Her garb was both simple and elegant. It consisted of a strange, short dress, almost a tunic, which was much the same shade as the surrounding desert but trimmed with gold and set with lapis lazuli.
He looked at her eyes, and his brain ceased to function. All thoughts but the panicked desire to live were expelled.
“Don’t kill me,” he gasped. He raised his trembling hands, his fingers spread and palms outward in the universal human gesture of peace. For some reason, he laughed, but the sound gurgled and died in his throat. “I’ll do anything. Literally anything you want. But please don’t kill me. Let me live.”
The woman’s face had filled his whole world now. It was beautiful in a stern, somehow archaic way, long and sharp, with high, prominent cheekbones. The eyes were almond-shaped and deep pools of ebony, a brown that was not quite black.
The full, cracked lips parted and beneath them were fangs dripping with gore.
The woman said something—or hissed it, rather. Alex did not understand her. In the back of his mind, he snarked at himself for even considering that this primordial monster would speak modern English.
He prepared for the end but it did not come. Instead, the woman said something else, then spoke again. Each of the brief phrases she uttered sounded completely different and he realized she was switching between different languages.
A tiny spark of hope ignited near the bottom of his soul. She was trying to communicate with him.
Finally, she said something that did register, although it took a second. In heavily accented and barely comprehensible Hebrew, she asked, “What year is it?”
Alex blinked. “Uh…” he stuttered and wracked his brain for the appropriate Hebrew numbers. “2020. Two thousand and twenty years after Christ. If you…uh, care about that.”
The woman leaned back, folded her hands across her breast, and closed her eyes.
Her voice was like sand rustled by the wind. “Almost three hundred years…”
He had never been the type to believe that, even on a dig like this, he would encounter a living mummy—or vampire, or ghoul, or whatever the hell she was. But now, faced with her reluctance to kill him outright, his brain rapidly re-adapted to the situation.
“You need me,” he said quickly. “You have been away from everyone and everything for a long time. I could…help you learn. Help you deal with people again.” His Hebrew was still mediocre at best and he only hoped he hadn’t mangled what he had tried to say.
The dark eyes opened again and he froze before them.
“Yes,” the woman agreed. She leaned forward and loomed over him. “But will you dedicate your life to my service?”
“I will, yes,” he replied at once. It wasn’t the kind of question with multiple correct answers. “Anything.”
She smiled. Her left arm drifted up and out toward him, the talon-like nail at the end of her index finger pointed directly at his heart. “Then let it be done,” she rasped.
Alex gasped in pain as something burned on his chest although it didn’t kill him. Instead, it marked him and seared its way obscenely into the very essence of his being.
Chapter One
The Hidden Garden, Greenwich Village, Manhattan
David Remington adjusted his tie and put on his best, most confident, and most public-relations-friendly smile. Standing before the front doors almost felt like being back in business.
“Showtime,” he remarked, mostly to himself.
The Hidden Garden had opened only six months before but already, it had gained a reputation as one of New York City’s best and most exclusive restaurants. It was so exclusive that only high society was even aware of its existence, for the most part.
And yet, despite this narrow pool of potential clientele, they had an extensive waiting list. The prospective diner might not be permitted in for weeks after making the call. Walk-ins were not welcome.
A crisply-uniformed doorman opened the entrance and bowed as he waved David in. “Sir,” he intoned. “Please present your identification at the front and they’ll see to your reservation.”
He nodded. “Much obliged, Jeeves.” He had no idea what the doorman’s name was but Jeeves seemed appropriate. He’d used it before, when in doubt, and always to good effect.
Without hesitation, he strode in, presented his ID at the desk, and found the establishment more brightly-lit than he’d anticipated given its dark exterior. He paused to look around.
The appellation of Garden was well-chosen. The whole interior was filled with plants and small trees, most of them growing in earth-filled marble embankments which ran the length and breadth of the space to serve in much the same capacity as walls to divide the dining areas into different sections.
There were also artificial streams crossed by short, broad bridges, and hanging chandeliers dressed with artificial flowers. The illumination was, at present, normal electric light, but amidst the fixtures, he recognized sun lamps for the benefit of the greenery. All the diners were, of course, dressed to the nines.
“Ah,” he exhaled. “Now this is the kind of place where a Remington belongs.”
It reminded him that, no matter how much certain members of his family might protest, he was still one of them. Even though they hadn’t spoken to him in months, even though they’d cut him off from his inheritance and locked the door on the family fortune, and even though they’d given him a list of requirements that had to be fulfilled before he so much as considered showing his face before them.
He was still David fucking Remington, dammit. He’d matured considerably lately. And slowly but surely, his bank account and cash flow moved in the right direction.
The maître ‘d approached, a fat, older man although pleasant-looking and obviously a professional.
“Mr Remington,” he stated with a slight bow. “I’m pleased to see you. Your table is ready, as promised.”
Despite his age and girth, the maître ‘d moved with impressive speed and grace along one of the little canals, and he directed him to a table near the back corner of the restaurant, which lay mostly in the shade of one of the larger trees, a black poplar.
David thanked the man and took a seat. He sighed, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles with intertwined hands, and surveyed the premises.
He only recognized about half of the diners, but they were among the crème de la crème of New York society. One, a svelte Italian woman, noticed him briefly and smiled before she returned to her conversation. He knew her—in various senses of the term—and in fact, she might have had a hand in allowing his presence there tonight.
After his downward spiral, being cut off from his inheritance, and after he’d begun to “work” at a “job” in a desperate last-ditch effort… After all these things, he’d thought he’d perhaps spent the last of his influence.
As it turned out, this was not so. Some people still gave two shits about him. It had taken a fair amount of finagling, calling in of old favors, and vaguely worded promises, but he’d done it. He’d secured the privilege of supping with the very best once again.
He picked the menu up. The selections fit on one side of a single laminated sheet, but they were all sufficiently appealing to justify the lack of variety. David was finally learning to cook, but he still preferred to leave some things to the professionals when he could afford it.
More importantly, people would see him there. Tongues would wag. Rumor would get around that the youngest Remington was not beyond salvation.
A waiter approached and he ordered a bottle of Merlot older than himself and a plate of fettuccine alfredo with roast chicken and porcini mushrooms. The waiter seemed happy to put the order in and he even left a glass of ice water for good measure.
David leaned back and relaxed. He’d worked hard for the agency lately, and he deserved this little excursion.
While waiting for his dinner, he considered getting up to mingle and converse with some of the Beautiful People. Then he saw something—or, rather, someone.
>
Near the entrance, a woman had appeared. She was on the petite side, ivory and slender, with blue-black hair above and beside her fine features. Her eyes were dark and mesmerizing. She wore a black suit jacket and dress over black leggings. The only real color in her ensemble came from her nails, which were as red as fresh blood.
“Taylor.” David sighed. “And here I was thinking this was my day off.”
She was too far away for him to hear anything, but the staff had practically pounced on her only to grovel in obeisance. They seemed surprised so she must not have had a reservation, yet they bent over backward to accommodate her.
That particular truth rankled a little and David sipped his ice water and examined the poplar over his left shoulder. “It’s a good thing I’m nice and shadowed over here,” he muttered to himself. Then he remembered that certain species had much better night vision than humans did. Crap.
The woman, with her instant entourage hovering around her, walked toward the rear of the restaurant and the hurried conversation became audible.
“Ms Steele…” The maître ʼd panted with both exertion and nervousness. “We were not prepared for your visit, welcome though it is. We can have a table cleared for you within a matter of minutes.”
“No,” she replied in her soft, melodious voice. “That’s fine. I’m actually here to meet with someone I know.”
David pretended to scratch an eyebrow as an excuse to cover his face, although he could already feel her gaze. At this point, failure was essentially the only option.
“Oh,” she said, “there he is.”
One of the waiters, without bothering to even consult him, seized a spare chair from a nearby table and planted it opposite him.
He removed his hand and concentrated on his face, setting it to an expression slightly on the pleasant side of neutral.
Taylor sat and the maître ʼd and his minions disappeared.
“So,” David said. “Hi. I’m…you know, grabbing a quick bite to eat.”
The dark woman did not greet him or otherwise reply and merely slid her hand into her jacket and withdrew a newspaper. She placed it on the table and slid it across toward her partner.
The periodical in question was The New England Inquirer, an obscure gossip rag which had made gains in popularity and circulation recently. His gaze darted directly to the author of the headline article on the front page before he even bothered to read the title. Jenny Ocren. His gut seemed to sink between his ankles. Ms Ocren seemed to have a grudge against him. Or a fixation on him. Perhaps both.
The title read: Millionaire playboy stomps through East Village—the work of a secret twin brother?
“Ah, yes.” David adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “You remember that business, don’t you? I was in pursuit of that face-stealer who’d prowled around Manhattan appropriating people’s identities and committing credit fraud. He tried to frame me at the last minute by attempting to beat up a little girl while imitating my face. I put a stop to it quite effectively.”
His companion’s ivory face remained impassive and her dark eyes stared. “Effectively,” she acknowledged, “but loudly and blatantly. Clumsily. Once again, you imperil our entire operation by your difficulties with stealth and discretion. Our activities should not be fodder for the press.”
While she scolded him, he read the article itself. Ocren had managed to snap a photograph of two men dressed in different suits but with mirror-image features, who tussled near a fire hydrant while a few onlookers gaped in shock. She concluded the piece by suggesting—and offered no real evidence—that the youngest Remington had an identical, possibly-insane twin brother whom the family had kept locked away for years.
“Hah!” He scoffed and pushed the newspaper away. “Taylor, I’ll allow that perhaps I could have waited until he passed through a dark alley or something to make my move. But I doubt we have anything to fear from the press in this case.”
“This case, Remington,” she retorted sharply and tapped a red nail on the paper, “is the second time she’s reported on you this month alone. And that’s in addition to her coverage of the fiasco at the demolition derby a while back.”
David exhaled slowly. For a moment, he wished he’d not chosen to use Remington Davis as his professional name. Right now, he had a hard time shifting from David-off-duty to Remington-on-duty. “The Inquirer is a bottom-of-the-barrel gossip sheet which only the most bored or deluded of conspiracy theorists read. Didn’t they once suggest that one of our city councilmen was an oversized fae, only for the rest of the world to respond with deafening silence?”
The woman ignored all he’d said. “Is this why you’ve avoided me, lately?” She raised an eyebrow. “I noticed that every day, you’ve departed my house well before my shift begins at dusk.”
“Now, now.” He wagged a finger. “It isn’t always about you. I have other business-related matters to take care of once my shift is over, hence leaving early to visit the places before they close. Some of us have to take business hours into consideration, you know.”
Before she could respond, the maître ʼd and another waiter sidled up, armed with food and wine, which they set before the woman.
“Here you are, madame,” said the maître ʼd, “the finest in the house.” He turned to David. “Sir, we’re terribly sorry, but your order is backed up in the kitchen. However, we will have it to you as soon as possible.”
“Right.” He coughed. “That will do.”
They hurried away.
Taylor looked at the provisions set before her. “Interesting. They know who I am but not what I am. I’ll have to teach them how to make a Historical Bloody Mary if I come here again.” She pushed the Filet Mignon and Pinot Noir toward David.
He shrugged and picked his knife and fork up. “You can survive being shot, stabbed, gutted, and so forth. Does this mean that steak is fatal?”
She frowned. “Solid food makes me sick and my body tries to expel it via the quickest route. That can be…inconvenient, especially in public. Although I suppose I’ll have a small sip of the wine to keep appearances up.”
David continued to eat while she poured about two ounces into a crystal glass for herself and filled a second almost to the brim for him. “Now,” she inquired, “tell me about these business matters you’ve been pursuing in the afternoons.”
He smiled around a tasty, tender piece of the meat cooked to medium-rare perfection. “I’ve been looking for office space,” he admitted. “For us, I mean. If the agency is going to expand, we can’t continue to conduct all our business via a PO box like you’ve done for years. We need to be presentable.”
“No,” she stated. “Low-profile is best. We’ve already had more business lately and as much as the two of us—and Presley—can handle. And you have yet to change my mind on this matter of taking mundane cases on. We should specialize only in matters that deal with the preternatural world.”
He knew her kind of people disliked the word supernatural, and he’d adapted accordingly.
“You’re partially right.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “The thing is, with the website having been improved, we’re already bringing in more potential cases than we can handle. There’s a backlog of queries you haven’t even seen yet.”
She was rarely surprised but she tensed a little now. He’d managed to tell her something she truly did not know.
“What we need,” he went on, “is a real workspace—and a team. At least a room somewhere with a desk in it and a person to sit at the desk and handle the Frequently Asked Questions.”
The waiter returned, this time with his pasta and merlot. He blinked in confusion when he saw the already half-finished steak.
“Oh,” she explained with a slight gesture of her hand, “it’s quite all right. I ate earlier. But thank you for the wine.”
The man nodded and arranged things on the table to the best of his ability before David dismissed him with a polite nod.
He sighed when he loo
ked at the gleaming white fettuccine. “I’ll have to lift weights and spend time on the treadmill when I get home, I suppose. Anyway, what do you say? About the prospect of an office and a secretary.”
Taylor drummed her fingers on the table, her icily beautiful face set in the placid expression she always assumed when thinking.
“I will consider it,” she responded after a pause. Her dark eyes locked with his and focused. “But first, there is a case I need you to solve.”
He took a swig of his wine. It proved to be exceedingly dry but in a good way. “It must be one hell of an important case if you need me to deal with it singlehandedly. At least that means it probably doesn’t involve storming a fortified mansion and burning it down.”
Her gaze flicked around and it occurred to Remy—he always reverted to that name when agency business was under discussion, so even his subconscious had apparently accepted the transition—that maybe he’d said that a little too loudly. She pointed to him and then the surface of the table.
“Put that glass down.”
Instantly, he obeyed. The wine sloshed within the crystal and barely fell short of escaping to the tablecloth below. She’d used her command tone on him.
“That’s enough drinking for tonight,” she went on, her voice lower, “unless you’re quite confident you can be more discreet.”
His mouth crinkled as though he’d bitten into a raw lemon. “Yes, Mother,” he quipped, although she was right.
“Good.” She retrieved a pen and wrote something on a scrap of paper. “I want you to investigate some recent incidents involving a Dwarven shipping cartel with which I have dealings. I have no reason to suspect any skullduggery on their part—I’ve known them for a long time—so the problems must be the work of an outside party.”
Diamond In The Rough (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 2) Page 2