Dog with a Bone (6 page)

A king-size bed sat catty-corner opposite me. The bedroom was painted white, but the comforter was crimson. Small black velvet bird appliques swarmed in the center. I’m not much for art. I’ll confess the deeper meaning of the twisted comforter was lost on me. Maybe
death to all swallows
?

Speaking of death... The faint essence of decay lingering in the hall shrouded this room. It smelled ground into the accent rugs, and no amount of plug-in air freshener could mask it from a nose as keen as mine. I followed the sharpest whiff of odor straight to the bed and ripped back the covers. The center of the bed, where the sheets should have been white, was a rusty-brown color and crusted with dried blood.

“Shaw,” I called.

He padded down the hall, stopping when his shoulder brushed mine. “Is this what you smelled?”

Easing around the side of the bed, I lowered my face six inches above the mattress and inhaled. I straightened slowly, processing the puzzling information. “No. It’s not. Someone—or something—else was in here.” I gestured toward the stains. “This is old, faint. Human. What I smelled in the hall, and in here, it’s hard to describe. The stench has seeped into the walls from constant contact with whatever it is.”

His gaze bounced from the en suite bathroom to the closet. “Do you think it’s still here?”

“Unless it’s hiding in the walls...” which, I’ll admit, was a possibility with fae, “...no.”

“Then keep searching.” He cleared the bathroom and closet. “We’ll set a perimeter spell when we leave. I want to monitor the foot traffic in and out of this place for the next forty-eight hours.” His gaze swept around the room. “Call if you find anything else.”

“Will do.” I tugged the mattress off the box spring then stood it against the wall. Stains covered the base and, when I shuffled it aside, more blood had congealed in a puddle on the hardwood floor.

I read once the human body contained five and a half liters of blood.

I bet every ounce of it had spilled here.

Nothing worth noting in or under the bedframe. I kicked aside the crimson area rug and examined the contents of Mrs. Richardson’s closet. More shoes than a Payless, but no secret compartments, odd stains or odors.

The bathroom proved less interesting. Jars and tubes filled each drawer, the labels all printed in French. I collected a few hairs from her brush and bagged her razor. Her nail clippers also got tagged. Nothing unusual so far. Okay, so the freaky stuff only happened in the bed. Didn’t it always?

Reentering the bedroom, I noticed two things. The box spring sat on the bedframe as though I had never moved it, and the mattress no longer leaned against the wall but now stood in front of the door.

A blast of cold air shot down my neck, stirring the ripe scent of rot around the room. This was it, the stench from the hallway. I turned a slow circle, coughing as the stench worsened. “Shaw?”

No response.

Okay then.

Keeping it casual, I walked to the mattress and gripped the fabric handles sewn into the sides. It wouldn’t budge. I jerked harder. No dice. I threw my weight into tugging it aside when pain stung my hand. I stumbled back, dripping blood from a nasty bite mark swelling across the top of my hand.

So much for the cut-resistant gloves.

A bite like this should have healed a second after the teeth let go, but it wasn’t mending. It was festering as I watched.
Ick
.

“Come out with your hands up,” I snapped.

Gray mist drifted from behind the mattress and settled across the floor. As the smoke-like twists uncurled, a slender creature no more than two feet high at the shoulder solidified with massive teeth on display. It wore a tailored crimson half vest trimmed with white fur. Factor in the pointy ears and it reminded me of an elf. Not North Pole stock, either. More like Krampus’s child-whipping helpers.

Huh. Maybe Shaw was on to something with the Christmas-fascination thing.

“I will do no such thing.” The creature straightened his vest. “This is my home.”

Uh-oh. House spirits were crazy territorial and—all-key or no all-key—we had trespassed. “What are you?”

“A boggart.” He sniffed. “I hope that wet-dog scent washes out.”

My jaw clenched. “Listen here, buddy—”

“I am not your
buddy
.” He flicked his wrist, and mist crawled across the ground and slithered up my torso. It trapped my legs and clutched my shoulders. Another flick and his rancid fog slung me across the room. My head bounced off the wall. “I must ask you to leave before the mistress arrives.”

I pushed upright, wincing as I put weight on my sore hand. “Mistress?”

A boggart could infest a house and terrorize the owners like this one was gunning for me, creating what humans considered a haunting. But the one word said it all, didn’t it?
Mistress
. She owned him.

So much for the Richardsons being uninitiated.

The spirit pinched his lips together.

I braced on the wall until I got my feet under me. “We haven’t been formally introduced.” I showed him my left palm, let him wonder at the soft light pooling on the glossy oak floorboards between us as I gathered power in my hand. “I’m Marshal Thackeray with the Southwestern Conclave’s Special Operations Division.” His hands went to his vest, smoothing the fabric while he ignored me. “Your mistress is under investigation for poaching.” I tagged the bloody bed with my gaze. “And the list is growing.”

Hammering at the bedroom door sent relief coursing through me. My hand was a last resort. My power didn’t come with an off switch. Every time magic pulsed through my runes, it meant kill or be killed. Right now I was lit up, glowing, and I wasn’t sure I could diffuse the energy without feeding.

“Thierry,” Shaw called. “Are you all right in there?”

“I’m fine.” I jerked my head at the boggart. “Step away from the door so my partner can enter.”

“What is that smell? Dirt and oranges?” The spirit sniffed. “What is he?”

Species was up to Shaw to disclose or not. “A conclave marshal, just like me.”

Beady eyes darted to my hand then to the air vent overhead. “That is not an answer.”

I snorted. “And here you’ve been so forthcoming.”

The boggart straightened his shoulders. “I will speak to you only with my mistress present.”

Great, he had just pulled the boggart equivalent of asking for a lawyer. Before I could bluff him into a corner, he turned to vapor and drifted into the vent. At least the stink dissipated once the twerp went airborne.

“The door’s locked.” The wood muffled Shaw’s voice. “Do I need to open it or can you?”

“Give me a minute.” I shouldered aside the mattress and twisted the lock with my right hand. “I was just wrapping up an interview with the help.” When he glanced around the empty room, I said, “Mrs. Richardson enslaved a boggart.”

He brushed past me on his way inside the bedroom. “So the Richardsons are initiated after all.”

“Bethany is at least. With their separate living situation, I’m not sure how much the husband knows about what his wife is up to.” I circled him. “Also? We have a tiny problem.”

He frowned at my hand, at the shine encasing it. “Turn it off.”

“You know it’s not that easy.” I flexed my fingers. “It’s all charged up with nowhere to go.”

“No one said it was easy. Learning to use my lure was a pain in the ass, but I did it and you will too.” He stepped closer. “Slow your breathing. Shake off the residual energy. Release it into the air.”

I shut my eyes, focused on each inhale and exhale. Power fizzled in my palm.

“That’s it,” he soothed. “Relax. Let it go.”

His nearness, the soft rumble of his voice, distracted me.

“I can’t.” Magical residue clung to my skin, softly lighting my runes. “It won’t release.”

“Do you want me to help?” His voice lowered.

I was afraid to open my eyes as I breathed, “Yes.”

His coarse, thick fingers threaded with those on my left hand. My eyes popped open on a gasp when Shaw’s lips brushed mine. His taste was warmth and comfort, and it lulled me deeper into his embrace. I was floating when the first tugs registered. My palm stung, the skin burning. From the corner of my eye, I watched as my runes flared brighter before another long draw through my hand extinguished the light. I broke away from Shaw.

His eyes were cloudy. The hand that had held mine was sharp from the growth of his nails.

“Thanks,” I rasped.

“Any time,” he answered, voice as ruined as mine. He turned to go.

“You didn’t have to kiss me.” He could have stopped when our hands joined.

“I know.”

“Well.” I cleared my throat and followed him into the hall. “Okay then.”

S
haw kept his eyes glued to the digital display as it counted down the floors we whooshed past on our way back to the lobby. I bit my lip to keep quiet. No sense in risking the fallout from what I had to say to him if the booth was wired for sound. They hadn’t bothered hiding the cameras. They hung in corners, watching silently.

By the time we hit the street, I had worked up a good head of steam. “Why did we leave?”

He kept walking, his long legs outpacing me. “We gathered all the information we could.”

“How can you say that?” I grabbed his arm. “Their boggart is a—”

“—slave who would die before incriminating its mistress. It’s part of their compulsion. They hate humans, hate fae too, but they’re trapped by their nature...” he exhaled, “...just like the rest of us.”

I recoiled, a wave of nausea bubbling in my stomach. “I guess that explains the kiss.”

He stopped so suddenly I smacked into his back.

“I wanted the kiss.” Shaw backed me against a wall of glass, the front of a coffee shop, I think. His palm slapped the pane over my head, pinning me with his body as much as the fury simmering in his dark copper eyes. “Hunger does not control me.”

“That was a cheap shot.” I rested my hand on his chest. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Your aim is too good sometimes.” He covered my hand with his and gently removed it. He let me straighten, lowered his hand and got himself under control. “If the Richardsons left any evidence behind, the boggart would have hidden it in his den until they returned. By law we can’t question an indentured house spirit without its masters present, otherwise their testimony is coerced at best.”

“They killed someone there,” I reminded him.

“They killed a human.” He turned to leave. “That’s a matter for the human authorities.”

I darted around in front of him. “The Richardsons are human.”

He sidestepped me. “They’re suspected of committing crimes against Faerie.”

A cold realization settled in my chest. “You don’t care about them, do you?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shaw regrouped. “I was raised to view humans as food. I might enjoy their company, I might have been fond of a few in my time, but at the end of the day they are a breed apart. They’re safer as far from our world as they can get. Don’t act like you don’t know this.”

“If Mac had stuck around,” I snarled, “Mom would have been fine in our world.”

“You know half their story.” He touched my cheek. “Don’t judge your father too harshly before you hear his side. Your mother did the best she could by you. She loves you. Your father might too.”

I scoffed. “He loves me so much he ditched both of us, so much I’ve never met him.”

“He’s old. He was born in Faerie and has lived among the fae most of his life. You can’t judge him by human standards. If you do, he’ll fall short every time.” Shaw started walking, slower this time so keeping up was easier. “I’ll make a note on the file, okay?”

“If the Richardsons are proven guilty, they aren’t walking away from this.” I said it out loud to make it real.

“No, they won’t.” He took my arm and crossed the road.

I glanced at where his hand gripped me. “You’re humoring me.” 

“Yes.” He scanned the stores lining the street. “Your fondness for humans is dangerous.”

“Seeing as how I am half
human
,” I emphasized, “I do have a vested interest in that part of my heritage as well.”

His exhale closed the subject.

A footnote in a report was all dead humans would ever be to most fae. Either I accepted that mortal lives were worth less and turned a blind eye or I bided my time. My partner was temporary. After OJT I could work solo, and I would never let a case with fae-on-human violence get swept under the rug. I owed humans that much. They deserved an advocate. One who wouldn’t tolerate this footnote bullcrap.

All of a sudden, I was invested. This wasn’t just work, it was an actual, physical need to see justice served.

I guess I had more of Mac in me than I realized.

“Come on.” Shaw shoved inside a bagel joint. “We’re eating breakfast.”

“Now?” I tugged against him. “We’ve only got four hours left.”

“You need to eat.” He studied the menu board. “How about a bacon, egg and cheese bagel?”

I recognized that tone. It was easier to humor a man on a mission than to argue with one.

“Yes, that sounds delicious.” I nudged him into line. “Make it a double, and let’s go.”

He dragged me closer and bent to my ear. “You need something to settle your stomach.”

“My stomach is fine.” I turned so our noses touched. “Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”

“When I feed,” he said quietly, “the women are always starving after.”

I thumped his ear. “Have you ever considered it was the sex and not the feeding?”

Embarrassment blossomed across his cheeks, even painting the tips of his ears bright red.

“Huh.” I studied him. “I expected a bigger ego from an incubus.”

Releasing me, he shifted his stance and waited. “Do you want the bagel or not?”

“Yes.” I sighed. “We can figure out our next step while we eat.”

“The boggart changes things.” He placed our order, added a coffee and a tall frappé then paid. If travel expenses weren’t on the conclave’s dime, I might have argued. “We assumed Mrs. Richardson would fly straight home once she was cut loose in Odessa, but that might not be the case. She would trust the boggart to do exactly what it did—conceal incriminating evidence and refuse to speak with us until she was present. That frees her up to head straight for her office on the other side of town.”