by L. A. Banks
Holding up her driver’s license, the photo of a stunning woman stared back at her. No wonder Sir Rodney was so taken. Tissues, lipstick, a compact . . . nothing was out of the ordinary. But there was a roll of smaller bills held in a rubber band—no doubt dancer’s tip money. The contents of her wallet were also fairly standard: credit cards, several twenty-dollar bills. Then a small carnival strip photo fell into her hands. It had been held between two credit cards and showed two smiling girlfriends laughing and hugging each other. One redhead, one blond.
“This must be Penelope,” Sasha said, handing the photo strip to Hunter.
He took it, glanced at it, and handed it back to Sasha. “Looks fairly recent, judging from the same hairstyle in the driver’s license.”
Sasha nodded. “Good call.” But then, in a small slit inside the well-worn leather, her fingers hit pay dirt. “A Blood Oasis member card?” She handed off the card to Hunter, who raised a brow as he accepted it. “What’s she doing with one of these?”
“My question exactly. Vampires do not hand these out on the street. This is a donor card, not a member card.” Hunter handed Sasha back the card, which she stashed in her jeans’ pocket.
“Looks like we’re going to have to stop by the Blood Oasis,” she said, staring at him.
“Can’t wait,” Hunter muttered sarcastically.
A sudden presence made them both turn quickly. Upper and lower canines had ripped through Hunter’s gums. Sir Rodney’s bodyguard held up both hands in front of his chest, which eased the pair of wolves.
“Milord has been called back to Sidhe, and he would like a word with you in Ethan’s office before he leaves.” The bodyguard glanced at Sasha’s shoulder holster and weapon and then at Hunter’s slowly retracting canines. “Tensions are high . . . but know that our monarch is also extremely upset. To see a display of aggression—”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Sasha said as Hunter rolled his shoulders. “We’re just a little jumpy after what we’ve seen in the basement.”
The guard glanced at the broken locker door and then turned without comment. “This way, please.”
The threesome headed down the backroom corridors, meeting Ethan along the way.
“I’ve tried to call Penelope,” Ethan said, catching up to their pace, “but she didn’t answer. I know it sounds silly, but if you’re going to ask her questions tonight, will you call me? I wanted her to hear it all from me first, but I have to close down the bar and Mike left his shift early.” Ethan let out an exasperated breath. “Having employees is sometimes like having children. My bartender is known for taking off before his shift ends, and he did it again. I need to deal with him, and I don’t want anyone else closing for me tonight, given the circumstances.”
“We’ll call you, for sure,” Sasha said. “But you make sure you have someone you can trust stay in here with you while you close. Promise me that.”
Ethan nodded as the king’s best man turned and also nodded. “Milord has sent for Fae archers to reinforce me. I will be fine. Just check on Penelope . . . and let her know I wasn’t being callous to have strangers contact her before I’d had a chance. Make her know—”
“Ethan . . .” Sasha said, stopping before his office door and hugging him. “We’ve got your back. We’ll explain to her that you by rights couldn’t leave here and she was unreachable by telephone. Just make sure you give us her address before we leave.”
Ethan’s body relaxed against hers and they parted after a moment. “Thank you, Sasha. Thank you both,” Ethan said with a sniff and then walked down the hall in the opposite direction.
The guard opened the door and stood aside before entering behind Sasha and Hunter and closing it behind them. They found Sir Rodney pacing with his hands behind his back. Sir Rodney walked a hot path between Ethan’s desk and the bank of file cabinets against the far wall, dragging his fingers through his thicket of dark brown tresses. His handsome face was near ashen with grief, but his jewel-blue eyes glittered with unspent rage. “I want whoever attacked this girl found and dismembered,” he said in a low, threatening tone.
“Not a problem,” Hunter replied, anger beginning to make his wolf canines crest. “It is the way of the wolf—however, we must be sure of who the assailant was, beyond all doubt, before we act in such resolute terms.”
“Thank you,” Sir Rodney said, rage glittering in his eyes. “Then I appreciate your allegiance on such short notice.”
“We are one,” Hunter said, offering the monarch an Old World handshake, by clasping each other’s forearms.
Sasha nodded. “Did she say anything about why she was down there in the wine cellar? Is there anything you can tell us that might shed light on the tragedy?”
Sir Rodney’s gaze held Sasha’s for a moment and then went to Hunter’s before seeking a far-off point in the office. “No. I was to meet her at her apartment. That was all she said.”
Brief silence created a new level of tension in the room as Sir Rodney leaned an outstretched arm against the file cabinet. He allowed his head to drop forward and he spoke to Sasha and Hunter with his eyes closed. “I cared for her,” Sir Rodney finally said in a gravelly tone. “Many of us did. Find her killer . . . this wasn’t an accident. We need a neutral party—someone who can look into a Phoenix death without the Fae being directly involved . . . or it could cause diplomatic complications and raise questions we are not prepared to answer at present.”
“We’ll do our best.” Sasha held the distressed monarch’s gaze and then she looked away. It was time to get out of here. But she had to show Sir Rodney what she had found. Extracting the card from her wallet, she held it out to him. “She was a blood donor for the Vampires . . . Were you aware of that?”
Sir Rodney straightened and snatched the card from Sasha and then flung it down on Ethan’s desk. “I knew she’d danced for them once or twice, but I d’not know she was a damned donor.”
Sasha glanced at Hunter. Sir Rodney’s Fae brogue had become thick, his rage allowing his dialect to surface as swiftly as the color that had risen to his face.
“In that case,” Hunter said evenly, “we’ll approach the death as highly suspicious.”
“It is highly suspicious,” Sir Rodney said flatly. “The timing of this, just as I was to collect her after her work shift and the way she approached me in the bar . . . no, this wasn’t some Phoenix transition gone wrong.” He looked at Sasha and Hunter. “You can rule out some crazy concept of contagion. Ethan told me the theories. And what of this Were scent you picked up?”
Sir Rodney’s voice had escalated on every word. Sasha gave Hunter a look to allow her to speak in a more calming female voice to the upset monarch. Hunter inclined his head slightly, agreeing without words.
“It was female and feral, but none like we’ve ever encountered in this region. That’s two potential leads . . . the only clan of local Weres we know of that has any feral females is the old Buchanan clan. This card,” she said, walking over to the desk to pick it up and stash it back in her pocket, “means, of course, we have to stop by the baron’s establishment just to rattle his cage for grins.” Oh, yeah, she and Vampire Baron Geoff Montague had history, the rat bastard.
“If you need anything—men, artillery, whatever you require, say it, and it is done.”
“Thank you, Sir Rodney . . . we’ll be sure to do that. But first we need to do the groundwork before we go to war.”
Hunter held his gaze. “We want to be sure to seek redress from the right culprit.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Sir Rodney said, blotting the sweat from his brow. “Just keep me advised.”
“We will,” Sasha said, glancing at the air conditioner’s thermostat. She felt like she was burning up, yet it was only on sixty-seven degrees and blowing full blast.
A trickle of sweat ran down Sasha’s neck and almost made her jump out of her skin. The cellar with a body in it was giving her the heebie-jeebies. For reasons she couldn’t explain if her life
depended on it, her senses were more than keen—there was a level of skittishness haunting her now that was normally not a part of her makeup as a soldier.
Hunter caught her start, his gaze steady but questioning. There was also something too tense in it that she wasn’t ready to cope with right now.
Regaining her concentration, Sasha sought Sir Rodney’s sad expression as a focal point. “If someone was chasing her, there would have been Phoenix plumes all around, and it doesn’t look like there was a struggle. No crates are crushed, the shelves are intact, there are no scuff marks on the floor or evidence of an accelerant, if someone came in and set her on fire or anything. No sulfur residue, so I’m not so sure it was a Vamp attack . . . a Black Death charge leaves a really distinctive odor. But having a card from their club means something—I can feel it.”
Charred remains still stung her nose, even though they were well away from the immediate site, and the general-regulation damp cellar scent added to it, making Sasha slightly queasy. But there was nothing abnormal for her to latch on to . . . except a feral animal odor that she couldn’t define—and blood. She looked at Hunter for a moment, frustrated by the lack of evidence. “If it was wolves that went after her, well . . . they generally don’t go in for barbecuing their victims first.”
As soon as she’d said it, she regretted the last part of her statement when Sir Rodney blanched and looked away. “I’m sorry, you know what I mean. Wolves eat raw, the attack is immediate, and Desidera’s remains weren’t disturbed as though a wolf had gone after her and left her dismembered before she flamed.”
“It’s all right,” Sir Rodney said, turning away. “I know you’re just trying to make sense of this the best way you can . . . and your assessment matches mine. That’s why I just don’t understand how something like this could happen. She wasn’t suicidal. She was happy!”
Sir Rodney’s gaze was fixed on a point on the wall and he slowly nodded. “Save for her unusually nervous behavior tonight, she was happy.” He briefly closed his eyes again as he released a long sigh. “The damnable part of this is, it all happened in a crowded establishment. There could have been hidden Vampires here, sorcerers, witches—covens even, Werewolves from the outlawed Louisiana Buchanan clan. How would we even know where to begin? But she got on with everyone . . . didn’t have an enemy in sight.”
Sasha and Hunter exchanged a glance.
“Before you arrived, we searched the entire cellar, even turning over dusty bottles and looking within and beneath every crate down there,” Sir Rodney said, his voice tight with emotion as he pushed off the banister. “There’s nothing there but her remains. As you said, no sign of a struggle, no Vampire sulfur residue, and no evidence of a Werewolf attack. It makes no sense.”
“That’s just the thing,” the bodyguard said, his gaze traveling to each face before him, “Ethan McGregor told us that his girls have no reason to be down there. His bartender might go for a restock of private label—should they have Vampire guests . . . but ever since that disastrous row with them a few months ago, they wouldn’t put out a shilling much less pay US currency to support his establishment. McGregor claimed that he hadn’t had to break a blood-tainted case of Marsecco in months. So, if milady ventured down here, for what reason could it have been?”
“Rest assured, man,” Sir Rodney said, glaring at his best man before returning his angry gaze to Sasha and Hunter, “this was no accident, nor is it contagion, and it has nothing to do with her wanting privacy to flame. Someone was responsible and I want that person found!”
Sasha reached into her back pocket and held out her notebook to Sir Rodney, flipping to the page that she’d sketched the symbol on. “No offense . . . but you knew her body nude, I’m assuming. Did she have this mark on her before she died?”
Sir Rodney snatched the book and quickly handed it back to Sasha. “No!”
“What is it?” Sasha said in a soft voice as Sir Rodney turned away.
“Sorcery at its worst.”
CHAPTER 2
Hunter pulled the jeep into the driveway and cut the ignition. As expected, all the lights were off in Penelope’s small trailer, but the outside light at the front door drew a flutter of moths. Sasha dabbed her temples and neck. Sticky June humidity made her clothes cling and a visible line of moisture was beginning to form on her tank top around her gun harness.
But the moment they got out of the car, both she and Hunter froze. The scent of charred flesh hung in the air as though an afterthought. Hunter approached a front window and forced it up an inch as Sasha covered him. He didn’t need to nod to tell her that her sense had been right; it smelled just like the crime scene they’d just left.
“Shit.” Hunter’s gaze narrowed as he headed for the front door with Sasha on his heels.
He opened the screen door and then pushed the front door open with ease. Sasha gave him a look; it wasn’t locked. The air conditioner was on full blast, circulating the putrid air within Penelope’s trailer. It was the same. Charred Phoenix mixed with something feral. But this time, no blood. Sasha’s wolf senses were keen in the darkness. She could see Hunter’s deep amber irises glow as he stalked through the small living space, and then suddenly, he stopped.
Sasha lowered her weapon for a moment as she looked down at the body at her feet. What did these two women do that got them murdered? Her mind was on fire and her grip tightened on the semiautomatic. If whatever did this was still here, she had a full clip of silver slugs for it.
“Stay with the body,” Hunter said in a low rumble, casing the rest of the trailer.
When he returned and clicked on the living room light, Sasha stooped down to fully examine the remains.
“Just like the other one,” Sasha said, standing after a moment to look around the cozy, well-kept trailer. “Nothing in the room to signify a struggle, no evidence of sulfur, just these strange symbols burned into the Phoenix’s belly. That’s all there is.”
“You and I both know there is no such thing as coincidence,” Hunter grumbled, staring down. “But, coincidentally, this Mythic being was the next one on our list to question . . . a close friend of the redhead. Add that,” Hunter said as he rolled his shoulders, “this charring is still fresh. We’re being stalked. I can feel it in my soul. Something is coming behind us, around us, herding us.” He sniffed the air and frowned.
“Yeah, I picked that up, too, when we were in the cellar. I’ve definitely never smelled it before.”
Hunter shook his head and stooped down to get a closer look. “At first I thought that it could have been the scent of fear coming from the Phoenix before she flamed . . . has a musty undertone to it. Feral, but not Werewolf or Vampire—just like at Ethan’s. This kicks my ass that I can’t place it.”
“Also not human . . . or any Fae scents I’ve come to learn.”
“Either it is owned by the killer or related to the aftermath of the burning.” Hunter studied the ashes and then stood.
“You might be right,” Sasha said, nodding. “I need to find out more about this symbol . . . if Sir Rodney hadn’t outright said sorcery, I would have thought that maybe it could have been something that showed up once a Phoenix flames for the last time. But the Fae know their magick, and if the man said sorcery was involved, I’ll take him at his word.”
“It could be a warning, a marker—something that says ‘keep out,’ ” Hunter said in a low, even rumble. “Tribesmen of all cultures mark territory with fearsome symbols.”
“Yeah . . .” Sasha said in a faraway voice. “But there’s a link we’re missing between these Phoenix deaths. Why go after the Phoenixes? They played no major role at the trials. I don’t get it. Who would want them dead? Why would Vamps have an axe to grind with them? Even though I can’t stand the rat bastards, it doesn’t completely add up.”
“Fresh air, distance, meditation—we must add this to our arsenal, Sasha,” Hunter said, placing a flat palm on her back. “Let us talk with Ethan and Sir Rodney. Maybe they can s
hed a little more light on this.”
She nodded and whipped out her cell phone, then cursed. “Damn . . . can’t get Sir Rod, he’s in the Sidhe. Cell phones don’t work there.” She let out a breath and placed the next call to Ethan. The conversation was brief—it was best to deliver bad news that way, since there was no delicate explanation available. Penelope was dead.
Hunter had already left her side to begin looking for anything they could go on. The living room offered no hints, nor did the small dinette area. Sasha found him going through the cutlery on the counter, sniffing the butcher’s block of knives.
“I don’t think she’d fight whatever was after her,” Sasha said with a half smile. “At least not in hand-to-hand combat. She wouldn’t defend herself like one of us would. We’ve gotta think like a Phoenix, not a Wolf.”
He nodded and raked his hair with his fingers, then stepped away from the counter, clearly frustrated. “Truth.”
Sasha sent her gaze around the tight confines and her line of vision landed on the refrigerator door. It held a small drugstore calendar under several fruit-inspired magnets. Quickly going to it, she read the neat shorthand: BO 12-5.
Digging in her pocket, Sasha produced the card she’d gotten from Desidera’s wallet. “How much you wanna bet BO twelve to five is her shift at the Blood Oasis from midnight to five AM, prime Vamp time?”
Hunter took the calendar off the refrigerator and flipped through it. “The entries go back several months. If you’re right, she was working there three to four nights a week.”
Sasha nodded, heading toward the bedroom, and then stopped at the dresser. She glanced at Hunter over her shoulder, motioning toward a jewelry tray. “Seems Penelope had some really nice admirers, either that or she made a fantastic salary at the Blood Oasis. This is the real stuff, not cubic zirconia.”
“She also had a Pixie friend,” Hunter said, lifting a small oval frame off the nightstand. He offered it to Sasha’s inspection as she walked over to take a closer look.
