by Lisa Shearin
I stared at him in disbelief. “People get their hearts and souls ripped out and you’re embarrassed because it happened in your buildings?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “You must admit neither death was unwarranted given their past professional activities, and their removal will no doubt make the city a safer place.”
“So now you’re playing Batman?”
“The costume would suit me, as would the nighttime activity, but no.”
“Your nephew can stay here regardless of what information you share or do not share with us,” Ms. Sagadraco said. “We will care for him as if he were one of our own. It’s called decency. I know you’re at least familiar with the concept. Your cloak-and-dagger dramatics are affecting and endangering others, and one of those others is Makenna. I assume you have heard what happened yesterday afternoon?”
His expression hardened. “I did.”
“My agents are charged with protecting the supernaturals and humans of this city from any and all threats. Brimstone is a threat—both its manufacture and the battle among opposing forces for the right to sell it. My agents and the people of New York are caught in the middle. I arm my agents with what they need to do their jobs. A vital part of that armament is information. I believe you have this information, if not all of it, at least more than we have.”
“Mac could have been killed yesterday in the same way as Gedeon and Dupari,” Ian told Rake, his tone low and forceful. “Or even worse, dragged through that portal.”
“I am more than aware of that,” Rake shot back. “Which is precisely why we’re having this conversation. Vivienne, from what I do know, neither you nor your people want to be involved in this. It is beyond their abilities.”
“This, as you so obliquely put it, is precisely why I founded SPI. This is my world, Lord Danescu. I live here, all the time. I will defend it to my last breath. Can you say the same?”
Silence.
“As to my agents’ abilities, I know their capabilities, you do not. You know what they would face, I do not. You tell me what is happening in this city, and I will be the one most qualified to make that assessment. Though from what I know of my agents, you have seriously underestimated them.” She glanced at me. “All of them. You have yet to choose a side. It’s understandable. One is the world of your birth, ours is merely a place of business.”
Rake recoiled as if Ms. Sagadraco had slapped him, which I think was what she was going for.
“Or is it?” she continued. “If you have not made up your mind, it is time that you do so. You can help, or you can continue to hinder. You can no longer do both. Which will it be?”
“Very well.” Rake leaned back in his chair. “Elves have been in your dimension far longer than goblins. Their established foothold forced us to play catch-up, strategically speaking.”
Ian barked a humorless laugh. “Strategically speaking? You make it sound like you’re planning to take over.”
“Not take over, Agent Fraser. Merely ensure that the elves don’t gain access to a resource—and thus an advantage—that we do not gain for ourselves. Much of what is called magic in the Seven Kingdoms can be replicated by science and technology here. Some cannot be replicated. Elven extremists have worked to gain power and influence here to obtain such technology for use against my people. It pains me to say it, but there are similar groups among my own race. Goblins and elves have been at war off and on for thousands of years.”
I was dumbfounded. “You’re saying elf-terrorists-trying-to-get-nukes kind of advantage?”
Rake actually smiled. “That would be extreme even for these people. They want to annihilate the goblin race, not render their kingdom uninhabitable. In their minds, that would be a waste.”
“Thank God for small miracles.”
“Both of our races use the excuse that we’re merely trying to stay ahead of the other to protect our own people.”
Ian sat back. “Brimstone’s the source of the latest tug-of-war.”
Rake nodded. “There are more than a few companies and laboratories run by both elves and goblins that develop drugs, weapons, and technologies to use against the other. Such organizations are routinely infiltrated to steal formulas, sabotage research, copy new technology. Much like human industrial espionage. Brimstone would allow select people to see through the glamours these corporate spies use to hide their identities, as well as detect spies by their thoughts.” Rake poured himself another cup of tea. “Brimstone would be a valuable commodity for whoever has it. If it is effective, it would be worth killing for. From events of the past two days, apparently the drug is quite effective.”
“Elves, goblins, and vampires have been killed by a demon lord and something worse than a demon lord,” I said. “So who made the drug?”
“I suspect the individuals you need to pursue are not those who are physically manufacturing the drug. At least they wouldn’t be your primary target. Brimstone—the ingredient itself—comes from the Hell dimension, making it particularly difficult to get.”
“Not necessarily. Marty picked up a couple of rocks on a field trip,” I noted.
Rake’s teacup paused halfway to his lips. “I beg your pardon?”
Ian regarded the goblin with a knowing expression. “You know a lot about spies, espionage, and strategic advantages for a billionaire playboy, real estate mogul, and owner of an exclusive sex club.”
Rake almost smiled. “Successful and undetectable espionage isn’t cheap, Agent Byrne. Some of the buildings I own have been leased to elven companies and research facilities. I made the financial terms and incentives impossible to pass up—as would any developer vying to get a profitable client in a previously vacant building. Refitting the space to suit their needs presents all sorts of opportunities for installing undetectable surveillance equipment. The income from one building often pays for another; and the revenue from my other businesses funds the buying and bugging of those buildings. As you humans say, sex sells. It also makes an absurdly impressive amount of money. More than a few key elven power brokers spend time—and their money—in my club, little knowing that they’re funding intelligence operations against themselves.”
Rake Danescu. Sex broker and spymaster. I didn’t know which was worse.
Or if either one was truly bad.
“And you have bugs planted in the tables at Bacchanalia,” I said, recalling my first night on the job when Ian had felt the need to distract those listening in on us by seriously distracting me.
“One can hear all kinds of interesting and valuable tidbits,” Rake noted smoothly, knowing exactly what I was remembering.
Bastard.
I glared at him. He smiled at me.
“Heard any interesting chatter concerning a new drug?” Ian asked.
“Not that my monitors have told me, but I will contact them when I leave here.”
“And let us know?”
Rake just looked at him. “Yes, Agent Byrne. And let you know.”
“I found a list of buildings that you own under Northern Reach Holdings fairly easily,” I told him.
“Which is what makes me think the murders taking place in my buildings isn’t a coincidence. I have allowed Northern Reach Holdings to trace back to me with relative ease. My other holdings are very well and deeply hidden. It’s in a goblin’s nature to hide your strategic advantages until they’re needed—or until you need someone to find them.”
Great. So much for me being clever.
“So Northern Reach is like the outer threads of a spiderweb,” I said. “You’re in the center, and if you sense movement, you know you’ve caught something.”
“A nearly perfect comparison, Makenna. That is why I believe there is a very distinct possibility that someone is going to a lot of trouble to stage murders in my buildings.”
“So I take it the elves know you’re a spy?”
“I’m more of a freelance consultant for goblin intelligence. They use me, and I use them. It’s a mutuall
y beneficial relationship.”
I remembered what Kylie had told me. I wanted to know the answer; not to mention, Rake had just gotten one up on me. I’m competitive, so sue me. “In the coffee shop yesterday, you needed to leave fast to keep Baxter Clayton from seeing you.”
“That is correct.”
“It also wasn’t necessary, at least not anymore.”
“I don’t follow you.”
Oh yes, he did.
“The series Baxter Clayton was planning had its plug pulled last month,” I said for Ian and the boss’s benefit; Rake already knew damn well that it’d been canceled. “You didn’t really need to avoid him anymore. Though having heard more than a few Baxter stories from Kylie, I could understand why people wouldn’t want to get cornered. But with the series canceled, you didn’t need to avoid him.” I eyed him. “Sitting at the center of the web like you do, I can’t imagine you not knowing the series had been canceled. So that would mean that you were either avoiding someone else—or you saw someone who was desperate to avoid you. Which was it?”
“It had nothing to do with Brimstone.” Rake’s dark eyes were steady on mine. Eyes that said in no uncertain terms that he was not going to tell me or anyone else here what it was about.
If the boss had had a fireplace in her office, I’d have held his feet to it. Not only did I think she wouldn’t have minded, but since she was a fire-breathing dragon, she could’ve done it herself. I glanced at her. From the hard glitter in her eyes, it looked like she wouldn’t mind raising the temperature in the goblin’s designer shoes.
“Rake, do I have your word that this incident isn’t connected to this investigation?” she asked.
“You have my word.”
“And if it does reveal itself to be connected, I trust you will inform me immediately.”
Ms. Sagadraco knew how the goblin mind worked.
“Of course, Vivienne. I will contact you immediately.” He looked to each of us in turn. “I have a question.”
Ms. Sagadraco selected a pastry from the silver tray. “Please ask it.”
“Makenna mentioned that the two of you met with Alastor Malvolia this morning,” he said to Ian. “What were you attempting to learn from him, and were you successful? Though knowing Alastor, I would hazard to guess that you weren’t, at least not after only one meeting.”
“We’re supposed to hear from Malvolia by eight o’clock tonight,” Ian told him. “But we’re not holding our breath.”
“Nor should you,” Rake said. “If his clients were able to give him any information he believed was useful to you, he would want to negotiate for additional benefits. What did you promise him?”
“Not a damn thing,” Ian said bluntly. “I simply told him how Sar Gedeon was killed. In detail. He decided to cooperate.”
“I would have enjoyed seeing that.” Rake took a sip of tea, his dark eyes glittering with what I could only describe as delight over the rim of his cup. “Dearest Vivienne, you are quite right, I have underestimated your agents.”
18
ONCE Ms. Sagadraco was finished with her tea-party inquisition, and extracted a promise of cooperation from Rake, she asked me to stay after Ian and Rake had been excused.
The tea and goodies were gone, but maybe the inquisition part wasn’t over yet—at least not for me.
I decided to be proactive. “You want to talk about what happened up in the conference room with Rake, don’t you?”
“I thought that would be a good idea, yes.”
“From what you saw and heard, I didn’t mess anything up, did I?”
“If you’re speaking professionally, no, you did not. What I wanted to bring to your attention is on a more personal note. You may have created more of a problem than you solved.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If your intention was to discourage Lord Danescu from pursuing you, then you may have made a tactical error.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“Goblin men of Rake’s caliber aren’t attracted to intellectually passive women. If I were to venture a guess, I would say that your performance just now and upstairs has probably rendered you absolutely irresistible. If you want him to cease his attentions now, you may have to kill him.”
I recalled my violent urges toward Rake in the conference room, and thought it highly likely that before this was all over, I’d be feeling those same urges again.
“The day ain’t over yet, ma’am.”
The Dragon Lady smiled.
* * *
Ian met me by the elevators.
“Well, that was interesting,” I said.
“That’s one way to put it.”
I waited a few moments before I spoke again. “You don’t believe Rake’s involved anymore, do you?”
The muscle in my partner’s jaw flexed. “No, I don’t.”
“But you’d like him to be.”
“If it’d keep more people from dying, then yeah, I would.”
“Nice dodge. That’s not the question I asked.”
Ian grew some silence.
“I’m still worried about you, Mac.”
“Rake or being snatched through a portal?”
“Yes. I can keep the second one from happening, but not the first.”
My instinct was to tell him that I could take care of myself and that I didn’t need his help or approval choosing the men in my life. But I didn’t say any of that even though all of it was true. It wasn’t Ian’s fault for feeling the way he did about Rake, or any other man who kept his private life, business interests, and motives for nearly everything he did locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
Heck, I was still circling Rake like he was a rattlesnake coiled in front of the only way out of a cave, and I planned to do that for the foreseeable future. When I got to the future, and Rake still wasn’t guilty of anything, then I’d reevaluate my reasons for continued caution.
Not blaming Ian one bit for his feelings left me with only one response to his statement. It was also the one I wanted to give him.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
That earned me a surprised look.
“Really,” I added with a slight smile. “There’s no need to worry. I don’t plan on diving into anything, but I know where your concern’s coming from, and I know it’s a good place. So thank you.”
“It’s not your plans I’m worried about.”
I grinned. “You sure you aren’t part Southern? Sounds like you don’t think my gentleman caller has honorable intentions.”
“Rake Danescu is no gentleman, and it’s beginning to look like honor isn’t a concept many goblins are familiar with.”
* * *
In preparation for a meeting, Ian had rolled a big whiteboard into a conference room just off the bull pen that the Brimstone team had taken for our own. Photos of the victims were posted across the top of the board, with crime family affiliation listed beneath.
The NYPD had probably started a board like this, though theirs would only have three bodies, and there wouldn’t be two additional bullet points under each victim’s name noting their species and missing soul. And there certainly wouldn’t be an asterisk next to Sar Gedeon’s “missing soul” bullet indicating that “The agency necromancer attempted contact but was bitch slapped by a demonic booby trap for trying.”
Fortunately there was only the one asterisk.
All of the victims had had their chests sliced open with a scalpel-type instrument. Or claw. Their hearts had been torn from their chests, all while alive with a demon lord holding them to the floor with one hoof, branding its imprint into their breastbones. None had died without a struggle.
The details of Kela Dupari’s murder had already been leaked online, and the public and press were having a field day, especially when they found out that her murder hadn’t been the first. The NYPD had been the first to arrive on the scene of two more murders: one late last night, the other about the same time as Dupari’s killing. As the
medical examiner—and a mage—Dr. Anika Van Daal had kept Dupari’s goblin features hidden. Either the two most recent victims were human, or Van Daal—or one of her people—had concealed the pointy ears from curious eyes, because there’d been no mention of odd ears or silvery skin, only missing hearts and branded hoofprints.
When a murder was particularly gruesome, it didn’t matter what security measures the city’s medical examiner’s office had in place, juicy details always found their way out. And they found their way onto home pages and front pages even faster when there’d been more than one murder with the same lurid MO—and a photo. Yep, the person who’d stumbled onto the most recent body had taken plenty of pictures before they’d called the cops. Nowadays you didn’t have to commit a crime to get your fifteen minutes of fame, just be the first person to take a picture of it.
I was a big fan of the Internet, and it had it uses—like the glorious world of online shopping—but right now it sucked. As recently as a couple of decades ago, the three networks (yes, that was all there were) would have had it on their evening news, and the newspapers would have gotten hold of it, and it would spread only as far as their signal or circulation.
Not anymore.
All it took was one tweet to turn a secret into worldwide news. Send that tweet with a bloody photo of a gaping chest and hoofprint brand, and within five minutes it’d have its own trending hashtag.
Our not-so-secret-anymore secret had garnered itself three hashtags at last count: #devilmurder, #killerdemon, and—my personal favorite for sheer dramatic impact—#SatanInNY.
I sighed. This was going to be a very long day.
Crackpots, conspiracy theorists, religious nuts, and the tin-foil-hat crowd had started coming out of the woodwork, and Kylie and her department were busy as hounds in flea season.
So far, the focus was on the sensationalist details, which fortunately didn’t out any supernatural creature the public didn’t already know about. Nearly every major religion had more than its share of demons or devils, many of them even named. Hearing that one was making it his mission on Earth to slaughter people in the illegal drug trade was being met with cheers, not panic in the streets. Panic and terror were reserved for those in the illegal drug trade. The opinion of the average Jane and Joe on the street was “Good riddance!” and “Give that demon a medal.”
