The Brimstone Deception (2 page)

“In addition to his freedom,” Kylie said, “I think it's safe to say he just lost his clients
and
the account.”

GOBLINS,
elves, vampires, werewolves, fairies, trolls, dwarves, and anything else you've read about in fairy tales or your favorite fantasy novel series.

They're all real.

It used to be known, confirmed, and accepted fact that all of those and more existed. Then humans went and got themselves civilized and educated. The smarter humans thought they were, and the more they thought they knew, the less they believed in things that went bump in the night.

Their disbelief didn't make any of those things any less real—or deadly.

In a world where supernaturals lived alongside humans, what you couldn't see could kill you. Some of them could even bring you back from the dead and kill you again.

Magic exists, monsters are real, and fighting the forces of evil is a full-time job. At least there's hazard pay.

Humans, being human, merely thought up more
explanations for what monsters were, and excuses for what they couldn't possibly be.

To tell you the truth, our job was a lot easier when John and Suzie Q. Public didn't know they were lucky to make it to the office every morning without getting pecked to pieces. Though that was only during the Werepigeon Infestation of 2003. Before my time, but definitely one for the agency history books.

New Yorkers pride themselves on not even batting an eye when they walk past the weird, the wacky, and the otherworldly.

I've got news; if they saw someone change into a werewolf right in front of them, their blasé would go bye-bye, probably along with the contents of their bladder. Heck, the sound effects alone—bones popping, sinews stretching, muzzle elongating and sprouting fangs—would be enough to send them screaming into the night.

We battle the creatures of the night and keep humans in the dark.

We're the agents of Supernatural Protection & Investigations. SPI is a worldwide organization, but New York is home to the U.S. and world headquarters.

There are two New Yorks. As if there isn't enough traffic in one.

There's the New York that millions of people see, hear, touch, smell, and in the summer when the wind's right and the garbage barges are ripe, taste. Then there's the New York that's home to the world's largest concentration of supernatural beings—unseen, unheard, unknown. And it's SPI's job to keep it that way.

I was one of the agency's five seers. Since the beginning of crime, some bad guys—human or otherwise—have depended on disguises to elude capture. While humans were limited to wigs, makeup, and the ever popular but terribly ineffective sunglasses, supernaturals could tap into their
magic or buy an amulet that would enable them to alter their appearance, or even hide their entire body with a cloaking spell.

It didn't matter what they used, or how good it was, I could see right through any and all of it.

So seers were downright handy in an organization like SPI.

I pointed out the bad guys, and our agents or commando teams brought them in.

Ian was our top agent.

Kylie was our director of media and public relations.

And Rake pretty much had a permanent spot on our suspects list.

Right now the four of us were sharing a booth in a coffee shop around the corner from the restaurant. The police had taken it as their interviewing room since Café Mina was presently a smoke-filled ruin. One of the cops had recognized Ian from their time together in the NYPD, and one of the staff had told them that Ian had tried to disarm the hallucinating crazy guy. Since the three of us were with him, they wanted our statements as well.

Lucky us.

Ian and Rake had declared an unspoken temporary truce. I knew it wasn't due to any newfound camaraderie, but rather that it wouldn't go over well to beat the crap out of each other in front of the cops. For the moment, they could pretend to make nice.

The officer who'd taken our statements was an elf. He knew who we were and who we worked for—or at least he knew who Ian and Kylie were, and everyone knew who Rake was. The elf couldn't see through Rake's glamour, but he knew what Rake's human glamour looked like. The elf didn't know me from Adam's house cat, and I was fine with that. It's never been a goal of mine to be recognized on sight by the police force of any city.

From what the guy had been screaming while being taken
into custody, it was apparent that he could see the supernaturals in the restaurant with him for what they really were. The young elven officer knew that but he couldn't exactly put that in his report. I felt bad for him, but in a place like New York, with its huge supernatural population, being able to work a case while keeping the city's biggest secret was a required talent. If he couldn't juggle, he'd better learn fast.

“The gentleman began behaving strangely after coming out of the men's room,” Rake said. “While you were arguing,” he added with an amiable smile, looking right at Ian, “I was observing.”

“Arguing?” the elf cop asked Ian.

“A personal matter, Officer.”

Ian's face was a perfect mask of neutrality; however, from Rake's pained hiss, Ian had just introduced the heel of his boot to the top of Rake's foot. Then Ian grunted as Kylie did the same to him, except with a stiletto heel.

I rolled my eyes.

“So you're implying that he may have taken a drug?” the officer asked.

“Well, he wasn't screaming about monsters
before
he went to the head,” drawled a familiar voice from behind me.

Our day was finally looking up.

Lieutenant Frederick Ash was a detective with the NYPD's drug enforcement unit and, like the elven officer, was clued in to SPI and the supernatural community. Unlike the young elf, Fred was an elf/human hybrid. While he had enough elven blood running through his veins to use minor magic, his physical appearance lacked the jewel-tone eyes, pale skin, and pointed ears that marked the elven race, so no glamour was needed.

Fred was plainspoken and said it like he saw it.

I liked him.

I liked it even better that he was here.

Ian liked it enough that he and Fred did the bro-hug thing. Though they'd worked closely together during Ian's time with
the NYPD, his leaving the force to come work for SPI hadn't weakened that bond. Not to mention, it helped us to have people inside the NYPD, and the reverse was true for them. A lot of crime in the city crossed the human/supernatural barrier, which sometimes wasn't so much a barrier as a chalk outline on a sidewalk, an outline drawn around human and supernatural alike.

Kylie's eyes went to the street outside. I turned to look.

Oh crap.

Two news trucks complete with satellite dishes. For now it was probably to cover the destruction of the city's newest trendy restaurant, but all it would take would be talking to any of the patrons, most of whom would love to be on TV, to root out the cause of the fire. A previously upstanding businessman suddenly seeing monsters, who was probably cooling his heels in a padded observation room by now, would spark the sensation and ratings seeker that was in the heart of every TV journalist.

“Officer, do you have any more questions for me?” Kylie asked.

“No, ma'am.”

She nodded in the direction of the news trucks. “Then if you all would excuse me, it's time I went to work.”

She scooted out of the booth and headed for the door, heels clicking on the tile with sharp purpose.

Media and Public Relations is SPI's largest and sometimes most critical department. Kylie and her team were hands-down the best at what they did—neutralizing a supernatural exposure problem
before
it became a publicly visible crisis. In addition, Kylie's “secret identity” was a world-renowned debunker of the supernatural, and the ultimate mistress of misinformation. She put herself front and center on TV and radio talk shows, and was accepted by respected journalists as an expert on the exposé.

Kylie was the best at spinning a supernatural news story the way she—and SPI—needed it to go.

Fred jerked his head in the direction of a back table. “A word with you, Ian?”

“Sure.”

The boys went off to chat, leaving me and Rake alone.

An immaculately groomed man with a microphone and cameraman in tow met Kylie at the door. Though “met” was a little mild. “Ambushed” was a more accurate description.

There could've been hurricane-force winds out there and not one hair on Baxter Clayton's head would've moved.

Baxter was an investigative reporter for a local TV station and an all-round asshat. I didn't envy Kylie her job right now. Actually, I'd never envied Kylie's job. I was a horrible liar and even worse at hiding how I felt when around people I didn't like, and Baxter Clayton definitely qualified.

Rake swore.

“What?”

“Baxter Clayton.”

“Yeah, I don't like him, either. I don't think anyone does. That's probably why they keep him around. The guy everyone loves to hate. Hate equals high ratings.”

“He hasn't been trying to get you on camera for a story on New York's upper-class sex industry,” Rake muttered.

I bit back a snort.

“It's not funny.”

Baxter Clayton was in earnest conversation with a professionally poised and smiling Kylie.

“It looks like Kylie's taking one for the team then. You owe her.”

“Yes, Miss O'Hara will have my eternal gratitude
if
I can get out of here without being seen.”

Rake was ruffled. It was a rare sight, so I was going to enjoy it while it lasted. “You do a lot of ducking out back doors, don't you?” I asked with a smile.

“Enough that I've become quite adept at it.”

With that, he scooped my hand off the table and brought it to his lips.

His voice softened. “And by the way, this lunch didn't count. A maniac setting fire to the table next to ours doesn't qualify as a successful date.”

“Define successful,” I managed.

The goblin gently turned my hand and placed a lingering kiss on the palm, sending a tingle of sensation to other places.

“No dinner,” I said, trying for firm and uncompromising—and probably failing miserably.

Rake's eyes glittered. “Breakfast then?”

“You don't give up, do you?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“How about another lunch?” I suggested.

“How about tomorrow?”

“I'll check and get back to you.”

“If you don't, I will.”

Giving the back of my fingers a parting brush of his lips, Rake quickly escaped out the back door.

I snuck a glance over at Ian and Fred. Thankfully, my partner had his back to me.

Fred did not.

From the sly wink he just gave me, I'd say he saw Rake's Cyrano de Bergerac exit. Then he gestured me over to join them.

Oh boy.

“I was just telling your partner what your knife-wielding businessman had likely snorted.”

“So it was a drug,” I said.

Fred nodded. “A new one. High-end designer.”

Ian glanced back at the now empty booth.

“Rake had to leave,” I told him before he could ask any questions that I'd completely blow answering.

Fred, bless him, didn't say a word.

Kylie wasn't the only one who'd taken one for the team. It looked like I might owe Fred one, too.

“I was telling Ian that from what I've heard about Brimstone, your boy was one of the latest customers.”

“Brimstone?”

Fred shrugged. “That's what they're calling it. It can be smoked or snorted. We haven't gotten our hands on any yet for the lab to play with, and the latest customer didn't have any more on him. One of our sources told us it's lava colored. We're assuming that's the source of the name. And from the reactions of the three people who've taken it while in public . . .” Fred lowered his voice. “One of the side effects is that they can see supernaturals.”

“Through glamours,” I said, likewise keeping my voice down.

“Through anything.”

Glamours, shields, wards, and cloaks.

“Well, there goes my job security,” I said.

“Hardly,” Fred replied. “The humans who've gotten hold of the stuff freak out like you just saw.”

“How about supernaturals?” Ian asked.

“Unknown. We've had no reports of a supernatural under the influence of Brimstone. We didn't find out about the stuff until a couple days ago. But if supernaturals were taking it, they wouldn't exactly scream about seeing monsters.”

“How long do the effects last?” Ian asked.

“They start to come down after a couple of hours.” He paused. “Good part is that they don't remember what they saw, just that it was the mother of all bad trips.”

“Great,” I said. “At least if they got the crap scared out of them, they won't be lining up to buy more.”

“Wish people had that much sense,” Fred said. “When I heard we might have another customer, I wanted to get some fresh eyewitness accounts.” He grinned. “Imagine my surprise to find you two among the witnesses.”

“It wasn't exactly how we intended our lunch hour to go,” I said.

“I got that impression.” His blue eyes twinkled.

Fred didn't need to elaborate. Ian and Fred were beer and steak kinds of guys. Café Mina was hardly where either one
would go—or could afford to go—to grab a quick bite for lunch. Fred simply eyed Ian's sports jacket and tie, glanced out at Kylie, grinned, and gave my partner a congratulatory smack on the shoulder.

Detective Fred Ash. Master of deduction and masculine nonverbal communication.

“Know where the supply is coming from?” Ian asked. My partner was the master at ignoring questions, direct or implied.

“That's the reason I'm glad to run into you two here,” Fred replied. “We'll continue to investigate, but let's just say we'll only be able to get so far.”