Death Retires

by Cate Lawley

  Sylvie gave her a quick one-armed hug, then exited the car, the rest of us a split second behind her. Tamara gave us a thumbs-up before disappearing around the corner. She was going to enter from the rear of the building.

  “Any sign that they’ve showed up early?” I asked Hector.

  “I have no idea, but I recommend you search the shop once inside.” Hector’s reply didn’t fill me with confidence.

  Didn’t we have some kind of magical way to detect this guy? Or maybe that was Tamara’s job. If so, she needed to hurry up.

  Lilac unlocked the store door and tried to hold it open for us, but Hector ushered first her then Sylvie inside.

  Holding the door wide for me, Hector said, “Remember, you’re just here to have a conversation.” Then he disappeared. Not literally. He went around back to join Tamara. But he was stealthy for a big guy.

  I went inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. A conversation. Right.

  We’d never given up on actually negotiating Clarence’s release. It was more a question of what to do if—when—those negotiations broke down because Nicky discovered the vault had been opened. Or because he had as much anger toward Sylvie as a desire for her inheritance. Or because he’d already killed Clarence. There were so many ways it could all go wrong.

  “Nicky?” Sylvie cried out as a dark-headed man stepped out of the bathroom.

  He was older than the picture we’d seen. Well into his thirties. It was a passing thought, because most of my attention was on the gun he was holding.

  The gun pointed at Sylvie.

  “Did you think you and your little gang were the only ones who’d come early?” Other than a slightly breathless quality, his tone was confident. The gun in his hand, however, wasn’t very steady.

  The answer to his question was no, we had not thought we’d be the only early ones. I didn’t think he’d be quite this early. Then there was the fact that the shop had been open when we’d arrived, so he’d done something to convince Phoebe and her hulking boyfriend that he’d left when he hadn’t. Or he’d snuck in. All things that weren’t really relevant, because the gun was still pointed at Sylvie.

  “Where’s Clarence, Nicky?” I asked, moving away from Sylvie and Lilac while glancing behind Nicky to the back of the shop, where I hoped Tamara and Hector would triumphantly emerge and save us all.

  Except they didn’t. Just my luck, Nicky boy probably had a construct floating around in the alley.

  The tip of the gun wavered in my direction then returned to Sylvie. “It’s Nick, you arrogant ass. And Clarence is safe. You’ll get him back once I have the stone.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Bobby? So far from—Oh, I was an idiot. He was haunting Sylvie, not Sylvie’s house. I tuned out Bobby’s annoying chant as best I could. Nick’s armpits were damp with sweat, and the longer he held that gun aloft, the less steady it would be. I didn’t actually have time to be incredibly annoyed by Bobby.

  He was annoying beyond belief, but he did provide a great distraction in one sense. Hoping I wasn’t about to get myself shot, I asked, “Why did you have to hurt Bobby, Nick?”

  Confusion clouded his features. “Bobby? What does he have to do with any of this?” Which made me think my gut had been wrong, until he added, “That was weeks ago.”

  Yeah. He’d killed Bobby. Probably with the same gun he held in his hand now. The one whose muzzle was drifting slowly away from Sylvie and Lilac. Thank goodness.

  Kill Bobby. Kill Sylvie. Then Bobby wailed, that terrible sound of grief I’d heard from him before.

  Sylvie’s gasp of outrage brought Nick’s attention and his gun back to her, and my small gain was lost.

  “You. With your suburban life and your filthy rich parents and all your advantages. Couldn’t you just give us this one thing? Magic was ours! She should have given it to us!” Sweat streamed down Nick’s face. “When my gran was dying, she told us about her sister and you. About the power.”

  Something more than just stress was going on here. Nick’s face looked waxy, like he was ill. Maybe on drugs.

  “You killed my ex-husband! For what?” Sylvie pulled the rock from her bag. “This?”

  I sent up a prayer of thanks that Nick hadn’t shot her when she reached for it. Apparently, Lilac had similar feelings, because she clasped her hands together and looked heavenward.

  Just as I was certain Sylvie was going to chuck the rock at his head and still end up shot, a sharp thud reverberated through the small shop.

  Bobby’s wailing stopped, and everyone flinched—but not Nick. If he had, with that gun in his twitchy hands—

  Another thud, this one even louder, had us ducking—but not Nick.

  After the third thud, I traced the sound to its original: a construct pounding on the glass door.

  He was larger than the first construct and highly motivated to get inside. So motivated that, with his supernaturally enhanced strength, he should have shattered the glass door.

  The construct’s bulk and awkwardness would have been harder to sneak past Phoebe, certainly, but I was surprised Nick didn’t simply kill Phoebe and her beau, leaving the place empty. Why hadn’t we been confronted with Nick, his construct, and two more victims?

  But then the creature’s eyes glowed a dim purple color. Glowing eyes . . . I looked at Nick and saw the sweat, pallor, and shakiness for what it was. Exhaustion. He was directly controlling the construct. That wasn’t how they worked; they weren’t puppets. Which was why Nick was killing himself with the effort.

  “Why can’t it get in?” Nick glared at me, and for the first time, the gun was nowhere near Sylvie. “What did you do, reaper?”

  Lock. Lock-lock. A manic, high-pitched giggle followed.

  “Soul collector,” I said. “No scythes required.” It was an automatic response to the age-old slur, not because I wanted to get shot, but because my brain was busy trying to figure out why that construct couldn’t get in. Hector and Tamara weren’t likely to be the cause. They’d have joined us by now if they hadn’t found their own trouble.

  “Soul collector, reaper, death, why can’t it get in?” Nick was desperate. Sweat was streaming off him.

  But why? Why was he so frantic? He was the man with the gun.

  In the background, Bobby kept chirping, Lock.

  Finally, that piece clicked into place. Lock, lock and key. The key in Lilac’s pocket. We were locked in this store, safe from outside harm. That had to be what was keeping the construct out. And I trusted Hector’s cursed objects. That construct wasn’t getting in.

  But why was Nick literally killing himself to get the creature inside?

  And I looked at him. Not in a panic, not while trying to talk him down or draw his attention away from Sylvie. I just looked. His eyes were wild, his hair soaked, his skin waxen—and his finger was on the trigger guard.

  “Nick.” He didn’t hear me, so I repeated his name twice.

  Finally, he looked at me. His eyes weren’t wild, but tired and confused. “Why can’t it get in?”

  “A demon’s cursed object is protecting the shop. No one, nothing, is getting inside.” I saw Lilac pat her pocket and then practically collapse with relief.

  Sylvie, on the other hand, was eyeing the gun, then Nick, then the gun. I wasn’t convinced she’d keep her cool. She looked mad enough to grab the gun from Nick, and that might be just enough push for him to actually get the gumption to shoot her.

  Nick’s legs wobbled, and he against the edge of Lilac’s desk. The tip of the gun was pointing away from us, toward the ceiling, wavering. I had a nasty feeling. A choking, breath-stealing feeling.

  “Nick.” I tried to sound calm. I tried.

  The tip of the gun rested against his head, the muzzle still pointed at the ceiling. “I saw the opportunity. With your cat.” His gaze met mine briefly then shifted away. “I knew it wasn’t a cat. Knew he was alone in the house. It was easy. He asked if I had good food and then he just came with me
.” Nick shrugged. “Easy.”

  “Nick, give me the gun.” Again, I spoke calmly. No accusations. Simple instructions. Focusing on what I wanted him to do.

  But he ignored me. Tears appeared in his eyes. “Bobby. Now that shouldn’t have happened. I just wanted to know where you were. The will and your name change . . . I couldn’t find you.” He tried to make eye contact with Sylvie, but I stepped to the side, intercepting him and keeping as much of his focus on me as possible. Looking at me now, he said, “Her name was different. On the will, she had his name.”

  “Bobby’s name.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at me like I’d just admitted to understanding everything. “Exactly. So I found him.”

  “But he wouldn’t help you,” I said in a neutral tone. But it was hard, because a few of Bobby’s pieces were falling into place, and it made my head and my heart hurt. He’d died protecting his ex-wife and then he’d stayed, as much of him as had survived, to make sure she was safe.

  All of this—Bobby’s death, stalking Sylvie, hurting Lilac, Clarence—for one man’s greed.

  “You sorry son of a—” Sylvie stopped abruptly, and I heard Lilac making shushing noises. I hoped Lilac had the sense to physically restrain Sylvie.

  I kept my eyes on Nick, on the gun. “Nick, give me the gun.”

  And then he did.

  He just handed it to me.

  I dropped the clip into my hand, pocketed it, cleared the chamber, and then almost passed out.

  Thankfully, Hector and Tamara waltzed through the back door, Mrs. G in tow, at exactly that moment.

  I couldn’t pass out in front of a woman I had romantic interest in, a guy who had both the coolest toys and the most enviable playhouse, and two women who would never let me forget.

  Except maybe I could.

  Sylvie appeared from nowhere and wrapped an arm around me. Okay, she propped me up. Either way, I stayed on my feet and didn’t pass out.

  30

  When I’d finally caught my breath and was sure I wasn’t going to embarrass myself with a quick trip to the ground, I leaned down and whispered a thank you in Sylvie’s ear.

  She leaned in, gave me a quick, one-armed squeeze, then let me go. And I felt like a heel. She’d just confronted her burglar and her husband’s murderer, and she was making sure I didn’t hit the pavement with a splat.

  I redirected those feelings toward a smug demon and his witchy buddy. “Where have you guys been?”

  “It’s been five minutes.” Hector smacked me on the back. “I knew you were good for five minutes.”

  Tamara shot Hector an exasperated look. “And Mrs. G said there was no way Nick would shoot. He’s terrified of being haunted. Thinks if the constructs kill for him, the ghosts can’t find him.”

  He might be right if Bobby was any indication, but I still thought that was death fugue. “Bobby?” I called out. But there was no response. Where was he? “Has anyone seen Bobby? Uh, heard him, felt him, anything?”

  But no one had.

  While I’d been, ah, getting my bearings again, Mrs. G had gone to sit next to her nephew. No one had put him in cuffs—although I didn’t suppose we had any—but he didn’t look like he was going anywhere. He didn’t look quite awake. I peered closer. He didn’t look quite alive.

  Tamara approached me. “He’s gone.” Seeing my confusion, she said, “There were two constructs in the alley. One attempted to enter through the rear door.” She shrugged. “The other kept us busy without getting too close. That’s what took us so long. The creature avoided a direct confrontation.”

  Her words made it clear who’d come out on top every time in that confrontation. She and Hector were maybe a little scary as a pair.

  “So you were distracted by one construct, while the other tried and failed to get in, because of Hector’s key,” I said. “I figured the key out at some point.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes. “I told him to tell you, but he didn’t want you relying on it. He wasn’t sure it would be as effective, since she leased the space, but he’s overly conservative with his precious cursed objects.”

  Three constructs. That was a lot of magic. A lot. “Wait. Was he controlling the two in the back directly?”

  Tamara pinched her lips together. “Creativity is one thing; twisting magic to be used in ways it’s not intended is simply foolish. And dangerous.”

  So, yes. I looked at the blank expression on Nick’s face. “Are you telling me he’s blown a fuse?”

  “Magically speaking, yes. I don’t think there’s any recovering from that.”

  A knot of dread landed in my stomach. “Clarence.”

  Tamara frowned. “He wasn’t in either of their cars.” She looked at Mrs. G. She was huddled next to Nick on the sofa, the same one that had propped up the construct for his blessed-water dousing and had eventually been covered with that creature’s ashes. They must have moved him while I’d been speaking with Tamara.

  “He’s at the house.” Mrs. G said in a tired, small voice. She blinked red-rimmed, dark-circled eyes at us. “The key’s under the yellow flower pot.” Then she turned to Nick and tucked his head against her bosom like one might do with a small child.

  I felt for her. She’d been caught between the love she felt for her nephew and what she, as a good and decent person, knew was right. She’d have to live with her choices.

  But those thoughts were secondary as we piled into the car to rescue Clarence. Hector, bless his efficient soul, was handling the remaining necessities with Nick and Mrs. G.

  It was only as we raced back home that I realized not one of us had thought to ask if Clarence was alive.

  When we entered the house, a low moaning noise greeted us. It seemed to come from the back of the house. Were we too late? Was Clarence even now in the throes of some horrible death?

  “If he was dead, we wouldn’t hear anything. If he was dying, we’d hear more. Don’t you think?” Tamara shooed me toward the back of the house. “Go. See what’s happening.”

  Not dead—but dying? Tortured?

  The moaning got louder, and I pinpointed the room it was originating from. I could hear Tamara opening and closing doors—searching for another construct, perhaps. Or just making certain we wouldn’t be surprised by anything else nasty that Nicky had left behind.

  Sylvie and Lilac were both at my back, following closely.

  “If the layout is as close to my house as it seems, then this is the master bedroom,” Sylvie said as she gestured to the last door.

  I nodded and opened it. And there he was, a pitiful, tortured bundle of fur, lying prone on his side, a look of anguish on his face.

  “Save me, Geoff,” he whispered.

  And that was when I heard the porn tunes in the background.

  A huge screen showcased a film with too much bare flesh and bad background music. I grabbed the remote on the bed and shut it off while Clarence writhed in agony.

  “Clarence, what did they do to you?” I asked. I was confused, concerned . . . confused.

  “Beer and brats. So many brats.” He moaned again.

  “And porn,” Lilac said helpfully in a chipper voice.

  Clarence groaned. “So much bad porn.” He lifted his head slightly and looked at her. “I couldn’t say no.”

  Sylvie’s lips twitched. “Clarence.” There was sympathy there, but also a laugh that I could tell wanted to burble to the surface. Thank goodness she could laugh. She’d had a doozy of a day.

  “Go on, laugh.” He writhed on the bed and groaned again. “But get me some kitty Pepto, pleeeeease.”

  His stomach was distended under all his fluffy stomach fur, which I could see more clearly now that he’d stretched out and was still. Still except for the panting. That couldn’t be good.

  “I think we need to get you to the vet, Clarence. You really don’t look so good.” I turned to grab the corner of the bedspread and caught a shared glance between Clarence and Sylvie.

  Sylvie put her hand on m
y arm. “Don’t worry, Geoff. He’ll be fine. There’s an emergency vet right around the corner. A friend has used them and says they’re great.”

  “Got it. Emergency vet it is,” I said as I wrapped Clarence in the bedspread. When I picked him up, the moaning increased in both volume and frequency, which made me hope that Sylvie was right. How terrible would it be for Clarence to survive the kidnappers only to be brought down by beer, brats, and porn?

  Epilogue

  Late night

  Several hundred dollars later, Clarence and I were back from the emergency vet. It had been a close call. Not a medical one—Clarence was just fine—but a logistical one.

  So far, everyone had believed me when I said, “Bobcat? Of course he’s not a bobcat. He’s a pixie bob.” And if they commented on his size, which was much greater than any pixie bob, I just claimed there was a little Maine coon thrown in.

  That hadn’t worked at the emergency vet. It wasn’t the vet who’d commented, but the vet tech. “Sir, that’s a bobcat. I can see clear as day that it’s a bobcat.”

  Clarence’s eyes had narrowed, and if he hadn’t been in gastric distress, I was pretty sure the tech would have gotten a nice claw to the nose.

  People saw what they wanted to see, and they didn’t want to see magic or the unexpected. Give them a reasonable alternative, and most people would latch on and cling to it desperately rather than deal with the idea of magic or the supernatural.

  But not Horace Messerschmidt.

  My guess: Horace had a little magic tucked away in his family tree. Or he was just that guy. The one who knew everything. The one who was never wrong. The one who had to tell you all about the right way to do it.

  “I might want to strangle you, Clarence. First, that terrible Messerschmidt man with his lectures on having wild animals as pets, and then the bill. Seven hundred dollars.” When he didn’t look chastened and didn’t reply, I repeated, “Seven hundred dollars, Clarence.”

  “Hm. I’ve never had an ultrasound before.” Clarence sniggered. “Like a pregnant lady.” Then he chuckled.