The owner of the shop was lying in the back of the room just beyond the threshold of his office. He’d been dead at least three or four hours, his slashed throat certainly the cause.
Frowning, Serin knelt to picked up the man’s arm by the cuff of his sleeve. There was a matching gash on his wrist. She dropped it, then nudged the other hand with her foot. Another cut. Both deep, as if someone wanted to make sure this guy was drained dry. But all his blood was on the floor, so this wasn’t the work of a vamp trying to disguise their kill.
The click of the gun cocking didn’t register until she was rising to her feet. Pivoting slowly, Serin turned to see a man in a suit holding a pistol on her. His stance was wide, practiced law enforcement.
“If you’re smart, you’ll put your hands up and come quietly.” He reached behind him, pulled out a shiny pair of silver handcuffs, and started advancing toward her. The man’s face was familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
Serin tilted her head. “You know, I could think of more entertaining uses for those.”
Teasing a cop was atypical for her, but she was moving through these circles as Eileen and there wasn’t much Eileen wouldn’t dare.
The man responded by flushing, his blood coursing through his veins a little faster. She caught a blast of pheromones and then a little masculine sweat. He waved the cuffs again.
Behind him, she could see the distant red and blue lights of various police cruisers. It was getting closer, but they didn’t turn on the sirens. He heard them anyway. “That’s the backup I called for, so don’t try any of those fancy fighting moves now,” he said, his face hardening. Serin could sense his embarrassment, probably at becoming aroused.
Crap. That can’t be a good sign. Where had this man seen her fight?
For a second, she debated pushing past him and making for the exit, but the uniformed officers were pouring in the front door now. They stomped like elephants, knocking and crashing things over.
Fighting her way out meant taking out half the squad.
The man gestured again, twitching his gun this time. “I said to put your hands up.”
Her eyes flicked behind him. The back door was a dozen feet away, but it was completely blocked with piles of junk. Knocking them away would mean taking a bullet or two in the back unless she wanted to shift to her medium in front of the man.
Slowly, she raised her hands in the air.
I am going to kill Loki.
Whether he’d meant to or not, Serin had been set up. The body she’d stumbled on was the dealer she’d been searching for, but he’d been taken out just hours before she could question him about Puck.
And then there’s this guy. She flicked an annoyed gaze at Agent Romero as he set a glass of water down in front of her. It was little more than a mouthful, but it was enough to drown him with had the circumstances been different.
She finally recognized him from the case down in Texas. That was almost a year ago. Apparently, her unexplained exit from the bathroom had put a bee in his bonnet. He’d been trying to track her ever since—not that he said as much. His partner was the big talker.
Blatantly, she eyed Romero up and down, ignoring the partner. He’d caught her attention back in Texas because there had been a trace of otherness to him. She’d felt it when their eyes met, but dismissed it just as quickly.
She should have examined him closer. Her first impression wasn’t wrong exactly. Agent Romero was mostly human. But that something extra… It was shades of a hunter.
And I’m his prey. The idea made her smile.
“Something funny?” The other agent, Doyle something, slapped his hand over a photo of her fighting a bunch of bikers in a back alley. She’d done that enough times for her to not remember the city.
None of the grainy photos were from a close enough range to identify her, but that didn’t stop Doyle from waving them in her face. “If these weren’t damning enough, we’ve got you over a freshly dead body,” he said, continuing a tirade she’d only half-listened to.
Serin leaned back in her chair, dismissing Doyle. This one was human through and through—swarthy, sweaty, and with the beginning of a middle-age paunch. He was a stark contrast to the lean and sculpted Romero, who was propped against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
Romero said nothing, but his eyes hadn’t left her face since they’d brought her in. It was like he was weighing her with his eyes, measuring her every breath.
“I had nothing to do with that man’s death,” she said.
Her comment was addressed to Romero. The hunter was the only one who mattered.
“See, that’s not how we saw it,” Ray replied, his mouth curling up in a sneer. He held up another photo, this time one of the body. “This poor old man was sliced and diced. Bled out all over the floor. And you were the only one in the room.”
He slid it over to her with his index finger, nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. She glanced at the graphic photograph. The old art dealer had been alive when his throat was cut, judging from the arterial spray.
“I hope he didn’t suffer,” she said, knowing he had. “But I found him like that. He’d been dead for some time. Hours at least…I’m sure your forensics people can tell you exactly how long.”
“And how would you know how long he’d been dead?” Doyle asked, leaning closer with a smirk.
Serin shrugged. “I watch old Forensic Files reruns. CSI too. That blood didn’t look fresh to me. And I’m sure someone is checking that jacket you took off me for blood. It won’t have any. Not a speck.”
“The last time I checked, breaking and entering was a crime.”
“I told you, the door was open. The killer probably didn’t bother to close it after he did away with that poor old man.” She knew how to pick a lock without leaving a trace. They had nothing.
“And what about this?” Doyle asked, indicating the other photos of the alley fight.
Cocking her head to the side, she smiled at Romero. “Do you always let your partner do all the talking?” she asked him.
Doyle banged his fist on the table, forcing her attention back to him. “Look at me, bitch. I’m the one asking the questions.”
Serin raised one fine dark eyebrow, leaning forward in her chair. “I don’t like that word,” she murmured.
The room grew colder by several degrees.
“Like I give a shit.” Doyle snapped. He didn’t notice the temperature change, but across the room, Romero frowned and glanced at the air vent as if it were responsible.
“The entire Devil’s Hand motorcycle gang wants to press charges against you,” Doyle continued.
She doubted that. No district attorney worth a dime was about to bring a case on behalf of a bunch of killers and drug traffickers already in prison.
“I don’t see why,” she replied with flawless confusion. “The woman in these photos isn’t me.”
Serin pretended to study them more closely. “I can see a superficial resemblance, of course. We have similar hair, but this woman is much skinnier than I am.” She added a wistful sigh, deciding to play on some tried and true feminine stereotypes. “I really need to lose five pounds.”
Against the wall, Romero snorted. “Nice try, but every curve matches exactly.”
Serin blinked, her laugh light. “Really now? You sound so certain. Just how closely have you studied this video and my body?”
Across from her, Doyle twisted to throw his partner a pointed glance of exasperation.
Romero glowered, but didn’t answer. Serin realized with some surprise that she enjoyed baiting him.
You should be ashamed of yourself. Getting picked up by human law enforcement was a huge no-no. Avoiding government agencies was Elementals 101. Gia should have her stripped for this. But that thought didn’t stop Serin from batting her eyelashes at Romero.
Doyle grunted. “Listen, lady, we know you. We both saw you at a crime scene in Texas.”
“Well, my bathing sui
t was rather memorable,” she said, acknowledging their first meeting. When had that been? Almost thirteen months ago…
Doyle pounced. “So you don’t deny you knew the Reaper?”
The what? “I don’t know anyone by that name. I was an invited guest of a man called Felix Desjardin—a very well-known art collector.”
“So we’re supposed to believe you were consorting with a known drug dealer for some sort of art deal?” Doyle was deadpan.
“That’s what I do. I buy art for people who can pay—the hard-to-find pieces. I travel extensively for my work, from Texas to Paris, Rome to Afghanistan, and back again. I go where the art or antiques are.”
“And do you always go to these places at the behest of criminals?”
Her fingers fluttered. “I don’t ask my clients where they get their money, only if they have it.”
“What did you buy for the Reaper?”
She tapped her chin. “If recollection serves, Felix asked me to acquire a fine Louis the Sixteenth writing desk for him. It was a bit ostentatious, but to each his own. I don’t question my client’s tastes.”
“Really?” Doyle was dripping sarcasm now. “Did you by chance give him a taste of something else? Something that knocked him out like you did with Rainer Torsten? Is that why we found him face down in his jacuzzi?”
Gasping, Serin sat up straighter. “Rainer thinks I drugged him?”
She waited a calculated beat before frowning. “Well, I’m not surprised his memory is a bit off. He was drinking heavily the last time I saw him—he was in a celebratory mood, more so than I. But I’m crushed he believes I did something to him.”
She paused, languorously tracing her collarbone and staring off into the distance as if lost in memories. “It was a memorable night. Well, for me, anyway.” Straightening, she turned back to Doyle. “I should give him a call. I’d like to make sure he’s all right.”
“If that’s what you want to use your last phone call for, go right ahead. But you’re not fooling anyone. You’re in a lot of trouble, girlie. We’ve got enough here to put you away for a very long time.”
It was the girlie that did it.
Serin dropped her hapless facade. Ice infused her tone. “What you have is a whole lot of nothing. I’m an art dealer. I work with colorful characters at times. As long as they can pay for the things they want me to get them, I don’t judge. My business is licensed and above board. I’ve never done anything illegal. Furthermore, I would bet my last dollar you didn’t find any drugs in Rainer Torsten’s system aside from alcohol. I won’t make the same claim for Felix Desjardin. Word is the man liked to party. But he didn’t do so with me. And this—”
She pushed the grainy picture of her fighting in the alley back at the agent. “This is some other woman.”
Doyle narrowed his eyes. “How quickly you’ve forgotten the body at Charmed Antiques—Henry Hobbes, the owner.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I had an appointment with Mr. Hobbes. I was in search of an antique clock for another client, and he said he had one. It’s why I thought nothing of entering when I found the door open. I was just about to call the police when you showed up. But I certainly didn’t kill him. I’d never even met the man before. It was our first meeting.”
Sprinkling truths in with the lies made for a better argument, but Doyle was a seasoned cop. “Maybe you killed him for the clock.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. “I can afford to pay for my wares. It’s better business practice.”
The door opened, and a uniform poked her head in. She whispered something to Romero.
Stiffening, he turned to her. “How did your lawyer know where to find you? You haven’t made any calls.”
They hadn’t charged her with anything either, so she wasn’t in the system.
“A friend must have called them.”
The agents wore identical frowns. Serin huffed in genuine exasperation. “Networking is part of my job. I make lots of connections, but you never know what you’re walking into so whenever I’m meeting someone new, I tell a friend where I’m going.” She shrugged. “A girl can’t be too careful these days. My friend must have seen you take me in without cause.”
The door burst open. Loki hurried in wearing a middle-aged Nordic goddess as a disguise, a well-known lawyer if her guess was right.
“Don’t say another word.” Loki turned to the agents. “You’re questioning my client without her attorney. I’ve spoken with the officer in charge, and he’s confirmed she isn’t a suspect in the death of Henry Hobbs. There was no blood on the jacket they confiscated.”
Loki, disguised as a female lawyer, showed them the jacket, still neatly wrapped in an evidence bag.
Turning to Serin, Loki patted her on the shoulder in a demonstration of comfort, but Serin could feel his anxiety transmitting through the small touch.
Serves him right. He’d gotten her into this mess.
Romero peeled himself off the wall. “We’re not done questioning her. She’s a suspect in dozens of other crimes.”
Dozens? Damn, she’d been messy if it was dozens. That or Romero was a better hunter than she’d thought.
Loki smirked. “If you value your jobs, then yes, you are done. I’ve already contacted your superior to let him know we’re willing to file harassment charges against you.”
Doyle pointed a stubby finger at her. “That woman beat a gang of bikers to a body pulp. Seven ended up in the hospital.” He proceeded to play the video on his cell phone.
Loki dismissed the video with a wave. “Please. That’s obviously a fake. A woman alone couldn’t take out that many men. Someone probably staged the whole thing to sell self-defense classes. That or it was shot for some budget web series. Have you even bothered to check YouTube?”
He poked Serin in the shoulder and she rose, taking her jacket out of the plastic wrapping and slipping it on. She nodded at the agents in turn, lingering on Romero a little longer than was strictly necessary.
“Well, gentlemen, thank you for an interesting evening. I would say let’s do this again, but I find you both very unpleasant company. Well, Agent Doyle, anyway…”
She sashayed past them, deliberately slowing to swipe her finger along Romero’s folded arm. It was as hard as corded steel, but it heated under her touch. Loki tugged her away, hurrying to a waiting sports car, one he no doubt ‘borrowed’.
He threw the car in gear, snapping back into the handsome greaser after the first turn. “What was that? You were so va-va-voom with that cop. It was fucking hot.”
Ignoring him, Serin waited until he pulled up to a light before twisting to punch him in the arm.
Loki yelped, holding his arm to his side. He pouted. “Is that a way to thank me for cleaning up after you with the humans?”
She glared at him. “I wouldn’t have needed cleaning up after if you hadn’t set me up.”
“I didn’t know someone was going to ice the old guy! I swear. I thought the intel I gave you was good.”
“Well, someone killed him and then called the cops just in time for my unscheduled visit,” she grumbled. “They must have been watching you. Hobbs died just after you took the bait and brought me his name.”
The light changed, and Loki stepped on the gas. He was still sulking and rubbing his arm. “I haven’t felt any eyes on me, and I’m pretty damn good at spotting that sort of thing.”
She didn’t doubt it. Lokis were known for pissing people off. Quick exits wouldn’t be worth a damn if they were easily tracked. The careless among them didn’t last.
“I guess Puck knows you’re hunting for him, huh?”
“So it seems.” Serin glowered out the window as the passing streets. Her ill humor brought the rain, the steady miserable drizzle opening into a downpour, something hard enough to clear the streets of people.
Loki peeked at her sideways, tsking. “Poor bastard doesn’t know what he just started.”
9
Loki grinned when h
e got the text. He hurriedly swallowed the last of his whipped-cream Frappuccino before waving goodbye to the cute barista behind the counter, then rushed out into the frigid autumn air.
He finally had a line on Puck.
Serin had told him to drop the whole thing now that her adversary was aware of his involvement. She said they wouldn’t be able to trust any of his sources. The best they could expect was another trap. But Loki wasn’t willing to accept that. Not only had he disappointed Serin, but he’d also been duped and used to mess with a friend. He lived by a code. Only he got to mess with his friends.
Loki had also learned Serin had lost her mate. He didn’t know the details, but it explained why she’d been so distant and short-tempered. She was simultaneously grieving and out for bloody revenge.
Sending her into a trap, especially under those circumstances, was the grossest violation of his rules to live by. Crossing an Elemental was bad for anyone’s health. More importantly, he liked Serin. Few other Supes of that caliber tolerated his company long.
But Loki was confident he could make it up to her. Since they had parted company a few weeks ago, he had pumped every source he had. He was going to find Puck, then he going to serve him up to Serin on a silver platter. Afterward, they’d go dancing. For someone so serious, the girl could cut a rug…
Today, he was in the east end of downtown Detroit. According to the latest rumors, Puck was a frequenter of a fae club in the area.
Dionysia was an old hotspot, but it was in a different spot each time. It ran on a circuit, shifting locations across the country at will. He hadn’t been there in decades. It wasn’t exactly select. The rougher elements of the fae always knew when and where to find it.
Loki zipped up to Midtown, the location for Dionysia for the past three or four months. He left the shiny Porsche he’d borrowed from a trust-fund brat parked in front of a fire hydrant before heading out on foot.
Dionysia didn’t have valet service—a small consideration to those of his brethren who couldn’t tolerate much iron in their presence.
As if those special snowflakes would ever step foot in Dionysia. Iron sensitivity was for upper-caste fae. Tricksters were immune. So were most goblins, which was what Loki believed Puck to be…
Water: The Elementals Book Three Page 7
