Demon's Vengeance

by Jocelynn Drake

  Beside me, Trixie let out a horrible cry. I turned to see her knees buckle and she started to collapse. Catching her, I scooped her up and sat her on the only stool in the crowded little room. She gripped my arms with fierce, trembling hands and raised tear-­glazed green eyes to my face. For the first time since I’d met her, Trixie involuntarily lost her glamour spell. Serah was staring at her in shock, but I ignored the human.

  Cupping Trixie’s cheek with one hand, I kept the other on her shoulder to hold her steady. “Are you okay? Do you want me to get the paramedics?”

  “No,” she said in a squeak. She cleared her throat and repeated it with more force. “No. I’m just overwhelmed. First, Kyle dying like this and then those women.” She paused and looked at Serah. “Did the babies survive?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said gently.

  Trixie squeezed her eyes closed. A tear escaped, slipping down her too-­pale cheek. “I need to go home.”

  “Agreed. We’re out of here,” I said, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as I started to help her to her feet.

  Trixie pressed a hand to my chest as her head snapped up. “No! You stay. Help the police and TAPSS. You can help them.”

  A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth. What she meant was that I could find the killer because I was a warlock. I wasn’t too sure what I could do using my special warlock powers with Serah on my heels, but I’d figure something out. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll get a taxi to take me back.”

  “I can get a police officer to take you back,” Serah offered, her soft voice startling me. For a moment, I’d forgotten that she was even there.

  “I can’t trouble them . . .”

  “Trust me, it won’t be any trouble. A few outside are ready to get out of here.”

  “Thank you,” I said on a relieved sigh before Trixie could argue.

  “You just might . . . want to . . .” Serah awkwardly said, motioning toward Trixie’s face.

  The elf looked at me in confusion and I smiled. “You lost your glamour.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she whispered in frustration, but the brunette was back in place in the blink of an eye.

  I pressed a kiss to her forehead before releasing her. “I’ll see you back at my apartment soon. I’ll bring Bronx with me.”

  Trixie nodded and then followed Serah back to the parking lot while I walked into the main tattooing room, where a trio of men struggled to get Kyle into a body bag. Not the easiest of tasks with his innards slipping out and threatening to flop all over the place. If I hadn’t liked the guy, I might have suggested using a shovel. Of course, I can’t say I was overly fond of him. Kyle had gotten sloppy and bad potions made us all look bad. Even so, the guy didn’t deserve to go like this.

  Watching their slow progress, I saw something that could be useful, but I didn’t think the police would let me just walk off with evidence. “Here, let me help,” I offered, kneeling down by the body. Dried blood brushed off onto the knee of my jeans, but it wasn’t the first time my clothes had acquired bloodstains in the ser­vice of others, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. I was getting damn good at laundry since I could afford to replace my clothes every time things got messy.

  One cop gave me a brief, grateful smile as I slid one hand under the corpse’s left knee, while the other was under its back. I quickly stopped my brain from trying to identify the crunchy and cool gel-­like substances my bare hands were encountering. I was an idiot for taking off my gloves and a bigger idiot for not putting them back on.

  It was awkward and we were all trying not to breathe deeply as we worked, but we got the body bagged on the first try. As they rushed to get Kyle zipped up, I sat back on my heels so that my body hid the small wastebasket closest to the tattoo chair Kyle had been using when he worked on the killer. In the blink of an eye, I snatched up a blood and ink-­encrusted paper towel and stuffed it into my pocket before standing.

  The paramedics stood and solemnly marched out of the room, their shuffling feet releasing flakes of dried blood into the air. The cop followed, his head down, looking pale but also relieved. His night in this grim place was almost over.

  The tattooing room had always been a place of new beginnings, second chances, and adventure. But this one screamed of death and violence. It was ugly and mocked everything that had drawn me to becoming a tattoo artist in the first place.

  Serah moved out of the entrance to let them pass, coming to stand beside me. “Trixie is being taken back by Carl and Ernie. They’re good guys and will see to it that she’s safe in your apartment before leaving.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I had no freaking clue she was an elf,” she continued in a low voice despite the fact that we were alone in the parlor. She shook her head as if she trying to dislodge the last of her shock.

  “That’s how glamour works.” I grinned down at her. Serah couldn’t have been more than five feet five in her low heels, making her seem positively tiny next to Trixie, but there was a spunkiness to the woman that kept you from brushing her off.

  She rolled her eyes and then turned serious. “I promise not to tell anyone.”

  “She’d appreciate it. She’s not hiding any longer, but everyone knows this disguise, so she keeps it just to make life easier.”

  “She was in hiding?” Serah said, but I was already shaking my head at her. The TAPSS investigator didn’t need to know about Trixie’s past. I was already cursing myself for that stupid slip.

  “I’ve not spoken with many elves. Are they usually so sensitive? I wouldn’t have expected that.”

  In general, that was a big NO. From my experience, elves were indifferent to humans because we were inferior. Luckily, my girlfriend had a different opinion. But her reaction was unexpectedly strong. The Summer Court seemed to be the most sympathetic of the three different clans. The Winter Court was cool, distant, and definitely frightening, from my limited experience. And the Svartálfar, or dark elves, were murderous assholes looking to kill or control everyone around them. They weren’t quite as bad as the Ivory Towers, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

  “Until recently, the elves have had some reproduction issues. I think Trixie’s a little sensitive about babies right now,” I said, hoping that was the reason. During my quick visit to see Mother Nature in September, I convinced the old girl to set the elves right again. Of course, there were days I still felt hollow and raw from that visit. Mother’s Nature’s home had put me at peace and holding my son had been the best experience in the world, but I couldn’t stay. There were still too many things I needed to do here.

  “Do you have any more insight you can offer on the tattoo or even the killer?” Serah asked and I was grateful she dropped the subject of Trixie and the elves.

  Stepping back over to the counter that held the original sketch as well as the copy used for the inking, I tucked my hands in my pockets to keep from touching anything. “Kyle reduced the size so it can easily be tattooed on an arm or just about anywhere on the body. With this potion, it would need to be on the left side. Preferably on the arm or shoulder—­as close to the heart as possible for this to take effect.”

  “What about on the chest over the heart?”

  “Possible but less likely. Kyle hated tattooing on the chest and generally avoided it. Chest tattoos are a pain in the ass because the customer keeps breathing.”

  “Anything else?”

  I shrugged. “Just the basics—­check fingerprints, Kyle’s schedule, phone records, and the paperwork the client had to sign before the tattoo was done.”

  “Police are working on it, but I doubt they’re going to find much on the paperwork side. I’d heard there are some artists who tattoo without filing the proper paperwork,” Sarah added wryly as she tucked her notepad in her pocket. She didn’t glance up at me, but I kept my face blank and my mouth shut. Most
of us took an off-­the-­books client every once in a while for the extra money. It was highly illegal and could cost an artist his license if discovered, but we always told ourselves that we were careful. Too few of us every caught any trouble from it. But Kyle was proof that careful didn’t count for shit in this world.

  Serah’s narrowed eyes scanned the room as if she were searching for that one clue the other thirty ­people had missed when they traipsed through. “Nothing else?”

  My shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Sorry. I’m a tattoo artist, not a miracle worker.”

  “Then why don’t you give back that bloody napkin you grabbed out of the trash?” she said as her gaze rose to my face.

  My expression remained unchanged as I scrambled for a reply while silently cursing my clumsiness. I had been so focused on not getting caught by the men moving Kyle that I didn’t notice her return. Obviously becoming a thief was out of the question if the tattooing thing didn’t work out.

  “The police are already checking the blood samples from the tattoo,” she continued when I didn’t speak. “They say it’s a waste of time. The soap, ink, and potion have likely destroyed the DNA. They doubt they’ll even be able to identify the species of the killer.” When I still didn’t speak, she crossed her arms over her chest, making her look like an angry marshmallow because of her puffy winter coat. “Can you do better?”

  A smile finally lifted my lips. I could do better. I might not be able to get a clear image of the person, but I could get something. There was a spell or two I could use that had nothing to do with DNA.

  “Listen here, Powell,” she said, poking me in the chest with her index finger. “You’re not going after this sadistic fuck because your friend was killed. This is my case, my collar. Just give me the info.”

  It was interesting that she said “my” rather than TAPSS or the police. I wasn’t the only one with a personal interest in this. Sadly mine wasn’t about avenging Kyle’s death. Trixie’s tear-­filled request was driving me. Of course, I didn’t think Serah’s reasoning figured justice for Kyle either. Poor Kyle. Killed by a client and no one’s promising justice in his name. It was tough being a tattoo artist in Low Town.

  “I’ve got a ­couple ideas. I can get back to you—­”

  “Nope. Ain’t gonna happen.” She poked my sternum a second time to emphasize her point. “Where that sample goes, I go.”

  I hesitated, temptation gnawing at me. With magic, I could wipe her mind of this conversation. She’d forget and I’d be safe to pursue Kyle’s killer alone. But Serah could give me easy access to police information. Her memory could always be wiped after the killer was caught. And it wasn’t like I was bringing more danger into her life. She was enthusiastically seeking it out when she pursued this case.

  “Fine,” I said and started for the door.

  “Wait!” she called, following quickly on my heels. “That’s it? Fine?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why the vampires don’t like you,” she muttered, as we paused to pull off the little paper booties and we stepped back onto the sidewalk.

  The ambulance and most of the police cruisers were gone. Muddy lamplight washed over the lot rather than rotating red and blue lights, allowing the shadows to return to their proper homes. Smoke curled up from the few cars idling, while ­people huddled before the heating vents and discussed Kyle’s gruesome death. Or maybe they were all talking about their holiday plans, eager to forget about one man’s violent death.

  For a moment, I wondered if this very scene was waiting in my future. Between my dealings with the Towers, the local mafia, and the fact that I was a warlock trying to live among the ­people, my life hovered on the edge of a violent end. Were these same ­people going to be discussing my blood-­splattered death scene over a mug of coffee while inwardly wishing they were already home with their spouses and kids? And what were the chances that it would just be my body lying there in pieces? Not good. I couldn’t stomach the idea of Trixie or Bronx being killed because of me.

  “Why did you contact me?” I demanded a little sharper than I had meant to, as I tried to pull my thoughts back from that dark abyss.

  “Because you’re one of the best tattoo artists in the area,” she quickly said, but refused to look up at me. She kept her eyes lowered and concentrated on pulling off her latex gloves and pulling on fleece winter gloves.

  “One of. I can think of two damn good artists who live here on north side. You could have just gotten Bronx. He worked here and knew Kyle better than I did,” I pressed. “Do you have an axe to grind that I need to know about?”

  “Of course not!” she nearly shouted.

  I snorted, a blast of white fog jumping from my nose in the bitter cold. “Yeah. You ignore your mentors and every vamp at TAPSS when they tell you to stay away from me. What’s the deal?”

  Serah glared up at me, her hands balled into fists at her side. I found myself cringing slightly as I waited for her to explode. “You have a sealed file at TAPSS!” Bumping me with her shoulder, she stomped toward the car, seeming to talk to herself. “No one has a sealed file. I can access basic things like training and certification, but all other information is locked up tight. And it’s not just that the vamps don’t like you. They seem . . . scared of you. And nothing scares them, except maybe the Towers.”

  “So . . . what? You got something to prove?”

  “Yes!” she hissed. She shoved her fists into the pockets of her coat and stopped in the middle of the parking lot. Turning back to me, she looked like she was struggling not to scream. “I spent five years on the Low Town police force and I was a damn good cop. But these fucking vampires treat me like some snot-­nosed rookie who doesn’t know shit.”

  I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up. “And you’re building your street cred with me?”

  Serah shrugged, some of the anger draining from her frame as she started for her car again. “Well, that and the cops have started whispering about you as well.”

  Grabbing her shoulder, I spun Serah around, forcing her to look at me. “What about the cops?” The sealed file wasn’t a surprise. TAPSS knew some details about my past, but that was supposed to be locked down and kept secret from most of the agents. The cops weren’t supposed to know anything about me.

  “There have been rumors recently. Started this past summer.”

  “Rumors about what?”

  “Magic.”

  My heart stopped for a second and then started painfully again, racing in my chest. This was not a good thing. “You think . . . what? I’m a warlock?”

  Serah’s head fell back on a laugh. The sound was like little bells ringing in the crisp air. “A warlock?” She laughed again and this time she snorted. She slapped her hands over her mouth, her cheeks turning red in the dim light. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. You’re a warlock and I’m queen of the pixies.”

  Pulling her keys out of her pocket, she unlocked her car and got in while I walked around to the passenger side. Relief made me light-­headed, but a small nagging part of me was insulted. I’d spent most of my life trying to prove to the Towers and myself that I wasn’t like the other witches and warlocks. They were only cold-­hearted killers focused on gaining more power while crushing the world. But it was the perverse part of me that didn’t like being told that I didn’t have it in me to be something. Why couldn’t I be a warlock? I shrugged before pulling open the door. My aura must have been wrong. Gideon and the others exuded scary.

  Boy, was I about to prove Serah wrong.

  Chapter 5

  Pink Floyd was trickling out of the speakers at Asylum when we arrived, causing my stomach to clench with guilt and worry. “Wish You Were Here” was usually saved for when the troll was troubled. The album A Collection of Great Dance Songs had been played a lot in that first month after I’d been drawn back into the Tow
ers. I’d never gotten around to telling Bronx what had happened, but then I hadn’t been my usual cheerful self during that time either, so he knew things hadn’t gone well.

  The troll looked up as we came in the front door and gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment before reaching under the counter to turn down the music. “TAPSS got ahold of you,” he said, though I think it was meant to be a question.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged out of my heavy coat and tossed it onto the wooden bench that ran along the back wall. “I’m sorry about Kyle.”

  He grunted again, though this one sounded a little more thoughtful. “I hadn’t talked to Kyle in a ­couple years, but . . . to go like this. I was just starting to think that the Towers were the only thing that we needed to worry about.” He turned his piercing gold eyes on the woman standing in the middle of the lobby, looking undecided as to whether she wanted to be there.

  “Bronx, this is Serah Moynahan, an investigator with TAPSS.”

  As he rose to his feet, the troll’s relaxed demeanor disappeared like a wisp of smoke in the wind. I could see the muscles in his hard jaw tighten as if he were grinding his teeth. He didn’t offer her his hand, which was unlike Bronx since the troll’s manners usually put Emily Post to fucking shame, but Serah was TAPSS and no tattoo artist liked the regulatory agency.

  “I’m sorry about Kyle,” Serah said as she shrugged out of her coat. She didn’t seem particularly put off by his cold demeanor, though she was keeping a good distance between them. At over six feet, Bronx was an intimidating figure of muscle and menace. It also didn’t help that Trixie had drawn dancing skeletons along Bronx’s bare arms using greasepaint. Since a troll’s skin was too thick for tattooing, Bronx had Trixie draw different images on his arms every night so that it appeared that he had some tattoos.

  “Are you almost done for the night?” I asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled in the room.