by Melissa Marr
But, in reality, I’d just handed him all the power.
Chapter Nine
We left Eli’s place in a strange silence, and I was fascinated with how peaceful he seemed. Something I wasn’t yet understanding had transpired. I wanted to know why the bargain calmed him—or maybe it was the promise of a kiss. Whatever it was, Eli was relaxed now, and I wasn’t going to disrupt our peace by asking questions.
That silence continued as we took Eli’s modified-for-fae car to Esplanade Ridge. The gearshift was like a barrier between us, and there was no backseat, but Eli’s car was exceedingly comfortable with its leather seats and wood inlay. Somehow, he’d turned a machine into just enough nature to seem fitting for him and topped it with a powerful engine. I didn’t know much about cars, but I knew there was a metric shit ton of magic woven into this one. Eli had explained in passing once--before I’d asked for help on the first job together--that there were ways to make steel tolerable—but that the cost was prohibitive. He’d paid for it at the bar and in his sleek blue car.
And it had done nothing to hamper the obscene speed he could get out of the machine as he darted around the taxis and car service vehicles that made up almost all of the traffic in the city. At this hour, they were scarce, though. His little blue convertible moved with a near-silent engine, unless Eli was in the mood to make it growl. The one time I’d driven it, I had such a fit of sportscar lust that I think I drooled. I’d never thought I was a car person, but I may confess to dating a man or three just to drive their cars after that day.
It didn’t hurt that the car, much like Eli did, blended in with the sort of people who lived in the neighborhood we were visiting. I was relieved that he was at my side for this, as I felt out of place when meeting most of my clients. I hadn’t grown up destitute, but I’d been raised with simplicity and nature. In New Orleans, most money meant layers of demonstration of their deep pockets. Houses. Cars. Clothes. Those who hired me typically were the sort of people I’d never otherwise encounter.
This row of houses was nothing but old estates, stately homes, or squatting palatial mansions that looked foreboding. It felt stifling. And I felt tense just being there.
“What do you need of me?” Eli prompted.
“Be charming,” I said as we approached the gate to be buzzed into the Chaddock Estate. “The widow is young . . . with crocodile tears on command. She hired me because her stepson contested the will and filed a case of decedent rights where he would control the estate until his father could fully return to the company.”
“So, the Chaddock son knew his father would rise.” Eli’s tone held all the same questions I’d had when I realized that detail. The dead could be safely housed, warehoused with medical personnel and feeding tubes. It was an expensive stay, but if money isn’t an object, some families were all in. Accidents still happened, though, and people still died.
“The court filing was a prelim motion, an ‘in-case-of-rising.’ She was not to know it was filed, but . . .”
Eli shook his head. “So, the widow had her husband killed a second time to keep from spending it on Transitional Care Homes.”
“Draugr are not alive, so I didn’t actually kill him.” I shot Eli an angrier than usual look.
We didn’t agree on this. Not truly. Newly infected draugr were dangerous enough that I questioned if these well-to-do medical facilities had any chance of success. They had been founded to drain the accounts of the foolish, and they employed the desperate. The pay at the T-Cell Houses was exceptional, but so was the risk of death.
“Maybe she had him returned to his grave, but that’s not murder.”
“I know your views, divinity.”
“Divinity? How is that a baked—”
“It’s a candy-fudge confection. Sweet and dizzyingly heady.” Eli depressed the buzzer before I could reply and announced, “Ms. Crowe and her associate to see Ms. Chaddock.”
The gate unlocked with a loud clank as I whispered, “I need professionalism toward me and charm toward her, as if you could see her as a paramour, but without being sleazy.”
“Of course, Ms. Crowe.” Then he added, “Later, I’ll bake some desserts for you. That one is rich enough to make your neighbor’s teeth ache.”
I should be irritated with him after our bargaining, but I found myself smiling as we walked up a cobblestone driveway to the house. Gun on one hip. Short blade on my other. I looked like the wrong sort of woman to approach such a house, but at least I had charm personified walking with me. There was definite appeal in having a fae-blood with a devastating smile that I could use against my current employer.
A young woman with an impeccable uniform opened the door before we could reach out to knock.
“Ms. Crowe to see Ms. Chaddock,” Eli said, as if announcing royalty.
The woman led us to a parlor that was ostentatious in the way that screamed old money and gestured at masculine posturing all at once. The heads of dead animals stared out through glassy eyes from wall mounts, and several smaller mammals were intact and caged under glass. The furniture—white, of course, and immaculate—was stiff and unwelcoming. One particularly atrocious ottoman appeared to be made of an elephant’s foot. It was topped with thick gold tassels and a thin cushion. Everything in the room spoke of death and money.
“She paid the retainer, but she owes me the balance,” I said, forcing my gaze away from the dead things on display.
Eli nodded once. “Yes, Ms. Crowe.”
He met my gaze and then glanced to the mantle where I caught the flicker of light in the eye of a bear.
We were being recorded.
I noticed the moment Eli decided to make use of the camera.
“Ms. Crowe,” Eli said for the camera, “I know you would dislike doing such a thing, but if the client does not settle her account, your particular magic would enable the deceased to rise.”
I frowned.
With his back to the camera, Eli mouthed, “Agree.”
“It seems wrong.”
Eli smiled. The camera wouldn’t know that I was referring to lying being wrong. He did, though.
Momentarily, the door flung open to reveal the grieving widow. Mrs. Chaddock was, at most, thirty. Her late husband was in his seventies. Such matches resulting from love were not impossible, but I had a suspicion that Mrs. Chaddock might have had other more motivating interests.
“Geneviève, dear, was it . . . did he, you know, crawl out of his vault?” The widow reached out for my hands and asked breathily, “Was it horrible? Did he smell?”
I’d met more disagreeable women, but it had been a while. Her shoes, jeans, and blouse were all high-end designers. I might not know the brands, but I did notice material and cut. The gems on her ears, wrists, and throat would pay for several draugr containments. The ring alone would pay for at least a year’s worth of my work.
“It was painless,” I said politely.
“So, my sweetness didn’t suffer?”
Eli clearly had no patience for the show that the widow seemed determined to put on. He bluntly said, “Mrs. Chaddock, the deceased was already dead. Ms. Crowe simply guaranteed that he would stay that way rather than gnaw on your throat.”
I shot him a scowl and mouthed “charm!” at him.
Eli forced a smile, and then he added, “And Ms. Crowe underestimates the difficulty of her work, due to her mastery of weapons and unique magic. I can assure you that she was in peril. I can further attest to the truth that had any other person been dispatched there, your late husband would have killed them. He was uncommonly agile for a newly turned draugr.”
I couldn’t decide if I was more flattered or irritated. I didn’t like my oddity being noticed. On the other hand, I liked the way I looked in his eyes. Not a killer. Not a monster. A woman who was a warrior. It made me feel all mushy in my heart space.
But then the widow gave him an appraisingly look. “Is that what she told you?”
“It is what I saw,” Eli corrected
. “I was there to assist. Your husband was uncommonly violent. The newly risen are usually less aggressive, but he moved with speed and hostility.”
“Truly?” the widow prompted.
“He was more agile than normal,” I allowed. I tried again to muzzle my irritation, and I reminded myself that I didn’t want to wake as a draugr. But the fact was that the widow was only fake mourning. It made me dislike her.
“I see. Violent. Fast. And we are all saved by the incredible Miss Crowe.” The widow Chaddock was far from appreciative in her tone.
“You weren’t in peril,” I reminded her. “You were here in your gated secure home.”
“And it’s Ms. Crowe,” Eli corrected with a smile. “Now . . . I believe you owe my employer compensation for her services. Do you have a check drafted to Crowe Enterprises? For the agreed amount?”
Mrs. Chaddock made a disgruntled noise, but she withdrew a check from her pocket and extended it to me. I hated this part. I didn’t necessarily love the violence inherent in the service I offered, but it was a service. I did what I did because I was uniquely qualified to do so.
Eli stepped in and plucked it from her hand. “Let me handle this, ma’am.”
He immediately pulled out a phone and pen, electronically deposited the funds into to my account. I’d agreed to the process because I hated accounting. Letting Eli sort payments out was far more efficient than my magnets-on-the-fridge system until I got around to visiting a bank machine.
“All done,” Eli said, pocketing the already-deposited check.
“I had no idea you had a . . . what are you?” She stared at Eli, as if he was an insect that had crept into her mansion.
“I’m her associate.” Eli smiled as warmly as he could. “I assist her in handling the parts that I am able to.”
The widow sat. “But what are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Look at him!” Mrs. Chaddock gestured at Eli. “He’s gorgeous, but he’s barely noticed me. He must be something inhuman.”
Eli stepped closer to me.
“Eli is my associate,” I said. “Why would his . . . ancestry matter?”
The widow sighed. “Alvin and I met at the Society Against Fae and Reanimated Individuals.” She crossed her ankles primly. “There was no way my Alvin would have allowed himself to be poisoned with venom. He was a lifetime SAFARI member.”
“The Society . . .” I shook my head. “Are you seriously lumping the fae in with walking fucking corpses?”
“They are not human.”
“But witches are fine?”
“I wouldn’t have relations with one,” the widow said.
My temper was frayed after the last week. My hand went to the hilt of the short sword at my hip .
“Cream puff,” Eli murmured quietly, turning to face me and putting his back to the widow as his worry overrode professionalism.
“What?”
“No.” He put his hand over mine on the sword hilt. “She has paid you. Our business here is done.”
“Fine.” I took my hand off the sword hilt, trying not to be grateful for the gloves he wore. Then I looked at Mrs. Chaddock and said, “He’s a better person than you. Or me.”
Eli smothered his smile and turned to face the widow. “Thank you for selecting Crowe Enterprises. We’ll see ourselves out.”
I attempted to motion Eli forward so he was in front of me, away from the widow.
“Hush, cupcake. I am not unused to fear.” Eli’s hand hovered close to my low back, not touching, but there should he need to stop me from turning back. “You will not get referrals from your clients if—"
“Fuck referrals.” I met his gaze. Then I glanced at the widow. “I ought to summon your husband back from the grave and bring him to your door.”
She blanched. “Can you do that?”
I pointed at myself. “Witch.” Then I pointed at her. “Bitch.”
Eli chuckled.
I wouldn’t do it. The dead didn’t deserve that kind of abuse. The widow Chaddock didn’t know that, though.
We all have our fears—I was afraid of myself, and of dead things hurting my loved ones, but the fae were sequestered in their homeland. They didn’t snack on humans, enslave, or otherwise injure people. They bought art, and they returned back to their own world where they were at peace.
Unlike humans who regularly hurt other humans, and draugr who ate them.
Chapter Ten
“Miss Crowe?” A man who looked at most a few years older than the widow stepped in front of me in the foyer. “Might I have a word with you?”
Eli glanced at his watch and muttered, “Does anyone in this city ever sleep?”
I grinned. It was coming up on 5am. Eli’s bedtime. The joy of my genetics was that I knew what his watch said without asking. Just call me a sword-swinging sundial.
I released a pulse of energy. If the new man noticed me reading him, I wasn’t concerned. He was a Chaddock or employee of them. So far, the two Chaddocks I’d met were a draugr and a bigot. I wanted to know what this man was.
The glimmer of my energy pulse was a bit more obvious than I meant for it to be, but I’d had a rough night. It made me sloppy. The young Chaddock would have a touch of a migraine soon. He paused and smiled tightly as my energy slid into his skin.
Human.
No magic. A touch of death that made me pause, but mostly, he was simply an average thirty-something man in an expensive suit.
Even so, his family seemed rife with hatred. I met the man’s gaze and asked, “Are you a member of SAFARI? Because if you are, I have nothing to say to you."
“No. That was my father’s particular brand of hatred in his later years.” The younger Mr. Chaddock extended a hand to Eli. “I do apologize for . . . Alice.”
“Alice?” I echoed.
Eli shook young Mr. Chaddock’s hand in silence.
“My father’s most recent bride.” He inclined his chin toward the doorway where the widow stood watching us. “We went to the same school, so calling her ‘stepmother’ would be awkward.”
“Tres.” Mrs. Chaddock’s demeanor shifted noticeably. She sounded positively kind as she said, “I wasn’t aware that you were here.”
“It is my house, Alice.”
“Of course. And it’s my home,” she added.
“According to the will,” Tres said mildly, “it will only remain so as long as you are not a burden on his children. Do you suppose the court would consider murdering my father a burden on us?”
“He would not want to be a monster.” The widow’s pretty face darkened. “Someone injected him with that poison and—”
“I didn’t do it, Alice. None of us did. We’ve gone over this. I want to know who did it, too, but you had him murdered—”
I raised my hands. “Whoa. Halt. Injected? Murdered?”
The man, Tres, rubbed his face as if he could wipe away his frustration. It was obvious that he was short on sleep.
“There was an injection site. The mortician who prepared the, err, body asked about it. I intended to hire a physician’s team, as I wanted my father to be able to become sentient enough to tell us if he was freely dosed or if his death was a result of poison.” Tres glanced at the widow. “And if he knew who did it.”
“Don’t you look at me that way!” The widow’s anger revealed a thick rural accent. “I took good care of my husband. Day and night. Every need. And I would’ve kept doing so until his natural death.”
Tres spoke over her, saying, “Dad was generous to a fault with every single one of his six wives. Housing, jewelry, money.” Tres shook his head, and then he looked at me. “My father was a good man, Ms. Crowe and . . . what was your name?”
“Eli.”
“Right. Eli.” Tres smiled at him. “My father was a true romantic. He wanted to believe in love, and he married a lot of women over the years in search of what he had with my mother.”
“Who hasn’t made foolish choices for love?” Eli gl
anced at me, even though I made a point not to notice it.
Tres continued, “The widow—whichever one was the current one—was well provided for in the event of my father’s death. Far more so than during the terms of the prenup.”
The current widow turned on her kitten-heeled foot and walked away like a petulant child. “I did not kill him.”
“Which time?” Tres asked. “With the injection or”— he gestured at me—"by hiring a killer?”
I wilted a little. Technically, I was a killer. It was, quite literally, how I paid my bills. That didn’t mean I liked the implications of the word in this case.
No one spoke for a moment. The widow didn’t defend herself, and neither did I. There was little I could say, and it was obvious that they had very different opinions on how to deal with the draugr issue.
Finally, Tres asked, “Would you join me in my office, Miss Crowe? Eli?”
After exchanging a look, Eli and I walked into the small, elegant room. Hard wood floors. A heavy wooden desk. A surprisingly comfortable brocade settee. Eli gestured to it, and I sat on the edge. He stood at my side like a guard.
The widow Chaddock attempted to follow us into the room, but Tres stopped her at the door. “I’m sure you understand that this is a private meeting, Allie. After all, you’ve met with Miss Crowe without me. It’s only fair.”
He shut and locked the door, leaving an angry Alice Chaddock hammering on the door for several moments. Once she stopped, Tres sighed and looked at the door. “We each take shifts with the wives. We have since my mother passed on unexpectedly.”
“How many—”
“Wives?” Tres grinned in the way of those who can either see the humor or develop bitterness. “My father really liked romance. Five wives after mom. Each one younger and bustier than the last. They were women in need of a dashing knight, and my father . . .” Tres shook his head. “He wanted to be young and in love.”
All I wanted was to leave. Guilt was rising up. If the late Mr. Chaddock was murdered, there was little he could tell us now. Death was traumatic, especially if it was murder. Not that I thought waiting ten to fifteen years for answers would make it better, but I had ended the possibility of answers for the Chaddocks.
