The Brimstone Deception

by Lisa Shearin

  “No one got slaughtered.”

  I took a bite and gave a thumbs-up. “Score one for the humanoids.”

  “At least not anyone that we’ve found. Ord sent me a message this morning via one of his pixies. Two more local dealers vanished last night. They had guards and they still got snatched.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “Portal?”

  Ian shook his head. “No stink.”

  “But no bodies.”

  “Not yet, but the day’s young.”

  “Heard anything from Fred and the NYPD?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Our people get any leads?”

  “Still digging. Still nothing.”

  I grinned. “Even though Ord sent you a pixie-gram to make nice, you still gonna kick his tiny ass for locking you out of his office?”

  Ian answered around a mouthful of scone. “Seriously thinking about it.” He swallowed and drank some coffee. “I’ve also been thinking about a common denominator in all this, and I’ve found one.”

  “Good. What is it?”

  “It’s a who. A lawyer by the name of Alastor Malvolia.”

  “Sounds goblin.”

  “A lot of the best lawyers are. He’s Sar Gedeon’s lawyer—though now he’s the executor of his estate. He handles all legal matters for the Frontino and Báthory families, and he’s on retainer in one capacity or another with all of the other supernatural crime families.”

  “Elves using a goblin lawyer?”

  “Not one of his clients has ever been convicted. In fact, Al Malvolia’s been highly successful in countersuing any accusers—and winning most of the time.”

  “And the other times?”

  “The suit was dropped due to the lack of a plaintiff.”

  “Lack as in gone?”

  “Al’s known for making problems—and sometimes the people who cause those problems for his clients—go away. He’s a win-at-any-cost kind of guy.” Ian glanced at his watch. “We have a meeting with him at eleven o’clock. That gives you three hours to get up, shower, get dressed, and get moving. You feeling up to that?”

  “Sure. That is, if Dr. Stephens is willing to cut me loose. If not, I can just pull a Bert and leave. Thankfully I don’t have any IVs to take out.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure, but are you? You actually want me to go with you?”

  “I need the benefit of your new skill set.”

  “How did you get a meeting with him?”

  “I made an appointment.”

  “As yourself? He knows you work for SPI?”

  “He does. I made the appointment not only as an agent of SPI, but as a personal representative of Vivienne Sagadraco. I told her my theory, and she’s given me the green light to share any detail of the murder I need to in order to gain Malvolia’s cooperation. It’s in his best interests to help us in any way he can if he wants to keep representing living clients instead of handling dead clients’ estates.”

  “I imagine he’s gonna be popular. First us, next the NYPD will come calling.”

  “I’m sure they’d love to talk to him, but they can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They can’t find him. That’s the other reason why I need you to go. Let’s just say he doesn’t have a local address.”

  * * *

  I’d heard about pocket dimensions, but I never expected to find a high-powered goblin lawyer’s office in one. Though when I thought about it, what better place?

  A pocket dimension is attached to a larger dimension, like a coat closet off of a ballroom. Though depending on the talent of the mage who did the construction, not all pockets are small. Like coat closets, pocket dimensions have a door—otherwise known as a portal. The big difference between the portal to Alastor Malvolia’s office and the two portals to Hell’s anteroom that I’d seen yesterday is an actual, physical connection. Malvolia’s office is in our dimension. Our dimension and Hell’s dimension, fortunately, aren’t next to each other.

  Malvolia’s portal is permanent, like a door is permanent. However, it’s still invisible to those not keyed to it.

  Neither Ian nor I were keyed to Malvolia’s office portal, but since we had an appointment, there would be someone there to escort us across. Ian wanted to know whether I could see it for myself. It’d be a test. If I could see the portal to this pocket dimension, I’d probably be able to see any and all kinds. That’d be great for SPI, but bad for me if people like Alastor Malvolia knew what I could do. If I could see the door to Al’s hidey-hole, I wouldn’t be making an announcement.

  The goblin lawyer’s office on Park Avenue occupied the same space as a prominent Manhattan law firm.

  Ian and I went inside and he gave our names, and who we were there to see, at the front desk.

  Without a word, the receptionist keyed in a code on his computer’s keyboard, and a door clicked open that, until that moment, had looked like part of the wall.

  Nifty. And more than a little concerning.

  “Wait inside, please. Mr. Malvolia’s assistant will be right with you.”

  Ian nodded. “Thank you.”

  My partner went through the door and I followed. The door/wall clicked shut behind us.

  I’ll admit it, I jumped a little. Ian glanced around, but otherwise didn’t move. There was nothing to see.

  That was my problem.

  The room was no larger than ten by ten. No windows, no doors, all walls—and not a portal to be seen or sensed.

  I casually went back to back with Ian. “I don’t like this,” I said, trying not to move my lips. I had an entirely unwanted image of the Star Wars trash compactor scene. Minus the trash and stink, that is. For a potential trap, it was actually a very nice room. Death by polished wood paneling.

  “Easy, partner,” Ian murmured. “It’s a pocket dimension. They don’t need doors.”

  Dimensions didn’t need doors, but if an exit didn’t show itself soon, I was going to either hyperventilate and pass out, or make my own door.

  I continued with the whispering and not-moving-my-lips thing. “If I can see portals, why can’t I see this one?”

  “Because they haven’t activated it yet.”

  Oh.

  Before I had time to feel too embarrassed, a pale green glow appeared in a smooth seam down the same wall we’d come in through, though not in exactly the same place. It wasn’t a friendly, springtime leaf green; this was a noxious acid green glow. Somehow it suited a guy who by all accounts could have single-handedly given lawyers of every species a bad name.

  I’d never thought of myself as much of an actress, but I did my best to look past the portal as if I hadn’t seen it, and moved to where Ian could see me checking my watch.

  That was our pre-arranged I’ve-seen-a-portal signal.

  Ian casually and quietly cleared his throat.

  Message received.

  I received a little message of my own. More like a confirmation. I could see portals, probably any and all of them.

  I sighed. Oh goody.

  * * *

  The goblin lawyer took my partner’s hand in an enthusiastic two-handed shake.

  “Ian, my boy, how are you?”

  With a name like Alastor Malvolia, I expected the goblin version of Mr. Burns on The Simpsons, not the bright-eyed, cheerful man who greeted us just inside the door to his office. Of course, someone would be less likely to expect a knife in the back from a happy guy.

  Malvolia’s assistant had walked us through an office that looked disturbingly similar to the human lawyer’s office in our dimension—and that occupied almost the exact same space. That felt cosmically wrong on every level.

  Goblins were known for being tall, but Alastor Malvolia was maybe an inch taller than me, if that. Goblins were also known for being sexy. I felt confident in saying that no creature—in our dimension or any other—would think Al Malvolia was hot.

  “Mr. Malvolia, I’d—”

  “Al.
After all this time, please call me Al.”

  Ian smiled what I’d come to know as his fake work smile. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Al, this is my partner Agent Makenna Fraser.”

  Then I was on the receiving end of the two-handed shake as my hand completely vanished in both of his.

  “A pleasure, Agent Fraser. Though I wish our meeting was under different circumstances. Mr. Gedeon was a longtime client of mine. The nature of his death has been a shock to all of us who knew him. Please, both of you, have a seat. May I offer you something to drink?”

  Ian held up a hand.

  I said, “No, thank you.”

  The goblin sat behind his surprisingly non-imposing desk. “Then we’ll go directly to what brings you here. The killer who is preying on the citizens of our city.”

  At least he didn’t say “innocent citizens.” That would have been pushing it. How he described them was perfectly accurate. Drug lords and their underlings may be directly or indirectly responsible for hundreds—maybe thousands—of deaths, but they were citizens of New York.

  “We believe Sar Gedeon’s murder, as well as those of several of your other clients’ employees, are linked to the arrival of the drug Brimstone and the individuals behind its manufacture and sale. We have reason to believe the source of the drug is extra-dimensional. However, we can’t confirm this without access to the drug.”

  Malvolia laughed. “And you think that I would happen to have a sample lying around the office.”

  Again with the smile. “Of course I don’t. Though it would make our job much easier if you did. If we can analyze the drug, we can determine its origin—and track down those who brought it here. We have reason to believe Mr. Gedeon was killed because of his desire to negotiate a business arrangement with Brimstone’s manufacturers. His request was rebuffed with some finality in an incident involving one of his employees three days ago.”

  Malvolia laughed, a half-hiss, half-wheeze that didn’t do a thing to make me feel more comfortable.

  “Ian, you missed your calling,” the goblin said. “You would have made a fine attorney.”

  My partner inclined his head in acknowledgment, though he’d been a cop long enough to take anything coming from a creature like Alastor Malvolia as a compliment.

  “From what we saw of Mr. Gedeon this morning,” Ian continued, “he either hadn’t taken the hint, or his killers wanted to make an example of him to those who wanted to make a similar business arrangement—or perhaps both.” He paused significantly. “SPI wants to stop all of this. I’m sure you want the same. Your clients may have information that could help, either a sample of the drug, or names of the people who they attempted to negotiate with. Either would help us locate these individuals and stop the killings. We would greatly appreciate their cooperation and assistance.”

  Alastor Malvolia had steepled his fingers and was regarding Ian with calm, calculating eyes. Now, we were seeing some Mr. Burns. “And what would be in it for my clients?”

  “They might get to live longer,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “Such charming honesty.” The goblin smiled, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “I have spoken with several of my clients who have been affected by recent events. They consider themselves qualified to protect themselves, their families, and their employees.”

  They’ve done a crappy job so far. I thought it, but this time I didn’t say it.

  “If I decide to relay SPI’s offer to them, they would want to know what they would receive in return for their cooperation. Where is the value for my clients?”

  “Have you heard how Sar Gedeon died?” Ian asked.

  Any pretense of polite vanished. “Your agency has been unwilling to release that information—or the body of my client. I have sent a request for access to the body and the murder scene, and that request has been stalled. Mr. Gedeon’s widow has been denied permission to claim her husband’s body.”

  “Our investigation is not complete. Mr. Gedeon is more than a victim; he is our only source of clues to the identity of his killer. I would think Mrs. Gedeon would want us to find who murdered her husband and why. As to how he was killed, I have been authorized by Vivienne Sagadraco to share that with you.”

  Ian shared—and he included the details Bert had seen.

  Al developed a twitch in his left eyelid.

  Looked like Al now had a newfound appreciation for the severity of the situation.

  Hearing that a demon lord—and someone unknown, but even worse—was hunting down and butchering your client base would do that.

  “I will contact my clients, and then get back to you.”

  “When?”

  Al’s eyelid twitched again.

  “Eight o’clock tonight. A few of my clients prefer to sleep during the day. Will that be acceptable to Ms. Sagadraco?”

  Ian smiled, and now it was genuine. “Perfectly.”

  13

  “I’LL be interested to hear what Al comes up with by tonight,” Ian said as Yasha stopped in front of the Park Avenue office building to pick us up.

  I settled in the middle of the second row of seats and buckled in. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  Ian got in the front passenger seat. He always rode shotgun. “Just because a person knows the law does not mean that they respect it. No one has less respect for the laws of our dimension than Alastor Malvolia. So yes, I enjoyed rattling his cage.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to get as friendly of a greeting next time.”

  “I would be surprised—and wary—if we did. However, the next time SPI needs to twist Malvolia’s arm, it’ll be Moreau’s turn.”

  “You guys take turns?”

  “Mostly. This meeting should have been Moreau’s, but the boss thought that since I’d seen Sar Gedeon at the murder scene, I was better qualified to describe it to Malvolia, if he needed persuading to cooperate with us.”

  “And the fun was just a nice fringe benefit.”

  Ian grinned. “I’m not opposed to enjoying my work.” He glanced at his watch. “Want to grab some lunch?”

  “Sure. If you can find us a restaurant that’s not likely to get set on fire.”

  * * *

  We hit the Full Moon.

  It was close enough to headquarters if we needed to get back quickly, but far enough for a little peace and quiet.

  We were all greeted with hugs by the owners, Bill and Nancy Garrison. Bill was the king of the barbeque pit, and Nancy had the brains for the business, and the Southern charm and hospitality to keep the place full of happy customers.

  They were also werewolves.

  Best of all, they were from my home state of North Carolina.

  I came here to get a literal taste of home.

  The barbeque was slow cooked, the burgers were rare, the steaks were tartar, and the regulars were furry. There was always a booth reserved for hungry SPI agents, and Yasha’s Suburban was always welcome in the alley/delivery area behind the restaurant. Needless to say, it was Yasha’s all-time favorite place to eat.

  Part of Nancy’s business savvy involved billing the Full Moon as “New York’s Official Werewolf Bar.” She even turned a section of the front of the restaurant into a gift shop selling T-shirts, mugs, shot glasses, and if you wanted to build your Pomeranian’s street cred at the dog park, there was werewolf gear for the small, but fierce, canine in your life. The restaurant and bar were decorated with dark wood, dim lights, and every werewolf cliché that existed. Werewolf movie posters and props were on display, and everything on the food and drink menus had a werewolf- or movie-monster-inspired name.

  Fun place, good people, great food.

  As soon as Bill set that plate of pulled pork barbeque in front of me, I forgot all about finding Sar Gedeon nearly twenty-four hours ago, and nearly coming face-to-face with his killer soon after. Good food that was much needed would do that. I didn’t think I was all that hungry until I started ea
ting. I was glad I ordered the large platter. I was small, but I could put away some groceries.

  “Do you think Al’s going to have any luck getting his clients to talk?” I asked Ian.

  “He might. If he does, he might even decide to tell us what they said. I’m not going to hold my breath on either one, but I hope their survival instinct overrides their greed.”

  “Greed? You’ve lost me.”

  “If the families have gotten their hands on some Brimstone or the formula, they’re going to have a hell of a time getting the main ingredient.”

  I was still confused, and apparently I looked it.

  “She was not in meeting last night,” Yasha reminded Ian.

  I blinked. “There was a meeting?”

  “You were asleep.”

  “You didn’t tell me this morning.”

  “I was preoccupied this morning, and I’m telling you now.”

  I sighed. “Go on.”

  “While we still need a sample of Brimstone for the lab, we’ve got enough information now to have a good guess as to where it came from.”

  “And?”

  “The main ingredient was imported directly from Hell.”

  Whoa. “Real, biblical hellfire and brimstone?”

  Ian nodded. “In our dimension, brimstone is another, non-scientific, name for sulfur. What I found out from Marty last night is that our sulfur got the alternative name of brimstone because there’s an actual mineral, found only in Hell, that stinks like sulfur. He showed me several samples in his lab. It’s bright orange.”

  I remembered yesterday at the coffee shop. “And Fred told us that Brimstone is orange.” Just like the portal I’d seen in Gedeon’s apartment and the parking garage.

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, I have to ask. How did Marty get samples?”

  “He said he gathered them himself on a field trip.”

  “To Hell.”

  “Wasn’t Hoboken.”

  “I wonder if that was when he lost his eyebrows.”

  “Nope. That’s an even better story. You’ll have to ask him. He tells it better.”

  “So what does brimstone from Hell do besides stink?”