Seeing Red

by Lyra Evans

  “Anything is possible at this juncture,” Cobalt admitted. “The real question we face now is to decide who you can think of that hates you that much.”

  Niko straightened, his mind settling on a single avenue forward, a single name. He looked at Cobalt and found the Selkie already watching him. They both seemed to be thinking the same thing, without speaking. Again, Niko felt a flicker of excitement and pleasure, but the circumstances drowned that feeling in a torrent of rage. It was a rage he was familiar with, in the last three months or so. And it was this one name that sparked it every time.

  Preston.

  Chapter 10

  Preston was MIA. Despite Niko’s best efforts to keep tabs on him without any practical reason for doing so nor any resources, soon after the auction case was closed, Preston seemed to vanish. The press kept hounding him down wherever he went thanks to Niko, and every time Niko had the opportunity, he reminded reporters that Preston had been present at the auction and was involved in its inception. There was no evidence to support this, aside from Niko’s own witness testimony, so nothing was ever done to Preston. He was never arrested, never even questioned. Despite Niko’s report, there was no evidence of Preston at the scene that night.

  Uri and the other police officers who had responded to Niko’s call for help had stopped and questioned everyone they located on site that night. To Niko’s dismay, the number of arrests was nearly nil, but at least there were other officers and witnesses placing each of those people, some of them very powerful and influential in Maeve’s Court, at the illegal auction of kidnapped Selkies. Given the amount of money swirling around the auction, though, it was unsurprising all of the ‘guests’ managed to find excuses for their presence. Some suggested they had no prior knowledge of the illegality of what was to transpire, thinking they were there for the auction of antiques and artwork. Others claimed they had no idea an auction was occurring at all, arguing they were only interested in the exclusivity of the party to rub elbows with others of high pedigree. And still a few claimed they were in fact there to collect data in order to turn over to the police. Or, even more ridiculous, to orchestrate some kind of heroic rescue themselves.

  Preston had not argued any of these things, as he claimed he wasn’t even there. Niko and Cobalt had left him unconscious and tied to a wall inside the building that inevitably collapsed on itself. Part of Niko was surprised Preston survived at all, though he tried not to examine that part of himself. That he had done nothing that night to try and return to rescue Preston was something he also worked hard not to think about.

  Somehow, Preston did escape. And he did so unseen. And that infuriated Niko more than the other despicable guests claiming they didn’t know what they were there for. Preston was running the show, along with Oak and Amber, but he had paid no price for that. Niko could not allow that.

  Over time, only tabloids kept up with the story, pushing Preston’s name in their rags as being involved in any number of conspiracies—some more legitimately concerning than others. But even tabloids moved on to juicier stories, and eventually, Preston’s name disappeared from the news. Only Niko kept speaking it, and he’d just lost credibility in a spectacular and public way. The only person he could think of that would relish this moment more than Sade—who could relish nothing dead—was Preston.

  “These disguises are ridiculous,” Cobalt muttered, adjusting the cap that gave him dark dreadlocks for the fiftieth time. He was wearing the same cleaning uniform Niko was, though Niko wore a black cap that turned his hair yellow-blond and curly and a pair of glasses with clear, thick frames that turned his pale blue eyes to dark brown. The outfit was ridiculous, but it was also appropriate for the parts they were to play. It was Preston’s fault, really, in the end.

  “The cleaners from Dirty Daddy Cleaning Services all wear the same uniform,” Niko said as they waited at the back door to be let in. “The security staff and concierge are used to seeing men in these outfits come in at all hours. It was the only way in without one of the staff sticking around to supervise us. Now adjust your collar. Your Stone is showing.”

  Niko nodded jerkily to Cobalt’s collarbone while staring determinately at the door handle. It was never freezing in Maeve’s Court, but the winter months were definitely cooler, and winter nights were the coldest it got. The patent leather short shorts he wore over a full torso leather harness were not nearly enough to keep the cold at bay in the dark.

  He felt himself beginning to shiver as the concierge for the building finally answered the intercom buzz, asking who they were and what they were there for. Damn Preston and his luxury condo building.

  “Eh, yeah? We’re here from Dirty Daddy Cleaning Services? Request from a Mr…ah, Wolfe? It looks like?” Niko said, looking into the security camera with a squint of confusion. He needed to seem new so their unfamiliar faces would make more sense. “Have we got the right building?”

  There was a long pause during which Niko amped up his shivering and hopped from foot to foot. A black bag was slung over his shoulder, marked with the logo of the cleaning company, so he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to keep warm and turning slightly to ensure the logo was visible in the camera.

  “Haven’t got you marked on the register,” the concierge told him.

  Niko gestured to Cobalt to hand him the ‘invoice’ and scanned it over. “You sure? ’Cause the read-out says specifically to come to the back door, ask for Mr. Wolfe, and that we have to finish everything before four a.m.” Niko squinted into the camera again. “Mr. Wolfe doesn’t live here? The address says—”

  “Mr. Wolfe is a resident, but I’m afraid he’s not at home at the moment,” the concierge said.

  Niko made a show of giving Cobalt a dumbfounded look. “Well, yeah, I think that’s the point, my dude.” He looked at the paper again. It was a hasty facsimile of an invoice that was partially visible in one of the photos on Dirty Daddy’s website. “I mean, I don’t get it either, but the boss said this client likes to have everything a certain way when he gets back to his place. That’s what we’re for.”

  Another pause, and the concierge said, “I’m afraid I’m unaware of Mr. Wolfe’s preferred schedule. I’ll have to contact my supervi—”

  “Yeah, yeah, listen, mate,” Niko said shivering more violently. “You mind if we sort out this mess inside? Only it’s fucking cold out here, and I’m about to freeze my nips off.” He kept hopping foot to foot. “This job’s uniform don’t cover much, and magical enhancements were extra, so…”

  “All right, yeah,” the concierge said. “Come on in ‘round the front.”

  The door buzzed a low sound, unlatching the lock, and Niko pulled it open with a cheerful thumbs up toward the camera. The interior of the place was significantly warmer than outside, but the warmth extended only to the air conditioning. The décor of the place seemed to be as cold as possible. The floors were white and grey marble, the walls a polished, gleaming grey surface covered in tile. The lighting was stark and white, recessed into pots in the ceiling but for the main chandelier in the centre of the lobby, which was a wrought mess of chrome that looked like a ball of shiny lint. The front desk was white granite with black accents and chrome detailing, and the minimal seating was in a blocky, white leather couch of so minimalist a design Niko wasn’t sure if its goal was to stop people sitting on it.

  Niko approached the front desk with Cobalt close behind him, rubbing at his arms as though to warm them faster. The concierge behind the desk was seated next to the night’s security guard. The guard was a woman of middle age, her pale green hair slowly giving way to grey and her face lined with years of stress that now told Niko she was not easily frazzled. The concierge was a man slightly younger than Niko, his hair cropped so short he almost looked bald, his suit fitted perfectly to his lean frame. But the suit spoke of money his face and haircut couldn’t quite back up.

  “Right, yeah, so you’re saying we’re not on the schedule or something?” Niko asked, hudd
ling up toward the desk without actually touching it. He peered over it, as though to check the schedule himself, but there was nothing to see.

  “Not that I can see,” the concierge said. “Mr. Wolfe’s suite wasn’t scheduled for any kind of cleaning or service for—looks like two and a half months now.”

  Niko made himself appear alarmed. Cobalt lingered just behind him, carefully neutral. The concierge and the guard both eyed him for a long moment when they entered, their eyes flashing with the instant lust that was common in people newly meeting Selkies. Niko tried not to notice it anymore, but some days it was difficult. Today, it worked to his advantage.

  “Weird. Maybe that’s why he wants the service now? No cleaning in two months is kind of a lot,” he looked back at Cobalt. “Looks like we’ve got an elbow greaser in store.”

  Cobalt nodded. “Could be. Might take longer than we thought.”

  Niko’s eyebrows raised, as though he hadn’t considered that. “Right, we gotta be outta here by four,” he said, checking his phone. “Shit. I dunno what’s going on, man, but we really gotta get in there soon if we’re gonna finish on time.”

  “You guys new?” the guard asked, still eyeing Cobalt.

  Niko looked over at her. “Been on the job only two weeks,” he said with a grin. A nod back to Cobalt and he added, “Big Chuck here’s been on a bit longer. What’s it now? Like three months?”

  Cobalt nodded again. “Not a bad job, if you don’t mind the looks.”

  She considered them both a moment, then shrugged and gestured vaguely to the concierge. “Let ‘em up. Wolfe pretty much never warns security about his plans.”

  Niko offered her a nod in appreciation, but the concierge didn’t look convinced. “Maybe I should call Mr. Wolfe, just to be sure,” he said. Niko perked up. They had a number for him, wherever he was?

  “Sure, sure,” the guard said, unbothered. “If you don’t like working here, go ahead.” The concierge’s hand hovered over the phone. “Wolfe left very specific instructions not to call him unless it was a life-or-death emergency. I figure whether cleaners should be let into his place in the middle of the night counts, right?”

  The concierge paled. He drew his hand back carefully, apparently wavering between the risk of letting strangers into his client’s home without permission or bothering a very fickle, very wrathful client needlessly. In the end, he chose the right option.

  “Let me show you up,” he said, grabbing a set of keys from the desk and gesturing to the guard to cover for him.

  “Beautiful,” Niko said in thanks, waving a hand at the guard as they followed the concierge toward the private elevator down the hall.

  The elevator bay for the regular owners was sleek and cold as the main lobby, the doors gleaming in polished chrome, a glass table standing in the centre of the bay with a crystal vase filled with rare flowers. But beyond that was the access to the penthouse suite, which was apparently where Preston lived. The doors to this elevator were almost indistinguishable from the surrounding grey-tiled wall. Only the small glass panel on the wall indicated something was there at all.

  The concierge swiped a card in front of the panel and the elevator doors opened. They were covered in grey tile and sank back from the threshold before disappearing into the wall to allow them entry. The interior of the elevator was detailed in mirrors and polished chrome as well, along with a lounge seat at the back in a steel grey colour and a plush black rug on the floor. Niko made an outward face to show he was impressed, but inside he was revolted. How Preston managed to pay for this all was a question that needed answering.

  As far as Uri could tell from his searches at Niko’s behest, he said the only money that ever entered Preston’s bank account was in the form of exorbitant gifts from other Courtiers. His tax records were clean, his payments to Court always arriving perfectly on time and carefully calculated down to the penny. And without more cause, there was no way to interrogate the various Courtiers to find out why they were sending him hundreds of thousands as ‘gifts.’

  “This is a bit swish,” Niko said, looking around as they climbed up the building, the elevator silently marking the ascension floor to floor. “You ever met Mr. Wolfe then?” Niko asked the concierge.

  The concierge shook his head. “Even before he went on his sabbatical, I never saw him come or go. I know he did because of the media coverage, but I don’t know when. Very private person, I think.”

  Niko nodded, then leaned in conspiratorially. “But you know his real name, yeah? I mean, ‘Mr. Wolfe’ is totally fake. Right?”

  The concierge shrugged slightly, his face mildly red. “Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. That kind of personal information is protected. We do not just violate our clients’ privacy like that.”

  Niko backed off, his hands in the air in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Just so curious. We usually get lots of details about our clients, right? But boss comes in and says we’ve got a job for a ‘Mr. Wolfe’ and the address and that’s all. Super interesting and it’s driving me crazy.” He shrugged. “I just like to know, you know? Not to do anything with it. Curiosity is my flaw.”

  Cobalt snorted softly, and Niko shot him a look. “Yes, just the one,” Cobalt said, and Niko wasn’t sure if he was speaking as himself or as ‘Chuck.’

  The door dinged softly and the doors opened to the penthouse floor. There was a small corridor decorated much the same way as the lobby had been, but there was a long, narrow table next to the door bearing a rather rustic candle holder. It was chrome, of course, but it took the shape of a deer antler with tiny votive candles sitting atop each prong.

  Stopping at the door to knock, as Niko assumed was protocol, the concierge waited a long moment, then plucked the correct key from the ring and inserted it into the lock. The door was painted deep grey with chrome handle and peephole, but no other detailing. When he opened it to usher them in, Niko was prepared for more ultra-modern and minimalist design. But Preston surprised him, somewhat.

  “Here you are,” the concierge said. “The door will auto-lock behind you when you leave, so don’t leave anything behind. And the elevator will take you back down to ground. Just press the call button and that’s it. It can only go to the penthouse or ground, so not like you can go exploring, anyway.”

  Niko saluted the concierge. “Thanks, mate.”

  Hesitating in the hall, the concierge asked, “Do you think Mr. Wolfe will be returning tomorrow then? If your instructions say to be gone by four?”

  Niko and Cobalt shared a look, then Niko shrugged. “Sorry, no idea. Like I said, that’s all the info we got. Why?”

  He looked mildly put out. “Oh? No reason. I mean, I just—my shift ends at seven a.m. Thought maybe I’d have a chance to see him this time. Oh well. See you later.”

  He closed the door behind him, leaving Niko and Cobalt standing alone in Preston’s otherwise highly secure penthouse suite. Cobalt smirked at him.

  “Preston should sue,” Cobalt said, setting down his own Dirty Daddy duffel. “That was alarmingly easy for such a prestigious building.”

  Niko laughed quietly, dropping his bag and taking in the apartment. He was frustrated by the warmth of it, really. The floors were hardwood in a rich brown, perhaps hickory. The space was semi-open concept, with only partial walls separating different areas. The kitchen was to their left when they walked in, taking up a central area in the condo. The granite countertops were a soft green with brown and copper veining, and the cabinets were a lighter wood than the floor with a solid, unmarked grain that made them fade gently into the background. Stainless steel appliances finished it off, and beyond the kitchen stood a large wood table that looked as though it had been carved straight from the largest tree trunk Niko had ever seen. A metal basket atop the table held twine and twig balls for display. The chandelier was fine crystal that looked like a weeping willow dripping rain above the dining set.

  The walls were painted in neutral colours, and the living area spread beyond
the kitchen. A comfortable-looking leather couch lined the corner and one wall, and the lighting came from lamps that mimicked saplings. The outer wall of the apartment was entirely windows blocked only by curtains in varying shades of green.

  “This is rather pleasant, actually,” Cobalt said, taking stock of the place. “I’m disappointed.”

  Niko agreed, though said nothing about it. “We need to get searching.”

  He moved into the living area, looking over the bookshelves and displays. There were all sorts of expensive pieces on show, bookending first editions. The artwork was real, wherever Niko saw it, and all the little touches around the place screamed money. Beyond the multitude of status symbols, there were a handful of framed photographs. Most of them seemed to be artful landscapes of what Niko thought might be the jungle-forest in the northern part of Maeve’s Court. The photos seemed to be taken from different vantage points, but at least a few of them might have been the same area. Niko thought he recognized the same short waterfall and rock formation in a few images.

  Otherwise, the photos were of Preston with various people. In every photo featuring him, he stood next to some Courtier or other. There was a photo of him and Ambert Redwood at some fancy gala event. Another pictured him with a few celebrities and Noor Juniper at a movie premiere. Still others had him dining with various people Niko recognized as heads of business in Maeve’s Court. But one photo in particular stopped Niko in his tracks. He stared at it for a long few moments before calling Cobalt over.

  “What is it?” Cobalt asked, appearing from the direction of the kitchen. “There’s no food in the refrigerator but a few energy drinks. Either Preston doesn’t cook, or he hasn’t eaten at home in a long time.” Niko pointed to the photograph. “I see. He does rub elbows with a number of Courtiers, doesn’t he?”