If his mistress tried to read his mind right now, all she’d run into was fearful confusion. And if she had read it, she wasn’t in any hurry to provide answers.
Perhaps she felt he’d gotten the point by now—that everything would be fine provided he didn’t mess things up again. Maybe, just maybe, all he had to do was get that cat statue and all would be forgiven.
The chances of that seemed so slim as to be virtually invisible.
“Mistress,” he said, using speech to help mask his deepest thoughts, “I only spared him because I needed him alive to set a trap for Taylor. You have to believe me! I’m so close. Trap or no trap, I’ll get that idol. I won’t fail you again.”
The mark on his chest did not burn him again but the phone didn’t ring, either.
Moswen’s patience was wearing thin. Somehow, he knew that. He did not dwell on the idea lest she pick up on it. There wasn’t much need to try to deceive her right now, though. His dread was genuine enough and it might serve to remind her of his servitude.
His time was running out. He didn’t know how much he had left, but it wasn’t exactly a lot. Already, he’d had too many chances. Taylor still lived and the Black Cat Idol was still in her possession.
How many times could he disappoint his mistress—and how many times could he cryptically attempt to defy her—before she grew tired enough of the whole game that she simply came to New York to deal with things herself?
Alex looked around his room at the destroyed bed and cracked walls. He hadn’t heard much noise over the last day or two, so it was possible that he was the only person currently in the motel. But if there were any neighbors, they would have heard the fight. The police might already be on their way.
He gathered his things and stuffed them into his backpack. It was time to move on. This place was no longer viable.
There might still be a chance to buy himself more time to protect himself. He needed a win. Something he could hold up to prove he hadn’t crashed and burned.
In his mind, he repeated the same pleas and questions he’d already directed at Moswen, allowing them to dominate his surface-level mental activity to distract her while on another level, his brain quietly had other ideas.
If he could steal the Black Cat Idol out from under Taylor’s nose without antagonizing her too much more, he might be able to trade it back to her in exchange for her aid. That is if Moswen’s fiery brand didn’t kill him first.
Packing up the last of his meager possessions, he tried not to choke on his own rising sense of desperation.
Just my luck. He hoped he managed to keep his thoughts buried enough to escape his mistress’ attention by adding a few signs of his loyalty. I only wanted to make a name for myself with a spectacular dig and now, all this crap has gotten in the way. Of course, I couldn’t have found a nicer vampire to end up working for. Or a weaker vampire to be assigned to destroy.
It occurred to him, also, that even if his plan worked, he might end up similarly enslaved to Taylor. Still, it was his best chance to survive.
None of this is my fault. But sooner or later, someone will pay for it.
North Queens, New York City
Remy pulled the car into a vacant lot next to an old, closed-down auto parts shop. His head almost fell against the horn.
“Riley,” he moaned, “I…need to rest. Can you enchant the car so no one can break through a window?”
The fairy sounded like she, too, was out of breath. “Yes. I think I need to rest too. It’s been a long day. And that man…he channeled power from someone—or something—really powerful. I don’t have much more left in me.”
He glanced around. A trio of teenagers passed on the other side of the street but ignored him.
“Do your best.” He groaned. “I…uh, might need…medical attention. I’m not sure I can drive. Give me a minute to, uh…think it over…”
The words he tried to say seemed to spiral into the darkness as he passed out.
It seemed like only a few minutes had passed when Riley yelled in his ear. “Remy! Wake up. We need to get you some help. Remy!”
He’d been having a dream in which he’d laid in a hospital bed while his parents and cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles and family friends, all filed past and reprimanded him for ending up like this. Now, it faded as he came to, stiff and in considerable pain.
“Uhhh…what?” He blinked. “How long were we—wait, never mind.”
It was still dark but the light had begun to peek between the buildings of the city. They’d been unconscious all night.
The fairy moved in front of his face. Her own was etched with fear and concern. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep too. I was so tired after that battle.”
Remy nodded. “That’s quite understandable.”
He tried to shift in his seat and pain stabbed at him from multiple directions. “Goddammit. I definitely lost that fight, didn’t I? Shit, I can’t drive. It looks like we’ll have to call Mom again.”
The notion was not encouraging. Still, passing out again in the middle of a busy intersection would be even worse.
His hand shook from the sharp burn that ran down his arm, but he managed to retrieve his phone from his pocket. Two missed calls from Taylor’s cell caught his attention immediately. He dialed her house number instead. It was barely dawn, so she might still be up. And by calling the house, at least he’d get Presley if she was already coffin-bound.
On the other end of the line, there were two and a half rings before someone picked up.
“Yes?” an elderly male voice said.
“Presley,” Remy gasped, knowing he sounded like shit. “Old boy. I had another encounter with our man in the ski mask. In Queens. I’m beat to hell and I don’t think I can drive.”
He stopped to catch his breath and the butler waited for him to say more. “Riley is with me, but she’s exhausted too. We need…uh, you know, extraction. And probably a doctor. Is there any chance you can come to the rescue?”
“Oh, dear,” the old man lamented. “It’s probably for the best that Ms Steele has retired. Yes, tell me where you are and I’ll be right along. I also know a private doctor who can be prevailed upon to make house calls. And I’ll see about getting your car towed.”
Remington was so relieved to hear the butler’s words that he almost cried. He’d half-expected to be told, once and for all, that he’d screwed up for the last time and was now on his own.
He sighed into the phone. “Jeeves, you’re the best. Presley, sorry. Shitty habits die hard. And yeah, I know I’ll have to face the music with Taylor later.”
“That you will.” At least he didn’t try to sugarcoat it.
He gave the old man his exact location within the labyrinthine backstreets of northern Queens. Once he’d thanked the butler again, he ended the call and slumped in his seat.
Riley was now perched on the dashboard. “They’re coming, right?” He’d never seen her look so nervous.
“Yes.” With slow, shaky hands, he adjusted his tie. “Since you’re not exactly operating in top form, either, Riley, I suggest that after Presley shows up, you head back to your colony and recuperate for a night or two. Get some rest and gossip with the other fairies about who can’t hold his pizza. Don’t worry, I’ll want you back soon. But you’ll be more helpful when you’re not wiped out.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Let me know how you’re doing. You don’t look good, Remy.”
“Nonsense,” he retorted. “I always look good.” He raised a hand to his mouth and felt some of the salty crust of the blood he’d coughed up. “Always.”
Presley arrived within half an hour. Remy was impressed since that was about the bare-minimum time he would have estimated to get there from Harrison. Preternaturals obviously had more than enough time to hone their driving skills. He was also pleasantly surprised that neither the locals nor the NYPD had bothered him yet.
A black Tesla pulled into the empty lot and the old man got out. He stepped
over to the Lincoln and peered into the window as Remy rolled it down.
His eyes widened. “Oh dear. With all due respect, sir, you should have called nine-one-one instead of me. Then again, that could have led to complications. Can you get out of your seat?”
He explained the gist of the fight and the nature of the pain he’d had to deal with since.
“Well,” the butler said, “you probably did break several ribs, yes. And you might have a hernia or some similar internal injury. Are you still coughing up blood?”
Remy attempted to smile. “Not anymore.”
With a small amount of help from Riley’s depleted magic, they managed to get him to his feet despite his body’s agonized protests, moved him into a prone position in the back seat, and strapped him in tightly.
The fairy waved. “Okay, I’m going home now. Remember to come back and get me soon.”
He waved in response. “Take care of yourself, old girl.”
She elevated quickly. “Good luck with Taylor!”
Both men nodded at that but didn’t bother to reply out loud.
Harrison, Westchester County, New York
Remy phased in and out of consciousness during the drive and after they returned to Taylor’s mansion.
He was only dimly aware of Presley calling a tow truck, of himself being wheeled out of the Tesla on a stretcher, of a man he didn’t know—the doctor?—poking him and talking to the butler before he injected him with painkillers and other meds. At some point, everything went black again.
Thanks to all the substances the physician had put into his system, he didn’t dream much. There was one brief nightmare, though, of the blond guy from the motel chasing him through Fort Washington Park, hurling him aside, and burrowing into the Fluttershire Colony after Riley.
In the dream, he lay there helplessly and blubbered at the fairies to evacuate when someone seized him and shook him awake.
His eyes opened and immediately, gasping and tense from the nightmare, he stared into two intense black pools.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
“Why,” Taylor almost snarled, “should I even have to ask what the hell you were thinking, Remington? Why, again? Why don’t you learn from your mistakes like a normal, sane person? You almost got yourself killed!”
Remy braced his arms against the bed and shifted himself slowly into a seated position. He shook with the effort. The painkillers had numbed the worst of the agony pangs but he still felt awful and his mind was heavy and foggy, besides.
He looked to both sides and realized he was in the guest room on the house’s second floor, where he’d spent the night before. The curtains were drawn but no light seeped in from the windows. He estimated it was about thirty minutes after nightfall.
The vampire wasn’t the type to wait long to chew someone out, even if he was still in bed and she’d barely woken up herself.
With an inward sigh, he returned his focus to her. She stood ramrod-straight at his bedside, her arms folded over her chest, and the red nails of her right hand drummed on her left arm.
He took a deep breath. “Well—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. “Don’t even think about answering yet. That was a rhetorical question. You can attempt to explain after I’ve had my say.”
Uh-oh, he thought, although he tried to keep his face neutral and relaxed as though these proceedings were already boring him.
Taylor unfolded her arms to point one finger at him. “You should know better. I cannot fucking believe, David, that you would do something this reckless again. You’ll be on the mend for weeks. You probably won’t be able to do anything outside of office work, and you’re lucky that you’re not already headed for the goddamn morgue.”
He grimaced at that. It was true. The mysterious man had almost punched a hole through him as well as the bed, and if he hadn’t hesitated, he might well have torn his head off while he was at it.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she went on, “but with this level of stupidity, you essentially deserved to get beaten within two inches of your life. Do you suppose our suspect is still waiting in that same motel room as we speak?”
Remy almost asked if this was another rhetorical question but stopped himself at the last instant and waited for her to continue.
She did and with a significant degree of scorn. “Of course he isn’t. Agent Gilmore and four of her men went there earlier today to investigate. They found the room badly trashed and, to the shock of no one, empty. The man fled and he’s probably not stupid enough to ever come back.”
The vampire leaned forward. Her temper had cooled a little, but this only meant her anger had grown icy instead of hot.
“You chased off our best lead, Remington.” She folded her arms again. “Tracking him down will be extremely difficult, if not impossible. He’ll take measures to cover his tracks. He might even leave New York or the United States altogether. We’re reasonably sure he’s Australian, after all.”
Remy slowly and carefully wiped his palms on the lower part of the nightgown they’d put him into. “You know, it sounded like he had a slight accent. There are so many foreigners in New York all the time, though, that it barely registered.”
Taylor waved a hand sharply. “And not only is he gone, but you left evidence of your own presence. The .357 you stole from me was still lying in the corner of that room and had been all night.”
Crap. He chided himself for forgetting that.
“And as it so happens,” she ranted, her voice louder again, “the NYPD arrived on the scene before Gilmore did. We are incredibly lucky that she guessed it belonged to us, pulled rank, and talked the police detective into turning it over to her—although they will still note all of that in their reports, of course. And if Gilmore hadn’t stepped in, the city cops might be examining your fingerprints even now, cursing themselves for ever letting you out of jail.”
Then, it struck him. The magnitude of what he’d done last night—on top of everything else that had happened lately, not to mention everything that had happened in the last decade or so—welled up, charged, and attacked the center of his soul.
Suddenly, he almost wanted to die.
Not quickly and cleanly via actual suicide, though. No, he’d rather resume the gradual process of killing himself that he’d tried to halt months before.
He wanted to throw in the towel, announce to everyone that he was a failure, a loser, and a complete asshole, and tell someone to hold his calls. If anyone really needed him, he’d be off snorting coke, injecting heroin, popping pills, maybe trying meth merely for fun, and washing it all down with about a bottle of liquor per day.
His remaining finances might hold out long enough to keep him continuously high and drunk until he finally passed out in an alley, or perhaps on his own couch, and simply never woke up again.
For some reason, that struck him as almost humorous. He imagined a pretentious film student making a docudrama about his life as a kind of warning to other dumb rich kids. The ending of such a movie would be as depressing as hell, but at least prior to that, there would be a string of really, really funny parts.
Although the film probably wouldn’t include the fact that he’d allowed some ruthless overseas vampire to take over New York.
Remy looked at Taylor and forced a thin smile while he summoned what little remained of his usual bravado.
“The cops always curse themselves when they have to let me out of jail,” he remarked. “How often do they get to deal with someone who’s such an excellent conversationalist?”
She stared at him and shook her head slowly. “You’ve gotten the point, then. I know abject self-hatred when I see it—and the fact that you tried to look cocksure means that at least you have some spirit left.”
When she sighed, his gut tightened as a confused mess of emotions fought within him for dominance.
“I suppose,” the vampire went on, “that you cannot be blamed for the fact that your family assumed good behavio
r was hereditary and you’re only now, in your early thirties, learning how to be a responsible human being. And you’ve made some strides. I’m sure it isn’t easy.”
That was the truth.
“However”—her voice sharpened again—“you are still accountable for your own actions, regardless of what might lurk in your past. I’ll need all the help I can get against this new enemy of ours, and that includes you. But I don’t know how many more fuckups I can deal with. If you truly want to help me—and all of New York—I need you to wise up and act like an adult.”
Remy hesitated for a moment. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and considered a smartass remark. Instead, he simply said, “I understand, ma’am. Thank you.”
She nodded and almost smiled. “Good. Now, then. Agent Gilmore is on her way here to discuss our next move. You ought to be able to at least walk and talk and I’d rather have you in the loop, so I suggest you get yourself cleaned up if you want to join the meeting.”
This time, his grin, although subdued, was genuine. “I think I’ll do that.”
Taylor helped him from the bed and allowed him to work his way slowly toward the bathroom. She explained that he’d broken two ribs, one each in front and back, and had had some internal bleeding in his abdomen. Luckily, it had stopped on its own before surgical intervention was required.
“The doctor will check on you in another week,” she told him. “Until then, and probably for weeks hereafter, no running, no heavy lifting, and no fighting. And, of course, no alcohol.”
Once in the bathroom, his skin crawled at the sight of his ashen, sickly face. Almost his whole torso was bandaged. He freshened himself as best he could without taking an actual shower and changed into one of Presley’s suits. The two men were, thankfully, about the same size.
Gilmore arrived about a minute after he dragged himself downstairs to the sitting room. She was dressed in snappy civilian clothes and eyed him with a mixture of sympathy and disapproval. No doubt, she knew everything he’d done.
The two women sat facing each other in comfortable chairs and he reclined on a sofa off to the side. Presley stood near the entrance, ready to wait on their guest’s needs but also a part of the discussion.
Diamond In The Rough (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 2) Page 21
