.

  “Hey, who’s up there?”

  Loki peeked over the wrought-iron railing. A pudgy man in brown overalls was huffing up the stairs. Thinking fast, he reached for his glamour. The ripple was weak. He couldn’t hold the magic or this appearance for very long.

  And I didn’t get the hair right! Serin’s hair was the most difficult thing to imitate. Loki desperately hoped this man was the super.

  When the man finally reached his level, the stranger’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

  “Oh, hello there.” He craned his neck, turning to scan the hall. “Did you see a young man up here?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I’m glad you came up.” Loki summoned a weak smile. “I seem to have locked myself out. Do you have the key on you?”

  Serin hid her knife in her pack as she passed the building’s super. Murmuring a polite greeting, she jogged up the stairs, wondering why he appeared surprised to see her.

  She liked the man, but she didn’t want to get into another prolonged conversation about how she reminded him of his daughter and why the woman didn’t call.

  Serin knew the Elementals’ inner sanctum had been breached before she got to her floor. The smell of Supe blood permeated the stairwell. A drop of it lay ominously on the floor in front of their door.

  Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she’d just been a pitched battle with a ghoul. Serin was running on full blast, ready for another fight.