Elven Blood (Imp Book 3)

by Dunbar, Debra

  “Oh for the love of the Creator,” I heard him say. Then I felt him. Felt his spirit surrounding me with its red purple, his energy a furnace of fire against me. And I felt safe.

  18

  After Gregory returned me from my punishment, I pounded out the last few pages of my report, sent Wyatt an obligatory text telling him that I was, again, home and, again, sorry I’d missed the lunch with his sister. Then I went to bed and slept like the dead until the next afternoon. With the Ruling Council off my back, I could now turn my attention to finding the elf hybrid and hopefully getting Haagenti off my back then finding and retrieving my horse.

  Dar’s light was flashing on my mirror, but I didn’t have time to deal with him. I grabbed a bite for the road and headed to Falls Church, hopefully to have an enlightening conversation with Joseph Barakel. I had a lot to think about on the ninety–minute drive to Virginia, but the angel dominated, pushing every other thought aside. He was being caring, protective even, towards me. Six months ago he’d wanted nothing more than to end my life. When had his attitude changed into … this? Wyatt was right, I thought with some guilt. It was more than just sex; there was a weird kind of friendship there, something that up until now, I’d only felt for Wyatt. Whatever it was, I wanted it to grow, to see where we’d end up.

  I pulled up to the row of townhouses that my GPS indicated was my final destination, and parked the Corvette a few blocks down. The neighborhood was like a graveyard. Clearly everyone worked nine to five, and it was only four in the afternoon. No one answered the door at Joseph Barakel’s house, so I rifled through his mail and peered in his windows. He definitely lived here, judging by his bills and junk mail, and the house looked occupied, so I let myself in and explored while I waited for him to come home.

  According to Wyatt’s research and my quick addition, the guy would have been about mid sixties in age. The clothes in the closet indicated he was around six feet tall, about two hundred pounds, and not a particularly snappy dresser. There were a lot of sweat pants, button down sweater vests, and slip on shoes. Healthy food sat in the fridge, and not a beer in sight. I rifled through some magazines about technology on the coffee table along with a crossword puzzle book. Boring. Until I got to the box under the bed, that is. That held a nice variety of porno mags—nothing unusual though.

  I dug through a wooden box on his dresser that held spare keys, change, a pair of ancient cufflinks, and some golf tees stamped with the names of various clubs. The elves didn’t golf. He must have picked up the sport when he’d returned to live with the humans. I’d almost put the box aside when I noticed another small one taped to the back. Prying it free, I removed the lid and pulled out a picture, a lock of hair, and a ribbon. The picture was of a young blond girl, about ten years old, smiling at the camera. Her hair matched the little scrap of blond that accompanied the photo. Flipping it over, I saw a name on the back and a date from ten years ago. Susannah Boschetto. She’d be about twenty years old now by my assessment—jackpot; maybe.

  I slipped the picture, the hair and the ribbon into my pocket. Susannah didn’t look much like an elf, but that wasn’t surprising. Her demon half would have quickly adapted and allowed her to blend in with the other humans, to assume an appearance similar to her human parents or siblings. And she was blond, like the human changeling Nyalla. Everything matched, but there was still a niggle of doubt in my mind. What if Joseph Barakel had a child of his own? Yes, the last names didn’t match, but sometimes unmarried women gave their own names to babies. He’d been over here nearly twenty years, and although he wasn’t particularly young when he came through the gate, human males often had children in their mid and later years.

  I scoured the townhouse, looking for signs of a previous romance as well as signs of a child. Even if they’d been estranged, he still might have childish drawings, pictures, holiday cards. It wasn’t likely that his only possession would be one picture, a lock of hair and a ribbon, all tucked away in hiding.

  There was nothing. Not one sign of feminine influence in the house—nothing to indicate that at any time, a female had bought him a gift, or had left something of her own there. No scented candles, decorative throw pillows, fashion magazines. The guy’s towels didn’t even match. Yes, twenty years was a long time, but men didn’t just date once with enough passion to have a child, then never again. This man’s house screamed eternal, virgin bachelor. Or at least guy–who–only–fucks–prostitutes.

  There was nothing to indicate he had a child, either. No notes, letters from college, pictures on the fridge. Susannah Boschetto couldn’t have been his daughter. She was someone else. Someone whose identity he needed to hide. Someone he didn’t want others to connect to him. He cared enough to keep these small things, but was paranoid enough to hide them away so no one would ever know. I now had a picture, even though it was dated. And I had a name. A name I could match against Wyatt’s list of births. A name I could use to pressure Joseph Barakel for information.

  He came through the door about six in the evening, dropping his keys and turning a rather alarming shade of gray when he saw me.

  “I know your secret, Joseph Barakel. I know about the girl.”

  He clutched his chest and staggered backward until his rear hit the door. “What girl?” he stammered. “I don’t know anything about any girl.”

  Shit, this guy was a worse liar than I was. I let him have his space, gave him a moment to try and recover his wits.

  “The girl, Joseph. Blond looks innocent and childlike, but we know different, don’t we? I know all about her. And I know how important she is to you.”

  His eyes bulged. “I don’t know any girl. I work, come home, play golf. I don’t know any children at all. No girls.”

  “There’s no need to lie,” I said soothingly. The guy was going to stroke out if I wasn’t careful. “I know you watched her, but it’s all over now. The gig is up.”

  “I never touched her,” he protested. “Never. I didn’t do anything. Just talk to her that once. That’s all.”

  “Tell me where she is, Joseph.” I took a few slow steps toward him.

  His eyes widened. “I don’t know where she is.”

  I showed him the picture. “Susannah? Where is she Joseph? I need to bring her home.”

  He made a gurgling noise and slid to the floor in convulsions. I stared at him a moment in astonishment. These humans were so fragile. I hadn’t even touched the guy. I raced over to him and crammed my energy through his body, trying to stabilize his heart.

  “Where Joseph? Where is she?” I insisted.

  It was no use. He was thrashing about too much and I was doing more damage than good. His heart beat furiously out of rhythm. Looking up at me, he croaked out “Garage,” then went silent as his heart seized and refused to work, despite my intervention.

  Fuck. Who knows what kind of weird death thoughts he’d been having. I was certain he wasn’t keeping a twenty–year–old co–ed in his garage. He must have been hallucinating about power tools or car repair or something. At least I had a name to go on. That was more than I’d had this morning. A solid lead, at least.

  Feeling rather sentimental toward the old guy who had served his elf mistress so well, I tossed a blanket over him, and arranged him in a more comfortable fashion before I left.

  Susannah Boschetto. Very soon I’ll be returning you to Hel.

  19

  Susannah Boschetto was definitely on Wyatt’s list of births, but her parents appeared to have left the area a few years ago. Wyatt reluctantly checked local colleges trying to track down her records while I made us sandwiches.

  “There’s no A,” he mentioned cryptically as he scrolled down a list on his laptop.

  “Are you talking to yourself, or me?”

  “You. Susannah Boschetto doesn’t start with an ‘A’—neither her first or second name. I thought you said there was a baby ring with the letter ‘A’ on it.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it was an heirloom. Her grand
mother’s ring that her parents stuck on her finger. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Remember, you promised you wouldn’t hurt her unless you proved she was evil.” Wyatt paused from his work to meet my eyes. It was the third time he’d said this.

  “You said murder, not evil. I can only kill the hybrid if I’ve proven it has murdered, or if it confesses to murder.”

  “Or turn her over,” Wyatt added. “If she’s innocent, you’re not going to turn her over to the elves either.”

  I wailed in frustration. “How the fuck am I supposed to get Haagenti off our backs with you adding all these amendments to our deal?”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t turn the hybrid over to the elves or kill it unless I have proof that it has committed murder.”

  “Can we have sex and get back to this afterward? I’m having trouble concentrating here.”

  Leethu was definitely contributing to his frustration. I wanted to help him out, but we had a job to do.

  “Leethu! Turn it down. We’re trying to work here,” I shouted upstairs.

  She was bored. I caught her in dog form, wiggling her rear end at an interested Boomer when I’d returned from Falls Church. Not that I minded, but it revealed Leethu’s frustration. I needed to wrap this up and get her home, not just to get Haagenti off my back, but for her own sanity.

  “Can we order pizza?” she shouted back down.

  I dialed the number. She’d had sex with every delivery guy this week. We didn’t even have to tip them anymore. Last time, the assistant manager had personally delivered our pizza. We had more leftover pizza at our house than I knew what to do with. I eyed the blinking red cabochon on my mirror frame as I placed the order. I hadn’t had a chance to check Dar’s message or get back to him. I needed to call him as soon as I was sure the pizza sexual relief was on his way.

  “Couldn’t you get more information out of this Joseph Barakel guy?” Wyatt grumbled. “Even with a name, this is worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack. It’s like this girl just vanished. I can’t find anything on her; sports mentions from high school, theater, community service, college announcements, engagement notices. Nothing.”

  I concentrated on putting the finishing touches on our sandwiches, although it seemed kind of silly to be making them with all the pizza in the house and more on the way.

  “Unfortunately he didn’t provide much information.”

  “So go back and get more.”

  “I can’t. He stroked out and died before I could find any details on the hybrid’s whereabouts.”

  There was a smack noise as Wyatt slammed shut the laptop lid. “You killed him. After you promised not to. Sam, how am I supposed to trust you! You lie to me, you kill everything that gets in your way. You’re like the grim reaper. Like a steamroller of death. You promised me, and you still killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill him. I swear to you Wyatt, he died of natural causes. It was a coincidence that I happened to be there.”

  “I don’t believe you. It’s just too convenient that he happens to die right when you’re there interrogating him. Did you use your Mean? Scare him to death?”

  A demon’s Mean reflects our status in the hierarchy, it’s kind of a presence—a bullying, intimidating, sort of presence. To humans, a demon’s Mean is terrifying. Their instinct is to flee, or to comply with whatever we are demanding so they can then flee. But I hadn’t used my Mean on Joseph Barakel. Not even a little.

  “No, I didn’t use my Mean. I’ll admit, it was probably startling to find me in his house when he got home from work, but I wasn’t threatening. I kept a well–modulated voice, presented my evidence and asked him where the hybrid was. He admitted to watching the girl, but dropped dead before he could tell me where she was. I swear to you, Wyatt, I didn’t kill him.”

  Wyatt considered my words, his face grim. “All right. I believe you,” he said, opening the laptop. He didn’t sound like he believed me.

  I plopped a sandwich and chips in front of him then answered the door, ushering the pizza delivery guy upstairs. He took the steps two at a time. Obviously he’d been here before.

  “I’m going back farther, to see if maybe there was a divorce and a name change or adoption of the girl. That might be why I can’t find any later records,” Wyatt commented, ignoring the sandwich.

  I took the pizza into the kitchen and sat it on the counter, grabbed my sandwich and went back over to sit next to Wyatt. He mumbled, typing while I ate. If he couldn’t find any trace of this girl, I’d be shit out of luck. I wondered how much it would cost me to put a hit out on Haagenti. Probably more than I had. There weren’t many people who would go up against him. I was so screwed.

  “Oh no. No, no, no.” Wyatt said, putting his face in his hands.

  “What? Did you find her?”

  He looked up, shock in his eyes and swiveled the laptop around. A news report from ten years ago about a missing girl, presumed dead. Susannah Boschetto. The picture on the screen was the same one I had in my pocket.

  “Oh Sam,” Wyatt said softly. “That poor little elf girl. Her mother sent her here to be safe, and she didn’t make it past ten years.”

  “Maybe this is part of the cover–up. Maybe Joseph Barakel moved her from the parents’ home to another, or maybe even raised her himself, to keep her safe.” Maybe I was grasping at straws.

  Wyatt shook his head sadly, and hit a button on the laptop. The screen flashed to another article. Joseph Barakel, suspected in the disappearance of ten–year–old Susannah Boschetto, questioned.

  “He couldn’t have raised her himself. The police would have found out. He was their main suspect.”

  “We need to find the corpse,” I told Wyatt. “Did the police ever find the body? If not, Barakel said ‘garage’ before he died. I thought he was just rambling, but maybe the kid is buried in a garage somewhere?”

  Wyatt nodded and turned his attention back to the laptop while I walked numbly over to my mirror to call Dar. Why did I feel so horrible? I should be elated. Wyatt could find the burial site, and I’d return the child’s remains to Hel. Job completed, Haagenti dead, and all without violating Wyatt’s increasingly strict ethical parameters. But I wasn’t happy. I kept thinking of a ten–year–old child, murdered. Hybrids were considered the equivalent of animals, but I’d started thinking of her as a sister demon. A little girl who’d never discovered who she was, who never realized her abilities. Her life cut short. I mourned, and it was a weird feeling.

  “Mal, I found the demon who has been delivering the messages, or rather, he found me,” Dar announced proudly. “He wouldn’t give me information on where to find Joseph Barakel, but I’m having him followed.”

  “It doesn’t matter Dar. Joseph Barakel died today, and it looks like the elf baby died ten years ago.”

  “Mal, that can’t be,” Dar protested. “He’s been sending regular notes about the girl. Why would he keep up the charade for ten years?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was scared the mother would have him killed or order him back?”

  “Still, I’ve got something I need to deliver to you; something from the elf woman. That’s how I found the demon who’s been doing the back and forth. He contacted me to get this to you. It’s a letter.”

  “Well, read it.” I wasn’t expecting it to tell me anything important.

  “I can’t. It’s warded so only you can open it. I’ll send a messenger over with it tomorrow.”

  “Sam, I’ve got it,” Wyatt shouted.

  “Dar, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I get your note.”

  I raced over to look at Wyatt’s laptop. There was another newspaper article showing grim–faced police escorting a body shrouded in plastic on a gurney. Susannah Boschetto found in the garage bay of an abandoned service station. She’d been missing a week by the time they’d found her body. There was evidence of sexual assault and death by blunt trauma to the head.


  “Sam, she’s dead.” Wyatt was furious. “She was a little girl, an innocent child. You said she would be an abomination, a hybrid monster who’d likely be killing humans right and left, and yet she was weak enough to be kidnapped, raped and killed by a human? At ten years old? How could she possibly have been a monster when she couldn’t even defend herself against her attacker?”

  “I don’t know, Wyatt.” I shook my head, perplexed. “She should have had basic skills. This shouldn’t have happened. Maybe he surprised her and knocked her out first? Raped and killed her before she regained consciousness?”

  I felt a twinge of unfamiliar grief and anger. If she’d known she was an elf, known her demon heritage, if she’d been schooled the slightest bit in any of her skills, she might have been able to defend herself. She wouldn’t have died. I was sad, thinking of what she could have been. I wondered about the abilities she would have had. Just ten years old. A good percentage of demons made it to fifty, even with our high rate of childhood death. She hadn’t even made it past a decade.

  But she was dead, and there was nothing to be done about that.

  “Can you find out where she was buried?” I asked Wyatt.

  He hesitated and took a deep breath. “Yes. But that’s it, Sam—the last thing I’m doing for you. I’m not looking up any more information on these births, no more on any Joseph Barakel. No more on any humans, or hybrids, or anything. I’m done. No more. There’s just too much death in your wake, and I can’t keep pretending it’s justified.”

  I met his eyes, but something crashed inside me, aching like a wound in my chest. “Okay.”

  So there I was, at two in the morning, digging up a corpse. I’d brought Boomer to help, although I’d had to stress several times that he wasn’t going to be eating this body. Hellhounds were amazing diggers, and Boomer would make short work of it. I was grateful for his help since I hadn’t had much sleep in the last few days. It would have taken me a whole night to hand dig the grave solo. Thirty minutes and Boomer hit the lid of the liner.