Montague & Strong Detective Novels Box Set: Montague & Strong Detective Novels Books, 1 through 3 (Montague & Strong Case Files)
Page 1
Contents
The
Tombyards & Butterflies
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
Full Moon Howl
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
BLOOD IS THICKER
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
Cast of Characters for the Montague & Strong Colle...
ORGANIZATIONS
AUTHOR NOTES
Still here? Well, if you’ve made it this far—you d...
Silver Clouds Dirty Sky
ONE
Thank you for reading
Acknowledgments
ART Shredders
About the Author
Copyright
The
Montague & Strong Collection
Books 1-3
Tombyards & Butterflies
A Montague and Strong Book 1
I remembered my grandfather, my sister, and various aunts and cousins, in their coffins and gone forever in the tombyards where the butterflies settled like flowers on the graves and where the flowers blew away like butterflies over the stones.
-Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing.
ONE
WHAT’S MORE EXCITING than chasing a rabid werewolf in the middle of the night? Chasing that rabid werewolf in Downtown Manhattan in the middle of the night. The Village, as a neighborhood, was a warren of intersecting streets and dead ends. We had already been at it for thirty minutes and we were closing in.
“This is what the English did,” I said as we ran down Sixth Avenue. “Who lays out a city like this? A grid, Monty, would it have killed them to use a grid?”
“The Dutch were here first,” he said. “The English didn’t arrive until 1664. That’s how you get the name New York.”
We chased it down Minetta Lane off Sixth Avenue. The wet-dog smell punched me in the face as soon as I turned the corner.
“There’s something wrong with that smell,” I said. “God, he reeks!”
“I didn’t realize you were a werewolf scent expert,” Monty said as he caught up, his long legs making it easy.
“I’m not, but this guy smells like he hasn’t bathed in a year. And did you see his eyes?”
“I did,” Monty said. “He seems to be suffering from some kind of reaction.”
“Reaction? He tore that poor woman in half. That’s not a reaction. That’s a full-blown infection.”
“It does seem like he’s unstable,” Monty said as he looked up and down the street.
“Just a bit, yeah.”
We followed the scent to the end of Minetta and on to Macdougal Street, when a large, furry blur shot past us.
“Shoot it, Simon! Shoot!”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I said as I fired several times.
“Shoot it harder!”
We jumped behind a parked SUV. The license plate read RUFFRDR. The truck was one of those huge things that wasn’t quite a tank but could never pass for an ordinary car, either. I figured there was enough vehicle to protect us from the Were’s razor-sharp claws. That theory evaporated, though. We jumped to the side as it sliced through the metal and plastic with ease, rendering our cover useless. The SUV fell apart like blocks of LEGO and I couldn’t help thinking that RUFFRDR was going to wake up in the morning and have a very bad day.
“Really, that’s what you’re going with, Monty? ‘Shoot it harder’?”
“Strong,” rasped the creature on the other side of what used to be a perfectly functioning mode of transportation. “I’m going to rip out your intestines and eat them while you watch.”
“Wow,” Monty said. “He’s pissed. What did you do to him?”
“Now would be a good time for magic,” I said. “You know, a fireball or two? Or some Were-melting spell?”
“Can’t—he’s wearing a null proximity rune,” Monty said. “But I don’t understand why the silver ammo isn’t affecting him. You did switch out for silver ammo, right?”
“Silver…ammo? Of course I packed the silver—shit.”
I forgot to switch the ammo.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Monty said, exasperated. “We’re out here fighting a werewolf, Simon.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s a little hard to miss.”
“I’m going to die,” he said as his voice hiked up an octave. “Out here on the filthy street, alongside you. Wonderful.”
“No, I just misplaced it,” I said with feigned indignation. “Hey, I had to pack all the bags while you did your meditation thing to charge the magic you’re currently not using.”
Monty narrowed his eyes and glared.
“Are you saying this is somehow my fault?”
“I’m just saying a little magic would make this go smoother, especially since I
forgot to pack the silver ammo.”
The werewolf shoved the debris of the SUV to one side. Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth as he snarled loudly enough to rattle some of the windows. I jerked my head to one side to let Monty know that tall, dark, and fangy was about to shred us.
“Monty? Werewolf!!” I said, pointing at the large, angry creature closing on us.
Monty turned, opened his hands, and formed two large spheres of air in his palms. They were the size of basketballs and whirled with tremendous force, kicking up the detritus around us.
He let them go and they slammed into the werewolf, smashing it into the building across the street with enough force to dislodge a wheelbarrow full of bricks. The Were bounced off the wall and fell to the street face-first, unconscious. I holstered my gun, Grim Whisper, and ran over. The Grim Whisper was a custom designed and runed M&P Shield 9mm adapted to hold ten rounds plus one in the chamber. It had enough power to stop most supernatural threats, especially with modified ammo. For everything else, I had Monty.
I put a pair of silver restraints, individual bracers designed to prevent transformation, around his front legs, and he slowly morphed back to human. Now we stood over a naked man in the middle of the street.
“Did you bring the extra set of clothes?” Monty asked as he looked around and brushed the dust off his suit. He kept his shoulder-length hair loose and moved a few strands out of his face. His eyes gave off a subtle yellow glow, which happened every time he used magic.
I reached into my pack and pulled out a pair of jeans and a large T-shirt. It was one of my old ‘I love New York’ shirts, where the ‘love’ is replaced with a large red heart.
“I hope you know this shirt is a collector’s item,” I said as I dressed the Were. “You can’t get them anymore.”
“Unless you take a stroll around Times Square,” Monty said and shook out his hands. “Hurry up, Simon.”
“I thought you couldn’t use magic on it?”
“I couldn’t, I used magic around it.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed the one number I knew would be working at this hour of the night.
“NYTF, Lieutenant Ramirez speaking,” answered the voice.
Angel Ramirez had been with the NYTF for the last five years. He was rough around the edges, tough as hell, and a loyal— if not slightly crazy—friend. The only person I trusted more was Monty.
The New York Task Force, or NYTF, was a quasi-military police force created to deal with any supernatural event occurring in New York City. They’re paid to deal with the things that can’t be explained to the general public without causing mass hysteria.
“I want my dinner at Peter Luger’s this weekend,” I said. “On you.”
“Simon, el fuerte, you got him?” Ramirez asked. “No way!”
“Of course I got him,” I said as Monty scowled and raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, Monty got him, but I tracked him.”
“Then maybe Monty should get Luger’s, not you. I’m sending a bus over. Where are you?”
“Macdougal and Minetta.”
“Is he silvered?” Ramirez asked. “Or are we walking into a shitstorm?”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he weren’t.”
“Hang tight, they’ll be there in ten.”
I ended the call only to have my phone ring again. Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” played and I seriously considered not picking up.
“Answer it,” Monty said. “You know she’ll just show up if you don’t.”
Bracing myself, I answered the call.
“Chi, what a surprise.”
“You know I hate that name,” she said. “Where are you?”
Actually, I did know. That’s exactly why I always used it.
“I’m kind of in the middle—”
“Save it. Your office, twenty minutes,” she said and hung up.
I looked at the phone for a few seconds before dropping it in my pocket.
“I think she’s fond of you,” Monty said with a smile. “Certainly sounds like it.”
I gave him my best ‘I’ll stomp you silly’ glare.
“What’s wrong with your face?” he asked. “Are you injured, or constipated?”
“Hilarious.” I waved him away. “You going to be okay here with Scooby?”
“Who?”
“The Were,” I said, pointing. “The guy we just caught?”
“You’re the one going to meet a vampire and you’re asking me if I’m going to be okay?”
He had a point.
TWO
ON MY WAY to meet Chi at my office, I ran into my landlord.
Olga Gabriella Rodensky Etrechenko gave the term ‘ice queen’ a new meaning. Impeccably dressed, she always wore the latest in Italian or French haute couture. She stood in the lobby of my building, the Moscow, and peered down at me as if noticing an ant on her shoe. I walked past Andrei, the door attendant, who I think competed in strongman competitions in his spare time—(and if he didn’t, he should).
Olga’s thick accent and husky voice simultaneously aroused and terrified me. She fixed me with her glacial blue eyes and smiled. Her blond hair rested loose around her face and completed the Valkyrie look.
“Stronk,” she said, never able to manage the ‘g’ at the end of my name. She beckoned with a finger.
“Hello, Olga,” I said. “You’re looking stunning, as usual.”
“This old thing? Last year,” she said, gesturing at her dress that had probably cost enough to feed an entire Third World country. She pursed her lips and then locked eyes with me. “You owe last month.”
I didn’t know how she tracked me, but she always knew. In addition to being the resident ice goddess, she was also my landlord. If the rumors I heard were true, you never cheated Olga. My knees locked in place and my legs refused to listen. I took a deep breath and found my voice.
“I just finished a job. I’ll have it by the end of the week.”
“Good. Give envelope to Andrei by end of week,” she said and walked out into a waiting Bugatti Veyron Sang Noir. She drove off and I found I could breathe normally again. I let out a long breath and Andrei gave me a smile and short nod. Being around her was like looking at the sun—great in short doses, lethal in the long term.
My office/home was located in a converted loft space on 14th Street and 11th Avenue in what used to be the Vault, an old BDSM club, but was now the property of one Mrs. Etrechenko. I never saw her husband. I assumed she had just eaten him on the night of the wedding and then carried on with life.
I was on the second floor and I used the stairs. The building itself used to be an old factory before it was a BDSM club and then converted to loft spaces. I shared the floor with Christye, Blahq, and Doil—a law firm of questionable character that occupied three quarters of the floor. They were closed as usual. I kept to a night schedule, which meant I rarely saw any of them, but I would hear of their exploits in the news. Occasionally they would refer a client my way, probably out of pity.
I briefly removed a smudge from our silver plaque, which read Montague & Strong Investigators and was located to the left of our door. I still think it should’ve said Strong & Montague, but Monty suggested that S&M Investigators would bring us a ‘whips, chains, and cuffs’ type of clientele. He bought the plaque and put up most of the seed capital, so I figured I’d let him have his way.
I opened the thick stainless steel door and disabled the state-of-the-art alarm system, which I was assured was so sensitive it could pick up a fly farting as it flew by. I walked past our small reception area and office. I made my way to the living area that sat behind another door at the rear of the space.
In the middle of my living room sat Michiko, or Chi as I called her. So much for my ultra-sensitive alarm. Michiko Nakatomi belonged to one of the most ancient vampire clans on the planet. When feudal lords were fighting over parcels of land, her family owned entire islands. Her family also helped form the Dark Council, the ruli
ng body of supernatural beings that governed all supernatural activity.
Tiny, she barely topped five feet, and looked more like a character out of an anime with her long black hair than the force of lethality I knew and loved. She sat motionless in a red blouse and black business pantsuit.
Her emotionless black eyes followed me as I entered. I removed my shoes, a habit I learned from my sensei, and went to the kitchen to prepare some green tea.
In the distant past, she was known as Karitori-fu—the reaping wind. Tales of her exploits became legends. I was pretty sure they still used stories of her in Japan to make children behave.
I brought over two yunomi, Japanese tea cups that I kept for her infrequent visits, and served her tea first. We sat at a chabudai, a low table designed for these kinds of occasions. She nodded and took her cup, savoring the aroma of the tea for a few seconds before taking a sip.
“I have a situation,” she said in her clipped English.
“Human?” I asked.
She took another sip and shook her head.
“Why not have the Dark Council handle it? You sit on the governing body.”
“The Council can be a bit heavy-handed and I need a lighter touch—an outsider’s touch, like yours,”
I was about as subtle as a brick thrown through a window. The flattery was setting off all kinds of alarms.
“So you need plausible deniability,” I said. “How bad is it?”
“It has to do with a shunned vampire from another clan.”
I raised my eyebrow at her and slowly set my cup on the table. Vampires rarely got involved in other clans’ affairs. It led to miscommunications and usually a few messy deaths.
“And you can’t be seen to be involved,” I said. “What did this vampire do?”
“It’s complicated. I just need you to collect her before the Council does.”
“Collect? A vampire?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do with this vampire when I do?”
“Keep her safe,” she said. “She will be at this address later tonight.” She handed me a photo and a slip of paper with an address written in a neat and meticulous way. I recognized her handwriting immediately. “She won’t be in your care for more than a night.”
I looked at the picture and saw the image of a young woman in her late twenties. She was above average-looking, but nothing too remarkable. The one thing that stood out was the woman’s red hair.
“How old is she and what’s her name?” I asked. Pointing at the picture, “Is that her real color?”