Deathtrap

by Dannika Dark

  Probably dancing and making a toast after solving the case.

  Gem glanced at herself in an oval mirror as she and Claude entered the lust room at Club Nine. She was feeling radiant, her purple trumpet skirt set off by her black shirt and stockings. The spotlights above caught her hair, and she briefly admired it before moving on. Claude didn’t like a uniform dye job, so there were darker shades of lavender mixed in with a gradual fade to silver at the ends. Because she usually wore it parted off-center, the overlapping colors made it luscious to look at. He hadn’t taken up the length any, so her wavy locks were just where she liked them—a smidge past her shoulders. She absolutely adored Claude for all he did to make her stylish. And yet here she was, looking and feeling gorgeous, and not one man in the club had offered to buy her a soda.

  Maybe it had something to do with the six-and-a-half-foot Chitah at her side.

  Two men had showed interest, but they were drunk. Gem didn’t drink, and a drunken man was about as attractive as a serial killer. She could have flared her energy like she was supposed to in a public place, drawing attention to herself, but all that did was attract the wrong kind of men.

  She and Claude had already questioned the bartender, who seemed like a nice guy. Hooper remembered the victim, Jennifer Moore, and said she’d quit working there a little over a year ago. He confirmed she was a Sensor who used to spike the specialty drinks. The manager had found out she was pregnant when she’d put too much violence in someone’s drink and a customer almost died. They hadn’t seen her in there since.

  Gem and Claude were certain that some of the regulars might remember her, so Claude went to work, questioning the ones Hooper had pointed out. Gem knew the right things to ask, and Claude could smell a lie, so together they made a great team.

  But after three hours, she began to lose hope that anything would come of this assignment. It was so frustrating to work on a case that led to a dead end, but it happened. That was why they kept meticulous records, just in case something ever looped back around to a previous investigation. They usually received an advance payment they would keep regardless of the outcome. Viktor was choosy with his assignments and made sure he didn’t take on too many that he didn’t feel they could solve. At the end of the day, Viktor wanted to make sure his team was financially secure.

  Gem enjoyed spending her money on clothing and decorations to brighten her room. The rest stayed in savings. As a Mage, she would live a long time, so Viktor had advised her to save as much as she could. Gem valued the sense of belonging and doing something positive with her gifts far more than money. Born a Relic, she possessed a natural ability to understand foreign and archaic languages. It would be a waste to squander that knowledge, so Viktor allowed her to work special assignments in her private chamber. He entrusted her with secrets, and even though he could be a bit of a stiff sometimes, no one else in the house made her feel as valued for her contributions. That wasn’t a feeling she’d ever known before—not even with her Creator, who was wonderful but focused heavily on refining Gem’s Mage gifts more than her Relic knowledge.

  The lust room was exactly as she’d imagined. Sexy red furniture, black tables, candlelight, and stone walls. You could still hear the techno music throughout the building, but it wasn’t so loud that you had to scream to hold a conversation.

  Claude homed in on two men hanging out in a corner and casually strode over to make conversation.

  Frankly, Gem was bored with making conversation.

  She plopped down in an empty chair and peeled off her long evening gloves.

  “Can I get you something?” a waitress asked.

  The server’s brown skin carried a glow so beautiful that Gem’s arms looked porcelain in comparison. All the staff wore black shorts, but their shirts were always the color of the room they worked in.

  Gem glanced down and guessed the woman’s high heels were probably pinching her toes. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute? Those look like killer shoes.”

  The sassy waitress jutted her hip. “I’ve got to earn my tips.”

  Gem waved her to sit. “I’ll tip extra. I wanted to ask you something about a friend of mine you might know.”

  The waitress arched a narrow brow and looked around. The moment she sat in the chair in front of Gem, her entire body sagged in relief. “We only have two girls to a room, so just for a minute. Who’s your friend?”

  Gem took out a picture of Jennifer that Wyatt had found when searching for her alias information. Most everyone had a fake driver’s license. She had to be careful how to approach this. People didn’t like dealing with the law or anyone affiliated with investigations, and telling the waitress that Jennifer was dead would rouse suspicion.

  “Hooper said she worked here about a year ago.”

  “Yeah, I remember Jenny. That was back when I first started working here. She was the top spiker. It was hard finding a replacement. Did she have the baby?”

  “I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks, so I’m worried,” Gem began, tugging on the edge of her skirt. “I thought maybe she went back with her ex. Do you know where I could find him?”

  The waitress slowly shook her head. “I don’t know who she was seeing. We weren’t close or anything.”

  “I just got back in town, so I’ve been searching everywhere. Anything you can remember would be helpful. I’ve been worried about the baby; it’s not like Jenny to lose touch.”

  “I don’t think anyone here kept in contact with her.”

  “My name’s Gem Laroux,” she said, hoping that would put the waitress at ease.

  “Latasha Threadgood.” She flashed a bright smile and leaned against the armrest. “What did she have?”

  Gem felt a flutter of panic but played it smooth. Since Latasha wasn’t a Chitah, she wouldn’t know a lie from the truth. “A boy. I don’t know much else. She wrote me an email and invited me to come see her so we could catch up, but then I found out she moved and isn’t working here anymore. That’s why I thought she went back with her ex. You know how a baby can change people. I’m sure it’s not easy being a single mom and trying to hold down a job, especially when it’s next to impossible to find nannies.”

  Latasha rolled her eyes and nodded. “Someone could make a lot of money opening a daycare. More women these days are doing it alone, and I’ve seen a couple of girls turn to prostitution. Breed employers don’t like it when you have to take off work because you can’t find a babysitter. That doesn’t fly, and we don’t have laws to protect our rights.”

  So true. What little Gem knew of the human world was that employers had to go through a process to fire someone. And even then, people could collect unemployment. In the Breed world, you could simply roll your eyes at the boss and you’d be out on the street with no income.

  Latasha touched her crimson hair, making sure everything was in place. There were short corkscrew curls like loose coils twisting and pointing in every direction. “I remember Jenny talking to some guy a few times right before she was fired. It sticks out because I was new on the job, and she got in trouble for ignoring her station when it happened a second time. I don’t know if that helps any.”

  “Is he a regular?”

  “We get so many faces coming through…” She waved her hand and turned a sharp eye toward a woman who set an empty glass on the floor.

  “What did he look like?”

  “It’s been so long I don’t remember. I might see him in here every day and not even know it,” she said with a chuckle. “Maybe dark hair? Definitely short hair, because what I do remember is that he had a tattoo on the back of his neck. Some kind of design.”

  Gem’s heart began to race. “Can you describe it?”

  Latasha pulled a curl straight, and when she let go, it sprang back into position. “It’s been ages, so I couldn’t tell you. Why people mark their bodies up with those things, I’ll never know.”

  Gem jotted her number down on a scrap of paper and folded a twenty-dollar b
ill inside. “If you remember anything else, can you give me a call? You’ve been so helpful.”

  “Sweetie, it was nothing. Duty calls.” She stood up and shook off the lethargic posture she’d adopted. “If you change your mind on that drink, let me know. I hope you find her. She probably got herself a new man. Or maybe she moved. People do it all the time.” Latasha winked and strutted away.

  Gem had goose bumps all over.

  She didn’t usually like working on murder cases, but this was different. Somewhere out there was a baby wondering where his mother was. Scared. Alone. Crying. It didn’t matter if he or she was too young to remember; the damage was done. Gem had been one of those children who grew up never knowing who her parents were, always wondering what her life would have been like had she not been sold on the black market. She used to believe that her mother had given her up, but after working for Keystone and seeing all the stolen children, she was certain that wasn’t the case.

  What fate lay ahead for that baby? Despite the rumors of hopeful couples who shopped on the black market, most of the victims were sold to nefarious criminals who wanted to brainwash those children and use them like slaves. She didn’t want this baby to experience a loveless childhood filled with memories of abuse and emotional manipulation.

  Claude appeared and sat in the chair across from her. He leaned forward, nostrils flaring, and held her hands in his. “What’s wrong, female?”

  Gem didn’t talk about her past with Claude, but he sensed it from time to time when that dark cloud came over her. She quickly stood up and led him into the hall. “I have a description of someone who was seen with her.”

  “And?” When Claude folded his arms, his muscles pushed out.

  Gem rocked on her heels. “Dark hair and a tattoo on the back of his neck.”

  “What kind of tattoo?” he asked flatly.

  “A design,” she said, making a veiled reference to Shepherd’s neck tat.

  Claude shook his head. “Lots of people have tattoos, Gem.”

  “And Shepherd is one of those people.”

  Claude turned in a circle, his eyes downcast. “This isn’t his kind of place. And even if it was him, so what? It’s not a crime to be seen with someone. He’s not selling children on the black market.”

  “I sure hope he’s not! And we’re all entitled to a personal life, but I’d like to think that if we’re working on a case and he recognizes the person in the photograph that he’d say something. Otherwise, it appears as though he’s hiding something from us. Shepherd may be a big ol’ grump, but I’ve always trusted him. Now I don’t know what to believe.”

  Claude put his arm around her when a couple walked by. “Tone it down a notch. We can discuss this somewhere more private.” When they reached a darker spot by the wall, he pulled out his phone.

  “Who are you texting?”

  The display illuminated his face. “Shepherd. I’m requesting his presence so we can settle this once and for all.”

  Gem shifted her weight to the other leg. “What makes you think he’ll come?”

  Claude flashed his butterscotch eyes at her. “Because right now he’s probably praying for a meteor to hit the planet to get him out of that formal dinner.”

  Chapter 8

  Shepherd shifted in his chair, eager to get this night the hell over with. He didn’t like rubbing elbows with suits, and all he could think about was getting back home, lighting up a smoke, and sharpening his knives with a whetstone.

  Instead, he was on his fifth glass of alcohol.

  Shortly after dinner, a familiar sound came from under the table, and that was when Shepherd realized his phone was missing. Patrick discovered his kid was hiding there the whole time… with Shepherd’s phone. Shepherd had to laugh thinking about how fast that kid took off out the door, Patrick right behind him.

  Mr. Bane entered the room and returned to his seat. “I’m sure your companion will find him if my servants don’t. Had I known the boy was underneath the table, I would have sent him away. That’s no dignified place to sit.”

  “He’s a kid. Doesn’t matter,” Shepherd said, tracing his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass.

  “No, but I’ve raised him not to steal. If he breaks your phone, I’ll replace it.” Patrick poured himself another glass of wine and sat back. “Never have children. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

  “Give him up for adoption.”

  Made sense. After all, the kid wasn’t even his. Maybe Patrick once had a thing for the kid’s mom, but that didn’t mean he was obligated to care for her children after she died. Then again, guys like Patrick loved that kind of shit.

  Good PR.

  “You make a valid point,” Patrick said, leaning to one side. “But it’s too late for that kind of thing now. He’s grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. I’ve had him since he was a wee baby. The house wouldn’t be the same without him. No, sometimes a man must put aside his selfish needs and rise to the occasion. Just as you did.”

  Nice segue, Shepherd thought. He didn’t want praise or recognition for saving the kid. He was just doing his job. A kid falls, you catch him. Period.

  Patrick pulled out a cigar. “Are you a smoking man? Feel free to light up. I don’t have rules about that kind of thing.”

  Shepherd opted for one of his cigarettes instead. Rather than wasting a match, he stood up and lit it on one of the candles. The taste was heaven. He savored the first drag that removed the flavor of turtle soup from his palate. Eating those nasty little monsters wasn’t the highlight of his evening, but he’d had too much fun after seeing Raven’s horrified reaction to his liking it. She wasn’t normally the squeamish type, so he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

  He sat down and propped his elbows on the table, tendrils of smoke climbing to the ceiling. Candles flickered between them, and his gaze distractedly dragged up to the painting on the wall to his right. He could hear Viktor’s words in his head. “Make small talk.”

  Had this been anyone else, Shepherd would have asked him to turn on the fucking lights. Candlelight was a way of life in the Keystone mansion, but this house was wired from top to bottom.

  “I want to offer you a favor of equal value. A life for a life,” Patrick began. “There’s only one caveat. I’m an important man, and you realize I can’t have you walk away with that kind of favor to keep in your pocket. Men change over time and sometimes abuse favors that were granted them.”

  “What are you asking?”

  Patrick puffed on his cigar and blew out a deformed ring. “I want to know your favor before you leave this room tonight.”

  Shepherd felt a hot coal in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t need anything.”

  Patrick tilted his head to the side, his narrow eyes brightening. “Oh, come now. Every man has a past bountiful with enemies. Not many have the opportunity to gain a favor from someone in my position; don’t be so quick to decline. I have a lot of connections.” He leaned forward and gave Shepherd a pointed stare. “I’m not taking your good deed lightly, and neither should you. Whatever you ask will stay between us.”

  Shepherd took another drag and flicked the ashes onto his empty dessert plate. That was a lot to lay on a man.

  “A life for a life,” Patrick repeated before he sat back in his chair. “Would you like more cake?”

  Cake? Was this guy serious? Shepherd kept staring, and before too long, Patrick rose to his feet and approached him from the left.

  He set down his glass in front of Shepherd and walked off. “Just in case you need some reassurance.”

  Although most Sensors used their gifts to store experiences and sell them, Shepherd always wanted to be more than just someone who made a few bucks working sensory exchange for addicts. He got a high from playing detective with emotional imprints and deciphering complex emotions. It took years of practice, but he got real good with picking up trace amounts on objects that most Sensors would miss or not feel at all. He wasn’t hypersensitive
, only hypertrained.

  Shepherd’s cigarette stayed wedged between his lips as he cupped his hands around Patrick’s glass. A tiny flutter of emotions tickled his fingertips, and he allowed it to move through him.

  Truth. Conviction. He didn’t pick up a hint of insincerity.

  “I haven’t always been a man of class,” Patrick began, rounding the table and leaning against it as he studied the foxhunt painting. “I was born to a pauper and clawed my way out of poverty by the time I was a man of forty. And it wasn’t easy,” he said with a laugh. “It was years later before I was turned. Obviously I get a lot of stares from people, wondering why a man of my age was chosen, but my Creator was a visionary. In those days, Creators surrounded themselves with young men who were soldiers, but my Creator knew we were heading toward a more civilized world and leaders would be defined by the intelligent men who surrounded them, not the brave. A sharp intellect is deadlier than a sharp knife.” Patrick briskly turned and sat in his chair with a look of disgust. “What a shame that humans got ahold of him and cut off his head for treason against their mortal king. That kind of injustice would never happen now. Not just because of human laws, but because Breed finally organized a system to protect and punish our own kind. Just think of how many were lost in the witch hunts alone.”

  Shepherd regarded him with a smile. “You’re running out of jail space.”

  “Humans are in love with self-condemnation. They’re guilt stricken. We have better sense than that,” Patrick said, tapping his head. “The more laws you create, the more jail cells you need. We can’t afford to build more facilities for people who want to steal cars or do drugs. It’s hard enough to keep the prisons we do have off human radar, so you have to choose your battles. What you do is admirable, but you’re a smart fella. Do you really think we want them all returned alive?” He winked and set down his cigar.

  “Maybe if you had smarter men, you could dismantle the black market network.”