The Brimstone Deception (13 page)

Rake Danescu. Sex broker and spymaster. I didn't know which was worse.

Or if either one was truly bad.

“And you have bugs planted in the tables at Bacchanalia,” I said, recalling my first night on the job when Ian had felt the need to distract those listening in on us by seriously distracting me.

“One can hear all kinds of interesting and valuable tidbits,” Rake noted smoothly, knowing exactly what I was remembering.

Bastard.

I glared at him. He smiled at me.

“Heard any interesting chatter concerning a new drug?” Ian asked.

“Not that my monitors have told me, but I will contact them when I leave here.”

“And let us know?”

Rake just looked at him. “Yes, Agent Byrne. And let you know.”

“I found a list of buildings that you own under Northern Reach Holdings fairly easily,” I told him.

“Which is what makes me think the murders taking place in my buildings isn't a coincidence. I have allowed Northern Reach Holdings to trace back to me with relative ease. My other holdings are very well and deeply hidden. It's in a goblin's nature to hide your strategic advantages until they're needed—or until you need someone to find them.”

Great. So much for me being clever.

“So Northern Reach is like the outer threads of a spiderweb,” I said. “You're in the center, and if you sense movement, you know you've caught something.”

“A nearly perfect comparison, Makenna. That is why I believe there is a very distinct possibility that someone is going to a lot of trouble to stage murders in my buildings.”

“So I take it the elves know you're a spy?”

“I'm more of a freelance consultant for goblin intelligence. They use me, and I use them. It's a mutually beneficial relationship.”

I remembered what Kylie had told me. I wanted to know the answer; not to mention, Rake had just gotten one up on me. I'm competitive, so sue me. “In the coffee shop yesterday, you needed to leave fast to keep Baxter Clayton from seeing you.”

“That is correct.”

“It also wasn't necessary, at least not anymore.”

“I don't follow you.”

Oh yes, he did.

“The series Baxter Clayton was planning had its plug pulled last month,” I said for Ian and the boss's benefit; Rake already knew damn well that it'd been canceled. “You didn't really need to avoid him anymore. Though having heard more than a few Baxter stories from Kylie, I could understand why people wouldn't want to get cornered. But with the series canceled, you didn't
need
to avoid him.” I eyed him. “Sitting at the center of the web like you do, I can't imagine you not knowing the series had been canceled. So that would mean that you were either avoiding someone else—or you saw someone who was desperate to avoid you. Which was it?”

“It had nothing to do with Brimstone.” Rake's dark eyes were steady on mine. Eyes that said in no uncertain terms that he was not going to tell me or anyone else here what it was about.

If the boss had had a fireplace in her office, I'd have held
his feet to it. Not only did I think she wouldn't have minded, but since she was a fire-breathing dragon, she could've done it herself. I glanced at her. From the hard glitter in her eyes, it looked like she wouldn't mind raising the temperature in the goblin's designer shoes.

“Rake, do I have your word that this incident isn't connected to this investigation?” she asked.

“You have my word.”

“And if it does reveal itself to be connected, I trust you will inform me immediately.”

Ms. Sagadraco knew how the goblin mind worked.

“Of course, Vivienne. I will contact you immediately.” He looked to each of us in turn. “I have a question.”

Ms. Sagadraco selected a pastry from the silver tray. “Please ask it.”

“Makenna mentioned that the two of you met with Alastor Malvolia this morning,” he said to Ian. “What were you attempting to learn from him, and were you successful? Though knowing Alastor, I would hazard to guess that you weren't, at least not after only one meeting.”

“We're supposed to hear from Malvolia by eight o'clock tonight,” Ian told him. “But we're not holding our breath.”

“Nor should you,” Rake said. “If his clients were able to give him any information he believed was useful to you, he would want to negotiate for additional benefits. What did you promise him?”

“Not a damn thing,” Ian said bluntly. “I simply told him how Sar Gedeon was killed. In detail. He decided to cooperate.”

“I would have enjoyed seeing that.” Rake took a sip of tea, his dark eyes glittering with what I could only describe as delight over the rim of his cup. “Dearest Vivienne, you are quite right, I have underestimated your agents.”

ONCE
Ms. Sagadraco was finished with her tea-party inquisition, and extracted a promise of cooperation from Rake, she asked me to stay after Ian and Rake had been excused.

The tea and goodies were gone, but maybe the inquisition part wasn't over yet—at least not for me.

I decided to be proactive. “You want to talk about what happened up in the conference room with Rake, don't you?”

“I thought that would be a good idea, yes.”

“From what you saw and heard, I didn't mess anything up, did I?”

“If you're speaking professionally, no, you did not. What I wanted to bring to your attention is on a more personal note. You may have created more of a problem than you solved.”

“I don't understand.”

“If your intention was to discourage Lord Danescu from pursuing you, then you may have made a tactical error.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“Goblin men of Rake's caliber aren't attracted to intellectually passive women. If I were to venture a guess, I would say that your performance just now and upstairs has probably rendered you absolutely irresistible. If you want him to cease his attentions now, you may have to kill him.”

I recalled my violent urges toward Rake in the conference room, and thought it highly likely that before this was all over, I'd be feeling those same urges again.

“The day ain't over yet, ma'am.”

The Dragon Lady smiled.

*   *   *

Ian met me by the elevators.

“Well, that was interesting,” I said.

“That's one way to put it.”

I waited a few moments before I spoke again. “You don't believe Rake's involved anymore, do you?”

The muscle in my partner's jaw flexed. “No, I don't.”

“But you'd like him to be.”

“If it'd keep more people from dying, then yeah, I would.”

“Nice dodge. That's not the question I asked.”

Ian grew some silence.

“I'm still worried about you, Mac.”

“Rake or being snatched through a portal?”

“Yes. I can keep the second one from happening, but not the first.”

My instinct was to tell him that I could take care of myself and that I didn't need his help or approval choosing the men in my life. But I didn't say any of that even though all of it was true. It wasn't Ian's fault for feeling the way he did about Rake, or any other man who kept his private life, business interests, and motives for nearly everything he did locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

Heck, I was still circling Rake like he was a rattlesnake coiled in front of the only way out of a cave, and I planned
to do that for the foreseeable future. When I got to the future, and Rake still wasn't guilty of anything, then I'd reevaluate my reasons for continued caution.

Not blaming Ian one bit for his feelings left me with only one response to his statement. It was also the one I wanted to give him.

“Thank you,” I said simply.

That earned me a surprised look.

“Really,” I added with a slight smile. “There's no need to worry. I don't plan on diving into anything, but I know where your concern's coming from, and I know it's a good place. So thank you.”

“It's not
your
plans I'm worried about.”

I grinned. “You sure you aren't part Southern? Sounds like you don't think my gentleman caller has honorable intentions.”

“Rake Danescu is no gentleman, and it's beginning to look like honor isn't a concept many goblins are familiar with.”

*   *   *

In preparation for a meeting, Ian had rolled a big whiteboard into a conference room just off the bull pen that the Brimstone team had taken for our own. Photos of the victims were posted across the top of the board, with crime family affiliation listed beneath.

The NYPD had probably started a board like this, though theirs would only have three bodies, and there wouldn't be two additional bullet points under each victim's name noting their species and missing soul. And there certainly wouldn't be an asterisk next to Sar Gedeon's “missing soul” bullet indicating that “The agency necromancer attempted contact but was bitch slapped by a demonic booby trap for trying.”

Fortunately there was only the one asterisk.

All of the victims had had their chests sliced open with a scalpel-type instrument. Or claw. Their hearts had been
torn from their chests, all while alive with a demon lord holding them to the floor with one hoof, branding its imprint into their breastbones. None had died without a struggle.

The details of Kela Dupari's murder had already been leaked online, and the public and press were having a field day, especially when they found out that her murder hadn't been the first. The NYPD had been the first to arrive on the scene of two more murders: one late last night, the other about the same time as Dupari's killing. As the medical examiner—and a mage—Dr. Anika Van Daal had kept Dupari's goblin features hidden. Either the two most recent victims were human, or Van Daal—or one of her people—had concealed the pointy ears from curious eyes, because there'd been no mention of odd ears or silvery skin, only missing hearts and branded hoofprints.

When a murder was particularly gruesome, it didn't matter what security measures the city's medical examiner's office had in place, juicy details always found their way out. And they found their way onto home pages and front pages even faster when there'd been more than one murder with the same lurid MO—and a photo. Yep, the person who'd stumbled onto the most recent body had taken plenty of pictures before they'd called the cops. Nowadays you didn't have to commit a crime to get your fifteen minutes of fame, just be the first person to take a picture of it.

I was a big fan of the Internet, and it had it uses—like the glorious world of online shopping—but right now it sucked. As recently as a couple of decades ago, the three networks (yes, that was all there were) would have had it on their evening news, and the newspapers would have gotten hold of it, and it would spread only as far as their signal or circulation.

Not anymore.

All it took was one tweet to turn a secret into worldwide news. Send that tweet with a bloody photo of a gaping chest and hoofprint brand, and within five minutes it'd have its own trending hashtag.

Our not-so-secret-anymore secret had garnered itself three hashtags at last count: #devilmurder, #killerdemon, and—my personal favorite for sheer dramatic impact—#SatanInNY.

I sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

Crackpots, conspiracy theorists, religious nuts, and the tin-foil-hat crowd had started coming out of the woodwork, and Kylie and her department were busy as hounds in flea season.

So far, the focus was on the sensationalist details, which fortunately didn't out any supernatural creature the public didn't already know about. Nearly every major religion had more than its share of demons or devils, many of them even named. Hearing that one was making it his mission on Earth to slaughter people in the illegal drug trade was being met with cheers, not panic in the streets. Panic and terror were reserved for those in the illegal drug trade. The opinion of the average Jane and Joe on the street was “Good riddance!” and “Give that demon a medal.”

Right now, Kylie O'Hara was doing the rounds of the local news programs as the founder of the internationally known website hoaxbusters.com. She'd made a name for herself online and beyond as a debunker of the supernatural. Heck, Syfy was still after her to host her own show. However, her “secret identity” job was SPI's director of media and public relations. The goal of both of her jobs was to have a mundane explanation for supernatural events and creatures. With the latest in CGI technology available to any kid with a computer, exposing anyone looking for their fifteen minutes of fame had never been easier. That being said, those photos of the latest victim hadn't been faked. Kylie had readily confirmed that. However, she'd added that they didn't need to be faked to be explained. There was a killer on the loose in New York. Unfortunately, that was nothing new. This one simply limited its work to a subset of criminals, and for some reason known only to it, carried a branding iron and liked to cut out hearts. That didn't indicate supernatural, just a deeply disturbed individual.

Kylie was doing a fine job of doing her job. It'd be nice if Ian and I could say the same. A board full of the names of dead drug dealers didn't equal success; it just meant we were organized. Success meant putting that demon lord and his mage partner permanently out of business.

Our friendly neighborhood source inside the NYPD's drug enforcement unit, Detective Fred Ash, stopped by to share what they knew with us. The NYPD didn't know about SPI, but with supernaturals on the force, we had eyes and ears where we needed them. What Fred's eyes and ears had seen and heard in the last few hours was a bombshell to us; like we hadn't had enough of those ourselves.

Ian was incredulous. “They want to do
what
?”

I was a mite stunned myself.

The NYPD was going to put the city's top drug lords and ladies under protective custody.

“Yeah, protecting the people who no one really minds seeing dead,” Fred told us. “Makes all kinds of sense. They're all drug-dealing, murdering, lowlife scum. But apparently they're
our
drug-dealing, murdering, lowlife scum. Most importantly, drug kingpins are taxpayers, too. Taxpayers who haven't been convicted of a crime. In the eyes of the law that makes them innocent taxpayers. Gotta protect all of them.” Fred took another bite of doughnut. “This case is just chock full of irony.”

Before coming over for a fact-sharing session with us, Fred had made a Krispy Kreme run. And before coming to the bull pen, he'd taken two raspberry-filled doughnuts up to Bert in his office. Our necromancer didn't want to let on, but he still wasn't back in fighting shape from the trap the murderer had set in what had been left of Sar Gedeon's mind. The favorite doughnut of the guy who worked with dead people was filled with gooey red stuff. Go figure.

For a Southerner like myself, Krispy Kremes were the holy grail of doughnuts. And when the “HOT” light on the sign was lit, that meant the sugary-glazed goodness had just
come out of the oven. The first couple of bites would melt in your mouth. In my family, we held to the rule that the fresher the doughnut, the fewer calories they had. Fluffy when passing the lips, no fat on the hips.

I knew it wasn't true, but I'd never let scientific facts get in the way of enjoying a good doughnut.

I snagged a chocolate-iced one before they got gone. “I'd ask if you were pulling our leg, but I know you're not.”

“I think the big problem with the city hall people is the way the city's not-so-law-abiding citizens are getting killed,” Fred noted. “Chest branded, heart cut out, stink of hellfire and brimstone.”

“Technically, it's just brimstone,” I said. “Hellfire doesn't stink.” Jeez, I was starting to sound like Marty.

“Whatever. It's our job to make it stop. Now.”

In addition to doughnuts, Fred had brought news of another murder. It had been committed on a yacht in the Hudson River. The NYPD had gotten to that one first, too. In our defense, the NYPD had an advantage—we didn't have patrol boats on the rivers and in the harbor. And screams coming from an obscenely expensive mega-yacht wasn't something a patrol boat full of cops was likely to ignore.

It'd been a vampire. A high-ranking member of the Báthory family. Celeste Báthory had gotten scared and taken refuge on her yacht. She obviously hadn't heard that portals can be opened anywhere.

That murder scene had a deviation from the others—the heart hadn't been stolen and/or eaten; the vampire's heart had been staked to the teak wood floor next to her body.

We could now add “dark sense of humor” to the murders' descriptions.

“Báthory's people had checked every square inch of that boat,” Fred told us. “There was no one there but them. One swears Celeste Báthory had him check her cabin. Hell, I think she'd have had him looking under the bed if the thing had an underneath. Half an hour later, no sounds at all, the
guard posted outside her door saw blood soaking the carpet under the door. Didn't hear a peep, no struggle, nothing.”

“He smell sulfur?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, seemed to be coming from under the door. That's what made him look down. Wards had been set and locked. She even had battle mages on board, real heavyweights. Likewise, they didn't hear or sense a thing.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, our gruesome twosome are good. They've got the local pharmaceutical distributors about to crap themselves at seeing their own shadows. Whatever they do to protect themselves, it's not enough. By the time Báthory's boys got through that door, it was all over except the cleanup—and according to our guys that was some cleanup.” He dug a manila folder out of his messenger bag. “I brought you two eight by ten glossies of Celeste for your board—undead and permanently dead.” Fred read the “bitch slapped” comment next to the asterisk and chuckled. “Who wrote that?”

I raised the hand not holding the doughnut.

“I like it,” he said.

“My journalism degree at work.”

“Your mom would be proud.”

“I think so.” I also thought I was getting the hang of using dark cop humor to relieve tension. Fred Ash was my spirit animal. Besides, Bert wouldn't mind; he'd laugh his ass off. In fact, I'd written it for him.

Ian added the photos to our board. “You're a sick man, Fred.” He gave me a look. “And you're an enabler.”

“Never claimed to be anything else,” Fred said.

I popped the last bite of doughnut in my mouth. “Ditto.”

“So what'd the first responders have to say about the heart staked to the floor?” Ian asked.