by Lisa Shearin
I got my phone out, too. “I’ll text Kenji and have him start digging for property Hart and any of its C-levels might own around town.” I glanced at Rake. “Unless you have a list floating around in that goblin James Bond head of yours.”
“Until now I haven’t had a need to know.”
“That’s okay. Kenji probably already does. He’s a collector: comics, movie memorabilia, dirt on supernatural-owned, multinational corporations. Like noticing that a drug company owns a run-down warehouse with state-of-the-art security. Things that jump out and wave red flags.” My finger froze above my phone. Speaking of red flags . . .
“Just how badly does Isidor Silvanus hate you?” I asked Rake.
“The level appears to be approaching obsession. Why?”
“He’s been going out of his way to murder people inside of buildings that you own. Why not open a Hellpit under one? What better way to humiliate a dark mage adversary than to open a Hellpit under a property they own without them knowing about it?”
There was silence around the table. So much for whether I might be onto something.
“Is that possible?” Ian asked.
“I own many properties, most of which I have no contact with on a day-to-day basis. This is why I have management companies.”
“Then it is possible.”
The goblin’s dark eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Isidor is exceedingly gifted in the magic arts. Unfortunately, yes. It is possible.”
“Marty said brimstone loses its molten state after an hour of being exposed to our air,” I said. “That’d put the lab an hour—probably much less—from the Hellpit.”
“We need a list of all of your real estate holdings in Manhattan,” Ian told Rake. “And not just Northern Reach.”
When a response wasn’t forthcoming, Ian continued. “The list will be kept in a secure database.”
Rake’s lips tightened into a thin line. “A SPI database.”
“If I’m right, then Isidor Silvanus already has that list,” I said. “So you can slam the barn door if you want, but that horse is long gone.”
The goblin sighed, though I detected a hint of a growl. “Very well. You shall have it within the hour.”
“One more question,” Ian asked him.
The goblin raised a brow. “You mean one more question—for now.”
Ian ignored that. “Do you know if Alastor Malvolia represented Hart Pharmaceuticals?”
“He did.”
“Did he represent you?” I asked.
“He did not. Believe it or not, but I do have standards, and Alastor Malvolia was far beneath them. It was nothing personal; I merely didn’t approve of his methods.”
I grimaced. “So somebody at Hart stuffed their own lawyer in an oven?”
Rake laughed, a genuinely happy sound. “Believe me, it could not have happened to a nicer guy.”
26
FRED was thrilled to hear about Hart Pharmaceuticals being the cause of all of his late nights and early mornings. Fred was thrilled because Hart was already under investigation by local, state, and federal authorities. Kitty and I weren’t the only ones who wanted payback. There was a line.
The latest incident in Fred’s busy schedule was that he’d just come from the scene of yet another murder that could be connected to Brimstone. This victim was displayed in just about the most public way possible. A human drug lord with a small but profitable Wall Street client base had been found impaled on the horns of the Charging Bull statue in the Financial District. His heart was gone, replaced by the statue’s right horn. Fred was of the opinion that this was the guy who had been selling Brimstone to humans like the man in Café Mina. Sounded logical enough to me. Who would want to read minds more than brokers, financiers, and other businesspeople? Fred said that this particular drug lord had been clued in to the supernatural world, which could connect him to what was really going on at Hart Pharmaceuticals. And it sounded like he’d either neglected to give his customers full disclosure on Brimstone’s side effects, or simply told them that they might see things, but to ignore them until the mind-reading benefits kicked in.
That solved the mystery of how humans were getting their hands on Brimstone, but we still had the problem of no prosecutable evidence against Hart and its officers. Any that had been found had been refuted, and all potential witnesses had disappeared and had not been found—all thanks in one way or another to the late, evilly great Alastor Malvolia.
As the brains behind Hart Pharmaceutical’s continued legal maneuverings and evasion, Al was now out of the picture and in a stainless-steel drawer at SPI headquarters. The feds’ prosecutors would be happy about that.
If Hart’s CEO, Phaon Silvanus—brother of Isidor—had been in any way responsible for Al’s demise, he’d just gotten the ball rolling on his own downfall. If it hadn’t been done at his orders . . . well, for the murderer’s sake, I hope they got a running head start for killing the person who’d single-handedly kept the cops and feds from hanging Hart Pharmaceuticals out to dry.
I just loved it when the bad guys shot themselves in the foot, but it remained to be seen if it’d be too little too late.
Alastor Malvolia had been baked, but the finished product was in one piece—including heart and soul. Though with this particular goblin lawyer, one really had to wonder if there’d been a soul there to begin with.
Bert was determined to find out.
And Rake wanted to be there when he did. He’d given us a list of his Manhattan real estate holdings. It was in the hundreds. Money had never impressed me, and it still didn’t. But, damn. We didn’t have enough agents to check out even a fraction of them. Rake was hopeful that Alastor Malvolia might be persuaded to point us in the right direction—especially since his murderer was probably also located in that direction.
I’d said I never wanted to be in SPI’s morgue for another of Bert’s corpse Q&A sessions, but if the goblin lawyer was going to say anything, I wanted to hear it. I was betting that being betrayed by one of his corporate clients was going to make for one seriously vindictive ghost. No retainer was worth that.
I’d damned near been baby food for demons either directly or indirectly because of the Silvanus brothers. I was overdue for some fun.
* * *
The autopsy room’s recording system had been double checked and was ready to go. Human courts didn’t consider the testimony of a ghost to be admissible in court, but as far as supernatural law was concerned, alive, dead, or undead, it was all good.
The autopsy room had two tables and not much room for anything else. Bert had to be in there as did Al Malvolia. Bert took up enough space for two people, and in his present condition, Al was literally half the man he once was. Now he really did look like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, if Mr. Burns had been baked into a mummy.
Dr. Carey and Bert had done an external examination of the goblin’s body and determined that he had been knocked unconscious with a blow to the back of the head. I’d only met him once, and by all accounts Alastor Malvolia was as far from being a nice person as it was possible to get. I was still glad to hear that he’d been unconscious or already dead before he’d been shoved into Kitty’s oven. After the questioning, Bert would guide the spirit to the other side, and there would be an official autopsy to determine the exact cause and time of death, as well as to look for any residue or fibers on the body that might provide clues to place of death and the murderer’s identity—something a human court would accept.
Martin DiMatteo had been there to back Bert up in the past, and he was in there now. The rest of us were on the other side of the double-thick glass wall. Normal morgues didn’t need that kind of reinforcement, but in the world of the supernatural, there were many kinds and levels of dead, and on occasion, they didn’t need a necromancer to raise a fuss.
In addition to me, Ian, and Rake was Ms. Sagadraco, Alain Moreau, and—not so surprisingly—Kitty. After all, it was her oven the goblin lawyer had been found in; she want
ed to know what had happened to him before he’d been brought there. I’d think it would help her considerably to know that Alastor Malvolia hadn’t died in her oven.
Fred was busy with the Hart Pharmaceutical end of the investigation, but had made Ian promise to get a recording to him ASAP.
Bert was presently making a brief initial contact to ensure Malvolia’s soul was still inside his corpse when the body’s mouth dropped open and an enraged shriek damned near shorted out the sound system.
Holy Mother of God.
Normally spirits communicated through Bert. Not this time. Malvolia the dead lawyer wanted to do his own talking.
The lights might not have been on anymore, but the dead goblin was definitely home, and he was not happy.
Bert had shielded himself and wore a necroamulet to give himself even more protection. He wasn’t taking any chances and I didn’t blame him one bit. Contacting a newly dead angry ghost was like startling a big dog out of a sound sleep. Unpleasantness was likely to occur.
The necromancer glanced at Ms. Sagadraco and nodded.
Showtime.
* * *
“Alastor Malvolia.”
Once again the boom of Bert’s deep voice filled the morgue’s four tiled walls. There was an intercom on our side, but we really didn’t need it. The glass was also warded, so the force of Bert’s necromantic magic didn’t affect me and Ian as it had when we’d been in the room with Sar Gedeon’s corpse.
The elf drug lord’s soul had already been taken, so there’d been no response to Bert’s command. Al Malvolia had been a lawyer in life; and in death, he couldn’t wait to talk.
Almost immediately a silvery mist rose from the curled-up corpse.
And it solidified, complete with a face, an angry face.
Okay, that wasn’t normal, either.
Even Bert looked a little taken aback, though for Bert that meant briefly raising one eyebrow.
There were soul contacts that had been memorable enough to enter into Bert’s office party story repertoire. I bet this was going to be one of them—and I was getting to witness it firsthand.
Lucky me.
It was probably a good thing that Fred wasn’t here, and that none of us were elves. The spirit that had once lived in the body of the goblin lawyer Alastor Malvolia hissed and spun, two glowing red orbs where his eyes had been, probably looking for the elves who’d killed him.
I wondered if Bert was in charge in there anymore.
However, Bert looked cool as a cucumber.
Those glowing eyes didn’t find any elves, but he saw his own burned body curled on the autopsy table.
The shriek he’d let out before paled in comparison to the roar that came out of that pissed-off poof of mist.
Alain Moreau reached over and flipped the switch on the speaker. Either that or our ears were gonna bleed.
“Thank you,” I said. At least I think I did.
The roar came down to a gurgling hiss. It took me a minute to realize that the goblin was laughing.
He was looking directly at Rake Danescu.
And laughing.
I didn’t think any of us—especially Rake—were going to find what was about to happen amusing.
Alain Moreau flipped the switch again, turning the speakers back up.
“Danessscu,” Malvolia hissed.
“Alastor. You’re looking well.”
More gurgling laughter. At least he’d kept his sense of humor.
“He isss coming for you.”
“Isidor?”
“Yessss.”
“I was beginning to get that impression.” Rake nodded toward Malvolia’s body on the table. “Did he do that?”
The glow in the red eyes faded a little, and his expression grew distant and puzzled. Both were impressive achievements for a mist you could see through.
Apparently he hadn’t seen who’d killed him. Looked like Malvolia had been hit from behind like Dr. Carey said.
Bert stood next to the table, his hand resting lightly on the corpse’s head, his eyes calm and steady on Malvolia’s manifestation. Bert was still in control; at least I hoped so.
“Isssidor made a deal with the devil.”
Rake’s fangs flashed in a brief grin of delighted realization. “And you drew up the contract.”
More gurgling laughter. “Yessss.”
Now it was Rake’s turn to chuckle. “You screwed them both over.”
“Filthy, arrogant elvesss. Deservesss to burn.”
“Alastor, if you weren’t so crispy right now, I’d actually kiss you. Where’s the contract?”
“Sssafe.”
“Where?”
“You will sssee.”
The mist that was Alastor Malvolia was beginning to fade.
“Hurry,” Bert mouthed to Rake.
“Where did Isidor open the Hellpit?” Rake asked.
I could clearly see Bert standing behind the goblin. What was left of Malvolia was confused, looking around as if he’d suddenly become aware of where he was and didn’t recognize it.
We were losing him.
Rake leaned closer to the glass. “Alastor. Listen to me. Where is the Hellpit?”
“Where the demonsss are coming from.”
“Yes, demons will be coming from the Hellpit. Where. Is. The. Hellpit?”
The mist was drawn back into the burned shell of Alastor Malvolia’s body.
Bert bowed his head, and took a couple of deep breaths.
“Can you get him back?” Rake asked urgently.
The necromancer shook his head. “There’s a chance, but he’d be even more confused than he was now. Even if he could manifest, he would only be able to hold form for a few seconds. We need to let him go, Lord Danescu.”
27
ALASTOR Malvolia hadn’t been able to tell us where the Hellpit was. We were running out of time. While we hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly when Isidor Silvanus had first cracked open the Hellpit, it’d been long enough since the Brimstone drug started showing up on the street that the pit had to be nearing a fully open state. Once it reached that, it couldn’t be closed.
So far, all of the murders had been committed in properties owned by Rake through Northern Reach Holdings. Even the yacht that Celeste Báthory was killed on had been leased through a yacht brokerage owned by, you guessed it, Northern Reach.
Kenji was working on pinpointing property that Hart Pharmaceuticals or Phaon Silvanus owned and those properties’ proximity to buildings owned by Rake Danescu.
Rake had identified Isidor Silvanus as one of the previously unknown, obscenely powerful sorcerers who had been at the Mythos gala opening. Just our luck, he’d decided to hang around after the party to make more trouble.
In the meantime, Roy Benoit and Sandra Niles had their commando teams on standby, and Martin DiMatteo had four people in his department ready to deploy with the commandos to search each potential Hellpit site.
The first hits on both Rake’s property and Phaon Silvanus were two buildings one and six blocks from Times Square. Even in legendary New York traffic, getting from one to the other would still take less than an hour, making them viable Hellpit locations. Sandra’s team with two of Martin’s demonologists were checking the tunnels nearby and beneath Times Square. After last New Year’s Eve, we were more than familiar with them. A Hellpit was different from a portal. It’d be standing wide open, glowing orange like molten lava, and probably guarded by demons.
Considering the attempts on my life, the Hellpit was probably concealed in a pocket dimension, the entrance to which was a small portal visible only to the mage who made it—who would be Isidor Silvanus—and yours truly.
Kitty had confirmed that it was possible, that the Hellpit could be concealed in a small pocket dimension. If that was the case, I would be able to detect the doorway to the dimension, like I had done with Alastor Malvolia’s office.
Worse still, if the Hellpit was being concealed inside a pocket dimension, it’d
be highly likely that the Brimstone lab would be hidden the same way.
I could see portals, but I couldn’t open them.
Fortunately for us, Kitty could open an existing portal as well as slam one shut.
At least that problem was solved. Unfortunately we had plenty more to take its place, and a line forming behind those.
We were stretched thin enough as is. Ms. Sagadraco had told me that under no circumstances was either I or Kitty to leave headquarters until a viable location had been found. The risk was too great. If the Hellpit or Brimstone lab was concealed by a pocket dimension, I’d be the only one who’d be able to see it, and I couldn’t go chasing after every possibility. The demonologists would be able to detect signs of demonic activity that even a pocket dimension couldn’t hide.
If I had to stay at headquarters, there was one thing I could do and still possibly help.
It was time that Ord Larcwyde and I had a talk.
* * *
Kitty and I had one of SPI’s VIP apartments; Ord had the other one. Alain Moreau was in charge of assigning guests to accommodations. He liked me and Kitty more than he did Ord, so we got the larger apartment.
It didn’t help Ord’s cause that he was being an obnoxious asshat.
In the gnome’s defense, he’d been brought here for protective custody and questioning, and while there was plenty of protection going on, there hadn’t been time for any questioning.
The agent assigned to Ord told me that the gnome was in a foul mood, had been testing the patience of the SPI cafeteria’s room service, and was presently binge watching Game of Thrones. Other than that, things had been relatively quiet.
I couldn’t leave headquarters, so I had plenty of time on my hands for finding out what Ord knew that was worth killing him for—besides the number to room service.
The stacks of dishes were piled on a cart outside Ord’s door. The SPI cafeteria’s job was to keep agents fueled up so they could protect and serve. With the clock ticking on the Hellpit, our people had been working and eating overtime. Cleaning up after guests must be falling through the cracks. Though from the looks of the nearly pristine dishes on that cart, Ord had done everything but lick the plates. Our chefs were the best, and Ord was taking full advantage.
