“How are you going to get past the border without an official invite? How are you even going to get out?”
I arched a brow. “I was hoping for a stroke of luck.”
He snorted and shook his head. “I have a two-for-one special on this week.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Two for one. Two vials of luck for the price of one.”
Like hell he did. He was doing this to help me out because he thought I was going to need all the luck I could get, and damn if that didn’t give me the warm fuzzies.
“What do you say, Miss Bastion?”
We were back to business, then. “I say it must be my lucky day.”
He chuckled and headed for the back of the chamber, vanishing behind a freestanding unit draped with what looked like a rug. The urge to lift a corner and take a peek washed over me, but experience rooted me to the spot. Barnaby didn’t like you touching his shit, not in here, and not without permission.
He reappeared, clutching two small vials filled with amber liquid between index finger and thumb. “They take a half hour to kick in and last for maybe three hours max. You have six hours of luck there, Miss Bastion. Use that time wisely.” He handed the vials over.
I pocketed them and then rolled up my sleeve, because it was time to pay. There was no cash exchange here, and every client paid in a different manner. For me, it was in blood. My blood. Barnaby pulled a syringe and empty vial from his pocket and then filled it with my blood.
It was over fast and he pocketed the vial of blood. What the heck did he do with it? No idea. And asking wasn’t an option—that was part of the deal, part of the exclusive club thing. But it bugged me to no end.
I gave him a two-fingered salute and headed for the wall.
“Wila,” he said softly.
I paused and glanced back at him.
“You’re one of my favorite clients. Make sure you come back.”
3
The sky was orange by the time I made it out of the alley and back onto the main street. There was no plan now, only winging it, which, to be honest, was my usual MO and had served me fine in the past. I thought better on the fly, armed with information but no solid strategy. Gauge the situation and react accordingly was my motto, and it worked wonders because in Arcana City predictable was an alien word. Predictable got you killed.
I’d parked my ride outside the local tavern, The Hunter and the Prey, owned by the Stephenson twins. The guys were both massive, like serious muscle, but then they did have troll blood running in their veins. Their family tree traced back to the first troll neph created by the union of Black Wing and human. Every supernatural creature was a neph, some more powerful than others. They all had the sacred blood running through their veins. The Stephenson twins were pretty powerful—not only in strength but in connections—when it came to the pleb community. They represented the underdogs at the city-mandated and totally for show council meetings where Eastside, Southside, and Northside came together to talk about what was best for Arcana City. Westside wasn’t invited, because Westside was Draconi territory. So, yeah, the Stephensons got shit done. They had a voice, and lucky for me, they had a soft spot for yours truly, which meant that no one messed with my shit when it was left on their property. My Mini car waited patiently, its black and silver chrome body winking in the dying sun.
The door to the tavern slammed open just as I unlocked the Mini, and Taylem ducked through the doorway.
His broad face broke into a grin at the sight of me. “Bastion, where you sneaking off to? You need to come in for a drink or two or maybe three.”
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. These guys were a blast to hang with, and many a night had been passed inside these walls, many a tale told, many a pint glugged, and many a hangover breakfast cooked, courtesy of Mack, the younger twin.
Any other time and I’d have been through those doors in a heartbeat. “Not tonight, Taylem. I got a job.”
His brow crinkled sympathetically. “You coming by later?”
“You gonna make me one of your special cocktails?”
He grinned, flashing strong, white teeth. “I’ll even let you snuggle.” His tone dropped suggestively.
My neck heated. Yeah, that one time had been hot, but there was no going there again, not unless I was serious about a relationship. Taylem’s kind were always looking for a mate for life, and shacking up with one more than a handful of times was like asking them to marry you. The fact he’d slept with me was a serious indicator that he considered me mate material, but no matter how good the sex had been, it could never be more than that to me. Sex. Great, mind-blowing, go-all-night sex. Oh, man. No. Stop it. Don’t think about—
I cleared my throat. “Cocktails will have to be enough.” I winked to soften the rejection. “You tell Mack I said hi.”
His sparkle dimmed, and his expression sobered. “You stay safe, you hear.”
“Will do, big guy.” And I meant big.
Something twisted in my chest, knowing that I’d probably hurt his feelings. The big dudes could knock you to the ground with a punch, but they were softies when it came to matters of the heart.
“See you later, Wila.” He raised a hand in farewell but didn’t make a move to go back inside. Instead, he watched me start up the engine, back up the car, and drive off, his large frame a rapidly shrinking dot in my rear-view mirror. Taylem have been the one to help train me to hold my own in a fight, teaching me to fight dirty to survive. My five foot three frame and speed meant I could throw punches and get in and out fast against a larger, slower, opponent, but it also meant that if I got pinned I was in trouble. He’d taught me to make the right calls and if possible to run. We’d become close friends, and what had I gone and done? I’d gone and slept with him.
Man, I sucked. Should have kept my knickers on. Friends with benefits does not work with a troll. Friends with huge benefits does not work with a troll. It would have to be my new mantra.
The cemetery was old and overgrown. Tombstones covered in ivy and moss, broken and battered, littered the landscape. The place was a beautiful ruin—a human place for humans to put their loved ones to rest, except there were no humans to mourn anymore. No one to tend to the stones and the flora. No one to care. This was a forgotten space for many, but a wonderland for the local neph kids—a place to hang out and get up to mischief, until the recent spate of murders, of course.
Stealth was the key, stealth and vigilance, because the hound was here, the prickle up my spine and the itch in my brain told me so. A slab of rock lay in my path, the words etched onto it weathered and illegible; stepping over it seemed disrespectful somehow. Skirting it, I approached the large structure looming up ahead—a beautiful mausoleum made of carved stone. One heavy door was gone, the other hung off its hinges. The darkness beyond shifted, and my body went into freeze mode.
Bladder control is a must for the hunting side of the investigative business, especially when tracking an Other, but right now, staring into the blazing orange eyes of a two-headed hound the size of a small car with nothing but a crossbow as defense, my bladder threw up its hands, ready to surrender.
The atmosphere wasn’t helping. Why was it that cemeteries always felt creepy, even in daylight? And was there someone hiding amongst the tombstones with a bloody smoke machine?
The Other stepped out of the mausoleum entrance. Had it been nesting in there? Its muzzle was caked with dried blood. Its lips peeled back to reveal powerful, yellow teeth with stuff caught in between them—probably someone’s entrails. Oh, God. Fuck The Collective and their budget cuts. Southside got shafted every time when it came to patrols for this kind of shit. But then, this was how I made that extra cash. Except this time, I’d gotten a case of the morals and opted to do it pro bono. The last victim had been a fourteen-year-old student who’d been delivering The Daily Vine when he’d gotten munched.
The hound lowered its heads, smoke pluming from its nostrils. My stomach t
ightened. It was about to attack and then it was running at me. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to run, but I’d been doing this long enough to be able to resist the primal instinct. Swinging Killion up, I pulled back the bolt, aimed, and ... wait for it ... fired.
The bolt whizzed through the air and landed between the eyes of the left head. The head dropped and the thing faltered for a split second. Down, it needed to go—Shit, it was still coming. I threw myself to the right out of its path, rolled and came up on one knee, K at the ready, because, sure enough, the hound had skidded to a halt.
Another bolt snapped into place.
The thing turned and made a beeline for me, one head lolling with a bolt sticking out of it, the other eager to take a bite.
Hold ... whizz, thunk.
The hound kept going for a second, its body running on momentum, and then it dropped, hitting the ground with a thud that echoed throughout the silent cemetery.
Dusting off my trousers, I stood and cautiously approached the beast, delivering a toe jab to its side. Not a twitch. Dead.
Patting my pockets to make sure the vials were still intact, I deactivated K. Pulling out my phone, I speed dialed the OIO. They wouldn’t hunt the Other monsters down, but they’d sure come and pick up the corpses.
One job down. One to go.
The sun made its final arc across the sky. Thirty minutes and I’d hit the bridge separating Arcana City from Draconi territory. It was the only way in or out of their domain, and man, was it policed heavily. There was no way in, not without an official pass or a vial of luck. And, what did you know? I had two of those beauties. Pulling over, I retrieved a vial from my pocket, popped the cap, and downed the contents. It tasted of nothing. No aftertaste, no tang, nothing.
Weird.
The errant thought that Barnaby had played me crossed my mind, but a quick kick in the arse soon had that possibility running for the hills. There was no way he’d do me over. Not one of his best clients. Not with a reputation to uphold.
Thirty minutes.
The countdown had begun.
Grabbing my mobile from the glove compartment, I dialed the office. Gilbert picked up on the third ring. “You got something for me?”
“I’m transferring it now. It’s a crude hand-drawn map.”
“Better than nothing.” The glove compartment was still open, and I grabbed the tiny box that contained the catseye, a nifty piece of Northside tech almost impossible to come by in the Eastside and a gift to me from a satisfied customer with money to spare. The tech itself was innocuous-looking but extremely powerful. A contact lens popped into the eye and could pick up wireless data transmitted to it using a specific code.
“Just put it in,” Trevor said down the line.
“Give me a second.” God, how I hated this bit. It was the whole having to touch your eye thing. Urgh. Using the rear-view mirror, I managed to get the damn thing in on the third try. It pinched and then settled. Data began to scroll across my eye and then a map popped up. More of a pencil on paper scrawl really. Several rooms and doorways were marked but there was no actual indication of scale or size.
“I’m sorry, Wila,” Gilbert said. “It was all I could find.”
“That’s fine, Gilbert. This is great.”
“No, it’s pathetic,” Trevor huffed. “You can’t go in on such little information. We need to assess and formulate a plan and then execute and—”
“I promise to come home in one piece, Trev. Save me some dessert.”
A long, drawn-out silence. “Yes, well, you better. You have a curse to cure.”
If Trevor could say “I love you” this would be it. We’d searched hard for a cure for him for a year, and even though it was never said, we’d all kind of come to the conclusion that there was none. My detective friend would be a canine forevermore, and even though he’d deny it until he was blue in his cute little pointy face, he’d developed many of the characteristics of the form he was trapped in. Loyalty and the urge to protect his master were two of them—his master, who he now thought of as me.
“I love you too, Trev.”
“Harumph.”
A rustle cut him off as Gilbert took back the phone. “I’ll give him a treat. He’ll be fine. Just ... come back to us.”
My throat tightened. “You know it.”
Ending the call and slinging the phone back onto the passenger seat, I started the engine. A hard blink and the data cut off. A rapid blink would activate it again. As I peeled away from the curb, the sky went from orange to red to black, and the moon swung up into the sky, jaunty and gay. Hell, yeah. Nighttime was the domain of the monsters, and the moon was a voyeur.
The rain was falling in sheets now, and beyond the swish of the wipers on my windscreen, the city was a blur of twinkling lights. Beautiful if you ignored the creepy shit that lurked in the shadows. And this city was built for shadows. Others would come out to play now. Creatures we had no names for, creatures with strange hungers born of another world. Thank goodness most neph were able to take care of themselves. Our supernatural ancestry gave us an advantage. The sirens and the incubi, the Sanguinata and the Lupin, they were able to defend themselves to some degree, but the average psychic or clairvoyant—the middling arcane wielders—were easy pickings. And me? I had my skills—speed, agility, wit, and a lightning-fast tongue when it came to spinning a lie, not to mention some of the best contacts in the city to keep me in the business of taking down monster Others. Okay, so that was a side gig, a pro bono thing, one that sometimes paid in baked goods. But if us freelancers didn’t keep the streets clean, then the city would be crawling with Others in days. It was tempting to let it get to that stage, force the Arcana Institute to actually get off their power suit arses and do something, but it would be the plebs that suffered in the meantime. The powers that be knew we’d pick up the slack. The status quo was established.
The bridge came into view, lined with vehicles. Shit, what the heck? No one used it unless actually headed to Draconi territory, which meant all these people ... shit. The equinox celebration ... could they all be here for that? Damn the rain, it made it impossible to scope out all the vehicles. Limousines, vans, several fancy-looking cars. What the heck was this? Adam Noir hadn’t mentioned it was this big a deal, that outsiders would be invited too. Okay, think. The good thing about this situation was cover, plenty of it. Maybe I could slip in while the guards were distracted with checking out another car?
It would be lucky ...
Tick tock.
The dashboard clock winked tauntingly at me. Thirty minutes were up, and nothing. No fizz in the blood, no tingle across the skin. Barnaby, what the hell? It was time to get onto the bridge or turn left and keep driving. Dammit. I rolled onto the bridge behind a white van with a pretty flower pattern etched onto the back. The cars were moving, slow and steady in two lanes. Where the heck was this luck?
And then, with a soft choking sound, my engine died. What? No. The key turned in the ignition but there was no sound. Not a peep. The curses that wanted to spill from my lips would have made a leprechaun blush. Barnaby, the fucking tosser. He’d done me over. No idea why. No idea if it was on purpose. Maybe he’d picked up the wrong vials? Either way, his nose was going to be visiting my fist very soon. The line in front of me began to move and horns behind me began to beep.
Fuck this.
I climbed out and slammed the door. Rain smashed into me, and my hair was plastered to my head in seconds. “Broken down here!” I waved at the cars, urging them to go around me. Fuck, it was cold. “Around! Around!”
The rainfall drowned out my words, but seriously, could they not decipher the sign language? Okay, maybe giving them the finger wasn’t helping, but a girl needed to vent somehow.
“Hey? You need a ride?” A male voice cut through the downpour like a beacon of hope.
A limo had come to a standstill in the lane next to mine. The door was open and a man was hanging out of the passenger side door, bottle of amber
liquid clutched in his hand and a fucked-out-of-his-head grin on his face. His hair, which had probably been expertly styled a moment ago, was now plastered to his head and water dripped off the clean lines of his inebriated face, but he didn’t seem to give a shit. Alcohol would have that effect on a person. It would impair their judgement, cause them to pick up strange women toting dangerous weapons ...
“You wanna ride to the party, pretty, leather-clad woman?” he asked.
Yeah, it looked like my luck had just changed.
The interior of the limo was warm and smelled of leather and cinnamon. And this close up, the guy was huge. Not troll huge but big. His slacks strained across his thighs, which were parted in the relaxed, let-it-all-hang-loose, slumped-in-his-seat posture. His jacket was thrown across the seat opposite me, and his feet were bare. He had nice feet.
“You got a thing for feet?” he asked before taking a glug from his bottle.
“You got a thing against shoes?” The words just fell out unchecked.
“Yes. Awful, constricting things.” He glugged from the bottle again, tipping his head back to expose the masculine column of his throat and the manly Adam’s apple which bobbed with every swallow. A new scent hit me—almonds and something else; it teased a memory at the back of my mind. “You know it’s black tie and ball gowns, right?” His lips curled almost mockingly, but his eyes remained hooded and shrouded in shadow. He ran a hand through his wet, chestnut colored hair. “Have you made a vow of silence or something?”
“Just wondering if you’re in the habit of picking up strange women.” Now why the heck would I say that?
“No. You’re the strangest one to date.” He took another swig of his drink. “I’m wondering if you’re in the habit of getting into strange men’s limousines.”
I gave him a close-lipped smile. “Only when they offer to take me to a party.”
He chuckled. “These affairs are always much more fun with a damsel on your arm.”
City of Demons Page 3
