“Snowblood’s quite a name,” she said to the girl. “You the queen’s niece?”
“Yes,” Snowblood said tightly. “And the prince’s intended.”
The body was covered with a sheet, whiter than white — like any white in Faerie — but dotted all over with blossoms of red, like a first bloom after a snowfall. Pete stopped her hand before she moved it back.
“The prince … he’s your cousin.”
Snowblood lifted one boneless shoulder. “That’s the way it works, isn’t it?”
Pete let that one go. It wasn’t like royals and inbreeding were strangers. “And Crowfoot?”
“He’s the leader of the majority. The Seelie Council.” Snowblood paused. “He’s perfectly hideous.”
“Politicians usually are,” Pete said, and twitched the sheet back. She wasn’t looking at the prince, but at Snowblood’s face. The girl betrayed absolutely no reaction. Her eyes were dull and glassy as a stagnant pond.
“Crowfoot wanted to marry me. Before my cousin,” Snowblood said. Pete looked at the body. It was a clean job, exit wounds in the chest ragged and black and, when she rolled the body, two stab wounds in the back, angled upward into the heart and lungs.
Pete realized something. “I don’t know his name,”
“Oh,” Snowblood said carelessly. “Don’t you? It’s Caliban. Like the play.”
“Half-savage mortal man?” Pete said. “Bloody odd choice, for your firstborn son.”
“Yes,” Snowblood agreed tonelessly. “For your firstborn.”
“Mind if I ask you some questions while I get this business done?” Pete asked. The little stone room didn’t have any tools, but she got out her pen light and flashed it over Caliban’s hands and fingers. They were limpid, like flower bulbs. The damp wasn’t doing him any favors of preservation.
“I suppose not,” Snowblood sighed. She sat on a ledge, kicking her feet and dislodging mortar.
“Caliban was a fencer?” Pete asked. She examined the wounds more closely. They hadn’t even had time to bleed much.
“A good one,” Snowblood said, perking for the first time. “He could beat any man but Tolliver. Tolliver wanted him made a captain of the Ash Guard, rather than taking up his royal duties. Caliban was merciless in battle and in the court. Tolliver said he didn’t have the delicacy for politics, but he had the blood for battle. They’re similar, I suppose.”
“Both big smashy bastards?” Pete peeled back the prince’s eyelid and checked his eyes. Wishing for a glove, she stuck a finger in his mouth and checked his tongue as well.
“I suppose,” Snowblood said. “Tolliver knew him better than anyone. Better than me.”
“Ah,” Pete said. She stepped back and looked at the dead prince. She had a fair notion now, but it was only a notion. She didn’t have any facts.
“And the Queen, at last,” she asked Snowblood. “Some dodgy magic on her — what’s that about?”
Snowblood chewed one shockingly crimson lip. “The Unseelie took her, many years ago, kept her for a time before Tolliver and the Ash Guard brought her back. They placed a wasting curse. It’s held at bay with other magic, but she was with them a long time. It clings.”
It did, indeed. The winding, smoky trail of the curse was apparent to Pete even now, here, layers and layers below the Queen’s chamber. “Bit of a short stick for her,” Pete said. “Might explain that temper.”
“Rowan did the right thing bringing you here,” Snowblood said suddenly. Pete cocked an eyebrow at her as she pulled the bloody sheet over Caliban’s face once more.
“Really?”
“This is rotten,” Snowblood said. “It’s not the kind of thing we do. Not the Fae.”
“‘Course,” Pete muttered, thinking that every fairy tale in her world would disagree with the slender girl. “I’m done. Can you do me a favor and get everyone together in one room? The smaller and hotter the better?”
Snowblood looked curious, but she bit down on her question and merely nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ll be in after a time,” Pete said. “Can you have Rowan show me the place where he died?”
That’d give the Queen and her entourage time to get good and pissy about being locked up.
“Just you and me,” Pete told Caliban, after Snowblood’s footsteps faded away. The prince made no reply.
Caliban’s rooms would be opulent even by Las Vegas standards. Heavy velvet in waterfalls of blue and green and midnight purple cascaded from the walls. The bed was gold, and enormous. A mirror made in the shape of an oak leaf stared back at Pete from the ceiling.
“He did like his creature comforts, eh?” she said to Rowan.
He shrugged, staying far away from the bloodstain in the center of the rich blue carpet. Pete didn’t even smell the coppery — or charred, she supposed, as this was a Fae–scent that usually accompanied a fresh stabbing scene. The prince’s chamber was heavily perfumed, and a garden of scents cloyed at Pete’s nose.
She noted that the door locked from the inside with a heavy bolt, and the windows were barred over with grates that had rusted into place.
Pete brushed off her knees reflexively and stood, coming back to Rowan. “I’ve seen enough. Go join the others, and I’ll make an entrance in a bit.”
Rowan obeyed, and Pete was alone again, with the last moments of Caliban’s life.
She could hear the Fae long before she came upon the door to what the guard told her was Crowfoot’s private library. They were complaining. Vociferously. That was good. She wanted them off balance and receptive to the truth.
The member of the Ash Guard outside the door tightened his grip on his short blade when she approached. “Lady,” he said, just the proper amount of deference in the tone.
“You can just call me Pete,” Pete told him. “What’s your name?”
“Juniper,” he said. Pete winced. The flower names, to her mind, were just cruel.
“You know how to use that pig-sticker, Juniper?” she inquired. He gave a curt nod, much less polite. He could use it well enough that the question had offended him.
“Good,” Pete said. “Stay sharp.” She shoved the door open. Tolliver exploded out of the seat he occupied next to the Queen, jabbing his finger into her face.
“How dare you herd us together like cattle? Like we’re criminals?”
Crowfoot was on his heels. “Do you have any idea my position in the Seelie Court? I am Senechal… I brought you here.”
The Queen didn’t get up, she just raised her voice. “I am the Queen of all Faerie…”
Only Rowan and Snowblood stayed silent, and they looked anxious as pigs on market day.
“Oi!” Pete made a slashing motion through the air at the trio of shouters. “Simmer down, yeah? The lot of you. You’re in here for a reason.”
Tolliver’s scarred throat worked. “And that’d be…?”
Pete shooed them back to the four corners of the room. She went to Tolliver, then Crowfoot. Rowan, Snowblood, and lastly the Queen. She asked them each a question. Then she went to the fire and warmed up her hands. It was stuffy in the library, but outside the storm was only getting worse.
“Lady Caldecott,” Crowfoot huffed. “I really must insist that you share your findings.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pete rubbed her hands together and then faced them. As a point of self-preservation, she made note of the heavy fireplace poker near her right hand. “I know who killed your Prince Caliban.”
“First,” Pete held up a finger. Her stomach was twisting and her heart was thudding, even though she kept her face blank. Hercule Poirot never had to face down a roomful of fucking Fae. “Snowblood tells me that Caliban was one hell of a fighter, and he was a big bastard besides. Nobody was taking him by force.”
“So?” Crowfoot said rudely. Pete crimped her mouth into her smuggest smile just for him.
“So he was topped by someone he trusted, someone he opened the door to.”
“And?” Crowfoot demanded
. Pete reached up and patted his bony shoulder.
“And that lets you out. You’re a bit of a slimy fuckwit, according to everyone here, and you were sniffing around his woman. Sorry, mate.”
Crowfoot blinked, confusion and relief flitting on his features. “I didn’t … I mean … of course I didn’t! My loyalty is to the Court!”
“You didn’t,” Pete said. “But somebody here did.”
Tolliver’s eyes darted to the door. Pete folded her arms. “That’s Juniper outside. One of yours. You trained him, I imagine. Like you trained the prince.” She approached Tolliver. “I asked you if the Prince could beat you in a low-down brawl, and you said yes. You’re not the kind who stabs in the back, and I don’t think you did it.” Pete lowered her voice. Tolliver was a big man, and probably had some magic riding him to boot. If he didn’t like her next words, she’d be in two pieces before she could help it. “But I think you know why it happened.”
“Excuse me,” the Queen. “But where do you—”
“Not that you’re any better,” Pete interrupted her. It was the MP and his son all over again, and she was bloody sick of it. “What kind of a mother names her only son after a monstrous savage? I asked you and all you said? “That was his name.” That’s cold, miss. Ice water all through your veins, no mistake.”
“Please.” Snowblood’s word cut off the Queen’s outcry. “Just tell me. Who killed Caliban?”
Pete swiveled, her finger landing on Rowan. “He did.”
Silence, for a tick of clock-hands. Then Snowblood exploded toward Rowan, who yelped and ducked, but not quickly enough. Snowblood’s small, sharp fist landed a blow on his perfect nose and blood blossomed, trickling over Rowan’s lips.
Pete slapped the door with the flat of her hand. “Juniper, get your arse in here!”
Juniper and another of the Ash Guard held Snowblood and Rowan apart. Snowblood panted, her face crimson, while Rowan folded in on himself, trapped in the far corner of the library. Crowfoot and the Queen were talking all at once, their words tripping over each other like tangled vines.
Tolliver came to Pete’s shoulder. “How did you know?”
Pete gave Rowan a regretful smile. “Flowers.” She sighed, her head suddenly throbbing. “I smelled flowers when Rowan came into a supposedly Fae-proof pub to find me, and again when we were in Caliban’s room. I thought it was some kind of shield hex, but it’s not, is it?” She fixed Rowan with the copper stare. To his credit, he didn’t flinch or change his visage, he just stared back, his eyes like drops of mercury on glass, blood the only motion on his form.
“It’s a glamour,” Pete continued. “And that means he’s not who he says he is.”
Snowblood turned her head to Rowan, her small frame quivering. “Who are you?”
“Burn in the Underworld,” Rowan said quietly. Snowblood turned back to Pete.
“Who is he?” she demanded, voice sharp and high with distress.
“My guess?” Pete said. “He’s an Unseelie.” She stepped closer to Rowan, close as he must have been to Caliban when he stabbed him with one of the short, vicious blades the Ash Guard carried. “And that means he can lie. Been spinning me a fat one since the start of things.”
She ticked off the points she’d assembled while she went over the prince’s body. “Your Queen was a prisoner of the Unseelie some time ago. I’m guessing, about as long ago as you are old. Is that right, Rowan?”
Crowfoot was the first to catch on. “You begot an heir?” he whispered. “A half-breed heir?”
“Caliban is an odd name for a beloved firstborn son. But he wasn’t her firstborn,” Pete said. “It’s you, Rowan. Isn’t it?”
She saw all of the defiance run out of him. The strange ethereal gleam of his skin dulled, and his eyes turned from silver to plain grey as he let the glamour flow out of his grasp. His hair was the same, though — white as the Queen’s.
“He was plotting against you, Mother,” he said softly. “Tolliver told me one night, in his cups. He would have let the death-curse overwhelm you so he could take your place and obliterate anyone who stood in his path.”
“Could be,” Pete said. “Could be a load of bollocks. We’ll never know, will we?” She jerked her chin at Tolliver. “In any event, Tolliver guessed, did he? He knew what you were going to do, after he found out what you were?”
“I loved my mother,” Rowan went on, softly. “I knew what I had to do, even if she wanted nothing to do with me.” He raised his eyes to the Queen as Juniper started to drag him away. “Hate is strong. But love is stronger. Mother. Please.”
The Queen raised her head, nostrils flaring. Pete saw no tears on her face, just unfathomable rage. “Never speak that word to me. I am not that. Not to you.”
“Mother—” Rowan shouted, but more Ash Guard surrounded him and led him away.
“And him,” said Crowfoot, pointing at Tolliver. “He’s a conspirator. He knew full well and did nothing to stop it.”
Tolliver stopped by Pete, walking under his own power, dignity holding his spine straight. “I knew what he was,” he murmured. “I saw it when we trained. Cruel. Honorless. He’d torture a lesser opponent for the sport of it. He talked about the mockery he’d make of his cousin’s virtue and the atrocities he’d visit on the Unseelie when his mother passed on from her curse. He would have left the Seelie Court in embers if he took the throne.” Tolliver swallowed, hard. “You won’t get any guilt from me, Lady.”
Pete nodded. “I’m sorry you got caught,” she told him. “Rowan was blinded, but you aren’t.”
“Don’t be sorrowful,” Tolliver said. “You bested me at wits, fairly. No shame in that.”
Pete watched Rowan and Tolliver disappear down the opulent hall, no doubt bound for a place much darker and much less sympathetic to his motives.
Crowfoot gripped her arm. “You’ve done very well, Lady Caldecott. And you’ve earned a favor of the Fae. Anything you wish. Ask it.”
Pete glared at the hand, and then at Crowfoot, until he removed it. “Yeah, I’ve got a favor,” she said. “Take me the bloody hell back to the pub.”
When Pete walked back into the Lament, she saw a familiar platinum-dyed head hunched on the far stool at the bar. She practically tripped over her own feet to join him.
Pete didn’t know how she felt about condemning a man only trying to help his mother. She didn’t know how she felt about the sudden attention of the Fae.
But she did know that she’d enjoyed being a detective again. It had felt good.
She missed it.
In the morning, she’d probably end up calling her old DCI, Nigel Newell, and inquiring about positions that were open in the Major Crime Squad. But for now, at least, she was content to bask in the knowledge that she’d still got her old skillset.
Jack regarded her over a whiskey glass. “Where’ve you been, then? Missed you, luv.”
Pete signaled the publican for a glass of the same. “Trust me, Jack,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Caitlin Kittredge is a full-time writer who lives in Seattle with collections of comic books, cats and vintage pinup clothing. She’s the author of the bestselling “Nocturne City” and “Black London” urban fantasy series, and the novel The Witch’s Alphabet, a steampunk adventure for young adults. Her website is
www.caitlinkittredge.com
Petunia Caldecott is a former Detective Inspector with the Metropolitan Police, London. She graduated from London City College and currently resides in Whitechapel. Jack Winter is a mage and a pain in her arse, but he sometimes makes himself useful. He hails from Manchester, England.
An Ace in the Hole: A Sazi Story
by C. T. Adams & Cathy Clamp
“I said … empty your wallet.” I glared across the table at Carmine Leone and let a slow growl roll up and out of my chest. Blame the werewolf in me. When I get annoyed, my mask of humanity slips a little, even with my former employer
“And I said, go to h
ell.” He matched my growl with one of his own. No werewolf in him, but mob boss isn’t that far of a leap. “Nobody touches my wallet. Not my wife, not my staff and not even you. There’s nothing in there that’s of any interest to anyone.”
I let out a sigh, and looked over at Lucas Santiago, who was sitting in the corner of the room. He was my new boss, for Wolven, the law enforcement branch of the shapeshifting community known as the Sazi, and up until a month ago, had been arguably the second most powerful being on the planet. But he’d been attacked, like I’d been two years ago, and now he was a vanilla human, trying to get a handle on not being the toughest dog in a fight. I’d thought coming on this case with me would make him realize he didn’t need to be a wolf to stay boss of the organization. He’d saved my butt a couple times and I figured I owed him.
Lucas had been trying to stay out of this, but I could smell that he was getting fidgety. There were three emotion scents in the room right now — determination, which smells similar to a heated cast iron pan; and anger, which reminds me of hot peppers roasting. The final scent was frustration; which is a weird mix of scents, including boiling water, black pepper and other stuff.
I shook my head. “See, there’s a flaw in that logic, even if you’re too stressed to see it.”
Carmine narrowed his eyes, but then he grudgingly nodded. “Go on.”
“First, neither of you are going to like me blabbing all this, but you both need all the information at hand to see my point, so just get over it.” Now both sets of eyes were mere slits under narrowed lids. “You called me up here to Canada to find out the status of the job you gave me, which is finding and killing the guys who beat the crap out of you, using the knife they sliced you with. Just so we’re clear, I don’t have that knife anymore, but the job’s still on”
Carmine made a small, strangled noise, and then started scanning the ceiling and walls — probably looking for some sort of bug.
I shook my head again. “This isn’t some sort of trap, Carmine. I’m not state’s evidence material. I’m just laying out the facts. The job’s already been approved by the Sazi Council, so while Lucas might not like that it’s been allowed, he knows why I’m here. No, the question is … why are you here?”
Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives Page 19
