Daemon’s Mark

by Caitlin Kittredge

  I gestured at the front room, which managed to hold a leather sofa and a plasma-screen home-theater system, small though it was. “Does this look like the apartment of some club rat to you?”

  Will shook his head. “It looks like he’s got some money stashed and doesn’t want to broadcast it with his address.”

  “Okay, John Black,” I said, stealing a pair of gloves from Will. “What have you got to hide?”

  I searched the kitchen, which held a lot of booze but no food beyond a suspicious container of Thai takeout, and the bathroom. John was fond of his products, as any metrosexual mobster would be. “He’s got to be in with an outfit,” I told Will as I rifled through the papers on the small desk, next to a high-end laptop. “Otherwise this apartment would be stripped clean the first time he stepped out to grab a bag of groceries.”

  I ran my hands along the underside of the bed frame, trying to ignore the crimson satin sheets. Single guys have the worst taste.

  “Looking for a gun?” Will said.

  “Finding one.” I pulled at the small-frame pistol duct-taped to the frame, finding a small Ruger automatic in my hand. Will whistled.

  “That’s some serious hardware. Pricey, too.”

  “Think he’s got a permit for this?” I said, getting on my knees and peering under the bed. A shoebox greeted me, also taped.

  “I dunno. You think that I could click my heels and take us all to Oz?” Will said. I drew the shoebox out and tore the lid off.

  “Good point.” The box was full of Polaroids and afew creased documents, bills of lading from a shipping company. The photographs were of girls, many of them grinning against the backdrop of a club or a bar, a few posed against a blank white-painted brick wall with vacant expressions on their faces and glazed eyes.

  “Not sexy,” Will said. “What does he do, document his conquests?”

  I unfolded the bills and looked at the contents—electronics, souvenirs, party supplies. The destinations were all cities in the Ukraine, the shipping company listing an import/export house as the receiver. I chewed on my lip.

  “I don’t think these are conquests, Will. I think these are business partners.”

  Will looked over my shoulder. “Prostitutes?”

  “Looks that way,” I said. All of the girls were like Lily, older than their years, perfectly blonde, perfectly tempting to any man with a taste for younger flesh.

  “Let’s bag this and get it out of here,” I said softly. “I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

  Had Lily been lured to her death with the promise of a party she’d never experienced before? Had John Black been the one to do it? And who were the other girls?

  Will and I bagged the evidence and sealed it, and I locked it in the trunk of the Nova for Pete to examine tomorrow. For now, I just wanted to go home and curl up in my own bed.

  “Want me to stay?” Will said when we pulled up at my apartment. “I can. It’s closer to my work, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I was tired, suddenly, all of my limbs heavy. Lily Dubois’s face wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Come up.”

  Will waited while I locked the door behind us and then pulled me to him, pressing his lips over mine.

  I put my arms around his neck as his hands traveled under my skirt, over the tops of my stockings and tugged at my thong. “Moving a little fast, aren’t we?” I asked against his mouth.

  “I had to watch that waste of oxygen touch you,” Will said. “I’m not waiting.”

  Leading him backward to the bed, I agreed, with my hands on his fly and my lips on his neck. I wanted someone to be next to me who wasn’t predatory, who I could be honest with.

  Will slid down the sheets, pulling my underwear with him, until his head was between my thighs, running his hands up the skin and stocking. I gasped when I felt his mouth against me and arched my stomach, inviting his attention.

  Sliding his hands under my ass and lifting me, Will worked until lights started to swim in front of my eyes, which with him usually wasn’t very long.

  “Ready?” he asked me, raising his eyes and dipping his hand into my nightstand for a condom. I nodded, pulling him up and wrapping my legs around his waist.

  “So ready.”

  We moved, Will urgent and I just needing not to think about the face of a murdered girl for a few minutes. He did a good job of distracting me, and I kept my eyes open, one hand on the back of his neck, brushing the shortcropped golden hair there.

  Will leaned down, his breath hot against my neck, teeth searching for purchase. He was the first guy I’d been with since the one who gave me the bite whom I trusted enough to let him close to my most vulnerable spot.

  That, and Will wasn’t a were. He couldn’t give me the bite, turn me to his pack, and take control of me. That part helped a lot.

  “Luna,” Will said, short and to the point like he was with most things. His hand left my breasts and stroked against me, once, twice.

  “Yes,” I told him, as the deep-belly shudder gripped me.

  Will shut his eyes and drove into me one last time, his thumb mimicking the rhythm. It sent me over the edge and I lost myself for a second, feeling him inside me like a miniature heartbeat. Breath short and ragged, Will lowered himself on me, kissing along one cheekbone and down my jawline.

  I let myself ride out the last aftershock and then unwrapped my legs, draping one knee over the back of his.

  “You feel like you staked your claim?” I said with a half-smile.

  Will returned it. “The real question is, do you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’m ruined for all other men now.”

  Will grabbed a throw pillow and bopped me lightly in the head with it. “You and that big mouth of yours.”

  “Hey, I don’t hear you complaining about what that mouth can do for you,” I said.

  Rolling off the bed, Will went into my small bathroom and splashed water on his face. “I’m up for taking it slow this time around if you are.”

  Fatigue lay heavy on me now, like the sheen of sweat on my skin. I got up and came into the bathroom with Will, spinning the taps on my ancient, rust-ringed tub. “I need a bath and a decent night’s sleep,” I said. “No offense to your prowess as a lover, honey.”

  Will squeezed my shoulders. “None taken. I’m going to sack out. Be sure to wear that little black negligee I like.” He dropped me a wink and shut the bathroom door.

  “Unbelievable,” I told him through the wood, but not without a smile. Will made me feel relaxed instead of jumpy with his very presence, and that was new for me, too. I stripped out of my clubbing costume and sank into the bathwater, draping a washcloth over my forehead.

  Steam closed over the mirror, filled the air, and I felt my hair grow damp against my neck. I slid lower into the water, trying to float.

  The faucet dripped, a Zenlike meditation in the white non-space of the water and the steam. I breathed in, out, watching my breath move wisps like skeleton fingers across the tile.

  Lily Dubois stood at the edge of the tub, her skin and hair waterlogged and white, her clothes tattered, the gaping hole in her sternum red-black with clotted blood. “Help me,” she said, and then reached out her hand and shoved my head under the water.

  I thrashed and struggled, her tiny arm stronger than a piece of rebar, and white lights exploded in front of my eyes. This was it—I was dead and I’d open my eyes in the afterlife.

  My lungs convulsed and I jumped upright, coming out of the water, thrashing and sending a minor tidal wave across the tiles to soak my wicker basket of towels and a pile of discarded laundry I hadn’t had time to lug down to the laundromat.

  Awake and choking, I pulled myself out of the tub and rested on all fours for a moment, shivering and coughing.

  Will came bolting through the door, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Luna. Luna, what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I croaked. “I had a bad dream…”

  Will’s hair w
as mussed from the pillow and his eyes were black with worry. “Are you sure? You didn’t hit your head and go under?”

  I checked myself over and found I was free of bruises and scrapes. “No … I must have dozed off…” I grabbed a damp towel, suddenly freezing. “I saw Lily. She was dead.”

  “She is that,” Will agreed. He grabbed my ratty terry-cloth robe and wrapped me in it, guiding me to the bed.

  “Come on. You’re not the first cop to dream about the bad ones.”

  I let him lay me down and hold me close. I didn’t tell him how real the whole thing had seemed. I have plenty of dreams, most of them perfectly normal Jungian archetypes like we all have, but this—this was different. If I breathed deeply, I swore I could still smell sea water and decomposing flesh, as if Lily were still standing there, watching me with her clouded eyes.

  Dellarocco looked up when I came into the ID lab the next morning, carrying the shoebox I’d found in JB’s apartment. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Must be psychic,” I said, and then grimaced. The nightmare was still dogging me, and even two tall hazelnut lattes couldn’t chase it away completely.

  “I got an ID on your wallet’s owner, the talented Mr. Black,” said Dellarocco, sounding ridiculously proud of himself. He brought up an AFIS file and sure enough, there was Johnny Boy. “Does the name Ivan Salazko ring any bells?”

  “No,” I said. “But that’s who he is, really?”

  “Really,” said Dellarocco. “He has a bust from about five years ago, in Miami. He was running whores, and buying coke to give to said whores, and he bought from an undercover cop. It was a minor thing, and he did two years and skated out west.”

  “Lucky us,” I said. “Maybe he wanted to see the California Disney.” Or take up running whores again, judging by the snapshots under his bed.

  “He got his fake ID from the same place that gave your girl Lily hers,” Dellarocco said. “Any leads yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll have some today, you bet your ass. Can I get a printout of that?” I indicated the screen. Dellarocco obliged me, and I took my evidence and myself to the SCS.

  “Check it out,” I told Bryson, slapping the booking photo on his desk. “I found us a new suspect numero uno and I didn’t even break a sweat.”

  Bryson frowned. “Who the hell is that guy?”

  “This is Ivan Salazko,” I said. “Pimp and maker of the fake ID that Lily got herself into clubs with.”

  “He Russian mob?” Bryson asked. I blinked.

  “I don’t know. Why would you say that?”

  Bryson jerked a thumb at my closed door. “Because the FBI is in your office.”

  Through my blinds, I saw the shadows of two large, male figures. “Shit,” I muttered. “How long have they been waiting in there?”

  “Long enough to become a huge pain in the ass,” Bryson said, turning back to his computer. “And Norris told me to tell you that you have a bunch of voicemails from the Dubois family and that they sounded, quote, ‘less than thrilled.’”

  “Real quick—are the End Times also upon us? Because that would make the day pretty much perfect.”

  “Not yet, but I’ll buzz you if a guy with a flaming sword shows up,” Bryson said.

  I took a breath and then pushed open the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  The agents were both men, both white, both wholly unremarkable in that dead-eyed federal way. They even had the same color tie. “Are you Lieutenant Wilder?” said the slightly taller one, with the better haircut.

  “Dang, you got me,” I said. “She’s on vacation and I’m just using this office to impress my dates. It drives the ladies wild.”

  Not a flicker of humor from either of them, so I sat down at my desk. “I’m Luna Wilder. What can I do for you?”

  They closed in, Fed and Fedder. One drew out a small, neat picture. Ivan’s mug shot, wallet-sized. “What is your department’s interest in Mr. Salazko?” the tall one asked.

  “I’m sorry, Agent…?”

  “Senior Special Agent Hart. This is Special Agent White.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at White. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He grimaced, as if to say it wasn’t his fault. “You’ve been talking to Ivan Salazko. One of our surveillance teams spotted you last night at the club. Nice outfit, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “J. Edgar would have been all kinds of jealous. What’s the point of you coming in here and looming over my desk?”

  “Salazko is our boy,” said Hart. “He’s involved in an ongoing investigation by the OCTF—that’s Organized Crime Task Force.”

  I returned his smirk. “I’ve seen Goodfellas just like you, Agent.”

  “We need you to back off,” Hart continued. “We don’t want him spooked.”

  “Salazko is a homicide suspect,” I said. “Whatever your little Mafia squad has going, he’s being investigated in the death of a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “Tragic,” said Hart. “However, you understand that a federal case takes priority.”

  “I understand that you’re telling me some scumbag mobster who is going to make a deal and disappear into Witness Protection is more important than the girl he killed,” I said, standing up and glaring at them both. “I’d expect nothing less from the Feebs.”

  “We understand that you’re upset…” Hart started, in his poor-little-woman tone.

  “Don’t even start with me,” I said, holding up a hand. “Just get out. I’m going to nail Salazko for this murder and you’re going to stay the fuck out of my way or I am going to come down to the federal building and scream my head off to your agent in charge.”

  Hart’s mouth crimped. “That, I’d like to see.” He opened the door into the bullpen. “We’ll expect all of your case notes and any evidence you may have collected from Mr. Salazko’s apartment by the end of business tomorrow. Have a nice day, Miss Wilder.”

  Miss. What a Hexed charmer this guy was.

  White gave me a regretful look once Hart was out of hearing. “My advice? You want to do something about this, do it before you have to turn over your evidence. Salazko has skated before.”

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “Thanks for your advice all the same.”

  “Can’t say I didn’t try,” White said, and scurried after his partner. I heaved a sigh. Between the Duboises and the FBI, who else was going to come through my door and screw with my case?

  I needed real advice, not the bullshit White was handing out. I forwarded my calls to my cell phone and went back to my car, driving up to Highland Park, to the 24th Precinct that was my old stomping ground.

  Parking on the street, I pushed through the front doors and nodded to Shelley, the day sergeant. “Is he in?”

  “In his office,” Shelley said, turning a page in her magazine. I walked through the bullpen and knocked on the glass door labeled Troy McAllister—Lieutenant.

  “Luna,” he said in surprise when I opened the door. “What brings you from the hallowed halls of the Plaza? They slash your budget? You need to steal office supplies and stale donuts?”

  I slumped into the chair opposite Mac’s desk. He’d been my lieutenant in Homicide, and he was my cousin Sunny’s boyfriend now. I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone. “The FBI is trying to fuck with one of my murder cases, the victim’s parents are pack leaders who are going to tear me into little tiny pieces if I don’t close it—and I’m not being hyperbolic there—and everything is just a mess.”

  Mac pulled a cigarette out of his desk drawer and lit it. I cocked my eyebrow. “Thought you gave that up for true lurve with my cousin.”

  “You stress me out, Luna. I can blame it on you,” Mac said. “Besides, I have breath mints in the car.”

  “This asshole senior agent, Hart, says that I have to turn over my case notes by the end of the day tomorrow or the OCTF is going to come down on me.”

  “What, is this suspect mob?” Mac said. “Jesus,
Luna, let the feds have him. You investigate supernatural crimes. There hasn’t been a were Mafia in Nocturne City since Frank and Dino were playing at the Sands.”

  “No, that’d be the parents of the vic,” I said. “They’re champing at the bit for pack justice, and if I don’t deliver, I’m sure it will end in a lot of snarling and posturing and possibly bloodshed.” On the bright side, maybe they’d eat Special Agent Hart.

  Mac laced his fingers behind his head. “Give it to them.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You can’t fight the federal government, Luna. They have a case against this guy, and they’re going to slap you with an injunction if you don’t give them what they want.” He sighed. “You fight the good fight, kid, but you lost this one.”

  “And what about the Duboises?” I said. “Do I just roll over for them, too?”

  “Hell, Luna, I don’t know,” said Mac. “Weres are your territory. That’s why you’re in charge of the SCS. I have faith in you. You’ll figure it out.”

  I stood up and gave Mac a half-smile. “That makes one of us.”

  “You don’t look good, Luna,” Mac said as I opened his door. “You been sleeping?”

  “I had a bad nightmare,” I said. “The dead girl.”

  “Huh,” said Mac. “She talk to you?”

  I nodded. Mac stubbed his cigarette out in an oldcup of coffee. “I had a kid once, a boy about sixteen. Shot to death in the street over a fifty-dollar watch. Nothing special about him, but I saw him for years, those three bullet holes staring back at me like eyes.” He laced his fingers. “I’ll have Sunny give you a call. Have some girl time or whatever it is you women do when you’re not painting your nails or cooking delicious casseroles.”

  I gave Mac the finger and a friendly smile as I left the 24th. It felt good to be back. When was the last time I’d had a desk within view of a window?

  My BlackBerry rang as I cleared the front steps and I ducked into the Nova to avoid the rain that had started to fall like the last tears of someone too tired to cry anymore. “Luna Wilder.”

  “Miss Wilder. You’re a hard woman to get ahold of.”

  I groaned and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel. “Hello, Mr. Dubois. What can I do for you?”