Keeper of the Moon (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “Yes.”

  Did some people enjoy toying with other people? she wondered. Some endorphin rush? “You would know about them,” she said, “because they were both part of the club scene and you are the club scene, and there’s not much that goes on between 2:00 a.m. and sunrise that you don’t know or can’t find out. And you would tell me because you’re a shapeshifter Keeper and you were friends with my uncle Owen, and because I’m an Elven Keeper and it couldn’t hurt you to have an ally on my Council—a new one, I mean. And not to be ageist, but...a young one. One who’s not going to be collecting Social Security anytime soon.” She was talking too fast and with too much energy and saw Dennis glance her way.

  “I already have a number of allies,” Declan Wainwright said, his voice low. “And if you think trading on your family name will earn anyone’s respect, you’re not much like your uncle Owen. Or your father.”

  Sailor was now breathing heavily, her face burning along with the wound in her chest. “You know what?” she said. “Maybe you think that because I’m just a waitress-slash-actress I shouldn’t be talking to you except to take your order—”

  “You shouldn’t be talking at all, in a room that—”

  “—and that your money means you can afford to make enemies. I can see how you might think that. And yet it would be so easy to win someone’s gratitude and loyalty, someone who might have information that could be useful to you, but I’m sure you have your reasons for being an arrogant b—” She stopped, aghast. Had she just almost called him an arrogant bastard?

  He swiveled his barstool until he was facing her dead on. Smiling. His trademark grin, something she’d seen but never provoked. “Go on, pet. Don’t start editing yourself now.”

  “Oh, my God. My mouth. I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got—”

  “A temper?” He was still smiling. “I’d say so.”

  “I was going to say ‘customers.’ But yes, a temper, too.” She turned to go.

  “Wait.” He reached out and caught her wrist.

  She turned back and stared, electricity surging through her at the touch. His hand was strong, but his hold was gentle. She could easily have pulled free, but she didn’t. Her heart was beating fast.

  With his free hand Declan made the “Check, please” gesture to Dennis, and when Dennis made the “It’s on the house” gesture back to him, Declan stood, and pulled her closer. He was taller than she by a few inches, and she was forced to look up at him.

  He leaned in, and she couldn’t imagine what he was doing—for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her neck—but it was only to whisper in her ear.

  “What did you take just now?”

  “What do you mean?” She was practically vibrating with the nearness of him.

  “The pill.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head. “Just—it’s called síúlacht. It’s nothing, it’s—”

  “I know what it is. Bloody hell.” He let go of her, and stepped back, turning to shield his thoughts from her. “All right. Come to the Snake Pit after your shift. This—” he gestured at the bar “—is no place to discuss business.”

  She gulped. Shit. She’d talked about Keepers, shifters, Elven in a room constructed for eavesdropping. It had been a huge lapse in judgment.

  He put a twenty on the bar for Dennis. “And do me a favor?” he added. “No more pills tonight. Not even vitamins.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “You think no one’s looking?” Declan raised an eyebrow. “Look around you. Mirrors and magic. Everything you do, love, someone can see.”

  * * *

  Declan watched her walk away, surprised at his own flare of temper, which had made him more sharp-spoken than he’d intended. But her talking openly about Keeper matters in a place like this and on top of that downing a second dose of síúlacht... What bad luck. The síúlacht would mask the effects of the Scarlet Pathogen all over again. That set them back two or three hours, hours that could have been spent tracking a killer by other means. Maddening. What a waste of time.

  But it was more than that. If he were to be honest with himself—and he worked hard to be honest with himself, to not turn into the arrogant bastard she thought he was—he had to admit that the one he was mad at wasn’t Sailor but himself. Because she stirred up something in him—she had just enough Elven in her to be his type, with her overt sensuality, her long golden limbs and red-gold hair—and the last thing he needed now was a romantic entanglement. Sailor’s path had crossed his because of this crisis, and it was the crisis that mattered. Finding the killer. Not her.

  Alessande’s warning came to mind. The Elven passion for portents and premonitions irritated him because he didn’t like being told what not to do, even by supernatural sources. This time the warnings were unnecessary, redundant, telling him what he already knew: Keep this strictly business.

  And it was hardly her fault that she’d messed up his evening’s agenda, because she had no idea she was part of it. Taking síúlacht wasn’t a bad call on her part; it was a perfectly reasonable response to her condition, taking more of what Alessande had given her hours earlier. Not everyone’s an addict, mate, he told himself. And even if she were, it wasn’t his business.

  How had she lasted this long, though? He and Alessande had underestimated her stamina. But she would show up at his club, he had no doubt. She wanted something from him.

  Would she be safe, though, driving the streets of Hollywood after midnight? Safe from what had attacked her this afternoon? Whether her assailant was a vampire or a shifter, neither was likely to enter her car while she was driving. And once she reached the Snake Pit she would be on his turf, and anyone trying to mess with her there did so at their peril. Let them try, he thought, and instinctively flexed his muscles.

  Damn. He was going to have to watch himself. Feeling this protective toward her was a bad sign.

  He signaled Dennis, who came over, wiping a shot glass with a bar towel. “Do me a favor?” Declan asked, pulling out a business card.

  “Sure.”

  Declan nodded toward Sailor, visible in the next room. “Sailor Gryffald. I don’t think she’s well. Call me at this number, would you, if she shows any signs of weakness? Maybe see her to her car?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Dennis said. “I’ll follow her, see she makes it to the door of the Snake Pit.” He smiled at Declan’s look. “Acoustics, friend. I can hear everything at this bar.”

  * * *

  Sailor watched Declan leave with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she’d been both unprofessional and immature, and she desperately wished she could rewind the conversation. On the other hand, no matter how gracelessly, she’d achieved her goal: he had agreed to talk to her about the murders, and Declan Wainwright was a major resource. The challenge now would be to extract from him everything he knew, not just the stuff he would tell anyone. And to get him to share his connections, which were vast.

  Okay, the real challenge would be to retain some self-possession in his presence and not act like a kid with a crush.

  Fortunately Sailor loved a challenge.

  The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why Declan Wainwright cared that she’d ingested some homeopathic twigs and leaves.

  And how she was going to survive hanging in the city’s hottest after-hours club dressed in her waitress uniform.

  Chapter 4

  Declan’s assistant, Harriet, had set up a business meeting for midnight, texting him Reggie Maxx’s confirmation before calling it a day, leaving her boss to his nighttime assistant, Carolyn. Declan stood now in a corner of the Snake Pit’s main room, surveying his club in full swing. The place ran well in his absence, a fact he knew because he was in the habit of shifting and showing up to observe operations. It took him a full minute to spot Reggie, because he was looking for a man on his own and Reggie had brought a date. They were on the dance floor, the date a well-built blonde with a short skirt and a serious shimmy, Reggie a tall, sandy-hair
ed man towering over his fellow dancers.

  “Hey, Declan,” Reggie said, coming over to shake hands. He was breathing heavily, flushed from the exercise. The Elven Keeper was in his early thirties, just shy of handsome, but with a freckle-faced charm and impressive physique. “Hope you don’t mind—this is my associate, Kandy. We wanted to, uh, see the band.”

  “Not at all. Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” Declan said.

  Kandy shook his hand with enthusiasm. “Are you kidding? I told Reggie he had to. You’re like a celebrity, you don’t need notice. And I’m Kandy with a k, so I’m easy to remember.” She wore six-inch stilettos studded with metal, which also made her easy to remember, Declan thought. “I made Reggie bring me along, because I’ve never been to the Snake Pit and I’ve lived in L.A. like three whole years.”

  “Then I won’t interrupt your night for long.”

  Kandy giggled. “This is our night. I love your accent, by the way. You’re Australian or one of those, right?”

  “English and Irish, love,” Declan said.

  “Ooh, Black Irish. That’s where you get that smoky look and those baby blue eyes, right?”

  Reggie turned to her. “Kandy, Declan and I need to talk business, so why don’t you take a little tour of the place? Just don’t get in trouble.”

  Declan hailed his bartender and told him to keep Kandy supplied with whatever she wanted, then led Reggie toward a staircase leading to the underground level.

  Reggie gave a sheepish laugh. “She’s...a great assistant, actually. Paralegal. Draws up real estate contracts like you wouldn’t believe. Anyhow, she wanted to come and she’s...persuasive.”

  Declan could well believe it. As an Elven Keeper, Reggie would have a strong measure of his species’ sexual appetite, and their magnetism. There were mortals who found the Elven irresistible without, of course, knowing what they were dealing with, and Kandy was their prototype. “No surprise,” Declan said. “She’s pretty, you’re a guy, it’s a full moon.”

  “Yeah, true.” Reggie said. “Anyhow, I’m very curious as to what you wanted to see me about.”

  Declan led Reggie into his office, a futuristic-looking space in gunmetal gray. He closed the door. “I need information.”

  “Name it.”

  “The Scarlet Pathogen deaths. Anything you can tell me about them?”

  Reggie looked around, as though someone might be hiding under the concrete desk. “Why are you asking me?”

  Declan gestured toward a leather sofa, inviting Reggie to sit. “You’re one of the few Elven Keepers it’s not a chore to have drinks with. What are you drinking, by the way?”

  “Scotch, straight. Thanks. But what I meant was—I’m not a cop.”

  Declan moved to a bar across the room. “No, but you’re the Coastal Keeper, and Charlotte Messenger’s body was found on the beach. Your jurisdiction.”

  Reggie grimaced. “Well, there’s that.”

  “And you know the cops are involved, that this is more than a health department matter, a communicable disease.” Declan handed him a glass of scotch and sat on a leather chair opposite the sofa.

  Reggie took the highball glass. “Yeah, that’s true.” He took a sip of scotch, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want his thoughts read.

  Typical, Declan thought.

  He hadn’t encountered the Elven or their Keepers until his late teens, when he’d headed west from New York City. The dry heat made Southern California a favorite Elven habitat, and their incandescent looks made them naturals in the film industry. Outwardly social, they thrived on the admiration of lesser mortals, not to mention casual sex, but Declan knew that at heart the Elven were as clannish as Gypsies, distrusting outsiders. Reggie was now exhibiting that Elven reticence. “I don’t expect something for nothing,” Declan said. “Excuse my directness, but we’re both businessmen. I’d like you to handle a real estate transaction I’m planning.”

  Reggie blinked. “Don’t you have a Realtor?”

  “For my Hollywood properties. This involves Malibu. I want to buy Dark Lagoon.”

  “Dark Lagoon’s not for sale.”

  “That’s about to change,” Declan said.

  “Interesting.” Reggie sat forward, all ears now. “But why Dark Lagoon? It’s not even attractive. Have you walked around there?”

  “Frequently. I’m obsessed with wetlands. The lagoon is a stopover for migrating birds along the Pacific Flyway.”

  Reggie laughed shortly. “Sorry, not into birds. Too...flighty.”

  Declan smiled. “Ever seen a golden eagle drag a goat off a cliff?”

  Reggie eyed him speculatively. “You can’t do anything with the place, you know.”

  “That’s the point. I want to save it from being developed. Save the coastal commission from having to spend their own money to buy it and protect it. I’ll pay a fair price, even a generous one, then donate it to them.”

  “Happy to help, then,” Reggie said. “I’ll take a look at the property tomorrow. There’s a house just south of there that I rent out to film companies, and I’m meeting a location scout at noon.”

  “That can’t be pleasant for you, hanging out on the beach.” Even Elven Keepers, Declan knew, disliked water. It wasn’t necessarily the full-blown phobia it was for the Elven themselves, but for some, it came close.

  “In this economy, I’ll put up with some unpleasantness.” Reggie took a long sip of his drink, then said, “So what do you want to know about the celebrity deaths?”

  “The night Charlotte’s body was found. Because it was your district, I assume someone notified you?”

  “You’d think.” Reggie put down his glass and lowered his voice. “Elven Keepers operate a little differently. You shifters have some autonomy. We go through a chain of command, an executive committee.”

  “With Charles Highsmith leading that committee?”

  Reggie glanced at Declan. “Off the record, right?”

  “Completely.”

  “Yeah, Highsmith controls things. I mean, theoretically we could overturn his decisions, but it’s like herding cats to get a consensus on anything, especially if Highsmith’s against it. Anyhow, it was Highsmith who got the call from the sheriff’s department when they found Charlotte.”

  “Who’s the contact in the sheriff’s department?”

  “Guy named Riley. Werewolf.”

  “But no one contacted you? Malibu’s your district.”

  “Highsmith called me the next day to tell me it was under control,” Reggie said. “Meaning the flow of information was contained, the right cops were assigned to the case, the right medical examiner doing the autopsy.”

  “But Elven women keep dying,” Declan said. “Doesn’t Highsmith consider that worth controlling?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Reggie said, “he’s called a closed meeting for tomorrow. I got an encoded email ten minutes ago, telling me and the other Elven Keepers to stand by. Time and place to be announced.”

  “Now what prompted that, I wonder?”

  Reggie shrugged. “You understand, what gets said in closed meetings I can’t share with you, Declan, much as I’d like to. Closed meetings are a big deal. We haven’t had one since winter solstice.”

  Over five months ago. “Was Rafe Gryffald at that one?”

  Reggie nodded. “I think Rafe Gryffald was the only thing holding Highsmith in check the last ten years.”

  Declan paused, then said, “Met his daughter yet? Sailor?”

  “No. I’ve seen her around, but we haven’t met. Why?”

  “She may be there tomorrow, but she’ll be in over her head and could use a friend.”

  “Happy to help. Can I ask what’s your interest in this?”

  “I have friends among the Elven,” Declan said. “Also, the other species are about to get involved, so we’ll need interspecies cooperation, which has to start with the Keepers.”

  “I’m all for that. But to be honest, you should be talkin
g to Highsmith, not wasting your time on the second string, which would be me.” Reggie gave Declan a wry smile. “Not that I’m not flattered. All I can tell you—and it’s not much—is that the cops are convinced these deaths are homicides, and they’ll be making that announcement anytime now.”

  Declan nodded. The moment they’d found Charlotte on the beach, he’d known in his gut that her death was a murder. But now, it seemed, the whole world knew it, and that hardened his resolve.

  Reggie was watching him closely, reading his thoughts to some degree. “And you have a personal stake in this, don’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to date Charlotte Messenger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bad luck, her being found so close to your house.”

  “Bad luck her being dead at all,” Declan said. “But worse luck for her killer.”

  “Why is that?”

  Declan smiled grimly. “Because I am going to send him to hell.”

  * * *

  The bouncer must have been given her name, Sailor thought, because he waved her through with no questions. Elven, she thought, and gave him wide berth, then entered the darkly atmospheric club.

  She’d been a regular at the Snake Pit since turning legal. Back then it had been the heady thrill of drinking alongside celebrities. But some months ago she’d been part of a movie deal made right there at an A-list table, a role she’d been euphoric about playing—until the deal fell apart. The whole incident had left a bad taste in her mouth, and since then she’d avoided the chaotic main room, sticking instead to the quieter venue next door where Rhiannon could often be found singing and playing her beloved Fender. In the main room the music—and crowd—was rougher-edged.

  Sailor made her way toward the stage through throngs of people, some dressed to the nines, some with the grunginess of migrant farmworkers. She took care to steer clear of any Elven. She was still in her waitress uniform, black polyester velvet, but theatrical, and with enough spandex to cling to her like an ace bandage. She’d traded her comfortable shoes for a pair of heels she kept in the trunk of her car, but she still longed for a shower and some real clothes. Her arms were bare and the concrete room cold, with a blue mist coming up from the floor, but she welcomed the sensation. She suspected she was running a fever.