The Brimstone Deception (18 page)

Rake laughed. “You are learning, my dear Makenna. Isidor and I have been adversaries for years. To be blunt, he hates me.” The goblin smiled. “I believe that any job worth doing is worth doing well, and I have more than earned his animosity. As to his motivation now, it could be any number of
reasons ranging from damaging or destroying the operations goblin intelligence has in place in this dimension, to the demons offered Isidor a ‘get out of death free' card for helping them gain access to this dimension, to he's simply bored and all of this amuses him. I assure you I am trying to ascertain his reasoning. No doubt you would find his thought processes nearly as convoluted as my own. I promise, if one option seems more likely than the others, I will tell you.”

“You were telling us about Hart Pharmaceuticals,” Ian said.

“Yes. In the city's supernatural criminal underworld, Hart is known for developing new recreational drugs that are then sold by the Balmorlans, an elven crime family in this dimension, a known name in elven intelligence in mine. Both they and the Silvanus family have been known to use Nightshades as enforcers. Hart Pharmaceutical's share of all profits is laundered through two offshore sources before it comes back to their bank accounts. From all reports, it's a lucrative partnership.”

I tried to follow the tangled trail. “Okay, so Isidor's brother runs Hart. Hart has dealings with the Balmorlans, and both Hart and the Balmorlans have a connection to elven intelligence. So how do you know that Isidor opened the Hellpit?”

“Because, lovely Makenna, Isidor Silvanus has contacts in Hell, and is so obscenely powerful that he could open a Hellpit in his sleep.”

I put my fork down. Appetite gone.

“How did you know about Dante Frontino being this morning's victim?” Ian asked.

“I began an analysis of the properties I owned under Northern Reach Holdings, noting the location of each murder in relation to the Hart Pharmaceuticals laboratory. Then I put that analysis on hold when a more immediate clue presented itself. While on my way here for breakfast, I saw Isidor Silvanus exiting my building across the street.”

Holy crap. “Did he see you?”

“Oh, yes. I received quite the jaunty salute.” Rake smiled grimly. “The bastard positively reeked of brimstone.”

I glanced at Ian. I wondered if Isidor Silvanus had delivered half a dozen eggs to my apartment—and had been the figure I saw on the other side of that parking garage portal.

“What's this Isidor Silvanus look like? Tall? Skinny?”

Rake gave me a quizzical look. He didn't quite know where I was going with this. “Tall, yes. Skinny, no. Slender would be a better description.”

Rake's “slender” might be Mrs. Rosini's “skinny.” She'd told me more than once that I needed to put some meat on my bones.

“Good-looking?” I continued. “Average? Ugly?”

“The Silvanus family pride themselves on keeping their bloodline pure. They are high elves.” Rake gave me a slight smile. “He is nearly as handsome as I am.”

Mrs. Rosini had said that Ian was better looking than the delivery guy. In my opinion, and probably most women's, Rake was better looking than Ian. Not by much, but there was no denying it.

“Silvanus wasn't the delivery guy,” I told Ian.

“Thanks, partner. You know how to make a man feel good.”

So much for Ian not following my train of thought.

“Besides, a high elf wouldn't be hauling a cooler,” I quickly added.

Ian gave me an arch look. “I can at least see that being true.”

Rake's eyes were going back and forth between us as if he was watching a tennis match. “If you continue, will this eventually make sense?”

“No,” we said together.

“That being said, any type of glamour is well within Isidor's abilities.” Rake took a positively vicious bite of bacon. “He could be anywhere now, and posing as anyone.”

“THAT
could have been how he got close to Alastor Malvolia,” Ian said.

“It appears I'm not the only party guilty of withholding information,” Rake murmured.

“You had more to share,” I told him. “Ours is just icing on the cake.” I felt suddenly queasy. “So to speak.” I looked at Ian. “You wanna tell him? I'd rather not even think about it.”

Ian told about the baby demons in my apartment and Al in Kitty's cake oven. Rake listened and didn't say a word. His expression was calm—too calm. I didn't know if anyone could truly know Rake Danescu, but I'd learned enough to know that calm was the last thing he was feeling.

“Where are you staying?” Rake asked me as soon as Ian had finished.

“At headquarters for now.”

“I have apartments.
Secure
apartments.”

“Is that like your offer of an intimate breakfast?” I asked. Ian was right there, but I was beyond caring.

His dark eyes were steady. “No. It is an offer of a safe place to live. Full wards, and a full-time battle mage security staff on duty twenty-four seven.”

“Wouldn't happen to be your building, would it?”

“As a matter of fact, it's in Vivienne Sagadraco's building.”

“You own the boss's apartment building?”

“I do.”

“Does she know?”

“She does. The building where I live is equally secure, but I know you'd never accept my offer of an apartment there.”

And I knew I'd never be able to afford an apartment in either one.

“Last night, Ms. Sagadraco sent a security team to beef up the wards on my place.”

I said it, but I couldn't say I was thrilled about it. I could see it being a short-term solution, but the thought of living in a place where, despite the best wards, a portal to Hell's anteroom could still be ripped inside my bedroom closet . . . I knew I'd never be able to sleep there again. Not to mention, I refused to endanger my neighbors. Those demons had run out of chickens. If I hadn't come home there'd have been nothing to stop them from taking the air ducts over to Mrs. Rosini's. I felt the prickling of impending tears stinging my eyes. I would
not
endanger her or anyone else.

“I'll think about it,” I told Rake. And I meant it. “For now, I'm going to stay at headquarters with Kitty.” I tried a smile. “It's like a pajama party. Tonight we could do mani-pedis.”

“Tell her that I have several retail spaces in the Village and SoHo, should she want to relocate. Free of charge.”

“No rent and no burned body stink? I don't see how she could turn that down. I'll tell her.”

“And the apartment for you would likewise be rent free—”

I was about to make a comment about that, but his uncharacteristically somber expression stopped me.

“And no obligation—of any kind,” he finished.

Wow. I wasn't entirely sure I trusted it, but wow.

“Thank you,” I said simply. “When I have time to think, I'll give it some thought and let you know. It's a very generous offer.”

“Agent Byrne has been working tirelessly to protect you since day one,” Rake continued. “You're now in the worst kind of danger, and I am at least partially responsible.” His brow creased in confusion. “Though I don't yet know why or even how. But I do know that I will do whatever's in my power to help him keep you safe.”

“Thank you. Again.” It was all I could think to say. Rake had complimented Ian, apologized to me, admitted he didn't know everything, and promised protection—all in a few, short sentences. For Rake Danescu, that was a staggering achievement.

Ian and Rake exchanged solemn man nods.

Looked like Ian was speechless, too.

“Is there a chance they're manufacturing the Brimstone at Hart Pharmaceuticals?” I asked Rake.

“They would certainly have the equipment they needed, but I wouldn't think so.”

“According to Dr. Cheban,” Ian said, “working with molten brimstone wouldn't be something you'd want to do in a multi-million-dollar facility filled with valuable, highly educated employees.”

“Oh yeah.” I spread my hands. “Boom. No meth labs in Hell, and all that. Though if Hart is bringing in beaucoup bucks on illegal drugs, what would stop them from buying some property of their own? They've probably got some labs hidden away around town. Should we let Fred know that Hart's the likely manufacturer?”

Ian nodded, took out his phone, and started texting. “I don't expect they'll find anything, but since Hart operates as a human company, the NYPD and the feds would be the best qualified to at least make life difficult for them. Maybe they can dig up enough probable cause for a search warrant.”

I got my phone out, too. “I'll text Kenji and have him start
digging for property Hart and any of its C-levels might own around town.” I glanced at Rake. “Unless you have a list floating around in that goblin James Bond head of yours.”

“Until now I haven't had a need to know.”

“That's okay. Kenji probably already does. He's a collector: comics, movie memorabilia, dirt on supernatural-owned, multinational corporations. Like noticing that a drug company owns a run-down warehouse with state-of-the-art security. Things that jump out and wave red flags.” My finger froze above my phone. Speaking of red flags . . .

“Just how badly does Isidor Silvanus hate you?” I asked Rake.

“The level appears to be approaching obsession. Why?”

“He's been going out of his way to murder people inside of buildings that you own. Why not open a Hellpit under one? What better way to humiliate a dark mage adversary than to open a Hellpit under a property they own without them knowing about it?”

There was silence around the table. So much for whether I might be onto something.

“Is that possible?” Ian asked.

“I own many properties, most of which I have no contact with on a day-to-day basis. This is why I have management companies.”

“Then it is possible.”

The goblin's dark eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Isidor is exceedingly gifted in the magic arts. Unfortunately, yes. It is possible.”

“Marty said brimstone loses its molten state after an hour of being exposed to our air,” I said. “That'd put the lab an hour—probably much less—from the Hellpit.”

“We need a list of all of your real estate holdings in Manhattan,” Ian told Rake. “And not just Northern Reach.”

When a response wasn't forthcoming, Ian continued. “The list will be kept in a secure database.”

Rake's lips tightened into a thin line. “A SPI database.”

“If I'm right, then Isidor Silvanus already has that list,” I said. “So you can slam the barn door if you want, but that horse is long gone.”

The goblin sighed, though I detected a hint of a growl. “Very well. You shall have it within the hour.”

“One more question,” Ian asked him.

The goblin raised a brow. “You mean one more question—for now.”

Ian ignored that. “Do you know if Alastor Malvolia represented Hart Pharmaceuticals?”

“He did.”

“Did he represent you?” I asked.

“He did not. Believe it or not, but I do have standards, and Alastor Malvolia was far beneath them. It was nothing personal; I merely didn't approve of his methods.”

I grimaced. “So somebody at Hart stuffed their own lawyer in an oven?”

Rake laughed, a genuinely happy sound. “Believe me, it could not have happened to a nicer guy.”

FRED
was thrilled to hear about Hart Pharmaceuticals being the cause of all of his late nights and early mornings. Fred was thrilled because Hart was already under investigation by local, state, and federal authorities. Kitty and I weren't the only ones who wanted payback. There was a line.

The latest incident in Fred's busy schedule was that he'd just come from the scene of yet another murder that could be connected to Brimstone. This victim was displayed in just about the most public way possible. A human drug lord with a small but profitable Wall Street client base had been found impaled on the horns of the Charging Bull statue in the Financial District. His heart was gone, replaced by the statue's right horn. Fred was of the opinion that this was the guy who had been selling Brimstone to humans like the man in Café Mina. Sounded logical enough to me. Who would want to read minds more than brokers, financiers, and other businesspeople? Fred said that this particular drug lord had been clued in to the supernatural world, which could connect him
to what was really going on at Hart Pharmaceuticals. And it sounded like he'd either neglected to give his customers full disclosure on Brimstone's side effects, or simply told them that they might see things, but to ignore them until the mind-reading benefits kicked in.

That solved the mystery of how humans were getting their hands on Brimstone, but we still had the problem of no prosecutable evidence against Hart and its officers. Any that had been found had been refuted, and all potential witnesses had disappeared and had not been found—all thanks in one way or another to the late, evilly great Alastor Malvolia.

As the brains behind Hart Pharmaceutical's continued legal maneuverings and evasion, Al was now out of the picture and in a stainless-steel drawer at SPI headquarters. The feds' prosecutors would be happy about that.

If Hart's CEO, Phaon Silvanus—brother of Isidor—had been in any way responsible for Al's demise, he'd just gotten the ball rolling on his own downfall. If it hadn't been done at his orders . . . well, for the murderer's sake, I hope they got a running head start for killing the person who'd single-handedly kept the cops and feds from hanging Hart Pharmaceuticals out to dry.

I just loved it when the bad guys shot themselves in the foot, but it remained to be seen if it'd be too little too late.

Alastor Malvolia had been baked, but the finished product was in one piece—including heart and soul. Though with this particular goblin lawyer, one really had to wonder if there'd been a soul there to begin with.

Bert was determined to find out.

And Rake wanted to be there when he did. He'd given us a list of his Manhattan real estate holdings. It was in the hundreds. Money had never impressed me, and it still didn't. But, damn. We didn't have enough agents to check out even a fraction of them. Rake was hopeful that Alastor Malvolia might be persuaded to point us in the right direction—especially since his murderer was probably also located in that direction.

I'd said I never wanted to be in SPI's morgue for another of Bert's corpse Q&A sessions, but if the goblin lawyer was going to say anything, I wanted to hear it. I was betting that being betrayed by one of his corporate clients was going to make for one seriously vindictive ghost. No retainer was worth that.

I'd damned near been baby food for demons either directly or indirectly because of the Silvanus brothers. I was overdue for some fun.

*   *   *

The autopsy room's recording system had been double checked and was ready to go. Human courts didn't consider the testimony of a ghost to be admissible in court, but as far as supernatural law was concerned, alive, dead, or undead, it was all good.

The autopsy room had two tables and not much room for anything else. Bert had to be in there as did Al Malvolia. Bert took up enough space for two people, and in his present condition, Al was literally half the man he once was. Now he really did look like Mr. Burns from
The Simpsons
, if Mr. Burns had been baked into a mummy.

Dr. Carey and Bert had done an external examination of the goblin's body and determined that he had been knocked unconscious with a blow to the back of the head. I'd only met him once, and by all accounts Alastor Malvolia was as far from being a nice person as it was possible to get. I was still glad to hear that he'd been unconscious or already dead before he'd been shoved into Kitty's oven. After the questioning, Bert would guide the spirit to the other side, and there would be an official autopsy to determine the exact cause and time of death, as well as to look for any residue or fibers on the body that might provide clues to place of death and the murderer's identity—something a human court would accept.

Martin DiMatteo had been there to back Bert up in the past, and he was in there now. The rest of us were on the other
side of the double-thick glass wall. Normal morgues didn't need that kind of reinforcement, but in the world of the supernatural, there were many kinds and levels of dead, and on occasion, they didn't need a necromancer to raise a fuss.

In addition to me, Ian, and Rake was Ms. Sagadraco, Alain Moreau, and—not so surprisingly—Kitty. After all, it was her oven the goblin lawyer had been found in; she wanted to know what had happened to him before he'd been brought there. I'd think it would help her considerably to know that Alastor Malvolia hadn't died in her oven.

Fred was busy with the Hart Pharmaceutical end of the investigation, but had made Ian promise to get a recording to him ASAP.

Bert was presently making a brief initial contact to ensure Malvolia's soul was still inside his corpse when the body's mouth dropped open and an enraged shriek damned near shorted out the sound system.

Holy Mother of God.

Normally spirits communicated through Bert. Not this time. Malvolia the dead lawyer wanted to do his own talking.

The lights might not have been on anymore, but the dead goblin was definitely home, and he was not happy.

Bert had shielded himself and wore a necroamulet to give himself even more protection. He wasn't taking any chances and I didn't blame him one bit. Contacting a newly dead angry ghost was like startling a big dog out of a sound sleep. Unpleasantness was likely to occur.

The necromancer glanced at Ms. Sagadraco and nodded.

Showtime.

*   *   *

“Alastor Malvolia.”

Once again the boom of Bert's deep voice filled the morgue's four tiled walls. There was an intercom on our side, but we really didn't need it. The glass was also warded, so the force of Bert's necromantic magic didn't affect me and
Ian as it had when we'd been in the room with Sar Gedeon's corpse.

The elf drug lord's soul had already been taken, so there'd been no response to Bert's command. Al Malvolia had been a lawyer in life; and in death, he couldn't wait to talk.

Almost immediately a silvery mist rose from the curled-up corpse.

And it solidified, complete with a face, an angry face.

Okay, that wasn't normal, either.

Even Bert looked a little taken aback, though for Bert that meant briefly raising one eyebrow.

There were soul contacts that had been memorable enough to enter into Bert's office party story repertoire. I bet this was going to be one of them—and I was getting to witness it firsthand.

Lucky me.

It was probably a good thing that Fred wasn't here, and that none of us were elves. The spirit that had once lived in the body of the goblin lawyer Alastor Malvolia hissed and spun, two glowing red orbs where his eyes had been, probably looking for the elves who'd killed him.

I wondered if Bert was in charge in there anymore.

However, Bert looked cool as a cucumber.

Those glowing eyes didn't find any elves, but he saw his own burned body curled on the autopsy table.

The shriek he'd let out before paled in comparison to the roar that came out of that pissed-off poof of mist.

Alain Moreau reached over and flipped the switch on the speaker. Either that or our ears were gonna bleed.

“Thank you,” I said. At least I think I did.

The roar came down to a gurgling hiss. It took me a minute to realize that the goblin was laughing.

He was looking directly at Rake Danescu.

And laughing.

I didn't think any of us—especially Rake—were going to find what was about to happen amusing.

Alain Moreau flipped the switch again, turning the speakers back up.

“Danessscu,”
Malvolia hissed.

“Alastor. You're looking well.”

More gurgling laughter. At least he'd kept his sense of humor.

“He isss coming for you.”

“Isidor?”

“Yessss.”

“I was beginning to get that impression.” Rake nodded toward Malvolia's body on the table. “Did he do that?”

The glow in the red eyes faded a little, and his expression grew distant and puzzled. Both were impressive achievements for a mist you could see through.

Apparently he hadn't seen who'd killed him. Looked like Malvolia had been hit from behind like Dr. Carey said.

Bert stood next to the table, his hand resting lightly on the corpse's head, his eyes calm and steady on Malvolia's manifestation. Bert was still in control; at least I hoped so.

“Isssidor made a deal with the devil.”

Rake's fangs flashed in a brief grin of delighted realization. “And you drew up the contract.”

More gurgling laughter.
“Yessss.”

Now it was Rake's turn to chuckle. “You screwed them both over.”

“Filthy, arrogant elvesss. Deservesss to burn.”

“Alastor, if you weren't so crispy right now, I'd actually kiss you. Where's the contract?”

“Sssafe.”

“Where?”

“You will sssee.”

The mist that was Alastor Malvolia was beginning to fade.

“Hurry,”
Bert mouthed to Rake.

“Where did Isidor open the Hellpit?” Rake asked.

I could clearly see Bert standing behind the goblin. What was left of Malvolia was confused, looking around as if he'd suddenly become aware of where he was and didn't recognize it.

We were losing him.

Rake leaned closer to the glass. “Alastor. Listen to me. Where is the Hellpit?”

“Where the demonsss are coming from.”

“Yes, demons will be coming from the Hellpit. Where. Is. The. Hellpit?”

The mist was drawn back into the burned shell of Alastor Malvolia's body.

Bert bowed his head, and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Can you get him back?” Rake asked urgently.

The necromancer shook his head. “There's a chance, but he'd be even more confused than he was now. Even if he could manifest, he would only be able to hold form for a few seconds. We need to let him go, Lord Danescu.”