Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  Their leader leaned back, flexed his hands, and allowed a slow, smoldering grin to spread across his face. “Good. And then, while Taylor’s allies flail uselessly and beat their heads against our defenses, or argue amongst themselves, or pretend not to believe what’s happened…we kill her while she lies helpless.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Harrison, Westchester County, New York

  Remy pulled into Taylor’s driveway, now behind the wheel of the Lincoln—his favorite. Driving it made him feel better and so much more in control.

  He’d also decided not to wait until the hours of the sun’s dwindling. Something about choosing high noon as the time to climb into his car and head north instilled a feeling of invincibility in him. He arrived in Harrison around one pm, exactly as he’d expected.

  If he hung around the mansion for a few hours, it would make it harder to wuss out of confronting Taylor—and give him sufficient time to think of what he’d say. Presley would not persuade him to leave, either. He’d made his mind up.

  When he arrived at the front gate, three or four minutes of buzzing failed to summon the butler.

  “Well, that’s odd,” he murmured with mild confusion. “Then again, old boy Jeeves might be napping at this hour. It’s not like he had any reason to expect me to come over.”

  He noticed, though, that the gate was ajar. When he pushed it with his hand, it swung open easily. The latch was broken.

  “Ookaay. Something’s wrong here.” His hackles raised, he pushed the gate open himself and eased the car through. He drove slowly all the way to the garage and scrutinized the area. The door didn’t open for him as usual. Something really was wrong.

  The daytime there was so quiet. When he arrived shortly before dawn or after twilight, there were always birds and insects and reptiles making their night-sounds from whatever shadowed recess they happened to be hiding in. Under the sun, the estate seemed almost dead.

  Remy saw nothing on his way to the front door. Not knowing what to expect, he knocked. He wasn’t really surprised when he received no answer. After a minute, he knocked again with the same lack of response.

  “Hmm.” He adjusted his tie. “I hope they won’t hold it against me if I have to climb in through a window.”

  Before he tried that, though, he turned the knob absentmindedly on the right-side door. He’d not expected it to work but it did. The door clicked and swung open.

  “Old boy Jeeves is getting sloppy in his age.” He tried to convince himself of the innocuous explanation, but his skin had begun to crawl.

  Inside, he looked around. Some of the rugs were scrunched against walls, and a dirty footprint was visible in the middle of the hardwood floor.

  He wished he’d brought a weapon. Not that he owned any guns—that was a no-no in NYC—but at least a knife or a baseball bat, or something.

  His hasty glance alighted on an empty vase which might be a viable option and he grasped it by the neck. It was about the size and shape of a thirty-two-ounce beer bottle—a well-respected instrument, in certain circles, of violent blunt-force trauma.

  “The cellar,” he said to himself. “I need to check on Taylor.”

  Remy had never been down there before, but he knew where he’d seen her emerge from in the evenings and where she went after she said, “Good morning.” He crept slowly down the hallway.

  When he reached the door, distinctive cracks in the wood near the knob’s base suggested that someone had used excessive force to overcome a lock. It was one he hadn’t opened before, but he was not surprised to know it had a lock. And by now, he was not surprised the lock had been damaged.

  He gave it a tentative shove. Slowly, it creaked inwards.

  The staircase beyond descended into thick darkness. It was not totally black but close enough that he could see nothing at first. He felt along the wall for a switch and fumbled overhead for a chain or string but found nothing.

  She probably doesn’t even have lights in here. Which makes total sense. She can see in the dark and this is where she hides from the sun, so why would she need them?

  Until now, he had simply reacted without any real thought. Fortunately, his brain had begun to adjust to the ominous situation and produce some constructive ideas. He pulled his phone out and turned on the flashlight app.

  Along one wall, wrapping around behind the staircase, were wooden shelves piled with round casks and barrels. Wine, undoubtedly. He wondered vaguely if the old gal had any Amontillado. That would be all too appropriate.

  A large, antique wardrobe stood against the other wall, shut tight against the damp subterranean chill. That would explain how Taylor often seemed to emerge from her slumber fully dressed.

  Finally, in the center of the floor was a stone rectangle that Remy at first mistook for a well or something. After he squinted at it for a moment, he recognized it as a sarcophagus raised on stone slabs like a high bed. The lid was propped alongside it.

  It was surprisingly cold down there, and he shivered as he advanced toward the room itself. Within was nothing, only shadows and dust. In the outline of the grime, a smaller coffin-shape made a shocking statement.

  His shoulders slumped and his stomach almost dropped out of him. “Oh, hell. They stole her goddamn coffin!”

  He spun and raised the vase instinctively over his shoulder in case anyone leapt out at him. To his relief, he heard nothing and saw only darkened earth.

  “No,” he whispered. “There is nothing to suggest they’re still here. They’re long gone by now. But where to?”

  He raised a thumb to his lips and brushed them absently while he wracked his brain. It occurred to him that he’d seen detective shit on TV and in movies. They consulted with experts about stuff like that, didn’t they?

  “Okay, uh…” He looked for a trail—any kind of trail. It did look somewhat like the vampire-abductors had dragged a large, heavy object across the dusty basement floor and to the stairs.

  “Well,” he muttered hoarsely, “that’s about the only place they could take it.”

  Confirmation came in the form for a long, thick splinter of dark wood on the third stair up. He hadn’t noticed it on the way down since he hadn’t had his lightbulb idea of using his phone for illumination at that point. Now, however, the light caught the dark stained wood against the dull stone. Was it from her coffin? It seemed very likely.

  Grimly, he continued upward and through the house. There were a couple more vague footprints here and there, indications that a group of men had walked through. But outside, there was nothing. The vamp-nappers must have been pros and they’d almost certainly had a vehicle waiting for them.

  Remy stood out in the driveway, his hands on his hips, and stared at nothing at all.

  He had no idea where to go or what to do.

  “Think,” he told himself. “They could have taken it to…uh…”

  Middletown? The site of Tucker’s derby? No, that makes no sense. And it’s too far. He also considered Albert’s casino briefly. That seemed slightly more likely, but barely. It didn’t feel right.

  That merely left the entire remainder of New York City and its surrounding environs spread across three or four states—the mother of all haystacks.

  Remy’s shoulders slumped again and the air drained out of his lungs. “Fuck. I’m in way over my head here. Where the hell is the butler? Who else might be able to help?”

  The Fluttershire fairies. He had to find Riley and woo her back.

  He practically hurled himself toward his car and wondered how far their enemies had already traveled and how close they might be to destroying Taylor’s coffin or whatever other awful thing they had in mind.

  “Wait.” He gasped and stopped his hands before he opened the car door. “I’ll need a sample for her to sniff.”

  Assuming Riley would even speak to him again.

  He rushed to the kitchen and rummaged through drawers before he found some plastic sandwich baggies. With those in hand, he returned to
the crypt and found the long jagged splinter, which he assumed was from the coffin which now held Taylor conveniently captive for their enemies. He slid it carefully into the bag and tried not to touch it with his hands, exactly like he’d seen on TV.

  “Now,” he whispered, “transportation. And not my own car. The bastards might already know what else I drive. Besides, no one’s here to tell me no, are they?”

  The door from the house’s interior to the garage was not locked. The intruders must have forced it open while securing their perimeter or whatever. Remy hoped they hadn’t trashed all the vehicles.

  He flipped the light on and stepped into the sprawling structure. Everything looked fine. The attackers might have searched the area, but they’d left the vehicles alone. It did, he surmised, take valuable time to destroy a collection of vehicles when you probably only planned to kill their owner, anyway.

  The keys were not difficult to find—they lay behind a false panel on the wall, similar to a device that one of his mother’s friends had. He wondered why Taylor didn’t keep them in a safe or something and under a combination lock, but that was really irrelevant in that moment.

  As he clicked the fob to find which of the Teslas went with the key he’d selected, it occurred to him exactly how confident she was.

  Her mansion was not a fortress. It wasn’t easy to find and it had basic security, but she did not possess all the state-of-the-art tech she could have afforded. Her estate was not prowled by a private army of hired guards.

  For a moment, he almost dismissed this as naïveté on her part. Then it occurred to him that the Moonlight Detective Agency was, in itself, her protection. It and the connections she fostered and the information she harvested.

  It suddenly began to make sense why she’d damn near fired him.

  “Aha,” he said as the third car beeped and unlocked. “There you are, you bastard. Now, let’s see if a mere mortal can drive this damn thing.”

  Fluttershire Colony, Fort Washington Park, New York City

  After his initial nervousness, Remy had to admit that cruising in the Tesla was actually fucking fun. He’d never even considered purchasing one of the company’s vehicles before. The fact that they were good for the environment impressed him the same way as the information that a particular food was healthy. It honestly sounded like having to eat one’s green vegetables as a child and suggested that neither was enjoyable.

  Now, as he eased into the nearest convenient parking spot within reasonable walking distance of the George Washington Bridge, he realized how wrong he’d been.

  “That was such a smooth ride,” he commented with a small sigh of satisfaction. “It almost makes New York’s traffic tolerable. And removing the speed barriers…that was clever. If I get Taylor out of this in one piece, she has to tell me how she pulled that off.”

  It was also impossible not to wonder if the car included an anti-radar device since he’d managed—remarkably—not to get pulled over. Some of the Remington luck was still in effect, perhaps.

  He was almost sorry the drive was over. It had given him time to relax and think. Now, however, he had to face the music with regards to the fae and their notorious fickleness. His plan might well fail and they might kick his ass again for good measure.

  “Nonsense,” he said and surprised himself with the sudden force and volume of his voice. He adjusted his tie. “I’m Remington Davis. If anyone deserves forgiveness and another second chance or two, it’s me.”

  Remy opened the door, stepped out, and touched the door handle to secure it against his fellow New Yorkers. He double-checked to be sure—it was bad enough borrowing a forbidden vehicle without having it stolen as well—and set out across the grass of the park toward the colony.

  There wasn’t much sunlight left. It was not yet dusk but it would be in perhaps an hour, maybe two. He never paid much attention to the specifics of such things. If Taylor’s kidnappers planned to murder her, it would make sense to do the deed before she woke up.

  That thought prompted him to increase his pace.

  He looked at the bridge and listened to the steady rush of endless cars that streamed over it. The George Washington was the single busiest urban causeway in the world. He recalled hearing or reading that somewhere once. Leave it to the Fair Folk to hide in plain sight of the entire Eastern Seaboard.

  A cawing voice suddenly split the air to the left. His head snapped toward the sound.

  “Aww, well look who it is,” the high-pitched voice jeered. “Rehhhmeeee. And he doesn’t even have any honey to offer.”

  Remy adjusted his tie. “Hello. Yes, I’ve come to apologize for my…uh, behavior toward Riley and to request your help. Taylor is in serious danger, so it’s not only about me.”

  “Hah!” The fairy scoffed. He squinted at it. The little guy looked familiar—not one of the usual guards, but he’d seen him before somewhere. He might have been one of the various fae who’d taken turns head-butting him in the scrotum.

  A few others also floated out of their well-hidden holes, blue-tinged and orange-tinged alike and all seemingly on the same wavelength of skepticism and affronted hostility.

  “What is he doing here?” an orange-ish female demanded, shrill with indignation. “He has balls, I’ll give him that. Maybe we should take one of them since he clearly has extra.”

  “That,” he retorted instantly, “won’t be necessary. I can, you know, buy you guys more honey if you want. But please hear me out. This is about Taylor. She’s been kidnapped and the assholes who took her will probably kill her.”

  A portly bluish male fluttered to the front of the throng. “Nonsense. No one would dare do that. Besides, even if they did, how would that be any of our business? We look after our own here.”

  “Yeah,” a few others chimed in.

  He clenched his jaw and raised a hand to emphasize his words. “Taylor protects you, both directly and indirectly, all right? She maintains a balance of power among all the preternaturals in this region and keeps the strong from preying on the weak and that kind of thing.”

  They still looked skeptical, so he pressed on. “Furthermore, from what she’s told me, her enemies want her out of the way so they can slaughter and enslave humans at will. Maybe you don’t care about what happens to us, but here’s the thing. Too many mysterious acts of violence against mortals and those mortals will start to investigate. They’ll find you—and they might well blame you for what this gang of dickheads is planning to do.”

  One of the fae responded immediately with, “Is that a threat? You don’t scare us. We can handle angry, stupid humans with ease.”

  However, a few others seemed to at least consider what he had said.

  The shrill-voiced orange-hued female spoke up next. “Perhaps you have a valid point, Remy. But you haven’t bothered to address poor Riley! She’s been by herself, crying and sobbing nonstop, ever since she came back. And we all know why she’s so heartbroken.”

  Remy cursed in his head. He most definitely would have to offer a public apology, which wasn’t something he wanted to do in the slightest.

  But if that was what it took to save Taylor…

  “Yes,” he admitted, “it’s my fault. She’s heartbroken because I snapped at her like an idiot because I was bummed about Taylor chewing my ass. It wasn’t even her fault and she only wanted to cheer me up. She tried to be nice because she likes me. I…shouldn’t have done that.”

  He hung his head a little as he spoke. It was partly an act but he also knew that everything he’d said was true.

  The female fairy stroked her chin. “Well….”

  “And,” he continued quickly, not giving them time to concoct reasons why his penitence wasn’t good enough, “I probably wouldn’t even be alive right now if it wasn’t for her. Most of my recent accomplishments were due to her aid—hell, she virtually did all the tracking by herself and I followed around in my car.”

  The fairies listened intently now.

  So,
for a moment, did an old man who jogged at the speed Remy usually walked, who had turned his head toward the younger man as he passed.

  “Hey there,” he said and waved to the old boy. “I’m rehearsing my speech to my girlfriend. You know how it is.”

  The old fart shook his head and labored on through the park.

  Remy turned back to the fae. “Ever since I started working for Taylor, I’ve tried to be a better person. To learn gratitude and empathy and stuff like that, which I don’t have an entirely firm grasp on, admittedly, but I’m doing my best here. At the very least, I know that I was wrong. I wronged Riley, and by extension, I wronged your colony.”

  His face blushed cherry-red, which made it all the worse, but he made himself shrug it off and said again, “I’m sorry.”

  Somewhere in the back of the crowd of gossamer-winged forms, a gentle sob transformed into a cooing sound. “Remy!” a familiar voice piped up. “I forgive you.”

  He hadn’t realized she would hear the apology. “Riley? Where are you?”

  An apparently male fairy floated above the others. “Here,” it said in Riley’s voice before it flashed silver quickly and his companion hovered in its place. “I was in disguise.”

  The entire crowd made an “aww” sound, and most of them clasped their hands together, smiling now.

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes, I guess you were. It worked, anyway. And I meant all that. I really am sorry. None of it was your fault. Also—wait. Are you wearing clothes?”

  “Yes,” she concurred, grinned, and spun to show herself off. “I thought about what you said—about how it’s more erotic when a woman only suggests her body, rather than shows the whole thing at once.”

  She’d put on a kind of semi-translucent, sparkling dress of a material that almost looked like the same stuff her wings were made of. It was brief enough at both ends to be tantalizingly unprofessional.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “It does certainly complement your cleavage and your legs, I must say.”