Conviction

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “No. But it’s urgent I speak with her, so if you could—”

  “All right, all right.” Aerwyna shook her head. “Is it the legs that makes you hurry all the time? It must be the legs… You’ll find Julia in the southwest ship.” She pointed to the ship in question. “Go through the door on the side facing the courtyard. Ask anyone inside, they’ll point you toward her quarters.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Aerwyna said grimly.

  Michaleen was already having another drink, but to his credit, it didn’t seem to have any effect on his steering. I stared at the sprawling sea-haven of Turning Tides.

  The ships were only two stories, but somehow they still gave the impression of skyscrapers. They just had that metal and glass look to them, that sophisticated simplicity that screamed wealth. Walkways connected each ship, pristine constructions of fiberglass and polished metal. They looked slippery, but I didn’t see anyone falling on their backsides, so maybe not.

  Michaleen stopped at the corner beside one of the large ships. Once again, he left it to Flint to jump onto the walkway with the rope and haul it close enough for me to disembark as well.

  “Don’t bother tying it off,” the captain told him. “Just pitch the rope back onto the boat. I’ll sail out a ways to make room for the others comin’ for the later races. You come back here when you’re ready to head on, and I’ll spot ye.”

  It said something about the state of my nerves that I didn’t question the alertness of a sea captain in his cups. I followed Aerwyna’s directions and found myself standing outside a glass door, looking in at what looked like an aristocratic dinner party—circa the early 1900s. It was hard not to notice that the people inside were nearly all women. Most of them wore funnel-shaped, ankle-length wool skirts, and their upper bodies were draped in tasteful jewelry and snug in pouter-pigeon bodices. For a moment, I felt myself transported back in time.

  I’d worn dresses and baubles like that once.

  “So they’re older than they look,” Peasblossom observed, taking in the women’s style.

  “But not fey.” I nodded toward them. “Most of them look like they’re in their late thirties, early forties.”

  “What kind of Otherworlder do you think they are?” Flint asked.

  “I don’t care.” I opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately all movement stopped. One of the women closest to the door—a woman with dark brown hair pinned in a no-nonsense fashion beneath a flat-topped straw hat, stepped forward to greet me.

  “Hello. My name is Emily Hodges. How can I help you?”

  I forced myself to stand still and observe the social niceties. “My name is Mother Renard. This is Peasblossom, this is Flint Valencia, and this is Scath. I’m here to speak with Julia. Could you tell me where I might find her?”

  Emily studied Flint, and I didn’t know if it was because he was a man, or if she was just taking a moment to appreciate his appearance. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the former. “If I might ask, what do you want to speak with her about?” she said finally, turning back to me.

  “It’s about Deacon. I’m trying to find out who killed him, and I need her help.”

  Emily’s eyes sharpened. I remembered what Aerwyna had said about Julia still processing his death. “For whom are you performing this investigation?”

  “Myself,” I answered immediately. “A friend of mine is being blamed for it, but he didn’t do it. I want to find and punish the person who’s truly responsible.”

  “How do you know your friend didn’t do it?” she asked warily.

  If I wanted to meet Julia, I clearly needed to pass Emily’s test first. She didn’t know Andy, and would have very little reason to take my word for it that he wouldn’t have murdered Deacon. Just as there was no reason that I knew of that she’d take my word for Morgan’s culpability.

  I looked around the room again. This time, I noticed something else. Not only was the room full of mostly women, but almost all of them had a book. Either in their laps, or close by. I could only make out the titles of two books. The blonde woman in the grey dress was reading String Theory and M-Theory. And the redhead in the green was reading Spinoza on Philosophy, Religion, and Politics: The Theologico-Political Treatise.

  An academic bunch.

  I turned back to Emily. “Forensic experts found a small speck of fine leather caught on the gun’s trigger. Expensive leather, beyond what my friend could afford. The one person on the property known for wearing such gloves also happens to be a woman that I believe has been responsible for an attempted murder in the last twenty-four hours. But, of course, early in the investigation, I can’t say with a certainty that anyone is guilty or not guilty. I need more information. And I’m very much hoping Julia can provide it.”

  Emily considered me for another moment. Then she nodded. “Follow me.”

  As pleased as I was that she had agreed to take me to Julia, a tiny voice in my head screamed that I shouldn’t be walking deeper into a ship, amidst people whose powers I did not know, to meet a woman to discuss her dead lover. Scath pressed against my side as we walked, hard enough to let me know she was there but without setting me off balance. I looked down at her and she held my gaze.

  I relaxed. As I passed another brunette, this one wearing a lovely peach-colored dress and matching cameo jewelry, I paused and looked down at the book across her lap. The title read Advances in Culture Theory from Psychological Anthropology.

  She looked up at me when I stopped, and I nodded at her book. “No spoilers, but the chapter on dual inheritance is fantastic.”

  She blinked at me and I smiled before following Emily up the stairs. I was still mindful of the risks, but when we reached Julia’s door and Emily gestured her permission, I didn’t hesitate.

  I opened the door to a small vintage décor study. The room smelled of antique furniture, ancient books, and a faint hint of French perfume. The aroma engulfed my senses, and again I felt as if I’d been transported back in time.

  Way back.

  If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I’d see my sister when I opened them…

  A heavy Chippendale desk stood against the far left wall, and a chaise couch against the right. Beside it was a squat table whose flame mahogany matched the desk, piled with gilt lettered books and legal pads. A tall woman attired like the others, with long blonde curls so rich and gold that I doubted it ever saw the sun, sat reading on the lounge with her legs gracefully folded beside her. Her blue eyes left the text to peer at me from a face that held a classic, porcelain beauty with just enough lines around her eyes and mouth to suggest she’d passed her fortieth birthday.

  “May I help you?” She offered me a pleasant smile.

  Suddenly, I knew what she was.

  What they all were.

  My heart stuttered.

  Vampires.

  Chapter 17

  “Breathe, dear,” Julia said. “Remember to breathe.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. As soon as she said that, the breath rushed back into my lungs in an audible gasp.

  The vampiress across the room watched me with unabashed interest, so it seemed only fair that I could do the same.

  She wore a pale blue blouse buttoned all the way up to the base of the high collar that hid her throat and tickled the top of her neck with delicate ruffles. Sapphires sparkled in her matching antique silver earrings and rings. Her pleated skirt was a darker shade of blue and high-waisted. In her curled up position on the couch, the long skirt rode up just enough to give me a glimpse of knee high soft black leather boots intricately laced with silk ribbon. A pair of soft leather gloves that matched the boots lay on the table next to her. Not gray leather like the piece caught on the trigger of the gun that killed Deacon, I noted automatically, but the same high quality.

  Of all the things I’d expected from Deacon’s former mistress, being a vampiress hadn’t been one of them.

  She lowered her book, and I
noticed the title printed on the front cover. “You’re studying autopsy pathology?”

  “I am.” This time her smile didn’t reveal any fang. It made me think my earlier glimpse of her elongated canines had been deliberate. A way to let me know what she was.

  “Allow me to properly introduce myself. I’m Dr. Julia Ouellet.” She laid the book on the cushion beside her as she slid her legs off the couch and planted her booted feet on the floor. “And you are…?”

  “Mother Renard.” Using my title was the equivalent of her flashing her fangs. This immediate and easy sharing, without all the back and forth that usually came when members of the Otherworld tried to feel one another out without being rude—or particularly honest—was a breath of fresh air.

  I shrugged my shoulder, prompting the pixie to reveal herself. Another show of good faith. “This is my familiar, Peasblossom.”

  Peasblossom marched out from under my hair, her chin held high, her wings raised to show off their glittering perfection. “Hello, Dr. Julia,” she said, inclining her head ever so slightly.

  “You have a pixie for a familiar.” Julia smiled. “It speaks well of you that one of the wee ones would be so inclined to serve you.”

  Peasblossom preened under the compliment.

  “And this is Scath, my bodyguard,” I added, nodding at her.

  The vampiress slid her attention to the feline sidhe, but only for a moment. The quick dismissal caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure if she’d assumed Scath was merely a beast, a brute force used only for self-defense, or if she were hiding a different reaction. Or maybe I was just so used to people having a dramatic reaction to the sidhe that Julia’s nonchalance surprised me.

  “And you?” she asked Flint.

  “Flint Valencia.”

  Julia tilted her head. “Peasblossom is Mother Renard’s familiar. Scath is her bodyguard. What is your role?”

  A shrewd question. I didn’t know if Julia knew about my contract with Flint or not—though it wouldn’t surprise me, since Siobhan knew and Aerwyna had commented on how fast gossip traveled here.

  Flint considered Julia for a moment, probably weighing whether or not to dance around the question.

  “I think you’ll find I value honesty,” Julia said softly. “Let’s begin as we mean to go on, shall we?”

  Flint inclined his head. “I’m her master.”

  Julia’s expression shut down, no longer the open book of before. “Oh?”

  It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did that he’d thrown that bit of information in, but I’d had a truly horrendous day, and it wasn’t over yet. “Don’t let it speak well of the sidhe that he owns a witch,” I said stiffly. “He did nothing to earn it. It was a simple—and temporary—financial transaction that was necessary at the time to keep bad things from happening to good children.”

  “I would like to hear more of that story. But perhaps at another time. You must have a reason for seeking me out?”

  Now that she said that, it occurred to me to find it odd that no one had told her why I was here. Or indeed, even announced me.

  Julia seemed to read my mind. “I make it a point to surround myself only with those I trust. Had you not had a good reason for seeing me without an appointment, you never would have been shown to my study.” She glanced at Flint. “On that note, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you wait outside, Mr. Valencia. I would prefer to speak with Mother Renard without her master present.”

  I didn’t know what I would have done if Flint had refused to leave. Or refused to let me talk to Julia alone. Thankfully, he seemed content with the knowledge that he could make me tell him anything we discussed later anyway. And since Scath’s presence made his need to stay for protection purposes redundant, he merely offered a slight bow, then left as requested.

  Julia smiled. “Much better. I find conversations flow so much smoother when there are no men present. Now, what has brought you to see me?”

  I clamped down on the urge to get right down to business. I wanted answers, desperately, but Deacon had spoken fondly of Julia. Her absence of mourning garb didn’t prove she didn’t return his affection, and I needed to treat this moment with the dignity and compassion that discussing a deceased loved one deserved.

  I gestured to the couch. “May I sit down?”

  “Please.” She moved her book to the coffee table beside her gloves before patting the cushion.

  I took a seat facing the vampire. “I’d like to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss. I only met Deacon yesterday, and didn’t have the chance to get to know him well, but he spoke very fondly of you. I could tell he missed you very much.”

  “And I him. Thank you for your kind words.” She cast her gaze across the room to a small table that held a single picture frame. “Deacon was such a sweet man. He had a poetic soul and a true gift for helping people find their passion, find what inspired them. He was so easy to talk to.”

  Anger pinched her features. “I never should have let that woman take him. If I’d had a little more time, I could have proved she cheated. I would have had him back.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for asking, why did you wager with his life to begin with?” I asked. “Deacon said Siobhan won him in a race?”

  “Siobhan,” she ground out. “It was all her doing. It was never supposed to happen that way. Deacon was never meant to be held up as a prize to be won.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I encouraged her.

  Tension squeezed her shoulders together, and she smoothed a lock of curly blonde hair behind her ear, visibly fighting to retain her composure. “Siobhan has always been a showwoman. She enjoys pomp and circumstance, she loves attention and high stakes, and she revels in having power over others. It makes her vivacious and charismatic, a natural marketer perfect for an industry as adrenaline-infused as racing. One day last month she announced a very exclusive race, only three horses running. It was advertised as a contest between the best of the best, with several qualifying races leading up to it.”

  “Mickey V said Siobhan runs the racetrack like a casino, with some horses serving as the ‘house,’” I put in. “Was one of the horses in this exclusive race Siobhan’s?”

  “Yes,” Julia said bitterly. “And of course her horse did not have to run the qualifying races. Cassidy was new to the track, a complete unknown. It was part of the draw. The two winners of the qualifying races would go against a ‘mystery’ runner.”

  “You said Deacon was never meant to be the prize,” Peasblossom spoke up. “So how did that come about?”

  Julia rose from the couch fast, startling me. I saw her deliberately slow her movements so as not to do it again as she approached the table, skirts rustling softly, and lifted the small picture frame. “When she first announced the race, the prize was to be an artifact. Something of great power. Only at the last minute, the artifact was ‘confiscated by the Vanguard.’”

  “What artifact?” I asked.

  Julia waved a hand. “Rasputin’s cloak. But what the artifact was doesn’t matter. The point is, the Vanguard very conveniently seized it the day before the race.”

  “It was that powerful that the Vanguard stepped in?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice.

  “No.” Julia gave me a disapproving look as if I’d latched on to an inconsequential detail and was holding up the story. “Apparently, the true owner is still alive, and he requested that the item be returned to him.”

  “Rasputin?” Peasblossom squeaked. “He’s alive?”

  “No. The holy man is dead, but his royal charge still lives.” She shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Regardless, this man claimed ownership on the basis that Rasputin’s cloak was his when he was alive.”

  I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who the owner was. There was only one man still living “in a manner of speaking” who could both claim ownership of Rasputin’s cloak, and use the Vanguard as his own personal delivery service.

  I was starting to get ver
y uneasy about how many times Anton Winters seemed to pop up in this case.

  “With the artifact out of play,” the vampiress continued, “Siobhan had the ‘sudden’ idea to wager our jockeys in its place. It just so happened that everyone participating in the race—Siobhan, myself, and a sheik—owned our jockeys, and had the authority to put them up.” Julia set the picture frame down with a sharp clatter of metal on wood. “I do not believe that was a coincidence.”

  “Deacon lost,” I guessed.

  Julia clasped her hands in front of her, then forced them down again. “She cheated. I don’t know what she did to Deacon, but he was a disaster when that race started. Cold sweat dripping from his forehead, his skin flushed until he looked as if he’d been turned inside out. He was terrified.”

  “Maybe he was just nervous because he was risking his life in that race?” I asked. “Perhaps what you saw was the worry that he might lose you.”

  “That’s what Siobhan claimed,” Julia muttered. “But it’s not true. I promised Deacon that if he lost, we would be together again. I promised I would find a way. He was calm when he left my bed before the race.”

  I rose from the couch and came closer to the table so I could see the photo better.

  It wasn’t a photograph of Deacon, as I’d first thought, it was a small painting. The artist had caught him looking up at someone out of the picture, but I saw the skirts brushing his arm where he sat on the floor. I guessed it was Julia.

  “I felt him die,” she whispered. “We were connected.” She turned to catch my gaze. “Siobhan didn’t care for him. I knew that. But she should have protected him. He was her responsibility.” She cleared her throat, looking away as if to rein in her emotions. “If she didn’t want him, I would have bought him back from her. I offered to buy him back.”

  I considered her for a long moment. I didn’t know Julia very well, but I knew vampires. The younger ones might be prone to bloodlust and less likely to have impulse control, but not the older ones. If Julia agreed to allow Deacon to run in that race after Siobhan switched the terms, she must have had a reason. Either she didn’t care for Deacon as much as she said she did, or she had thought of a way to benefit from his loss in the event he didn’t win. Unfortunately, unraveling her motives would take time that I didn’t have.