Double or Nothing (Daniel Faust Book 7)

by Craig Schaefer

  He disappeared into the churning crowds, swallowed by the city. I tilted my head, feeling suddenly off-kilter, and then I realized why.

  I had never told him my name.

  37.

  I didn’t call ahead. This was a conversation to have face-to-face, eye-to-eye. I speed-walked through the Taipei Tower lobby, across the scarlet-and-black chrysanthemum-patterned carpet. You needed a keycard to ride all the way up to the penthouse floor, but the desk clerk knew me; he gave me a wave and called the elevator remotely.

  I wasn’t the only one waiting. A couple of tourists, a prim woman cradling a plastic margarita cup and a stringy-haired, over-tanned man in an I Heart Las Vegas T-shirt, were ahead of me. We got onto the elevator together.

  The woman got off on the fourth floor. The car stopped again on seven. A little girl got into the elevator alone. She was maybe eight or nine, dressed in pigtails and a frilly smock. I had a brief moment of nostalgia, thinking of the days before Vegas became a family destination. She hit the button for twelve and the elevator started moving again.

  The little girl looked up at me. She had disconcertingly flat eyes, like a dead fish.

  “Hey, fucko,” she said.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Got a riddle for ya. What’s black and yellow and delivers two-point-one milliamps of electricity?”

  My gaze shot to her hands. Empty. Then the man standing behind me put his stun gun to the base of my neck and pulled the trigger. The floor of the elevator rushed up to greet my face, and everything went dark.

  * * *

  The world swam around me. It felt like I was underwater, voices echoing and faint. My hands were puffy and numb, wrists and ankles bound tight with zip ties. I was lying on my back in a dry bathtub. My vision came back into focus, and I realized they hadn’t taken me out of the building: we were in a tower guest suite, somewhere below Caitlin’s penthouse. I wriggled myself into a sitting position, as best I could with the hard porcelain pressing against my bound and aching wrists.

  The over-tanned man and the little girl were in the suite’s parlor. I watched through the open doorway as they labored over a small metal bowl. The face of the bowl was engraved with swirling runes, and black wisps of smoke drifted from its lip, curling in the dim light of an end-table lamp.

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was wide-awake, but their voices seemed oddly muffled and distant. The man looked over at me.

  “Aw, good, he’s up.” He spoke in a slow and easy Louisiana drawl, the voice of a riverboat gambler. “Would you do us a kindness, friend? Just scream real loud. Call for help. Go crazy with it.”

  I was going to do that anyway. I took a deep breath and shouted at the top of my lungs, kicking my bound feet against the bathtub, trying to get someone’s—anyone’s—attention.

  Nobody came running.

  “Now y’see?” the man said to the girl. “That’s why you always bring a sonitus baffle on a job where you might have to deal with the target in a public place. He can scream all day long, won’t cause a bit of trouble. Worth every penny. C’mon, let’s go introduce ourselves.”

  As they stepped across the bathroom threshold, their footsteps snapped into sharp clarity. The distant, swimmy sound of their voices became crystal clear.

  “Evenin’, friend,” he said. “The name’s Fontaine, proud to represent the hallowed and distinguished Order of Chainmen, and this here’s my new apprentice Rache. I’m kinda showing her the ropes, so I hope you’ll grant us a little extra patience.”

  “You’re gonna fuckin’ die,” the little girl told me. She brandished a stun gun in her tiny fist and looked like she was itching to use it.

  Fontaine winced. “Sorry. She’s very new at this. Rache has a pair of problems, in that she’s inexperienced and also she hates everyone. Only one of those problems, I fear, will be cured by the passage of time. Rache, why don’t you go get my kit bag?”

  As she scurried from the room, her footsteps swallowed by the sound enchantment, Fontaine gave me an apologetic look.

  “Between you and me,” he murmured, “I got saddled with the girl very much against my will. I think I can make a decent hunter out of her, but it’s an uphill fight. Choir of Wrath. They’re difficult to work with.”

  Rache came back, lugging a bowling-ball satchel in white calfskin leather. It clanked as she plopped it down on the tile floor.

  “Okay,” Fontaine said to her, “now then. We’ve pulled off the capture. The mission’s gone picture perfect, the target’s been corralled, so what now?”

  Rache rummaged in the bag. She came up with a scalpel in one hand and an implement in the other that resembled an ice-cream scoop with jagged, razor-sharp edges.

  “We employ our surroundings,” she dutifully recited, looking ten shades of bloodthirsty. “Using a bathtub means minimum mess. We flip him onto his stomach, cut his throat, and monitor his pulse. The second he goes cold, we melon-ball him.”

  “Correct. And how long do we have for soul extraction?”

  “Sixty-six seconds,” Rache said. She rolled her eyes. “Are you really gonna keep schooling me on the basics?”

  “Until you get ’em right. Now what’d you forget?”

  She scrunched up her face. “I don’t know. Tase him in the balls before we kill him?”

  Fontaine frowned. “That ain’t how we do things, Rache.”

  “It could be, though.”

  I felt obligated to toss my two cents in. Mostly because my only option, at the moment, was to keep them talking while I figured out an escape plan.

  “You might be surprised,” I said, “but she’s not the first person to threaten me with that.”

  They both ignored me. Fontaine held up three fingers.

  “Research, research, and research. It’s not just about knowing your target’s threat assessment—”

  “I read the bounty notice,” Rache snorted. “He’s an NP, and it’s only a gray-letter contract.”

  “Will someone please tell me what ‘NP’ stands for?” I asked. They kept ignoring me.

  “If you’d done the homework I assigned you,” Fontaine told her, “you’d know that Mr. Faust here is the consort of Caitlleanabruaudi. You know? Hound of the Court of Jade Tears? So we’re holding a bit of a political football.”

  Rache glanced askew at him. “Our order isn’t political.”

  “Aw, sweet child, you gotta learn. Everything is political. So before we do anything we can’t undo, I’m gonna make a quick phone call. Keep an eye on our friend here.”

  My hands flexed behind my back. The zip ties were brutally tight, not an inch of give as they bit into my skin. It made sense: I was supposed to die wearing them. Fontaine walked out and Rache watched him go, her fish-eyed face equal parts bored and annoyed. If I could go to work on her, get her on my side before her partner came back…

  “Rough boss, huh?” I asked. “Doesn’t sound like he respects you very much.”

  Rache sighed at me. “Oh wow, you’re actually trying it. You know, the thing where you masterfully turn us against each other with genius mind games, get us fighting, and you make a miraculous escape in the confusion. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Do you really want an answer to that?”

  She picked up the stun gun and glared at me.

  Fontaine paced by the bathroom door, shaking his head, as his muffled words drifted across the threshold. “Yeah, sorry, darlin’, it’s that phone call. No, ain’t done it yet. I wanted to pay my respects and call you first.”

  “Caitlin!” I shouted. “We’re in a room in the tower. We’re right under—”

  Rache hit me in the shoulder with the stun gun and the world became a burning wire of pain. As I flopped around in the tub, banging the back of my head against the porcelain, she loomed over me.

  “She can’t hear you, dumbass. Sound enchantment, remember?”

  “Then why,” I managed to gasp, “did you tase me?”

  She sh
rugged. “Because it’s fun.”

  “Now, now.” Fontaine was gently chiding Caitlin on the phone. “You know I can’t let you see him. You show up, you’re gonna feel compelled to stage a dramatic rescue, it’s gonna cause a massive rift between your court and my order, and next thing you know it’s a hot mess or a hot war. I’m protecting you from your own worst instincts. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “I can pay you,” I told Rache.

  She held up the stun gun. “To tase you? Damn, go hire a dominatrix, ya sicko.”

  “To let me go,” I said.

  “Lemme think about that.” She glanced up at the bathroom ceiling. “Thought about it. No.”

  “—always had a good working relationship,” Fontaine said, walking by the doorway again. “So I really hope this won’t—no, of course not. He won’t suffer. My word on it. Look, I know there’s no upside here; I’m basically the vet callin’ to let you know we gotta put your dog to sleep. But I hope you can take some comfort knowing it was me who caught him. This town’s infested with hunters right now, and most of ’em would take their sweet time making the kill. Nyx is here along with half the House of Dead Roses—hell, I saw Henry Holmes at the airport. You knew this was only a matter of time.”

  Fontaine stopped pacing. He stood still, listening, his eyes grave.

  “You sure you don’t wanna just say goodbye? I’ll give him the phone.” He fell silent again. “One hour. For you, I can do that.”

  He hung up the phone and stepped across the threshold. The sound barrier rippled around him like the skin of a soap bubble. Then he cracked his knuckles behind his back.

  “Well, we got a little time to kill.” He looked my way. “Your lady asked for a brief stay of execution before we do the deed. You got one hour to live.”

  “One hour?” I shook my head. “Why?”

  “My best guess? She’s gonna pull out all the stops to try and find us, and…well, she bursts in, dramatic rescue, massive political fallout, yadda yadda. Except she won’t find us.”

  “So let’s just kill him now,” Rache said. “I got shit to do today.”

  Fontaine wagged his finger at her. “Now, now. You do not break your word to a hound. We don’t answer to them, as agents of an independent and sacred order, but you never know when you’re gonna need their cooperation. Caitlin’s a good ally to have. We can give her an hour of our precious time.”

  “Can we torture him?”

  He slapped his forehead. “Did you not hear the part about ‘no suffering’? No. Go play your stupid phone game or something. I will watch Mr. Faust.”

  She skipped off. Fontaine watched her go, shaking his head.

  “Don’t even worry,” he told me. “When the time comes, she ain’t gonna lay a hand on you. I’ll be doing the deed. Can I offer you a goodbye shot? Got half a fifth of good scotch in my kit bag.”

  “Will you untie my hands so I can drink it?” I asked.

  He flashed a grin. “Nice try.”

  After that, there wasn’t much to do but wait. I knew Caitlin was on her way. She would find me somehow. I waited for the sound of the door bursting open, the window crashing, a rescue team coming in loud and hard. Any minute now, she’d be here.

  Any minute now.

  The alarm went off on Fontaine’s phone, a merry chime. He clicked it off, and gave me a little sigh.

  “Sorry, friend,” he said. “Looks like your time’s up.”

  Then he picked up the scalpel.

  38.

  Fontaine rolled me onto my stomach in the bathtub. I thrashed like a fish out of water, kicking with my bound feet, but he held me down with an iron grip.

  “Gonna have to ask you to go out with some dignity here,” he grunted. “I can make this quick and easy, but it takes a little cooperation on your part.”

  Hell with that. I was going out fighting. He tightened his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back. I bared my teeth, yanking my neck, my bound hands scrambling at nothing. I saw the flash of the scalpel, felt cold sharp steel against my jugular vein—then tinny music flooded the bathroom. A recording of Marvin Gaye singing “Heard It Through the Grapevine.”

  Fontaine paused. He let go of me, pulling the scalpel away, and picked up his phone.

  “’Scuse me a second. That’s my agent, I gotta get that.” He answered it. “Fontaine. Yup. Mm-hmm. You’re kiddin’ me. Well that’s a lotta—you know I invested some money in this hunt. I know, I know, that’s the life. Okay, well, thanks kindly.”

  He hung up.

  “Huh,” he said. “That was almost a big ol’ mess.”

  I craned my neck to look up at him. “What was?”

  “Hunt’s over.” He crouched over me. “Hold your wrists real still, okay? Gotta cut these zip ties off, don’t wanna nick you.”

  “Wait. Over? What do you mean, over?”

  “I mean over. Called off. Canceled. Finito. Word from the head office: the bounty on your head’s been officially rescinded. My good day just went sour, and your sour one just became a ray of ever-lovin’ sunshine.” The scalpel snicked through the wrist ties and my blood-starved hands tingled as circulation flooded back in. “Watch yourself, though. Gonna be a lot of real pissed-off hunters in town feeling like they got cheated out of a paycheck, and they don’t all follow the rules like I do. Hold on, gonna get your ankles now.”

  I rubbed my wrists and ankles, willing the life back into them. Fontaine held out his hand and helped me up. I stepped out of the tub, still feeling like I’d been blindsided. It should have been good news. I should have been overjoyed.

  I wasn’t. This was all wrong.

  “No hard feelings, I hope,” Fontaine told me.

  I didn’t know what I could even say to that.

  On the elevator up, I worked the angles. What could make Naavarasi pull the contract? Killing her wouldn’t do it, and the rakshasi queen lived more than an hour away. She wasn’t going to do it out of the goodness of her heart. She didn’t have any. Obviously Caitlin had requested my stay of execution for a reason. What could she possibly accomplish in one hour that would—

  Circe.

  One hour was plenty of time to get to my apartment, take Circe by force, and promise her to Naavarasi. Paying my debt for me. Naavarasi still wouldn’t have to pull the contract, but she’d have to choose which prize she wanted more: my soul or Circe.

  I ran up the ivory hallway and hammered my fist on Caitlin’s penthouse door. No answer.

  Ten minutes later I was leaning on the horn, weaving through sluggish traffic, fighting my way across town. My heart pounded against my ribs as I charged up the steps to my apartment, fumbled with my keys, burst through the door.

  Circe was sitting on the sofa, watching television. She gave me a curious look.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “You’re okay.” I shut the door and double-locked it, pressing my back to the wood. “Was Caitlin here? Was anyone here?”

  She shook her head, rising to her feet. “No. No one. What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  I dialed Caitlin’s cell; it went straight to her voicemail. Next I called the Southern Tropics head office and braced for my usual fight with the receptionist. The second I gave my name, she patched me through to Emma’s desk.

  “Daniel,” she said, breathless, “is Caitlin with you?”

  “No, I was gonna ask if she’s with you. What’s going on, Emma? Naavarasi yanked the bounty and—”

  “I got a call from Legal,” she said. “Caitlin filled a Writ of Claimance on you about an hour ago. This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

  “Wait, hold on. What’s a Writ of Claimance?”

  “It’s a document officially registering you, via our court, as her thrall. Her legal property.”

  I leaned my head back against the door and shut my eyes.

  “We had a fight,” I said, sighing. “I don’t know what she’s doing, but if she thinks
this is how to make up—”

  “No,” Emma snapped. “Shut up. Listen. Thralls are like…minors in human law. Not competent, you understand? Can’t sign contracts. A demon who owns a human thrall is fully responsible for that thrall’s actions. Their debts.”

  “The bounty wasn’t called off,” I breathed. “It was moved. Caitlin’s taking the hit for me.”

  “She’ll be treated the exact same way you would have been. Prince Sitri will have no choice not only to rescind her status as his hound, but to come to terms with Naavarasi. Caitlin will be handed over to her. As her slave. For eternity. She’s sacrificing herself for you, Daniel.”

  I was standing in a pit of misery a thousand miles deep, and still, buried in that bleakness, I almost had to laugh.

  I’d asked Caitlin how I knew I could trust her. How I knew she really loved me. She said she couldn’t prove it.

  And then she found a way.

  “Is there any way around this? Could she have something up her sleeve?”

  “No,” Emma said. “She can request a trial by combat, but Naavarasi doesn’t have to accept. And there’s nothing for Naavarasi to gain by dueling her, compared to what she’s already going to win. Our court loses face, we’re destabilized until a new hound is chosen—and that’s a long and bloody process—and she owns Caitlin.”

  I fell silent. The pieces of the puzzle turned, clicked, showing me a new picture. I’d been wrong this entire time. Chasing the wrong clues to the wrong plot.

  “Daniel?” Emma said. Standing by the sofa, Circe peered curiously at me.

  “She played us,” I said. “All this time, we thought Naavarasi wasn’t a real threat. That she was too egotistical for her own good. That she couldn’t put together a plan if her life depended on it, because she just had to show off. It was a fucking act, Emma. It was all a fucking act and we bought it. While we were treating her with kid gloves, she was working the long con. Studying us. Laying the pieces for her masterstroke.”

  “Explain,” she said.