Iron Crowned ds-3

by Richelle Mead

  When Kiyo and I reached Enrique’s address, we found it was in a small, sad-looking office building in one of the more rundown areas of downtown Tucson. I eyed it askance as we stood outside and waited for him to buzz us up.

  “I don’t get why it took us three days to get in,” I said. “It doesn’t really seem like he’s got that much business.”

  The door buzzed, and Kiyo opened it. “Maybe it’s a cover,” he said. We walked up to the second floor, where Enrique’s office was located. “Maybe he wants to hide how successful he is.”

  “That’s ridiculous—”

  I stopped when the office door opened before we knocked. Even with Enrique standing in the doorway, I could see beautiful, expensive furnishings.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I muttered, entering at Enrique’s gesture.

  He was shorter than me, with deeply tanned skin and black hair starting to gray. I put him somewhere in his mid to late forties. His attire didn’t quite match the office’s opulence. In fact, it looked like stereotypical P.I. clothing from some old detective noir film, complete with a fedora.

  “Markham’s girl, huh?” he asked, voice laced with a faint Spanish accent. His eyes fell on Kiyo. “And a bodyguard?”

  “A friend,” I said sharply. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Right.” Enrique didn’t sound like he believed that. He pointed us to some plush leather chairs while he sat in an even bigger one across from us. A huge cherry desk was situated between us. It gleamed deep red in the late afternoon light and didn’t look like the kind of thing you’d find at IKEA.

  I stared around at the rest of the office, still amazed at how it contrasted with the exterior. Books—ranging widely from Moby Dick to Arizona state law—lined shelves that matched the desk, and small pieces of art—paintings, statues, et cetera—adorned the room.

  “So,” began Enrique. “What’s his name, and why do you think he’s cheating on you?”

  “I—huh?” I jerked my head from a sculpture that looked like some Mayan god and stared at Enrique in astonishment. “What are you talking about? Is that what Roland told you?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me anything. I just figured that’s why you were here. That’s usually what women come in for.”

  Kiyo made a small sound beside me that I think was a laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” I exclaimed, unsure if I should be offended or not. “I need you to investigate a murder.”

  Enrique arched an eyebrow. “That’s what the police are for.”

  “They already investigated it. And actually, they declared it a suicide.”

  “And you need me because …?”

  “Because I don’t think it was,” I said. “I think it was a murder and that the victim’s family might be in danger.”

  Enrique made no attempt to hide his skepticism. “Do you have any evidence to support this … theory?”

  I took a deep breath, hoping Roland had been right about this guy. “The victim’s, um, ghost said she didn’t kill herself.”

  “Her ghost,” he repeated. As though on cue, Deanna materialized in the room, though Enrique couldn’t see her. Kiyo and I could with our Otherworldly senses, but neither of us gave any indication of her arrival.

  I nodded. “Roland said you—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Enrique. “I know about that hocus pocus he deals with. I’m also guessing suicide might be so traumatic that afterward, maybe a ghost blocked out what she actually did.”

  “That’s not true!” exclaimed Deanna.

  I supposed it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but I’d explore all other options first. “I don’t think that’s the case. I think she really was murdered. If that’s true, we need to make sure no one else in her family gets hurt.”

  “If she was murdered,” countered Enrique, “then statistics say someone in her family probably did it.”

  “That’s not true either!”

  I ignored Deanna’s second outburst and stayed fixed on Enrique. “Well, one way or another, I need to know.”

  He leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk and crossing his arms behind his head. If he’d called me ‘dame,’ I wouldn’t have been surprised. “The police take all this into consideration, you know. What makes you think I’d find something they haven’t?”

  “I thought guys like you were smarter than the police,” said Kiyo. “Figured you had connections and channels above the law. That you didn’t play by the same rules.”

  “That’s true,” said Enrique, seeming pleased at the compliment. I swore, he was also taking Kiyo more seriously than me. “I can look into it, I suppose. But it’s not like I’ll do it for free, just because you’re cute.” That was directed back at me.

  I repressed a scowl. “I didn’t expect you to. I can pay.”

  He considered this and finally gave a nod, straightening back up in his chair. “Okay. Tell me what you know, and I’ll get to it when I can.”

  “What!” cried Deanna.

  “This is kind of time sensitive,” I said. Mostly because I wasn’t sure how much more of Deanna I could handle.

  Enrique gestured to a stack of folders on a table. “So are these. I’m drowning in paperwork. Can’t keep half of these straight.”

  “We’ll pay for you to expedite it,” said Kiyo.

  I shot him a look of astonishment, not thrilled that he’d speak for me—especially considering my income was lower than it used to be. Nonetheless, it got Enrique’s attention. “Expediting it is, then.”

  I gave him all the details I’d recently learned from Deanna, and to his credit, Enrique diligently wrote them all down and asked pertinent questions that reaffirmed my faith in his legitimacy. The price he named didn’t cheer me up as much, but there was nothing to be done for it.

  When Kiyo and I finally got up to leave, I couldn’t resist asking the obvious. “You seem to be doing pretty well … so why’s your office in a dump like this?”

  Enrique didn’t look offended so much as scornful that I’d ask such a ridiculous question. “Do you know how much office rent is lately? I’m saving tons of money.”

  “Maybe you should put that surplus toward a secretary instead of statues,” I pointed out, nodding toward the tower of folders.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” he said bluntly. “Especially when ghost clients show up.” He opened the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Charming,” I said, once Kiyo and I were on the road again. “The only thing I’m convinced that guy can do is help in the regression of women’s rights.”

  Kiyo tried to hide a smile and failed. “He was right about you being cute, though. And I don’t know … something tells me that despite the attitude, he’s pretty competent. Crappy building aside, he couldn’t afford that office if he wasn’t achieving results. Besides, Roland wouldn’t recommend anyone incompetent.”

  “Unless he was trying to sabotage me.”

  Kiyo’s smile faded. “Do you really think he’d do that to you?”

  I stared out the passenger seat window. “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, you know. I really am. About Roland.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. My mood plummeted each time Roland’s name came up.

  “Okay, then. You want to salvage this ‘date’ and get some lunch?”

  I didn’t have faith in the change of subject. I didn’t think anything could really distract me, certainly not the crappy Mexican restaurant Kiyo took us to.

  “Are you serious?” I asked. Felipe’s Fiestaland was the cheesiest restaurant in town, figuratively speaking. In a place like Tucson, where you could get amazingly authentic Southwestern cuisine, Felipe’s was for tourists and suburbanites who didn’t know any better.

  “Are you saying a margarita wouldn’t do you good?” he asked, getting out of the car.

  “I would never say that. But there are better places with better margaritas.”

  “They still use tequila in t
heirs. Isn’t that what really matters?”

  “Fair point.”

  We were greeted by a hostess who sounded like she’d taken one semester of Spanish in high school. Piñatas hung from the ceiling, and bad mariachi music blasted from speakers. I scanned the drink menu as soon as we sat down and was ready when the waiter came by.

  “I’ll have your Double Platinum Extra Premium Margarita,” I told him.

  “Grande or super grande?” asked the waiter.

  “Super.”

  Kiyo looked impressed. “I’ll have the same.” When we were alone, he asked, “What is that exactly?”

  I propped an elbow on the table, resting my chin on my palm. “I’m not sure, but it sounded like it had the most alcohol in it. Places like this tend to drown their drinks in mixers.”

  “Spoken like a pro.”

  “Stating the obvious. You and I both know Roza’s has the best margaritas.”

  Kiyo smiled at that, flashing me a warm and knowing look. I had a feeling he was thinking about a memory that had come to me too, back from when we’d dated. We’d gone out to Roza’s—which really did have the best margaritas in town—and gotten so drunk that neither of us could drive home. So, we’d used the car for the only thing we could: sex. Twice.

  The drinks arrived and were about the size of fishbowls. They were also about half-mixer, as suspected, but at least that still left a reasonable quantity of alcohol. I drank mine down quickly as we waited for our food. Alcohol numbed my shamanic powers a little bit and sometimes let me forget my problems. Not so much today.

  “Do you think Enrique might be right?” I asked. “That Deanna did commit suicide and blocked it out?” The ghost had left us once we departed from the office.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if she’d believe it, even if he turned up a film or something.”

  I grimaced and downed more of the drink. “I hope not. It’s nothing I’d want to watch. I’m tired of bloodshed.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “And no matter what I said before … and how upset I was when this war started … well, I have to admit. You’ve handled it as best you could. Word gets around. I know you’ve made some tactical moves that minimized casualties—and not just for your own people.”

  “‘Tactical.’ ‘Casualties.’” I shook my head, eyeing my low margarita. “Those are terms I never thought I’d use. And really, I don’t have much to do with that planning. Rurik does.”

  “But you give the okay,” Kiyo pointed out. “Not many rulers would. Most would do whatever it took to crush their enemies quickly.”

  “I’ve certainly wanted to.” Dorian had as well, and the few disagreements we’d had during our wartime partnership had been over civilian collateral damage. “Can we talk about something not Otherworldly? And not about suicide?”

  “Sure.” Our waiter suddenly appeared with the plate of Mile High Muy Bueno Nachos we’d ordered. Kiyo flashed him a grin. “She’ll have another margarita. Also, it’s her birthday.”

  I shot Kiyo a look of horror as the waiter scurried off. “Are you out of your mind? You don’t say something like that in a place like this!”

  But it was too late. Because in a matter of minutes, the entire waitstaff of Felipe’s Fiestaland had surrounded our table. Someone put a sombrero on my head and a candlelit piece of flan in front of me. The whole group then launched into an out-of-tune rendition of “Cumpleaños Feliz,” set to equally bad out-of-rhythm clapping. I stared at Kiyo the whole time and mouthed I will kill you. It only made his smile grow.

  “You don’t look a day older,” he told me, once the mob had dispersed.

  “I can’t believe you did that.” I jerked off the sombrero and dove into the new margarita. “Do you know how humiliating that is?”

  “Hey, it got your mind off everything else, didn’t it? Plus, check it out. Free flan.”

  I blew out the candle and hesitantly poked the gelatinous mass below it. “It looks like it’s been sitting around a while.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, dragging the plate over to his side of the table. “With all the preservatives in it, I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “I’m going to get you back for this,” I warned, narrowing my eyes.

  The look he gave me was knowing. “I hope so,” he said. “I certainly hope so.”

  I can only blame the margaritas for what happened next, because as soon as we’d paid our bill and were back in the car, we attacked each other.

  “See?” he said, trying to pull my shirt over my head. “Who needs Roza’s?”

  “It was dark out then,” I reminded him, my own hands fumbling for his pants.

  “We’re in the back of the lot,” he argued. “And the sun’s going down.”

  He had a point, and when he brought one of my nipples to his mouth, I kind of let the subject drop. We really were out of sight, and there were more important matters to take care of. We reclined and pushed the seat back as far as it would go, then finally managed to get each other’s jeans off. I brought my hips down, taking him into me.

  “See?” I gasped. “You’re sorry now.”

  “Very,” he managed to say.

  Our awkward positioning kept my breasts pretty close to his face, and he was taking advantage of it with his hands and mouth. As for me, I was just thrilled at the feel of being on top of him. After always playing submissive with Dorian, I suddenly exalted in this sense of power—especially since Kiyo had definitely been the one in control the last time we had sex. Now, it was all me, and I took a fair amount of satisfaction in taunting him, alternately increasing the speed of my movement and then slowing down when he got close to coming.

  “Eugenie,” he begged at last. “Enough. Please … do it….”

  I leaned toward him like I might kiss him—and then pulled back when his lips sought mine. With a grin, I straightened up as much as I could and rode him hard, finally letting him have the release he’d begged for. His body bucked up as he came, his hands holding tightly to my hips as though I might leave before he finished.

  After that, I guess we were kind of dating again. The next week or so passed in an easy pattern. I saw Kiyo almost every day, and we slipped back into our old routines. I started taking more jobs, much to Lara’s relief, while Kiyo alternately worked at the vet clinic and checked in with the Otherworld. At night, he and I were always together, either at my place or his. My body began to remember what it was like being in a relationship, and slowly, my heart did as well.

  I only crossed into the Otherworld once during that time, both from Thorn Land withdrawal and curiosity over the war proceedings. No progress was being made with Katrice. I was grateful for the lack of fighting, but the hoped-for peace talks still seemed a ways off. It was frustrating.

  “She’s being difficult,” said Shaya, when I asked about it. Understandably, she looked weary. “These are delicate matters. They take time.”

  I left it at that, feeling impatient, but figuring she knew better than me. Back in Tucson, I also got sporadic updates of another sort: Enrique’s. To his credit, he called almost every day to report what he’d done or investigated. At first his attitude remained the same, full of that cockiness and irritability that said this was a waste of his time. Then, one day, things changed.

  “I think,” he said. “You might be right.”

  I’m not sure who was more surprised by this: him or me. I’d honestly started to believe he wouldn’t turn up anything at all as evidence of either a suicide or a murder. I gripped the phone tightly.

  “What? That someone killed her?”

  “Yeah … I found a couple things. Did you know her husband has a girlfriend?”

  “Deanna told me. She seemed okay with his moving on.” It had been a few months since her death, too soon to start dating in my book, but still a semi-respectable time frame. According to Deanna, he’d begun seeing someone a few weeks ago.

  “Yeah, well, he moved on before she was dead. The girlfriend? His alibi.”


  I frowned. “Seriously?” Deanna’s husband had been removed from suspicion because he’d had a solid witness to his whereabouts when she’d been killed. He’d been at a real estate agent’s office; the agent was helping him with a vacation home for their family. “Maybe their relationship started after Deanna died …”

  “Not if a witness I found is reliable. I also might have a lead that proves Deanna wasn’t the one who bought the gun.”

  “If that’s true …” I couldn’t finish right away. Deanna acquiring the gun that had killed her had been one of the most damning pieces of evidence for suicide. “If you can prove that, then it could reopen everything.”

  “Yes,” said Enrique matter-of-factly. “Yes, it could. I’ll be in touch.”

  We disconnected, and I suddenly wished he hadn’t been quite so good at his job. If he was right about all this and turned up the evidence he needed … well, someone was going to have to break the news to Deanna that her husband had murdered her. And that someone would be me. She currently believed some crazed killer had done it, one that was after her family now. The thought of it all sickened me.

  As I sat there in my room, an Otherworldly presence made my skin tingle. For half a second, I thought Deanna was appearing unsummoned—something I wasn’t ready to deal with. I’d essentially given her a “don’t call me, I’ll call you” directive. But, no. It wasn’t her. It was Volusian, his red eyes as malevolent as always. Lately, his appearance meant news from the Otherworld. I hoped it would be good.

  “What’s up?” I demanded.

  “Shaya requests your presence immediately.”

  Something good at last. “The peace talks?”

  “No. She needs you because the Oak King is at your castle, demanding to see you.”

  Chapter 15

  I had two immediate reactions to this. One was that Dorian could wait around forever; he had no right to demand anything of me. My other reaction was outrage that he could come traipsing into my home when I was banned from his. Admittedly, that was my own fault. I hadn’t put down any hospitality rules to keep him out. As such, he’d be welcomed like any other non-enemy monarch—particularly by my people. I considered simply sending Volusian to revoke hospitality but then tossed that idea aside. I’d take care of this myself.