The Deer Prince's Murder: Book Two of 'Fantasy & Forensics' (Fantasy & Forensics 2)

by Michael Angel

  I hesitated. Keep in mind, I was still scared out of my wits. Not exactly the best position to be negotiating, or even blindly agreeing to anything.

  “This is just a dream,” I murmured to myself, “I don’t know if any of this is real.”

  The female voice raised itself back into a banshee wail.

  “WILL YOU MEET OUR PRICE?”

  “Yes!” I cried out, as I shook like a leaf. “Yes, yes! Please, just leave me alone!”

  “Then the bargain, she is struck!”

  Oh, God! I thought miserably. Please, don’t hold me to any more promises, I can’t do this anymore…

  A crash of thunder. Lightning lashed the night like bright golden whips, making me cringe. The voice came from the darkness once more.

  “If you fail in your task, we shall have no choice but to unmake him. To return him to the ether from whence he came. And your failure will not be forgotten by us, we who bring the terrors of the night!”

  I came awake in a gasp. Sweat ran down my forehead like I had a fever. I rubbed it away clumsily with the back of my hand. I’d fallen asleep. I’d had the worst nightmare I’d had in years. I opened my eyes a crack. Saw the gray glimmer of dawn peeking through the slats on my bedroom window. The room was still plunged in shadows, though. I sat up, swung my feet over and put them on the cool hardwood floor. I groped for the lamp switch on my nightstand and flicked it on.

  A huge black horse with blank yellow eyes stood in front of me.

  I let out a cry that even my seven-year-old self would have thought girly and dove back onto the bed. I buried my face in my hands, felt the sting of sweat mixed with tears.

  “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening,” I sobbed.

  A deep, horsey snort echoed in my room. Inside my head, I heard a voice. A voice similar to Reveé’s, only male. That voice laughed gently in my ear, and then spoke in an accent that sounded French, of all things.

  “Looks like you have a bad case of the frights, ma chére.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  During my sophomore year in college, my roommate thought it would be funny to spike my morning coffee with six full shots of espresso. Aside from the hyperventilating and heart palpitations, I had to admit it was a most effective way to wake up.

  Having a big black horse show up out of your latest nightmare trumped that. By a long shot.

  “This is all a dream,” I murmured into my pillow. “I’ve got to wake up.”

  The same masculine voice echoed in my head again. “Have no more fear, for you are awake. Croyez-moi, I should be knowing this, for I am Destarius de Revasser, of the pouquelaye.”

  I turned my head and cautiously opened my eyes. Yup, the big scary-looking horse was still standing there next to my bed. His withers were a bit shorter than the equine part of Galen’s body, and overall this creature was of a much lighter build. Where the centaur wizard had the stocky features of a draft horse, ‘Destarius’ looked a little more like a Thoroughbred.

  His body was coal-dust black and sleekly muscled, as if he were carved out of obsidian. But his eyes and mane were what kicked his look out of the ‘horse’ category and into left field. His dark mane stood up in a bristly wave, and his bright yellow eyes, devoid of anything like a pupil, glimmered like citrine sapphires.

  I sat up again. To triple-check that I wasn’t dreaming, I pinched myself on my arm. Hard. Yeah, it hurt. The horse-creature watched me perform the test, and while I didn’t see his mouth move, I heard the ghost of a chuckle in my ear when I was done.

  “Satisfied, chére?”

  “I’m going to have to be,” I said cautiously. “I’ve really got no choice but to accept what I’m seeing. So…what exactly are you? And how are you doing this ventriloquism thing? I mean, it’s spooky that your lips don’t move when you’re talking with me.”

  Another lightly-accented chuckle. “Those of us you call ‘non-corporeal’ are outside many people’s experience. Reach your hand out, just so, and touch me.”

  The fear I’d been feeling had rapidly shrunk to a manageable thing once my curiosity got engaged. I stood and gingerly ran a hand alongside his muzzle. It felt warm. Solid. And completely horse-like, excepting that there was no equine scent of skin, hair, or stable.

  “Now, try and touch again,” he instructed me. A barely-there swish of wind, and his form shimmered into a dim outline of his former self.

  I moved my hand and let out a gasp as my fingers slid through the formerly solid planes of the creature’s face. It felt like I’d passed my hand through a puff of smoke.

  “I think I understand,” I said. “You communicate telepathically because you’d have problems speaking when you ‘fade out’. No voice box, no vocal cords to vibrate against the air.”

  “You have it in one. Now, as to what I am? I admit, I am hurt to the quick that you have not heard of my noble people, the pouquelaye. Perhaps, I think, you know us under another name in anglais: the ‘pooka’.”

  “That sort of rings a bell,” I said hesitantly, not wanting to offend. “I’m really sorry that I don’t know more about your people, Dess…Desorry...”

  “Destarius de Revasser,” he repeated, with a flourish. “I know, it is much the mouthful for some.”

  I rubbed my eyes and flicked away a grain of sleep sand as I replied. “Honestly, I’m terrible at names in general. Would it be…I don’t know, would you be insulted if I just called you ‘Destry’? At least I could remember that. You can just call me ‘Dayna’, I don’t stand on formality all that much.”

  Destry nickered his amusement. “Très bon! So it shall be, Dayna.”

  “So it shall.” I gave Destry a look. “What is it with your people’s accent? It sounds…well, sort of European. Continental. But I just don’t see how you come by it, if you’re not from this world.”

  “Ah, but your ear is talented. The line of my dam, she is from Bretagne. We grow up speaking Guernésiais, what others call ‘Norman’ French. But we travel much. For the pouquelaye have long crossed between worlds, ever since there were creatures who could dream. That is what we do, of course: deliver bad dreams.”

  “Yeah,” I declared crossly. “Your leader, Reveé? She’s particularly good at it.”

  Somehow, Destry was able to slip a Gallic shrug into the voice in my head. “The Dream Speaker can be, I could say…a bit direct. Your vision, the one with your father and the forest in winter – it is a vivid one. It gave her the most direct access into your mind, so that she could strike the deal for me with you.”

  I considered that for a moment. “It’s vivid enough, all right. I just can’t figure out why I had that same dream again. I mean, I solved the mystery behind it. It’s a memory, something that really happened.”

  “Solving is not the same as understanding, n’est pas? This dream, you carry her guilt with you. From the death of the Fayleene doe. It is why you keep dreaming about it, why it keeps you from the soundest of sleeps.”

  “I don’t know about that. I feel pretty rested, actually.”

  That’s when my gaze fell upon the clock on my nightstand. It was fifteen effing minutes past effing eight in the morning. The damned curtains and blinds I had closed up over the bedroom windows made it a lot darker than I’d thought.

  “Dammit!” I cursed, and I ran over to my clothes closet. “Look, Destry, I hate to be a poor host, but I need to get somewhere important in the next forty-five minutes, and Los Angeles isn’t known for easy traffic.”

  “But of course, I understand.”

  I threw pieces of another business attire getup onto the bed. I’d feel more than a little gross not showering, but I was really running late. All I had time for was what one of my ex-boyfriends called ‘a cowboy shower’, which meant a switch of undergarments, a splash of mouthwash, and a liberal application of deodorant or perfume. I shed my outer clothes in record time, jammed my thumbs into the elastic band of my panties, and then stopped.

  A quick glance over my should
er. Destry stood right where I’d left him, politely watching me. Again, my skin threatened to break out into a blush.

  “Ah…Destry?”

  “Eh?”

  “Can you please…turn around? Or go visit the living room? I’m about to get naked.”

  “Dayna,” he said, with a verbal roll of his eyes, “While you are belle jolie, I have the masculine appreciation for equine beauty alone, and only when it is properly in heat. Besides, I am already ‘naked’, does that bother you?”

  What is it with these male creatures? I thought, as my impatience got the better of me.

  “All right, that’s enough!” I snapped. “About face!”

  On cue, the pooka swung around to look in the opposite direction.

  Destry cleared his throat. “You have quite the firm hand with your friends, chére,” he complained. “When you find the time, perhaps you will speak to me of which problem you wish my help with. There is the death of the cavalry captain. Or, there is the Fayleene prince. The one who must murder a dragon in order to assume power. The need for a new ruler to prove himself, it is a story told again and again through time.”

  “It may be both,” I replied with a grunt, as I squeezed into new undergarments.

  I smeared a wet roller-ball of antiperspirant under my arms, and then shrugged into the new clothes. I didn’t have time to iron anything, but the clothes had been hung properly in the closet so they weren’t badly wrinkled. Finally, I dove for the bathroom sink. I dabbed on some quick makeup, swished a shot glass worth of mouthwash, and then doused myself with enough perfume to leave a dense pink cloud in my wake.

  Destry walked at my side as I grabbed my car keys and headed to the kitchen. I picked up the bags and box, stuck them into one of my larger purses, and made a dash for the garage. I spared him another glance as I threw open the driver’s side door.

  “Look, I apologize for leaving you like this. But I may very well get roasted on a spit by this Deputy Chief at my probation hearing. If I lose my job, then I’ve got no way to access the machines I need to crack either problem. Or help you with your own problem, whatever that is.”

  “This sounds like quite an important meeting,” Destry mused, as I got in, slammed the car door, and put the key in the ignition. “Do you mind if I come with you? Perhaps I can give you a petite avantage, no?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said offhandedly, as the engine came to life with a roar. I hit the garage door button. Overhead, the motor to open the door muttered and squeaked like a disgruntled squirrel. “I don’t think you can fit in my car, though. So I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  I backed out into street. Felt the warm Southern California sunshine warm my hands, my face. Destry stood quietly in the garage as the door rolled back down, and I gunned the motor to merge with the traffic on the fast-flowing boulevard ahead.

  Of course, the one time that I needed to get anywhere on time, that boulevard was the only fast-flowing street I found that day. The freeway was stop-and-go, with a lot more of the former than the latter. Less than five minutes remained before nine as I pulled into one of the few remaining parking spots at the far end of M.E. building’s lot.

  I threw open the door, grabbed my handbag, and got out.

  “Hello,” Destry said, as I stood up.

  I jumped and let out a little squeak of surprise. The big black horse stood in the empty parking spot next to me, looking completely at ease. I closed the door by bumping it with my hip and gave him a stern look.

  “You are definitely going to take some getting used to,” I admitted, as I got my heart rate back under control. “How am I supposed to get you into the building?”

  “Walls, they pose little problem for me. Go ahead, I shall follow you.”

  I nodded, slung the purse over my shoulder, and set off for the entry doors at the fastest walk I could manage in my low heels. True to his word, Destry simply faded through the glass entry doors, a retaining wall, and even the metal detector. His hooves clip-clopped on the hard marble floors, but apparently I was the only person who heard anything. Only once, when we were crossing the wide-open entryway past the security checkpoint, did anything faze me.

  A little boy, no more than six or seven, bobbed along behind his mother in his Sunday school best. He stopped and gaped at me and Destry.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “What a cool horse! Is it yours?”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “He’s not mine, I just can’t get him to stop following me.”

  The boy’s mother gave me an odd look. She squinted in my direction, obviously not seeing the big black equine at my side. Then they were lost in the crowd of people heading to the elevators. I avoided the crush of bodies and took the stairs.

  “How did that kid see you?” I asked, as Destry made his way up in my wake.

  Another verbal shrug. “Though we can phase through walls, pooka are not ghosts. It is more that we have gotten very good at not being noticed. Since your people started putting screens on your phones, it has gotten so easy that it is no longer much of a challenge.”

  I pushed through the entry doors on the second floor. Then I turned to look at my pooka companion, a new respect dawning in my eyes.

  “All right. I am impressed. What else can you do, Destry? I mean, you can see into my mind, at least some. What about other people, can you read them as well?”

  “I have some little power there,” he replied. “With most humans from this world, I can read thoughts on the surface. Strong emotions when they are not in slumber.”

  “Can you change someone’s mind? Influence them to do something?”

  “Ah, the pooka do not have that power,” he demurred. “Dreams and nightmares, for example, are still conjured by one’s own fears, one’s personal démons.”

  The way that Destry phrased his answer to that sounded odd to me. But I put that aside from a moment as I spotted the door to the meeting room ahead. I took a deep breath. Steadied, calmed myself. Wouldn’t help me much if I barged on in, no matter how late I was. I was calm, cool, and I had everything under control.

  “Okay, Destry. I’ve got to put this chat with you on ice, or they’ll send me off to have my head shrunk.”

  “But of course,” the pooka agreed, and I heard the smile in his voice.

  I pushed through the doors and into the room. Deputy Chief McClatchy looked up from where he had been in intense conversation with a trio of people. The trio sat behind one long table set catty-corner to the room, while McClatchy, a barrel-chested, red-faced man wearing his trademark one-size-too-small pinstripes, sat at another.

  The three probation officers gave me a frosty look. They all wore no-nonsense clothes in near-identical shades of beige. One was a sallow-faced man, while the two others were women with the sour expressions of nuns forced to attend a death metal concert.

  “Good morning,” I greeted them, with the most sincere smile I could muster. “I’m Dayna Chrissie, and I–”

  One of the beige-clad women cut me off as she intoned, “Let the record show that Ms. Dayna Chrissie was late to this hearing.”

  My new-found confidence took that verbal torpedo and promptly sank without a trace.

  Just my rotten luck.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Please take a seat.”

  The sallow-faced man indicated an empty chair with a jab of his red ballpoint pen. He paused to take a long sip of his coffee as I followed his order.

  Like a pair of drinking bird toys, the women next to him followed suit with twin slurps.

  The chair was one of those hard plastic ones that could make your butt fall asleep. Worse, someone had positioned it smack in between the two tables. So not only did you feel as if you were on trial in front of the probation board, but Bob McClatchy as well. Depending on who was talking, I would have to swivel my head if I wanted to look at them head-on.

  The muffled clop-clop of hooves on carpet echoed in my ear, and I had to remind myself not to turn and look. From the corner of
my eye, I saw Destry approach and stand off to my left like a big block of ebony granite.

  Sallow-face swallowed his coffee and went on. “Ms. Chrissie, your absence has, as my colleague points out, been duly noted. Deputy Chief McClatchy was of the opinion that you might not show up at all.”

  That made me grit my teeth. My confidence stopped its free-fall and was replaced by a spark of irritation.

  “I don’t see why he would feel that way,” I replied. “Because I do show up when I’m asked, to the best of my ability. If you will review my employment history, you should see no record of unexplained sick time or vacations–”

  “That’s nice,” he cut in, “but I’m not clear on how that relates to McClatchy’s complaint against you.” The woman sitting next to the beige-suited man raised an eyebrow at that, but remained silent.

  Suddenly, the pooka’s voice whispered urgently in my ear. “That woman, she has an image in her mind. A piece of paper that says ‘Off-Shift Time Sheets’.”

  I cleared my throat and decided to go with Destry’s hint. “I believe it does relate, in that it shows I don’t have a history of leaving the job without notice. In fact, I’ve spent great deal of time responding to LAPD requests to visit crime scenes outside of my normal work hours. Since I’m an independent contractor, this costs the City of Los Angeles extra. So I’ve had to record each instance on my time sheets.”

  “I agree,” said the beige-accented woman in the middle. “We have accounted for this in our review. Indeed, Ms. Chrissie, your paperwork is impeccable when it comes to off-hours tabulation.”

  McClatchy let out a snort that put any of Destry’s to shame. “As far as I’m concerned, her past performance does not excuse the incident in question. What about the overtime billed to my office? What about the time spent by my officers to locate little Miss Chrissie when she was placed under police protection?”