Harlequin Nocturne March 2016 Box Set (17 page)

CHAPTER 3

“H
e said it was King Kong.” Reg craned his neck for a moment to look into the next room at the victim. “Big fucking gorilla.”

Three days ago, Stan George had allegedly been attacked in his own living room. That he'd suffered some kind of attack wasn't in question, although the manner of it was suspicious. Not that everything they ever dealt with wasn't in some way weird. That was their job, after all.

Jase looked at the notes in front of him. Reg had done the interviewing while Jase checked out the rest of the house for signs of forced entry. None. Signs of paranormal activity. None of the usual. It was the same as the other four cases they'd been investigating, some dating back about six months without a clue as to what had caused them.

“Guy was online, surfing for...appliances?” Jase looked up. “So, porn.”

Reg laughed low, dark eyes sparkling. “That's what the browser history shows, yeah. But then, whose wouldn't.”

“So he's online, surfing for wank material. King Kong comes in, tosses the laptop, wrecks the room, beats the guy up.” Jase shook his head. “How'd Vadim find out about this guy?”

Vadim, Jase and Reg's boss in the Crew, had a network of people around the world dedicated to reporting in on the strange and fantastic. Sightings of strange creatures, hauntings, that sort of thing. Jase didn't usually ask how Vadim found out about the cases; he went where the boss told him to go and did what the boss told him to do. In the last case, they hadn't even known there'd be a guy in the closet until they got to the house. They'd been called in to investigate what someone had claimed were flying monkeys. So far, they hadn't found any evidence of winged apes, but now here was this guy talking about a giant gorilla.

“I'm seeing a simian similarity,” Jase said.

Reg laughed. From the other room came the sound of angry shouting at the television. “Dude's got anger problems,” Reg said in a low voice.

Jase leaned back in his chair to take a peek into the living room, then looked back to his partner. “He filed a police report? Or did it come from the hospital?”

“We've got one of the EMTs with us,” Reg explained. “He's the one who called it in. Said the guy's injuries weren't that severe but that he kept ranting about King Kong.”

“Think the cases are related?”

Weird things often were.

“Let me go talk to this guy. You look around, see if you can find anything we can use.” Jase went into the living room, where the guy had propped his casted ankle on a footstool. He was nursing a glass of what appeared to be a very fine whiskey, though he hadn't offered Jase or Reg so much as a shitty light beer.

Jase helped himself from the decanter.

“Hey...”

“So, did the big monkey do that to you?” Jase gestured with the glass toward the guy's ankle.

His name was Stan, Jase recalled. Stan scowled.

“Nah, that happened because some dumb bitch ran into me while I was on my bike.”

Jase sipped. Not as fine a whiskey as he'd thought, actually. The guy had money, that was obvious, but his taste left a lot to be desired. He put the glass back on the table.

“So tell me again when King Kong decided to show up.”

“I know you think I'm making this up,” Stan said. “So fuck off and leave me alone.”

“You sure the booze didn't have anything to do with this?”

For a moment, Stan looked guilty. Then angry again. “A giant fucking ape came into my fucking house and fucked me up—you think I just imagined it?”

Jase did not, in fact, think the guy was making it up. He did, however, think Stan George was an asshole. “So, this woman ran into you while you were on your bike. She was in a car?”

“No, man, she was just jogging along!”

Jase paused. “So really, you ran into her.”

“No! She was... It was dark. She was...” Stan scowled again. “Look, I gave that other guy this whole story already. I know it sounds crazy. But it's the truth.”

“Jase,” Reg said from the doorway. “C'mere.”

“Let yourselves out,” Stan called after Jase as he left. “Close the door behind you.”

On the front porch, Reg showed Jase the last glittering remnants of something glowing beneath the black-light wand Reg had been using. It disappeared as they watched. Reg shrugged and slipped the wand back into his bag as the glow faded. “Same as the other case.”

“Not ectoplasm.”

“No. I don't know what it is. Lots of stuff glows under the black light,” Reg said with another shrug. “But it stays glowing—it doesn't fade away.”

“Did you send it to the team?” Jase ran a finger along the wooden porch railing, expecting to feel something. Sticky, gooey. Something gross. All he felt was softly splintered wood.

“Yeah, I took some videos and a few pictures. So far, nothing. Eggy and Burt are working on it, but Eggy said she'd never seen anything like it, either. And if Eggy hasn't seen it—”

Jase nodded. “Yeah, it's not in the database.”

“So it's something new,” Reg added. He grinned. “Great!”

Jase laughed at his partner's enthusiasm and clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah. Great. Let's go grab a drink and something to eat. Did you get any info on the woman he says ran into him?”

In the car, Reg read off what Stan had told him. “Says she was about five-six, dark hair, he didn't know her. Referred to her as ‘dumb bitch' several times.”

Jase put the Challenger in gear and pulled out of the cul-de-sac, heading for the Cottage Cafe. It was one of the only places open in the off-season down here at this time of night, unless they wanted to head into Ocean City. Since they were staying in one of the Crew's condos in North Bethany, he didn't want to make the twenty-minute trip in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, he's a real winner. Any police reports? Anything from the EMT about a woman with matching injuries?”

“Nope. If she got hurt, she hasn't sought treatment. From how it sounds, though, that asshole really bowled her over.” Reg tucked his notebook away. “Maybe he'll get another visit from an angry giant gorilla, teach him a lesson about riding drunk. He lost his license, you know. That's why he was on his bike in the first place. Asshole. But I still haven't figured out the tie between him and the guy in the closet, or any of the other cases reported in the past six months. Other than they both seemed kind of like dicks who deserved to get the crap beat out of them by imaginary monkeys.”

“Arguably,” Jase said, “nobody really deserves that.”

“No,” Reg answered with another grin. “Some people deserve worse.”

At the Cottage Cafe, they grabbed seats at the bar, ordered a couple drinks. Talked about the latest case a bit, though there wasn't much to say about it, since nobody from the home office had gotten back to them with any idea what the glowing stuff was. Reg ordered some wings and rings, and Jase got a burger to go.

“They have great burgers,” said the woman to his left at the bar. She hadn't taken a seat but stood waiting for her own take-out order. “I should've ordered one of those instead of a salad.”

“It's never too late,” Jase said, taking in the fall of her dark hair and a flash of greenish-blue eyes. She had a great smile, though it was hard to tell what the rest of her looked like under the baggy sweatshirt and matching sweatpants.

Her smile widened. “You know what? You're right. Hey, Mitch. I'll also take a Cottage burger to go. Fries and slaw.”

“Much better than a salad,” Jase said as he grabbed his to-go bag and started to follow Reg out of the bar.

“Yeah, thanks!” She gave him a little wave.

Jase gave her one more look over his shoulder as he went out the front doors. Yeah, she was checking him out. For a moment, he considered heading back in to chat her up, but then Reg said something to catch his attention. When he looked back again, she'd turned away. Opportunity lost.

Not that he had time for it anyway, Jase told himself as he headed out to the car. Not while working a case. And in a month or so, less if he and Reg got themselves together and figured it all out, he'd be gone anyway.

Still, he looked back again before driving away, hoping maybe she'd be coming through the front doors, but all he saw was glass.

CHAPTER 4

C
helle woke from a dream about Grant, her heart pounding. Breath catching. She'd made a tangled mess of the sheets. Sticky with sweat, she pushed the blankets off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. For a moment, the world tilted, and she closed her eyes, although the room was so dark it didn't matter if she had them open or not.

She was sure she'd stumble on her way to the kitchen. End up on her knees, still stinging from her run-in with the bike. She made it into the kitchen without turning on a light, so when she opened the fridge to pull out the jug of filtered water, the brightness made her wince and shield her eyes. She poured a glass and sipped at it, hoping to settle her stomach.

She hadn't dreamed of Grant in months, though she still thought of him almost every day. Almost. It was an accomplishment, she thought as she leaned against the counter in her dark kitchen and let the night soothe her. Making it to almost. In the beginning, she'd thought of him every second. Then minute. After a time, she'd managed to break it down to hour by hour, then day by day.

One day, she would not think of him at all; the thought of this broke her more than anything ever had and was what made her stumble more than any walk in the dark ever could. The glass slipped from her hand into the sink, where, fortunately, it did not shatter the way her heart had already done, over and over again.

Too many times she'd allowed herself to succumb to this sort of grief, but it had been a long enough time since the last that she was no longer used to how fiercely it could sting. There were choices to be made here. She could give in to it, let the sorrow sweep her away like the undertow in a storm-tossed ocean. Or she could force away the pain and refuse to let it drown her.

She could write.

Of course, this reminded her of Grant, too. After all, he'd been the one to code and design the GOLEM writing program, just for her. He'd never made more than the single copy locked into her laptop, and which she'd discovered only a short time ago while cleaning out some old folders. His big plans of making money hand over fist had never been realized. He'd gone to Arizona without her or the program. There'd been many times when she thought of erasing GOLEM—which stood for Genre Originating Laptop Entertainment Machine and had nothing to do with the famous
Lord of the Rings
character. Although she did think of her laptop as “the precious” sometimes, Chelle thought as she slipped into the chair at her kitchen table and opened the computer lid.

Her fingers rested on the keys as she closed her eyes, letting her mind open up to the possibilities of new words. A story. A...man?

A face flashed through her mind. The guy from the bar. He'd been pretty cute. He'd do, for inspiration.

She opened a GOLEM file.

She started typing.

* * *

The man in front of her kneels, head bowed, to accept the garland of flowers his regent is placing around his neck. Roses in shades of ivory and crimson, her colors. She has sometimes wished to dress in gold and violet, in shades of night or summer sky, but no. She wears red and white, because that is what is expected of her.

The scout has been gone for some long turnings; that's what is expected of him. To go away and then come back. They both have their places in this world. He has returned to her with the treasures of a far-off planet, precious metals and gems to fill her coffers.

More important, he has brought her himself.

“Lady,” he says and looks up at her with a longing that should not be there in his eyes.

It's not appropriate. Forbidden, in fact. She is meant for another. The fate of their two empires rests upon the union, upon the children who will issue forth to bind the warring regencies. Her wedding to Darten is set for only two turnings from now. She will wear red and white.

It's expected of her.

She cannot think of that now. Not with her scout on his knees in front of her with that look on his face and the soft touch of her fingers on his bristled cheeks. She needs to stop touching him, now, before all she can manage to do is keep touching him. She allows herself one last brush against his face before she sits back in her chair.

“You've done well,” she says. “What price have you set as your reward?”

He's entitled to a portion of what he brings her. That is custom. What he asks of her, though, is not.

“A night with you.”

A collective gasp reverberates through the greeting room. Anadais, the regent's companion, steps forward with her sword drawn. The scout has done more than overstep.

“You've insulted the regent,” Anadais says in her clear, calm voice. “Punishment commencing.”

The scout does not move. He has no weapon to draw—nobody can enter the greeting room armed. Still, he could rise and go hand to hand with Anadais, who will surely still slaughter him easily. But he does not move, does not flinch.

He looks into his regent's eyes.

“Wait!” She stands, hand raised.

Another gasp circles the room. She dares not look to see the source of the tittering, the sly glances of her ladies and lords. Those who would see her tumbled from power. She doesn't want to see the sympathetic looks, either, from those few who do not agree with her binding to Darten.

Anadais does not wait. Her sword already raised, it is on its downward slice, primed to take the scout's head from his shoulders. At the regent's shout, the companion barely falters. She would've amputated the regent's arm if the scout had not thrust himself between them and rolled with her onto the dais.

There is no gasp this time. No behind-the-teeth laughter. Silence, thick and severe, covers them all.

“You have touched the regent,” Anadais says in that same calm voice. She raises her sword again.

“No!”

The weight of her ceremonial gown makes it almost impossible for her to get up on her own, so the regent doesn't struggle, doesn't make a fool of herself. She holds up a hand for Anadais to take, and the companion lifts her to her feet as easily as if the regent were made of air. The scout gets up, too.

“Regent, he must pay for the insult he's made upon your person.”

The regent smooths the front of her gown. “Should I not decide what the insult is, and if he's made one?”

A rippling murmur travels the room. She looks out to her audience, but none will meet her gaze. She knows the rumors, the stories about her, the opinions that she is too headstrong for the role into which she was born.

“There are those in this room who have spoken of removing me from my place,” the regent says aloud. “I would think that far more of an insult to my person than anything this scout could ask. This man has brought more wealth to this regency than any other scout. His price is not too high.”

The regent lifts her chin, daring anyone to speak out. None will, of course. Not to her face, not here. As regent she has ultimate power. There will be whispers, rumors. Her advisors will meet and tut. She supposes she could be taken to task by her future spouse's representatives. Perhaps there will be repercussions. Maybe the war that has been threatening since her father's time will at last become reality, and she will be written in the histories as the most foolish regent to ever lead. She will risk it, she thinks as the scout takes her gloved hand. She will risk it all, for the chance to spend a night with him.