Wilcox had now discovered my location, yet he didn’t exactly look on the side of pleased. Upon walking through the door to the Irish Cultural Association and spotting me, I counted no less than eight times that his hand ran through his hair. All within the first five minutes after arrival. His number one sign of severe irritation and I had a strong suspicion I was the cause.
“Kiara,” Andrew approached. “We will need a written statement from you.”
My eyes tore away from one moody detective only to turn my focus toward another grim face. “What’s going to happen?
“We’ll need to wait for forensics,” Andrew said. “By all appearances, this is another suicide.”
“Except for Ryan.”
Andrew nodded. “Except for Ryan.”
I stared into Andrew’s eyes, hoping for a glimpse of his thoughts. The man was almost always Mr. Laid-Back, his feathers hard to ruffle, but I’d come to the realization that as the mostly silent one of the detective duo to Wilcox’s bossy and direct personality, Andrew held many secrets. Perhaps that was why he liked being so quiet. “How did Ryan die? What killed a demon?”
“I don’t know. I—
“If the demon’s even dead,” Wilcox said, walking up behind me.
“He’s dead,” I said. “His body is in the other room.”
“The body of Ryan Hodges, a human, is in the other room. We don’t know what happened to the demon.”
Well, hell. Did that mean it was still out there, looking for other women to kill?
“What happened, Kiara?” Andrew asked. “Start from the beginning.”
From the beginning, I assumed meant with Ryan. “He is—was—a barista over at a coffee shop right off campus. I was in there the other day with Hadley, before she became not-Hadley, and he was friendly and seemed normal. I stopped in for coffee this morning, and he was rather sharp with his co-worker, and when he noticed me—or rather my pendant—he left.”
“Left the coffee shop?”
I nodded.
“So a demon ran from a Praedator?” Andrew asked Wilcox. “Why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said. “I wore my pendant the last time he saw me, but that time he didn’t drop everything and flee.”
“Why did you come here?” Wilcox asked.
“I was certain Siobhan was his next victim. I saw him speaking with her at the charity event Saturday night.”
“The night you weren’t wearing the pendant but singled out every woman who could potentially fit the criteria of the Fáithsine.”
“Well, not every…” My gaze drifted toward the door leading into the back offices right as a paramedic was pushing out a sheet-draped stretcher. Stomach clenched. Cloth molded a petite form, and hot bile burned the back of my throat at the realization that yet another innocent woman was gone simply because the evil in this world wanted me dead. “This has to stop.”
Wilcox reached out a hand and then dropped it. Not the time or place for a comforting hug, especially while he was on official duty. But I was beginning to appreciate his overbearing concern… All right, sometimes I appreciated his overbearing concern. Other times I was left wanting to cram his tie down his throat and cover his mouth with duct tape so he’d stop being so obnoxious with the logic that contradicted my irrational plotting.
“Only Andrew and I have been looking at these suicides as anything other than self-inflicted since we were able to make a connection between them,” Wilcox said. “If Ryan can be connected to Siobhan’s death, perhaps we can reopen the other cases.”
“Forensics never turns up anything,” Andrew said.
“Perhaps this time it will.” Wilcox faced me. “What did you see or hear when you entered the office?”
“I saw nothing except this mess.” I glanced around the room before turning my attention back to the question. “I called out a hello and heard a thump.”
“No doubt Ryan,” Wilcox said. “It appears he tripped over a box as he fell.”
“As he died,” I corrected, still trying to wrap my thoughts around the earlier declaration that the demon may still be alive while Ryan was not. “Why did Ryan have to die?”
“When the demon took control of his body, he was no longer able to survive on his own.”
“So it wasn’t today that he passed away?”
Wilcox’s head shook. “It was today. The demon had taken over his body’s resources, but Ryan’s soul was still trapped inside. When the demon fled, his body shut down almost instantly. The autopsy report will probably reveal a heart attack or a stroke as his cause of death.”
“Still, this doesn’t explain anything. Why did he, as Ryan, run from me in the coffee shop? Why did he leave Ryan’s body behind here?”
“My guess is you startled the demon as he was wrapping up.”
“Wrapping up? This is how you chose to describe a woman’s death… her murder?”
Wilcox’s head shook again. “How exactly do you want me to describe the situation? Kiara, something about you has upset this demon, and if he’s still out there, his focus will no doubt turn to you. He heard you come in and decided the best thing was to flee and regroup.”
“He most likely chose to ditch this body in order to make it possible to come after you,” Andrew said. “Or to at least have the opportunity to figure out who you are and why you’re interested in him.”
“How?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means, Ryan was known to you. You displayed an interest in Ryan and one in the women Ryan was targeting. Now the demon could be anyone. You’re back to square one for a suspect.”
I sat. Fortunately, a chair behind caught me because it’d been over a month since I last fell at Wilcox’s feet, and I wasn’t starting that all over again.
“Is this what it’s like for Tristan?” I asked, veering back to the earlier explanation. “Can he live only if the demon remains inside of him?”
Andrew’s voice was low to not be overheard when he said, “It’s a different type of demon that creates vampires, but yes. Were the demon inside Tristan to flee, Tristan would die. But Tristan has done something extremely rare, he’s learned how to control the demon, not let the demon control him.”
A uniformed officer approached Wilcox, pulling him away from our conversation. I glanced up at Andrew. “Back to work, I guess. Is it sad that I can see a dead body and then simply go on about my day?” I stood and paused, thinking back to the last six weeks of my life. “There’s so much death.”
Andrew reached out a hand and gave my shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s always sad when we become calloused to murder. A human life is too important, but when you’re in this line of work, you learn to do it as a coping mechanism. And Kiara? You’re in this line of work.”
I nodded and headed for the door.
“Kiara?” Wilcox called out.
I turned back to see him still standing with the uniformed officer, having paused in his conversation at the notice of my impending departure. “Yes?”
“I’ll stop by tonight.” He gave me his don’t argue look “You’re not ditching me as easily as you have Trashae.”
And it was this I’m Boss attitude that sometimes left me with visions of putting the red tie currently wrapped around his neck to good use. “You might need to bring your handcuffs then, Detective.”
Heat burned my cheeks almost the second after the words left my lips. Perhaps I was the only person who recognized the unintentional innuendo in my reply. A few snickers were heard from around the room… and nope, I wasn’t getting off that easily. Pausing by the door, I glanced back at Wilcox. The heat in his eyes made me blush even more.
Well, hell. The man made me think sexy thoughts even amidst a crime scene. Not wanting to contemplate all the kinds of wrong that was, I fled.
A ghost waited for me only a block away from the Irish Cultural Association office. My mark, to be precise. The latest hunt for me to track down and send packing to Mr. Fire and Brimstone hi
mself. Except clearly, I wasn’t the one doing the tracking at the moment.
If anything was going to drive me insane, it was these indecisive spirits. First, they wanted to kill me to keep me from sending them to Hell, and now they were begging me to hold up my sword so they could plunge onto the blade themselves. And I’d only thought their baffling interest in the TRND Energy officers had been odd. I still wasn’t certain what that had been about.
“Praedator,” the ghost greeted, tipping his fedora. Ghosts of all ages and time periods were assigned to me via Sebastian Balázs’s correspondence letters. The period of clothing they died in appeared to be the norm for their daily attire. Sometimes bruising or scarring on their bodies provided a visual indication of how they died. Although a decapitated victim didn’t have to walk around carrying her head by her side, according to Miss Prim. It was the physical body harmed, not the spirit. Still, many ghosts seemed content appearing as what they last had in life.
Only on occasion did their appearance change—by stolen goods, no doubt. Unless there were clothing stores built on their plane of existence. Because otherwise, how did a ghost manage to swipe a designer dress, pull it through the veil, and change clothing in what I called the Ghost Realm—a parallel plane to Earth where the spirits were directed to upon their death? At least, the spirits not being escorted by the Grims… or was it Grim? Singular?
“Ready to die?” I asked, not even bothering to pause as I passed.
The ghost fell into step by my side. “An eager one you are.”
I slid him a side glance. “Yes, I am. Find me a dark alley, and my sword will be drawn.”
“You’ve already walked past one.”
My eyes widened in alarm. “Aw, crap. We have to turn back.”
I kept walking forward.
“It’s your job to send me to Hell,” the ghost, who I decided to name Mr. Persistent, said.
“I thought it was my job to walk down a public sidewalk appearing as if I’m speaking to myself while everyone passing me thinks I’m nuts.”
“This isn’t going to work for the boss.”
“Really, what isn’t?”
“Your unwillingness to perform your duties.”
“If I send you on now, no doubt another assignment will pop up on my doormat in the morning,” I said. “I have two more days before you’re due to arrive at your next destination, so how about you show back up on Wednesday and we’ll take care of the arrangements then? Right now I need space.”
Actually, I needed more than space if I was back to demon hunting.
“Nope, you’re not ready,” Mr. Persistent said.
“Not ready… what?” I veered off onto a less populated side street and stopped near an old homeless man sitting on a blanket, leaning against the side of a building while pecking at a bag of Corn Nuts. Whipping around, I faced the Dearly Departed who had followed. “What is with this ready business?”
“I said you’re not ready.”
“Well others have claimed that I am,” I said. “What am I ready or not ready for?”
“Well, that depends on what you’re trying to do,” the homeless man seated behind me said.
“Why do you all suddenly wish to die?” I asked Mr. Persistent.
“I never said anything about wanting to die,” Homeless Man said. “Life sucks, but it ain’t gotten that bad yet.”
“As of last week, you all beg me to stab you with my sword, eager to be sent to Hell.”
“You’re crazy, lady.” Homeless Man got up and strutted past with head high while dragging his blanket behind. “If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I moved over to Marsh Street, next to that apartment building where the man sits in his window and howls along with his dog. I don’t like sitting around crazy people. Might rub off or something.”
“I wouldn’t use the term beg,” Mr. Persistent said.
“What then?”
“If you don’t do your job, Satan takes your soul.”
“And? What should that matter to you?”
“You need to fulfill the prophecy, and that can’t be done from Hell.”
Speechless, I stared. “I don’t know what—”
“You do know,” Mr. Persistent interrupted. “The boss figured it out a long time ago.”
If the boss was Red-Eyed Ghost, as I suspected, he wanted me dead. Not fulfilling a prophecy. “So this sacrifice of yours is for the greater good? You all allow me to send you on, so Hell won’t come after me?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“One problem,” I said. “How do you already know you’re my selected mark?”
“We have our sources.”
“Someone on the inside?”
He smiled and a whole other can of questions opened. Like How is someone on the inside passing communication? That spirit would have to be in the inner-circle, I would think. Perhaps an assistant to Sebastian?
“Prepare for your destiny, Praedator.”
“Again, how do you know I’m not ready?”
“If you were, you’d know what to do with this.” Mr. Persistent reached into his pocket and pulled out a pendant in sterling silver. Red ruby stones glistened in the daylight.
My breath snagged as I stared. My mother’s pendant. The one stolen from me when I was fifteen years old. One of the reasons my mother was so distant toward me—well, my normal mother. Not this reality warped woman who texted me each morning to see how I was doing. I had spent eleven years wondering how to steal back that pendant… where I could even locate it. And now it was being held in front of me.
“On Wednesday we shall meet again.”
The ghost poofed right as I reached for the necklace, leaving me grasping at nothing but air. My eyes closed, and I froze in shock. Muscles felt tight, along with my jaw, as I continued visualizing the pendant. My pendant. I wanted it back. Now.
“Forgot my Corn Nuts.”
Eyelids reopened to see Homeless Man trudging back toward me, blanket still dragging like a tail behind.
“Can’t forget the nuts,” he said, picking up his bag and sauntering back off. He left me standing alone with my thoughts.
And plotting. Lots and lots of plotting would commence now that after a decade, the necklace was back within my reach. Finally.
Chapter 16
Collecting client Intel for Maude Taggart normally consisted of following said client around until I knew enough of their likes from their dislikes. Stalking, if I wanted to get technical about it… but I didn’t.
The victim—er, client—would be tailed for several hours at the least. Multiple days at the most. And, if I was lucky, I’d learn enough facts about the soulmate-seeking aspirant I was pursuing to make it appear Maude really was clairvoyant.
My what-could-be-considered-underhanded approach, which allowed my boss to claim spoken with the spirits on her business cards… and the small plaque attached to the wall behind her desk… apparently was a success. A steady stream of clients had ensured an Open sign remained firmly placed on the front door to Fated Match—implied signage, of course. Maude would never have anything so tacky posted on her front entrance.
No one was ever the wiser that Maude’s vision and information from the beyond originated from me. Ducking out of sight, squeezing into small spaces, and blending into locations where I failed to acknowledge a No Trespassing were all part of my daily activities. The one task not on my to-do checklist was experiencing the tiny pricks of awareness that I was being watched myself. Studied. Dissected. I was the person, after all, supposed to be doing the observing… not the other way around. Being followed was ridiculous… as I reminded my tingling nerves.
Every two blasted minutes.
The constant there’s no one behind you reminders inside my head grew irritating. This was a new level of pathetic even for me, yet the feeling of being pursued refused to ebb. Even after locating Bridget, who was easily confirmed as a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, as I had suspected. The skirt she’d worn
to the initial interview screamed anything but tailored and expensive, unlike every other skirt to walk through the front door of Fated Match. Except mine. And Miss Prim’s—her skirt was at least six decades out of style. Nothing could be declared pricey or fashionable about that.
Bridget had been seated in one of her brother’s bars when I found her—she has seven. Brothers, that is. Not bars. Her family owned twenty-five sports bars in three major cities. A new location was about to open in a fourth city somewhere to the south.
With Bridget chowing down on wings and chatting with the group of men seated at her table, all the while watching ESPN, I quickly determined her reasoning for signing up with a matchmaking service. The twenty-six-year-old female, who apparently rattled off sports statistics like nobody’s business, needed help finding a man who didn’t consider her one of the guys. Work? Mine was cut out with this one. The Champagne and caviar clientele Maude normally drug in would find it an insult to discover honey BBQ sauce carelessly smeared on Prada. Despite the potential setbacks, a match made in Heaven would happen for Bridget Reynolds if I had any say. Only a few details needed ironing out.
Like all of them.
Finding Josh, on the other hand, was a little more interesting. And it wasn’t because I was ninety-nine point nine nine percent certain a mysterious someone, who always remained one step out of my line of sight, had stood a mere foot behind me when I’d tracked down my client’s location. No, the interesting part of one Josh Malone was how exactly I found him… which had been easy.
The CFO of a dog gadget company was playing old arcade games in a retro store down on the west end of the city. I’d lucked out when calling him, having my just-confirming-your-application speech down pat, hoping to get a vibe for whether Josh was either at the office or somewhere more mobile—praying for the latter. Stalking was next to impossible to accomplish when said stalkee remained tucked away in a non-accessible indoor location, seated behind a large, mahogany desk.
Instead of reaching Josh, however, I’d received his voicemail. It had detailed his daily itinerary for anyone who needed to reach him. So there I was, sitting amongst a pile of Cabbage Patch dolls for the sixty minutes I’d allotted to learning all things Josh. For his part, he switched between Donkey Kong and Asteroids at a steady rate of plays. I maintained my own rate of peeking over my shoulder, keeping an eye out for my unconfirmed stalker, consistent. Spine remained on the side of prickly, and the wall display, packed with every My Little Pony ever created during my childhood, wasn’t going to soothe the unease.
Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3) Page 17
