He pressed the fabric to his face with a hiss.
I sat upright against the bed, legs hugged tight to my chest and waves of sharp agony rolling through me.
“Twenty minutes ago, I would have presumed that someone in this house had attacked Omar,” White Rabbit Man said. “But they couldn’t have withstood the feather’s lure enough to leave it behind. Angels.” He swore softly. “Just what we need.”
“I’m not exactly enamored of the idea either but every possibility, no matter how slim, must be investigated.” I wiped the sweat off the back of my neck with my sleeve. “It’s not even that it’s a white feather so much as its ancient magic being the strongest point in favor of an Angel of Death.”
“Are you proposing that magic existed before humans laid hands on it?”
“Possibly,” I said. “Conceivably, angels are older than humans and certainly older than our magic is.” I frowned. “Unless part of its power is making us believe the magic is ancient. To fool people who might determine otherwise.”
“Like a Typecaster,” he said.
“Exactly.” I was listing forward toward the feather so I straightened up. “It’s too early to rule anything out, but using the feather as the murder weapon makes no sense.”
He tsked. “Oh, of course. Kill a man with an object that drives everyone mad who tries to rescue him. How preposterous.”
“I’m serious. Think about it. When a snake bites or a scorpion stings, they just do it. Predators don’t mutilate themselves to get at their prey. If there was an Angel of Death in biblical times, it wasn’t going around plucking off its wing feathers like a mangy turkey and shoving them down the throats of the firstborn sons, hoping it would eventually kill them. The murder method and suspect don’t work as a cohesive whole.”
“Perhaps. That leaves us with one last unanswered question.” White Rabbit Man dabbed at his nose. “Why in heaven’s name did you call me ‘Bunny Boy?’”
Whoops. Aw, fuck it. “If you’re going to dress like that and work for the Queen of Hearts, then you’re inviting the comparison right in. And if you don’t like it, you could provide your name so I could address you like a normal human being, White Rabbit Man.”
Boom, I did it. Never doubt I’d make good on my threats and/or promises.
His eyes narrowed. Yes, I had some measure of self-preservation and didn’t want to make an enemy of him, but I was tapped out and he’d started it.
A hand clamped weakly onto my wrist. My pulse spiked and I tore free, but it wasn’t White Rabbit Man. It was Omar, who miraculously hadn’t been injured in the melee.
“Feather,” he whispered. Other than the look of blank shock on his face, he looked much better.
“Absolutely not.” I shook a finger at him like a pissed off Mary Poppins. “You don’t have magic, much less can taste it. This feather shouldn’t affect you.” The fact that it did meant its influence wasn’t limited to Nefesh, but Mundanes as well, giving it the potential to do nuclear levels of damage. I glowered at White Rabbit Man. “You can’t taste it either, so why did you want it so badly?”
White Rabbit Man pushed to his feet. He picked up his sword, did a cursory examination of it, and then made it disappear. “It tempted me with my heart’s desire.”
“Care to elaborate?” I said.
His fingers twitched. “For one shining moment, I believed I could have it all...”
He drifted off. The ellipsis on that statement turned into a period and then an awkward “are you still standing there waiting for me to say something more?”
I placed my fingers on Omar’s temples and sent my magic inside his skull. The feather magic that had been strangling him was gone. “Odd. There’s no trace of any other magic, like a compulsion.” I swatted Omar’s hand away again. Were compulsions even evident? I hadn’t sensed anything inside White Rabbit Man other than his own inherent magic, either. Interesting.
“How close were you when this happened?” I said to White Rabbit Man. “Did the feather affect you when you first came in the room?”
“No, and I didn’t touch it. I moved it out of your way with my sword.”
“About three feet from you then?”
“Approximately.” He stood further back from the feather than that, so he was in the clear.
“Do you still feel the compulsion now?” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s faded.”
“Then it’s not widely broadcasting a compulsion and its hold fades quickly with brief exposure.” Omar no longer had the feather magic in him, but he was still under its thrall, as if the compulsion that the magic exuded had seeped into his very bones. “We need to contain it,” I said. “Do you have anything to do the trick?”
“Wait here,” White Rabbit Man said, and vanished. He couldn’t teleport, but he had a magic token on a chain around his neck that allowed him to access Hedon from anywhere. Given the black market had been stitched together from pockets of reality but existed outside of it, it was a handy little tool to have.
“Omar, what happened?” I said. “Who attacked you?”
“Feather,” he whispered again.
I growled. “Considering it almost killed you, asking for it is a very poor life decision which I cannot condone. What’s it promising you?”
He had nothing coherent to share.
White Rabbit Man returned with a thin metal pouch, etched with obscure symbols. He tossed it over and I sealed the feather up with a sigh of relief.
“Can I get one of those all-access passes?” I said.
“Hedon isn’t some backstage groupie paradise.”
“Obviously. Why get hot rock stars, sexual escapades, and a possible STI memento, when I could have nausea, hostility, and danger?” I waved the pouch. “Hedon has resources I suspect I’ll require in order to solve this case. What do you say?”
White Rabbit Man dug into his suit jacket pocket and dumped a handful of bronze tokens into my upturned palm. “Each of these will allow one shift in or out of Hedon. From anywhere. Think about where you wish to go and it will take you there.”
No need to find an entrance. How VIP. “And the cost of so-doing?”
White Rabbit Man grinned slyly.
I ran a finger over one of the tokens. It looked so harmless. “Can’t I have a gold one like yours and spare myself the pain?”
“Under no circumstances.”
Whelp, at least I’d confirmed that his method of traveling was consequence-free. Every bit of intel around Hedon helped.
“Great. Guess I’ll find out when I find out.”
Omar remained a whimpering mess. White Rabbit Man, while he was keeping it together much better than Omar, still was pretty banged up, and I had no room to talk.
“I’d like to say this has been fun, but I try to lie as little as possible.” I stood up on shaky legs and pointed at White Rabbit Man. “Are we copasetic?”
He gave me a measured look. “Moran.”
“Is that slang? Like ‘we’re Gucci,’ but more Irish? Have you been hitting up Urban Dictionary to stay relevant?”
“Are you quite finished?”
I shrugged. “I mean, I probably have one or two more gibes in me, but let’s go with sure. What’s Moran?”
“What you may call me. A name that, if you are as much of a Sherlockian as you seem, means something to you.”
My breath hitched. Colonel Sebastian Moran was a skilled assassin who worked for Moriarty in the Sherlock Holmes books. Knowing I lived with Priya was one thing, but knowing about my love of Holmes? Was there anything about me that he and the Queen hadn’t unearthed? Even more frightening was the danger this message implied. The Queen had expressed interest in me; Moriarty had been interested in Holmes, too. I swallowed.
“Moran, it is.” I managed to keep my voice steady. “I’m going to stash the feather someplace safe.”
“Where would that be?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not asking because I int
end to steal it,” he said. “But you weren’t exempt from its thrall. Is anywhere ‘safe?’”
“Your experience was completely different to mine. The feather itself didn’t tempt or compel me, touching it didn’t do squat, and in fact, I hadn’t cared about it at all until I engaged with the magic it released inside Omar.”
My fingers tightened on the pouch. Why was it different for me? Combine this with the fact that there was no record, official or anecdotal, of blood magic, and the universe could take this special snowflake status it was hellbent on conferring on me and shove it up its ass.
“The cravings are even subsiding,” I lied, my gut cramping up. “I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize this case and right now, this feather is integral to it. Trust me, okay?”
Moran searched my face for a long moment. “Very well.”
A surge of relief blew through me.
In my mitzvah for the day, I reunited Omar with the Capulets and Montagues downstairs. It was kind of sweet when Shannon fainted in an old-school movie swoon and Omar roused himself enough to catch her, hugging her tightly and burying his face in her neck. Since he was still mumbling about the feather, Masika almost impaled me with a knitting needle, convinced I’d done some kind of voodoo on Omar to turn him into a zombie. She didn’t buy my explanation that removing the feather had saved him from a magic that had been slowly strangling him from the inside, making it appear he was dead.
After that, an excitable Husani shot out a window with a whoop, Rachel started laughing hysterically and drinking directly from the bottle, and the good times ended.
This was what came of thinking of others. The scene was bedlam; any more interrogations would have to wait a day.
I patted Omar’s head. “Rest up, because I’ll be back.”
I left them in the sinisterly capable hands of Moran and headed out. I had a fucked-up feather to throw light on and an Angel of Death–real or otherwise–to find. Even with the vials thrown in, I wasn’t being paid enough for this gig.
Chapter 3
I hurried out to my car, Moriarty, my shoulder blades prickling like I was being watched. I turned in a slow circle, but no one had followed me out of the house and the long driveway up from the front gates was clear. I stepped onto the grass, manifested a blood dagger, and carefully picked my way between the topiaries of giant robins.
These people needed to cool it with the birds. There was a difference between a design aesthetic and a Hitchcock film. Regardless, the bushy buggers only inspired a mild sense of unease and not the “Welcome to Stalkersville” energy someone or something was throwing my way.
A circuit of the yard didn’t produce any skulking intruders, so I collapsed into Moriarty’s driver’s seat, and blinked against the bluish-white glow bathing my face. Outside the car window was a rough slab that was approximately five feet at its base. The tip of its triangular top stood taller than I did. Instead of the nubby texture of stone, this piece seemed carved from a block of the sky. It was pure light contained in a static form. One of Shannon’s pieces. She’d forgone the family business to make a name for herself as a visual artist using her light magic.
I rubbed my right thigh, which ached from the rods holding my femur together. With the advent of my magic, the pain that had troubled me for years was mostly gone, but I’d over-taxed myself. I fumbled for the Costco-sized bottle of Tylenol in my glove compartment and dry-swallowed a couple of pills.
Sadly, that did nothing for the continued cravings that left me slumped over the steering wheel taking slow inhales and exhales and categorizing everything around me alphabetically: air vent, brakes, console… A self-soothing technique from years back.
I resolutely did not open my trunk where the feather was stashed. Even though I could taste, smell, and destroy magic, I couldn’t actually identify what type it was from engaging with it. The best thing would be to nuke all the magic on that damned thing so it couldn’t tempt anyone else, but until I knew what I was dealing with, I was reluctant to do that.
That was absolutely the only reason.
I locked the doors.
My magic followed certain patterns. Why I was the Cookie Monster of magic was a big “who the hell knows?” but I’d clung to what little clarity I’d had about my powers, and while the fact of my cravings was nothing new, the intensity of them this time scared me.
In all other instances, I got a high from engaging with living magic (versus with the dying third-party smudges). Usually, my psychological urges only turned to physical withdrawal symptoms if I aborted the process of destroying magic. Otherwise, I was bumped gently down from my high, temporarily satiated.
This feather magic was definitely alive, and while the rush had been greater than any before, I continued to want it even after I’d nuked it inside Omar. Equally as puzzling, he continued to be under its spell. Did I need to destroy the feather itself for our longings to go away?
While I was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, I was also a woman with pressing questions in need of answers. Failure was not an option.
I glowered at my car’s dashboard. “I am having a shit day, so start on me or I’ll scrap metal your ass.”
Moriarty gave a single sputter in protest then purred to life. A gray, older Toyota Camry, he wasn’t flashy, but he had the most important quality for my line of work: he was common enough to blend into almost any neighborhood. In theory, this model should have been easy to back out and turn, handle well, and have good gas mileage and power. In reality, he was okay on all that, but where he really excelled was fucking with me when it was time to start and making sure I never got too complacent.
I cranked the now-fixed heater, reveling in the warmth. My last paycheck had been enough to get on top of my bills with cash left over for this much-needed repair, but this sweet, warm idyll was only temporary. Soon the stereo volume would mysteriously get stuck on loud or a weird burning smell would come through the vents and our little dance would begin anew.
But for now, the drive to my next destination was nice and toasty.
Blondie’s was my favorite dive pub, despite its surly staff and sticky surfaces, because it had the world’s most perfect french fries and a karaoke list that was second-to-none. The low lights weren’t mood setting; they were camouflage for the scuffed wooden flooring, splotchy upholstery, and bottom shelf drinks at top shelf pricing.
I generally avoided it like the plague during the day, since its already questionable food was not made better by the sickly rays of sunlight that made it through the greasy windows, but my quarry had a Norwalk virus-resistant stomach lining and enjoyed breakfast here on the regular.
“Buy you a drink, sugarbaby?” The sixty-something man leered from his barstool.
Leftover drunks: the other reason to avoid Blondie’s in the AM.
Slightly bleary gaze, wedding ring, bulging wallet in his back pocket: he was making bad decisions in an incapacitated mindset, and yet, not my problem.
Shaking my head, I walked past him.
“Come on, sweetheart, smile. You’re a pretty girl.”
I stopped. A lecture, ignoring him, punching him in the throat–all were good options, but if I could keep another woman from being impinged on this way, then I should handle it.
I spun around, hooked an ankle under his stool rung and yanked it out from under him.
He toppled over onto his ass, sputtering.
I crouched down. “I hurt your pride. Someone else could inflict a lot more damage with the wad of cash in your wallet and the fact you’re two drinks past rational thinking. Go home.”
He mumbled protests of his innocence and how I didn’t have to be this way. Then he really let me have it with “bitch.”
I bent his wrist back. “I owe you shit and my facial expressions are my own. You want a smile? Put one on your wife’s face.” I exerted more pressure on his wrist, approaching the fine line between painful and broken. “Leave before I rethink my charitable public service and demonstrate
how bad this bitch can be. Your call.”
“I’ll go home.”
“Wise choice.” I patted his head. “And smile. You’re a pretty boy, sugarbaby.”
Autumn Kelly, the redhead wearing her weight in flowy scarves, barely lifted her gaze from her full English breakfast as I sat down on the barstool next to hers.
“What was that all about?” she said.
“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.” The bacon on her plate made my stomach growl, but I knew from past unfortunate experiences with said breakfast meat at Blondie’s that looks were deceiving. “Talk to me about angels.”
Autumn slurped the toxic sludge that passed for coffee in this joint. I was almost tempted to order one since Moran had woken me obscenely early this morning to put me on the Omar case, but common sense prevailed.
“Last time I did that,” Autumn said, “you called me a New Age flake with crystals for brains.”
“It was a term of endearment.”
“Fuck off, Ash.”
I motioned to the bartender and ordered an orange juice and a side order of toast. Yes, it was Passover. Yes, I was a bad Jew. I was also a starving cranky Jew with a deep love of yeasty baked goods, and toast was the safest thing on the breakfast menu. “Name your price. How about a new deck of tarot cards?”
She toyed with her crystal bracelet. “Those things you described as wastes of tree bark that would be put to better use wiping your butt?”
I winced. Yeah, that sounded like me. “That might have been a bit harsh, but I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t started us down this road.”
“How?”
The bartender placed the toast and orange juice in front of me.
I took a sip and smacked my lips. Mmm. Straight from concentrate. “You said Sherlock Holmes was ridiculously unbelievable.”
“He is.” Autumn mopped up the last of her baked beans. “He’s also fictional. You getting your panties in a twist over a make-believe character doesn’t give you leave to insult my beliefs.”
“Sherlock stands for reason, intelligence, deduction, all things that you as a psychiatrist should stand for. How can you align that with the New Age movement?”
Death & Desire: A Snarky Urban Fantasy Detective Series (The Jezebel Files Book 2) Page 3
