by C. C. Mahon
She took out a police badge and shoved it under Ernesto’s nose.
“Ernesto Guérida? I’m Detective King from the Las Vegas Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Dale.”
Ernesto’s eyes went wide. “It wasn’t me!”
“Do you know why we’re here?” asked the blonde detective—King.
“Absolutely not,” answered Ernesto. “But I’m sure I’m not guilty. I’m an honest citizen.”
The casino’s muscle, the one with the taser on his belt, chuckled at this declaration. His boss raised a skeptical eyebrow. Ernesto shrunk his head into his shoulders.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s all damn lies.”
The gray-haired detective—Dale—didn’t seem interested in Ernesto’s denials. With his hands in his pants pockets, he sniffed and swept the room with a circular gaze. His eyes stopped dead where I was standing, and fear pumped adrenaline into my blood. I could’ve sworn he could see me and that he was smiling at me.
However, the magic was still tingling across every inch of my skin, and my illusion was holding. No, I decided, the detective must be amused because of the flood of shitty excuses that Ernesto was spewing. He was currently incriminating himself for drug dealing, fencing, and at least two illegal betting rings. If Ernesto continued to run his mouth, the two cops were going to arrest him before I had time to make him tell me what he did to Agatha.
With an impatient click of the tongue, the female detective cut him off. “When was the last time you saw Agatha Argyris?”
I held my breath.
3
“Agatha Argyris’s body was just found in the fountain of a neighboring casino,” announced the detective.
Those words confirmed my worst fears concerning Agatha, and I felt my heart shrink in my chest.
Her nature as a dryad made her a prey of choice: a little too timid, too passive, she wasn’t made to live among humans. But Agatha was so much more than a victim. Cheerful and optimistic, she possessed an incredible ability to get excited over a new project. When I’d hired her at the club, she could barely pour a beer. She had buried her nose in mixology books, had taken it upon herself to take classes in her spare time, and had transformed herself into a true cocktail artist. She was born to live with the other tree deities, somewhere in the heart of a forest. She had, however, found a way to flourish behind a bar in the middle of the desert. If only she hadn’t crossed paths with that pig Ernesto…
The police were obviously of the same opinion, and the blonde detective pointed a menacing index finger under the culprit’s nose. “Is that your idea of fun, killing your girlfriend and dumping her body in front of a rival casino?”
The accused stammered barely comprehensible denials. From where I was, I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, and I could smell the pungent odor of his fear.
Ah yes, loathsome asshole, justice has finally caught up to you.
If only the cops had been able to catch him in time to save Agatha.
The blonde detective handcuffed Ernesto and read him his rights. Beside her, the other cop seemed bored. His eyes were fixed on my shadowy corner, and once again, I got the impression that he could see me. Yet he made no mention of my presence. This time he was no longer smiling. He also didn’t seem satisfied by the arrest in progress. It seemed like it was a chore to him and that he was thinking about something much more important than Ernesto. More important than Agatha’s death…
Anger bubbled up inside me again. I forced myself not to move. I struggled to maintain the illusion that was masking me while keeping myself from jumping on Ernesto to beat the life out of him. But the two officers were escorted by two members of the casino’s security team, and I wasn’t in a position to go up against all four of them. That’s without counting Ernesto, who might not have been very strong, but who wasn’t going to come with me willingly. The cops were hauling him off to prison. The fate I had in store for him was much less desirable. And he knew it.
I watched all five of them go, cursing Ernesto, the police, and my inaction that had allowed a creep to murder an innocent young woman.
I had failed to protect Agatha. I could only avenge her now. With her murderer in police custody, things had just gotten even more complicated. Nothing else mattered to me: vengeance, it seemed, was a dish best served cold.
4
By the time I made it back to the club, Agatha’s murder was on the front page of all the local news sites, being talked about on all the nearby radio stations, and being run on a loop on all the city’s TV news stations. But her identity still hadn’t been made public.
The night was just starting, and we only had a few customers. Two regulars leaning against the bar intercepted me.
“Did you see the news?” asked the first. “There really are some wackos in this town.”
His name was Max. He was a nice guy, a biker on the weekend who ran a transportation company during the week. He was also a metamorph—a coyote, as was revealed by his typical aroma of fresh grass.
Beside him, the girl in the Harley shirt was part of the same pack. Jenny, if I remembered correctly.
“Agatha isn’t here today?” asked Jenny. “I thought she was working tonight.”
Max buried his face in his beer glass to cover up a mischievous smile. I assumed there must have been something going on between him, this girl and Agatha. But that was the least of my worries.
My Agatha had been murdered.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to close,” I said. “Finish your drinks. They’re on the house tonight.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Max.
I ignored him and started a round of the tables to repeat my instructions.
The club was empty in less than five minutes.
And I assembled my team.
There was Nate, the bouncer; Barbie, trapped behind the bar; Matteo, our vegan vampire cook; and Gertrude, the waitress. All their eyes were fixed on me, and I didn’t know handle their stares.
There was no easy way to give them the news.
“The police found Agatha’s body,” I said. “It’s her in the fountain on the Strip. They arrested Ernesto.” Everyone spoke at once, and I raised my hands to block their questions. “I don’t know any more. I’m sorry. Barbie, can you pour us some drinks? I think we need them.”
She took the first bottle she laid her hand on—Vodka—and served us with trembling hands.
Nate, more somber than ever, lost himself staring into his glass without taking a sip. Barbie was so shocked that she wasn’t even swearing. Just this once, I allowed her to smoke in the club. Matteo was even paler than usual and had to sit down. His philosophical convictions kept him from feeding like his nature required, and he always seemed on the verge of passing out. Tonight I wondered if he wasn’t actually going to pass out. Beside him, Gertrude sobbed like only trolls knew how. Her tears were crystallizing as they streamed down her stone skin and hit the ground, tinkling like bells.
We drank drink after drink as the TV above the bar babbled on about Agatha’s murder. But the alcohol wasn’t helping to soften the blow. All around there were red eyes, runny noses, and distraught faces.
On the screen, an announcer was dwelling on the facts with indecent enthusiasm. Agatha had been brutally murdered, her body left in a wooden boat on the water installation in front of a famous casino on the Strip. And the boat had been set on fire, mimicking a Viking funeral. The story had everything to enthrall the crowds, and the journalists weren’t hiding their delight.
We still didn’t know when—or where—Agatha had died. But dozens of witnesses had seen an unknown person disguised as a Viking unload the wooden boat from a trailer, put it in the water, and set it on fire. The tourists had thought they were putting on a show. After all, the casino was known for its aquatic shows that it put on every day for free in the enormous man-made pool. By the time the actual casino employees had come out t
o see what was going on, the pseudo-Viking had taken off and Agatha’s body had been almost entirely engulfed by the flames.
“The victim’s ID was found in her purse, next to the pool,” the journalists repeated before delving into speculation about the symbolism of this funeral from a bygone era.
I put down my glass a little too hard on the bar and left without turning around. I felt like hitting someone, but the subject of my anger wasn’t there. I didn’t want to say or do anything that could hurt my employees even more. So I headed to my apartment.
I had built Club 66 in an abandoned hangar. From the outside, nothing had changed; no sign hung over the metal door, and I hadn’t painted the bare cinderblock walls. But inside was another story.
Hangars didn’t have basements, and I had to have one dug up to accommodate the Club. With no windows, one entry, and only one emergency exit, it was designed like a bunker.
The first floor was nearly empty: an ante-chamber where Nate was stationed to filter the customers, a flight of stairs plunging into the ground towards the actual club, and several hundred square feet that only served to accept deliveries from my suppliers and to park my bike. A metal staircase led to the second floor, where it met a reinforced door. Only my hand print could unlock the door that opened to my sanctuary.
The loft took advantage of the original structure of the hangar. I had kept the metal beams and the decadent amount of space. But I had replaced the tin roof with large skylights that provided an unobstructed view of the city and the desert, and I’d created separate living areas using sliding partitions. The Sorcerers’ Guild had “offered” me a thermal insulation spell to keep the sun’s rays in check. Considering how much their protection services had cost me, it ended up being an expensive gift. But it was effective.
The bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen were normally open, the partitions pushed back as much as possible. I lived alone, and I didn’t have to hide from anyone. And I liked taking in all the space at once.
I ignored the oversized bed at the head of the room and the luxury refrigerator with its stocks of ice cream, and I headed straight to the punching bag hanging from a beam in the middle of the loft. I need to unwind, and only two things could satisfy that need: beating the shit out of Agatha’s killer or hitting a bag until exhaustion took hold of me. With Ernesto in police custody, the bag was going to have to take his place.
Right, right, knee, hook, right… I had been stringing together hits long enough to be covered in sweat and not to be able to feel my hands. My heart was pounding in my throat, but my gut wasn’t satisfied, and I threw more punches.
I stopped as dawn began to break over Vegas. Under the bandages, my hands were bloody, and I was too exhausted to tend to my wounds or take a shower. I let myself fall on the bed fully clothed, sure I was going to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I was wrong. My body was worn out, but my brain was still boiling with rage. I kept seeing images of Agatha’s mock funeral that the tourists had filmed and that the news stations had replayed ad nauseam. I was also coming up with interesting ideas of what abuse to inflict upon Ernesto as soon as I could get my hands on him.
I ended up accepting that I wasn’t going to sleep, so I dragged myself to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. I put on my clothes awkwardly because my fingers had started to swell and scabs were attempting to form where my skin had split. Then I went back to my room.
Behind my bed, I had installed a display case in which there was only one item: a sword. Like I always did when I was nervous, I opened the case and took out the sword.
It was an ancient weapon without any flourishes. It was barely as long as my arm, and the blade was in the shape of a leaf. There was no gem adorning its round pommel. I had no idea which blacksmith had forged it or which warrior had wielded it. But ever since I’d first laid eyes on this weapon, I had fallen in love with it. Maybe it was the balance of its shapes or the fullness of its lines, but holding it immediately calmed me. Its heavy metal was cold, and the feel of it soothed my bruised fingers. I sat down crossed-legged on my bed, placed the sword on my lap, and ran my hands across its surface, like you would with the strings of an instrument.
The sword was the only item that I’d kept from my previous life. I had left my ex—a dirtbag who had been mistreating me for far too long—bringing with me a good part of his antiques collection. I had sold everything to fund my new identity and going on the run. Everything except the sword. Touching it reassured me—not because it was a weapon, it was more like a…blankie. An ancient blankie, still sharp despite its old age. For the first few months, I slept with it in my bed. I had never cut myself, but the sword had shredded too many blankets, pierced too many pillows, and torn apart too many mattresses. I’d opted instead to place it in the display case above my bed.
As always, the reassuring presence of the weapon worked its mysterious magic: it calmed my nerves and cleared my mind, and even my hands seemed to hurt less. I could see things more clearly, and my resolve came out even stronger.
I had promised—no, sworn—to myself to never again accept a situation like this. To never let a man mistreat me again. And I’d left Agatha in that exact situation.
I’d let her down. I knew that a part of my anger was actually aimed at myself. But if my regrets were going to hurt anyone, they might as well hurt Ernesto.
Ernesto had used Agatha like a toy, an outlet, and he’d ended up killing her. For those crimes, he deserved a slow, painful death. In theory, the state of Nevada could execute a murderer. In practice, I wasn’t going to rely on anonymous bureaucracy to get the job done. Not to mention that the gruesome scene on the Strip was probably meant to make Ernesto come off as a lunatic. I wondered how he’d come up with an idea like that, and I decided to ask him as soon as I got my hands on him. Even if he was being protected by the police right now, sooner or later, he’d be vulnerable. At that moment, I’d be there to seize the opportunity.
5
I PUT THE sword back in its case with a twinge of sorrow. I would’ve liked to bring it with me. But even in a city as crazy as Vegas, you don’t walk around in broad daylight with that kind of weapon. Not if you wanted to go by unnoticed. Not if you planned on hanging out at the police station for hours and days to come.
I settled for strapping on my chest holster and placing my gun in it. I had gotten a concealed carry permit in order to carry the weapon on me. That little piece of paper had cost me a fortune—I hadn’t had to bribe anyone, but I’d had to establish an iron-clad fake identity before applying for a concealed carry permit and licenses for the club.
At first, I’d protested. I wasn’t a criminal. I was the victim. If I was on the run, if I had abandoned my city, my family and my name, it wasn’t to run from the police, but to run from my ex. He was the dangerous psychopath. But when one was as rich as Callum Carver, the laws didn’t apply. And I was the one who had to hide behind my fake name, in a new city. And pay for fake papers.
That said, I didn’t regret my investment. The club had become my sanctuary, and when I had to leave it, I felt safer with the gun under my jacket.
The sun was out. Without its neon lights, Vegas lost its glow.
I went down the stairs. My bike awaited me judiciously at the very bottom. She wasn’t alone.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, recognizing Nate’s silhouette.
He was sitting on my bike like he owned it, and it made my hair stand on end.
My hangar.
My bike.
“I was waiting for you,” said Nate. “I knew you were gonna do something stupid.”
“The stupid things I do do not concern you.”
“We work together—”
“I’m your boss,” I cut him off. “Nuance. I decide, you do. And now, you’re gonna start by getting your plantigrade butt off my bike.”
Not only did he not move an inch, but he shook his head slowly. “I have to stop you from doing something that can’t be undone.�
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“Do you hear yourself? ‘Something that can’t be undone’ has already been ‘done’ by that piece of shit, Ernesto. I’m gonna settle for ‘fixing’ a mistake. If I’d beat the shit out of him before, Agatha would still be with us.”
“But not you. You’d be in prison right now. Or on the run.”
“You can live pretty well on the run. You get to visit new places. Now move your ass.”
“Ernesto didn’t kill Agatha,” Nate said. “He has an alibi.”
“If Ernesto is breathing, he’s lying,” I replied. “Since when are you on his side?”
“If his alibi wasn’t solid, the police wouldn’t have let him go.”
Blood rushed to my head, and a high-pitched ringing kept me from hearing the next sentence.
“Let go?” The cops had freed Ernesto? And I was wasting my time arguing with my bear of a bouncer instead of going to avenge Agatha?
My hand made its way the grip of my gun under my coat on its own.
“Why are you protecting him?” I asked. “Is it a guy thing? Bros before hoes or some stupid shit like that?”
The shock on Nate’s face seemed sincere. But people lied and men stood together. A deep growl, barely audible, rose up from his throat. “Don’t you understand that you’re the one I’m trying to protect?” he asked.
“You think I can’t take care of Ernesto? Agatha wasn’t able to defend herself, but she didn’t have this.”
I drew my gun. The motion reopened the wounds on my fingers, and Nate’s eyes widened.
“What happened to your hands?”
“Nothing, compared to what I’m going to do to that pig.”
I had taken the time to learn how to use this weapon; I’d taken classes at the shooting range and spent long hours practicing in the desert. I could hit a can one hundred yards out. Busting two kneecaps from three feet away wasn’t very complicated. After which I was going to break every joint of this son of a banshee’s body and watch the blood drain from him under the desert sun.
