The Brimstone Deception

by Lisa Shearin

  Mac, when a murderer sends their newborn minions to kill you, can you in all honesty call yourself a winner in any scenario?

  “Got a first aid kit?” Ian asked me. “I don’t want to wait for the medics to get some antiseptic on those bites on your shoulder.”

  “Yeah . . . in the bathroom.”

  “Got it.” Yasha picked up my Louisville Slugger and disappeared into the bedroom, now known as the room with the slimy pillows and squishy carpet.

  I sighed. “Damn, I really liked this apartment.”

  “The boss will have everything taken care of,” Ian assured me. “New carpet, paint, pillows, headboard, bed stuff. It’ll be as good as new.” He took a quick look around my less than Martha Stewartesque kitchen. “Better even. Though I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but you’re going to have to lose your shirt when the medic gets here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Those bites on your shoulder look bad.”

  “You’re just full of compliments today, aren’t you?”

  “One of my many gifts.”

  I peeled back the dish towel I’d been holding against my shoulder. While it was far from being soaked, it was a respectable amount of blood. But when I thought about what was attached to the jagged teeth that had made those marks, I wanted to strip and run naked through a rubbing-alcohol shower.

  “Yasha,” I called.

  “Da?”

  “There’s a tank top hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Could you get that, too?”

  Silence.

  Uh-oh. “Finding everything okay?”

  “Find more than expected.”

  I sighed and my shoulders sagged. “But wait, there’s more,” I muttered. I pressed the towel to my shoulder and stood.

  “Stay here,” Ian told me.

  “My apartment, and an attempt on my life.”

  Ian put up his hands. “Okay. Your blood on your floor.”

  “Damn straight.”

  We carefully picked our way through the bedroom and into the bathroom where Yasha stood staring down into my bathtub.

  Ian and I went to either side of him, looked down, and had a collective WTF moment.

  There was a pile of raw chickens.

  Or what was left of them.

  They’d been torn apart, meat stripped off, and then bare bones flung into the deep end of the tub. It looked like the aftermath of a successful tailgating party or the grandstand after a NASCAR race.

  “Baby food?” Yasha ventured. “Maybe they need chicken.”

  I just looked at him. “Great. So now I’m not nutritionally complete?”

  “Maybe was appetizer for main course.”

  “That’s not any better.”

  I saw a new bedroom, refrigerator, and tub in my future.

  22

  I was a lot less bothered by an entire SPI investigation team being in my apartment than I thought I would be. I had dead demon bits scattered around my bedroom, and before the hatchlings had eaten their first meal, there had been enough raw chickens in my bathtub to stock a KFC kitchen. That more than made up for dirty dishes in the sink.

  The SPI team wore navy coveralls with patches that said “Green Heating and Air Conditioning.”

  Dr. Stephens was sitting at my kitchen table, a suture kit spread out on a sterile white cloth. Just my luck, he’d confirmed Ian’s assessment that I was going to need stitches. I was more than willing to go back to headquarters, but there was no way I’d sleep in the infirmary again. No Groundhog Day time loop for me, thank you.

  I was used to eating meals at my table. Now here I was getting stitched up because a pack of baby demons tried to make a meal out of me.

  “I’m ready to start,” Dr. Stephens told me. “I need for you to be still. Okay?”

  I nodded tightly and found an absolutely fascinating mystery smudge on the wall to study while he worked. He’d given me a local, but I still had no desire to watch him take a curved needle and thread to my shoulder. However, I took a quick peek before I could stop myself. He was in the middle of his first stitch, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

  Your life had officially gone to crap when you knew you’d never feel safe in your own apartment again, regardless of how many guns, baseball bats, and cans of Raid you had. For security, most New York apartments made do with half a dozen locks and one or more of the following by the door: mace, a baseball bat, a butcher knife that was past its prime in the kitchen but just fine for puncturing anything trying to get through your front door, or a gun of dubious legality.

  I had all of the above, except my gun was legal.

  When Ian had talked to Ms. Sagadraco, I’d been promised more than that.

  Wards.

  Fierce, fry-you-where-you-stood wards.

  Three of our best security mages were on their way from headquarters to put the magical whammy on my abode. Creativity counted with wards, and Vivienne Sagadraco only hired the best. Nothing was getting inside my apartment. However, no mage’s work was guaranteed against portals, but at least I’d know before I came in if one was or had been open in my apartment. It wasn’t the ideal solution, but I’d take what I could get.

  Ian quietly leaned against the frame of my open kitchen door, waiting for Dr. Stephens to pause in his work before speaking. I was sure the doc appreciated Ian’s consideration. I appreciated it even more. He was just the stitcher; I was the stitchee.

  “I went next door to Mrs. Rosini’s,” said Ian. “Lucky she remembered me from the last time I was here and didn’t shoot me.”

  I smiled. “By the way, Mrs. Rosini has a gun. Got it for her birthday.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “If you’d told me you were going over there, I would have. Did she hear anything?”

  “No, but she saw plenty yesterday. You came home with a tall, skinny guy carrying what looked like a cooler.”

  My mouth gaped open. “Another doppelganger?”

  “I don’t think so. They just needed to get into your apartment without causing suspicion. Probably just a quick glamour.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  Ian gave me a crooked grin. “And just so you know, Mrs. Rosini’s money is on me. She said I’m way better looking than the guy you brought home yesterday—and more polite, too.”

  I felt a faint tug on my shoulder, and took another quick glance before I could stop myself. Dr. Stephens had finished and had just tied off the thread. My mouth went dry. The stitches were neat, but it looked like Frankenshoulder. “Nice work,” I managed. “Thank you.”

  He quickly and efficiently bandaged my shoulder, gathered his things, and left the room.

  When he’d left, Ian’s smile vanished.

  “I just got a call from the team protecting Kitty.”

  I froze.

  “Don’t worry, Kitty’s fine. She couldn’t sleep and wanted to get an early start on tomorrow’s baking—and she found something.”

  “Baby demons?”

  “Definitely not.”

  23

  IT was nearly one o’clock in the morning when we got to Kitty’s bakery.

  Ian had told me and Yasha what had happened, and we all were silent from shock and rage the rest of the way there.

  Baby demons had been sent to eat me.

  Kitty had been protected by a SPI security team, so the bastards behind this went for the next best thing. Make her such an emotional wreck that even if we found the Hellpit, she’d be in no condition to close it.

  A body had been baked in Kitty’s big cake oven.

  They had just brazenly and sadistically stepped over the line into painfully personal.

  What was her love and solace? This bakery.

  What was her torment? Her bat-shit crazy, evil three-greats-grandmother’s legacy.

  Were the killers afraid of Kitty helping us? Oh yes. How to combine all of those into one soul-crushing deterrent?

  Bake a body in her cake oven. Just like dear thre
e-greats-grandmama would’ve done.

  This wasn’t personal. It had gone way the hell past personal. Whoever was behind this had made a monumental mistake by coming after Kitty.

  We all loved Kitty. Ian’s jaw clenched tight, taking even breaths to keep himself calm, and a deep growl had been rumbling out of Yasha’s chest since he came through the bakery door.

  Our CSI team was there along with our cleanup crew, and Alain Moreau had dispatched another of our field units disguised as city workers to block off the area in front of the store, citing a sewer line break in the street outside. Kitty’s customers didn’t need to get a whiff of what our lab folks were taking out of that oven.

  Kitty had two security cameras, one in front, the other in back. When the killer had opened that portal, both had been fried.

  Between the sulfur stink of the portal and the leftover stench of burned flesh, there was no way the smell would ever come out of this place. Not that Kitty would want to keep her bakery here after what had happened; now I didn’t see where she had a choice.

  That is, if she stayed in business.

  She’d always known she not only loved to bake, but she had a gift, and a good head for running a business. She’d started from almost nothing and grown a successful business for herself—and a happy life doing what she loved. By New York standards, her business was only moderately successful, but it was beyond what Kitty had ever hoped, and now that had been ripped away from her.

  Whoever was behind this would pay, and pay dearly.

  Kitty would never be able to go into that kitchen again without seeing what she’d found. Everything she’d worked for had been ruined.

  Thinking from the killer’s point of view, what they’d done in that kitchen had been a stroke of evil genius. They wanted to ensure Kitty wouldn’t be emotionally able to close that Hellpit even if we found it.

  Good fucking job, asshole, my inner voice snarled.

  “You said it, sweetie,” I muttered.

  Ian gave me a quizzical look. “What?”

  “Where do you send someone who probably crawled out of Hell to begin with?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out and get this guy a one-way ticket.”

  * * *

  The lab guys started removing the body. Ian and I stepped back and gave them plenty of room to work. I didn’t want to be in the way. The baked body was curled in a fetal position, cooked until it looked more like a mummy from the Met than a man that’d been walking around mere hours before. A man Ian and I had talked to just yesterday.

  We now knew why Alastor Malvolia hadn’t called us back.

  I backed up until my shoulder hit the doorjamb, and my vision went white with pain.

  Ian was there immediately. “Dammit, are you all right?”

  I nodded tightly and concentrated on hissing air out through my tightly clenched teeth.

  I swallowed and focused on pushing the pain away. Dr. Stephens had given me some painkillers. Groggy wasn’t conducive to fighting for your life, so I’d stuck them in my purse. When I got out of here and back to headquarters, I might have to take one.

  “Any idea how long he’d been in there?” I asked. I knew time of death would be a bitch to determine when the only cooling the body had done was once the oven had timed out. It was a question Kitty’s three-greats-grandma would’ve been able to answer off the top of her head.

  “He’s been baked at least five hours,” said an emotionless voice from behind us. “He was cooked elsewhere and brought here.”

  Kitty walked into her kitchen with calm, measured steps.

  The lab techs froze.

  They had the body on a gurney on an open body bag, but they made no move to zip it. They were frozen in place.

  Kitty glanced at the body, and her throat seized.

  I wanted to take the steps that separated us, give her the biggest hug I could, and tell her everything was going to be all right.

  I didn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. Nothing I could say or do would make any of this right for Kitty.

  She had to do it for herself.

  That was why no one moved. At least it was why I didn’t.

  The next few seconds would determine how Kitty recovered from this. Just by setting foot in this kitchen, I knew she would recover, but the extent and speed of that recovery depended on what she did next.

  Kitty sniffed and took a breath that I knew smelled like burned flesh. She didn’t flinch.

  “Who was he?” she asked any of us who might know, never taking her eyes from the dead man.

  “Alastor Malvolia,” Ian told her. “A goblin lawyer who was the attorney for most of the supernatural crime families in the city. He may have been brought here not only in an attempt to intimidate you, but because he was short enough to . . .”

  He stopped. If he could’ve sucked those last couple of words back in, he would’ve. Even I cringed at that one.

  “Fit into my cake oven?” Kitty finished.

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She took a shuddering breath, tears pooling in her eyes. She angrily wiped at them with the back of her hand. “Dammit.”

  “We’ll get him,” Ian promised.

  “Not unless you find that Hellpit, you won’t,” Kitty said.

  Silence.

  She wiped her hand on her apron. “And not unless I help.”

  More silence.

  “He thought this would scare me, break me.”

  The clock ticked on the wall.

  Her eyes blazed with determination. “He was wrong.”

  “We’ll be there with you,” Ian said quietly.

  Kitty nodded once, tightly. “I’ll take that protective custody at headquarters now.” She leveled those normally cheerful blue eyes on me. “When you find that Hellpit, I want to be there and ready to work. I’ll get my gear.”

  24

  ONE A Day wasn’t just the name of a vitamin; it had also become the murder rate in the Brimstone case. We were guaranteed at least one, and for most of the days this week, there’d been more. Some we found first; the NYPD had been the first responders on others. In this case, I had no problem with sharing the wealth.

  I’d actually gotten a few hours’ sleep before we were called to the latest crime scene. I’d slept better than I thought I would. Maybe it was my body preparing itself for what was to come. Maybe it was exhaustion after taking the world’s longest shower when we’d gotten back to headquarters at two this morning, and washing my hair five times until I was absolutely positively sure I’d gotten all the baby demon bits out. Alain Moreau had met us in the SPI garage and had taken charge of me and Kitty, setting us up in the small but plush apartment SPI kept for visitors who needed to stay onsite for security reasons.

  We sure as hell met those qualifications.

  Until our cleaning crew finished their work, I didn’t have a home and Kitty didn’t have a business. Both of us were looking for payback.

  This morning’s corpse du jour was another vampire by the name of Dante Frontino. The demonic dynamic murdering duo apparently believed in racial diversity, or maybe they just wanted to ensure they equally scared the crap out of everyone.

  Fortunately, SPI got to the murder scene first. I was sure Dr. Van Daal down at the medical examiner’s office appreciated not having to hide the fangs on this one.

  Ian and I hadn’t been the first responders. I was completely fine with our CSI team having that honor. We stopped by long enough to confirm for our investigation that the other elements were the same. Dead drug lord? Check. Hoofprint brand on the chest? Check. Heart cut out? Check. Soul missing? Unknown.

  Some would claim that since the victim was a vampire he didn’t have a soul to take. I couldn’t have disagreed more. Anyone who believed that had never met Alain Moreau. Last week, when the seven diamonds that comprised the Dragon Eggs had been on the verge of activation, my vampire manager had steadfastly stayed by Vivienne Sagadraco’s side and refu
sed to leave, facing what would’ve been certain death, the permanent kind. He would have remained a faithful friend to the end and beyond.

  Try doing that with no soul.

  One other thing was the same as the other murders, and another was a notable difference. What was the same? The building was owned by Northern Reach Holdings. Who called in the crime and the ID of the victim? None other than the CEO of Northern Reach, Rake Danescu.

  The goblin called Ian to tell him that he was at the hotel across the street having breakfast, and would be delighted if we joined him.

  I wouldn’t describe Ian’s reaction when he’d hung up as delighted, but I sure knew where we were gonna be having breakfast.

  * * *

  The hotel manager was waiting just inside the front door to escort us to where Rake was seated, alone, in a small palm court with a lavish breakfast buffet laid out seemingly just for him. Two uniformed waiters hovered by the door, entirely too attentive for just one customer, regardless of how rich. They’d look human to anyone else, but I saw the waiters and the manager for the glamoured goblins they were.

  “Danescu,” Ian said.

  That one word was weighed down with all of the other, unsuitable-for-public words that Ian really wanted to say.

  My mood was even worse.

  Rake stood and, with a flourish, indicated the two empty chairs at the table with him. It seemed that someone had been expecting us. “Agents Byrne and Fraser. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wait. I wasn’t sure how long you would be detained across the street.” He gave me a quick, wicked grin. “Makenna, you look positively effervescent this morning.”

  The only meaning for “effervescent” that I knew of involved Alka-Seltzer. I tried unsuccessfully to find the compliment in that. I gave up in favor of the question I had.

  “Do you own this hotel, too?” I asked.

  Rake sat and began buttering a piece of toast. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He glanced at the nearest waiter. “Carl, would you bring plates for my guests?”

  Ian started to object and Rake held up a hand. It only held a butter knife, but I had no doubt he could commit murder most elegant with it. Heck, Rake could probably kill in thirty ways with a plastic spork.