Under Pressure (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 4)

by Isobella Crowley

  She hitched the purse up slightly on her shoulder. In the tussle, she’d almost dropped it.

  “Oroche,” she stated, “I’m sure you know what Moswen will do to you if you try to flee from your responsibility. It’s best that you simply stay and fight.”

  His lips drew back from his fangs. “Agreed.”

  He advanced in the same sidewinder motion he’d used during his earlier strike. Understanding its trajectory now, she flicked the knife. It spun half a dozen times before the blade buried itself halfway in his right eye.

  “No!” he cried and raised his hands to his face again.

  By now, Taylor was already toe to toe with him. She plunged her right hand through his ribs, found his heart, and removed it. He clawed feebly at her arm as her hand crushed the organ, but he was already collapsing. She dropped the lifeless heart and retrieved her knife before he fell completely.

  Wasting no time, she continued down the alley parallel to the street she’d been walking on and intended to approach her car from the opposite direction.

  Another bungled assassination attempt on Moswen’s part, she reflected. But this must mean that we don’t have much time. She’s getting ready to close in soon. The big assault is coming. We must have the spell ready by the end of the night, if possible.

  They needed a thrall’s blood but now wasn’t the time or place. She had nothing to store it in properly. Fresh was best for these kinds of operations. Trying to transport old, contaminated blood could interfere with the functionality of the spell.

  She picked up the pace. Even besides the blood, there was another ingredient she had to collect that night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cresskill, New Jersey

  The Tesla stopped before the massive black iron gates. They were taller and more theatrical than the ones barring the public from Taylor’s mansion, and the security cameras more numerous and obvious.

  She rolled her window down and pressed the button on the small console.

  A deep, velvety male voice came through the speaker. “Who are you and what is your business here?”

  “Taylor Steele,” she stated simply, “and I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

  It was likely that her voice alone would do the trick, but to be safe, she removed her dark glasses to allow the cameras a better view of her face.

  There was silence for perhaps ten seconds before the man replied, “Very well. Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in, then.” The speaker went silent and the gate buzzed before it swung open.

  Taylor closed her window and drove beyond the iron portal. The plot of land was not as impressive as hers, but between the gate and the house itself, the owner of the place hadn’t done too badly.

  The mansion rose beyond a dense strand of birches and firs, paneled in ebony and deep red brick. It was narrower than her house but taller—three stories, plus two towers that added another miniature floor.

  The ground floor was lit, she saw as she approached. Otherwise, only a single dim orange light burned at one of the third-story windows.

  She parked in a broad area beside the garage and approached the second gate in the second fence, which surrounded the house proper. Beside it was a booth and a brawny security guard emerged with a handheld metal detector.

  “Ma’am,” he greeted her. “I’ll have to scan you for weapons before you can go in.”

  She held a hand up. “I have a pistol and a knife. Mr. Danforth knows me and will not be shocked or threatened by this. You may call him to verify it.”

  The man squinted and wrinkled his nose, perhaps detecting the lingering scent of Oroche and his cohorts. After a moment, he backed away a few steps, set the metal detector down within his booth, and retrieved his direct-line phone by its cord with his left hand. His right remained near the pistol he wore at his side.

  “Hi, Mr. Danforth,” he said into the receiver, “it’s me. There’s a lady here—obviously, you already admitted her—but she says she has a pistol and a knife and that you—”

  “Yes.” The smooth voice from the first gate was audible to her ears even from eight paces away. “That is fine. You may let her through.”

  He seemed confused but only responded with, “All right sir, no problem. Let me know if you need anything.” He hung up and punched a few keys, and the second gate released.

  “You’re free to go.” He waved her through. “I’ll…uh, keep an eye on your car in the meantime.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded to him, walked past the iron fence, and quickly mounted the steps to the wraparound porch and the red double doors.

  They were unlocked. As she stepped over the threshold, her host descended a staircase at the opposite side of the foyer.

  The room’s aesthetic was an Art Deco style that would have been popular with the rich in both America and Europe almost a century before. The staircase broadened as it neared the ground, and both it and the floor were covered with thick, deep-red carpet.

  “Taylor,” the man said.

  He was tall with dark brown hair that fell to his broad shoulders, and a mustache and pointed beard that were about half a shade darker. He wore a long robe the same color as the carpets. In his left hand was a crystal glass filled with what appeared to be red wine.

  She looked at him and a faint, gentle smile came naturally to her face. “Hello, Gerald.”

  Her host continued down the stairs rather than invite her up. The hem of his robe trailed behind him as he walked across the foyer and stopped about three paces away from her.

  “You smell of blood,” he observed. “Spilled not long ago. It’s soaked into your clothes. You came here straight after killing…someone.”

  She did not deny it. “Two vampires and two thralls who tried to ambush me. You know I prefer to avoid feeding on living things, whether mortal or preternatural.”

  “Of course,” he intoned, his dark eyes momentarily distant. “Killing at will on the one hand and drinking blood harvested humanely on the other, but never the two shall meet.” He raised his glass and took a long, slow sip.

  She cleared her throat. “The second gate is new, I see. I remember the first and you keep a guard closer to the house but don’t have an inner gate.”

  Gerald Danforth finished his drink. “One can never be too careful. How are things in New York? I don’t get across the Hudson much these days.”

  “New York,” Taylor explained, “is under a certain amount of extra strain of late. You might even say it’s in danger and the source of that danger will be all too happy to expand to all surrounding environs. That is why I’ve come. So that you can help me and be free of your obligation.”

  The man’s eyes didn’t open beyond their almost sleepy, two-thirds lidded state. He turned, strolled to the nearest table, and set the empty glass on its ebony surface.

  “I seem to recall,” he remarked suddenly as he rotated back toward her, “that once, you had an obligation to me. A mutual obligation. One which I did not try to cheat.”

  She almost cursed because she ought to have known that they’d end up rehashing ancient history before she could get down to business.

  “That was a hundred and fifty years ago, Gerald,” she observed. “And I have already apologized. You have every right to still harbor a certain subdued anger, I will concede that much. But what amends could be made have already been made. Taking me to task in the present year is pointless.”

  He laughed in a low, almost rumbling fashion. “That is such a detached, almost scientific way of speaking. Analyzing the situation rather than experiencing it. The notion of feelings hardly enters the equation, does it?”

  The vampire folded her arms and drummed the nails of her right hand against her arm. “That is immaterial. What concerns me tonight is the fact that I require your help. And as it still stands, you would likely not have come to possess this”—she gestured at the spacious and beautiful house with her chin—“without me.”

 
; He stepped closer to her again. “Yes, too true. Helping you is rather near the bottom of any list I might make of things I want to do. But I also dislike languishing in debt. Eliminating that particular responsibility once and for all makes the prospect far more attractive.”

  “Good,” she stated. She arched her thin black eyebrows. “May I have a drink?”

  “Certainly,” he almost grunted. “Come to the drawing room. It’s on the third floor as I’ve always favored high places.”

  Taylor almost tittered at that as she followed him, walking a little to the side as she took care not to step on his robe. “Our kind belongs in the depths of the earth, but you’ve always been…atypical.”

  He didn’t disagree.

  They ascended two floors to the drawing room off the third-story landing and behind another ebony double door. The chamber was furnished mostly in reds and golds, with accents of black and the deep iron color of the two suits of armor which stood at the eastern corners as if guarding the house against anything that might cross the Hudson River.

  At the far end of the room was a full bar, including an ice compartment as well as many wines and liquors and a tap with a slight rust-colored stain around the spout.

  Taylor smiled. “I’ll have a Historical Bloody Mary. If you do not have celery, that’s fine.”

  “Quite right.” He set to work, selected a glass, and added trace amounts of tomato juice and the necessary seasonings. Finally, he poured a generous but not excessive splash of vodka in before he topped it off with blood from the tap.

  She accepted the drink. “Thank you.” She sniffed it and her appetite, dormant for some time, roiled within her.

  He nodded and fixed himself another wine-and-blood. “Don’t drink yet. I think it would be proper to make a toast first.”

  “Very well, although we must discuss business directly.”

  Once Gerald’s beverage was complete, he spun toward her, his drink raised. “A toast, then, to a temporary reunion of the very best people in both New York and New Jersey.” He lowered the glass to bring it within Taylor’s reach.

  She extended her own. “To a productive alliance,” she said and clinked hers against his before she took a sip of the Bloody Mary. It was excellent. Danforth drank enough that she’d had no doubt of his skill as a bartender.

  Gerald himself was still in the midst of a rather long draft of wine, and she did not wait for him to finish.

  “I require the twig from the Burning Bush,” she stated.

  The other vampire startled and almost choked on his drink, and for the first time, his eyes opened wide as he struggled to not spit blood and fermented grape juice across the drawing room table. After a second or two, he swallowed his mouthful and the lump moved visibly down his throat.

  “What? Why? That’s the one piece I refuse to even show! You appear, with no warning, on my doorstep after years of silence, and immediately demand the most precious—”

  “Gerald,” she cut in and raised a hand, “I’m sorry. Believe it or not, I truly am. But this is important, and not only to me personally. I don’t think you know what’s going on. Allow me to explain.”

  He brushed a lock of hair away from his face. “Please do.”

  Taylor leaned against the table. “You may have heard of an ancient Egyptian vampire called Moswen Neith. She was imprisoned in the Negev Desert in southern Israel at least two hundred years ago, and released only recently.”

  She went on to relay the whole story—minus the most intimate or tedious details—of how she became aware of Moswen’s presence while the elder vampire was still in the Levant. It included how Moswen sent her thrall Alex to try to prepare New York for her coming. He listened quietly while she described how she’d since come in person to finish the job and already had tentacles spread throughout greater New York’s underground, business society, and political structure.

  Finally, she explained how she had tracked her the whole time and opposed her every step of the way.

  Gerald did not interrupt and simply listened with an ever-increasing, slack-jawed amazement. He said nothing as she reached the conclusion of her spiel.

  “And now, I have acquired the dagger of the Coptic magus Teremun al-Harb and a spell from the Sinai Peninsula which is likely to be even older. This spell requires a component of the Burning Bush in order to function. With it, we can bind Moswen once again and bury her beneath our feet, ending the threat she poses to the entire balance of the preternatural world.”

  Slowly, Danforth shook his head, his eyes still wider than they’d been at first but almost glazed over.

  “I’ll be damned,” was all he could muster in a near rasp. He sat suddenly in one of the cushioned chairs lining the east wall. “I’d heard rumors but I don’t pay much attention to such things. And it was decades before I was even sired that Moswen was bound.”

  Watching him—his shock, his distance, and his seeming lack of enthusiasm to leap to her aid—gave Taylor an idea.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Gerald, please,” she said softly. “Don’t make me invoke your sire bond.”

  Honestly, she doubted whether she was capable of actually pleading but right now, she came about as close as she could. The time she’d spent with Gerald was not time she’d regretted and her need was great. He could be the one who gave them the final and perhaps most important component.

  Blowing air from his nostrils, the tall vampire stood and seeming to pull himself together in a moment. “This is a lot to take in,” he commented. “But, yes, let us view my collection.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  As he led her out of the drawing room, he asked, “And what will happen to this twig during the spell?”

  “It’s likely,” she admitted, “that it will be incinerated and there will be nothing to return.”

  He almost stumbled as he advanced toward the staircase, and she could feel a new surge of anger rise in him.

  “Would you prefer I lied?” she asked.

  “No.” He said nothing further but she guessed his thoughts—that she was still too blunt and insensitive.

  They descended to the second floor and made their way into a great central hall which acted as Danforth’s personal museum. She doubted the twig would be kept there, but assumed that they were obviously moving in the right direction.

  The walls were lined with bronze and marble busts and statues, rare oil paintings, weapons collected from archaeological digs, and even exotic plants. Interesting items, she conceded but still rather pedestrian at the end of the day.

  They moved through the hall and approached an elevator, and she nodded approvingly. The basement must be where he kept the really good stuff.

  Gerald stood before the security pad beside the stainless-steel doors. “Look away, please.”

  She did as he asked and turned back to examine a macabre Expressionist piece by James Ensor, while her host punched five digits into the pad. She turned back when he finished and as the elevator doors slid open. They both stepped inside.

  He reached out with his thumb—she noticed that he still kept his nails trimmed impeccably short—and pressed the B2 button.

  “The sub-basement,” he explained, “is only accessible from this elevator, the doors of which are virtually indestructible.”

  “That’s wise,” she acknowledged.

  The lift took them deep into the earth and opened onto another hall like the one above. It was, however, far more sparsely decorated and of dark limestone rather than blackened wood.

  Danforth walked forward slowly, and Taylor wondered if he were deliberately giving her time to ogle his famous collection. Not that she minded.

  Several were kept in safe boxes or were too obscure to draw her interest, but others seemed to leap out at her and demanded attention. And in some cases, she doubted this was mere metaphor. There were relics in the world that possessed their own wills and agendas.

  One was an ornate jade chalice, well over two thousand years
old and, judging by the inscriptions, probably intended to contain the elixir of immortality which China’s fang shi sorcerers had worked on before Qin Shi Huangdi, the first emperor, ordered them buried alive.

  Another was a roster of scrolls on which hints of old Greek writing could be glimpsed. Taylor had heard whispers that Gerald might possess this—an ancient treatise on lycanthropy which was one of the only volumes saved from the Library of Alexandria before it burned down.

  A third—the small skull of an animal—was mysterious to her at first before she noticed the Arabic symbol burned into its bare scalp and realized it must have belonged to Abu Hurairah, companion to the Prophet Muhammad and Father of Kittens.

  “Gerald,” she quipped, “you have a veritable treasure trove here. It exceeds my expectations.”

  He glanced at her and smiled. “Thank you, Taylor. You didn’t think the twig was the only thing of real value I possessed, did you?”

  She shrugged.

  Near one of the side halls, they stopped. An airtight glass cube contained a thin forked stick that looked almost petrified with extreme age. Taylor waited as Danforth put a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves on and opened the glass box with what seemed a great exertion of strength.

  In contrast to this, he was extremely gentle in his handling of the twig itself. He drew it out with great care, placed it on a wad of tissue paper, and wrapped it with precise movements.

  “Come,” he said, “I can find you a small padded box upstairs.”

  He did not offer her the item yet and carried it himself on their ride up the elevator shaft and through the second-floor museum. He went to a closet nearby and found a box, placed the twig within, put the lid on, and secured the whole package with two lengths of twine.

  “Now,” he proclaimed, “it is yours. May it serve you well since I’d far rather surrender this object to you now than surrender my entire collection to this usurper, Moswen, two months from now.”

  She gave him a long nod that was almost a slight bow and accepted the box.