The Brimstone Deception (6 page)

“I will take care of it, madam.”

“Thank you, Alain.”

I gave a silent whistle. I was glad I wasn't on narcotics detail. For their sakes, I hoped they had a good reason why the NYPD had beat them on this one.

SPI had detectives and investigators the same as any mortal police department, and those who had contacts in New York's drug industry would be set on Brimstone's trail.

We didn't have enough evidence to connect Brimstone with the murder of Sar Gedeon, but someone involved in that murder, whether or not it was the actual killer, had set a trap for any necromancer who tried to have a chat with their victim.

Bertram Ferguson was SPI New York's only necromancer.

The murder was committed in New York.

Therefore, Bert had been targeted.

Again, we had no evidence to turn my hypothesis into a fact, but my friend nearly died—or worse—and I was fully prepared to take that personally. So I was going to investigate anything that might lead me to the asshole responsible.

I had a source. And as long as Ian bought a lottery ticket later today, he would talk to me.

I
never liked hospital rooms.

Though I imagine not many people do. No one wants to sit in a tiny room watching someone you care about unconscious and with machines hooked up to them. Aside from the birth of a baby, there is no happy reason to be in a hospital.

Bert wanted to see me and Ian.

Now.

When we got to the infirmary, Bert was wide awake.

For a man who was zapped only an hour or so ago by a trap set in the mind of a dead body, Bert was looking pretty good. His color wasn't the best, but he was conscious and sitting up in bed. I was glad to see both.

Not only was he awake, he looked pissed. Really pissed.

It appeared that Bert was taking the attack personally. Since he was the only necromancer in SPI's New York office, I couldn't imagine who else the killer thought would go poking around in Sar Gedeon's head.

“Looks like you went one round too many with one of the boys downstairs,” Ian told him.

My partner wasn't talking about the guys in SPI's motor pool.

Bert just nodded. “After what you two saw in that apartment, I was an idiot for getting in the ring.” The big guy shrugged. “But taking punches is part of my job.”

I nearly said, “It shouldn't be,” but he was right. We knew the risks of the work when we'd signed on. It was just that some of us risked more than others. I merely pointed out warded supernatural criminals. Bert talked to dead people, and most of those people had gotten themselves dead by violent means. To me, that was the psychic equivalent of going around and sticking your bare hand in a hole in the ground. You never knew what you were going to find.

Or what was going to find you.

I had a good idea of what had found Bert.

The same thing that'd seen me from the other side of that portal.

“I need to talk fast before Doc Stephens comes in here and tries to give me a sedative.”

I didn't miss Bert's emphasis on “tries.” I could see the necromancer being a bad patient.

“What did you see?” Ian asked quietly.

“For starters, I can confirm that class-five demon.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah.”

I concentrated on taking air in and blowing air out.

Today was my first experience with demons. Like many Southerners from small towns, if someone asked you if you thought demons were real, you gave the Sunday school answer of “yes.” But they weren't something you thought about on a day-to-day basis. Even working at SPI, you knew certain things were real, but you never really put religion together with anything you might run into on the job. At least I hadn't.

Until now.

By helping Bert break a hold a demon had on him, I could've put myself in its crosshairs. And if that same demon was what I had seen on the other side of that portal, he'd now met me twice.

Cold sweat prickled across my skin at the thought.

I knew without a doubt that I'd help Bert again in a heartbeat, but I really hoped I didn't have to.

Bert noticed.

“You look like you need this bed more than I do.”

“It's just been a long day already.” That wasn't a lie. I tried on a smile for size. “Trust me, I'm gonna do my best not to end up in an infirmary bed.”

Or in a stainless steel drawer next to Sar Gedeon.

Bert grimaced as he pulled himself up further in the bed. Dr. Stephens might have the right idea of sedating Bert to make him get some rest.

“I saw them kill the elf,” he told us. “I saw it because they wanted me—or whoever tried a PML—to see them work.”

“PML?” I asked.

“Postmortem link.”

All corporations had their acronyms, but SPI was a special snowflake.

“Your higher class demons are arrogant bastards,” Ian said.

Bert snorted. “Or drama queens. You two talked to Marty yet?”

“Martin DiMatteo,” Ian said in response to my confused expression. Then he grinned. “You don't want to get Marty and Bert started at company parties. They try to outdo each other with work war stories.”

“I'll try to avoid doing that.” Some stories are better left untold, especially if they involved demons and dead people.

“No, we haven't seen Marty,” Ian said, “but the boss wants to bring him in on this one.”

“A demon coming through a portal and ripping the insides out of an elf drug lord. Marty will love this one.”

No, I definitely didn't want to be around when Bert and Marty started storytime.

“Our Class Five—or his cohort—left me that present on purpose,” Bert told us. “The elf never had a chance.”

“You saw this from Gedeon's point of view?” Ian asked.

Bert shook his head. “I saw through the eyes of whoever was working with that demon. They were the one in charge.”

“So one was a demon and the other was . . . ?”

“Unknown.”

“The accomplice planted the trap,” I said.

Bert nodded. “The demon had its hand wrapped around the elf's entire neck. It was a big Class Five, and it was wearing a classic form: red skin, horns, tail, hooves.”

I swallowed, or tried to.

“It picked Gedeon up off the floor and squeezed his neck until he stopped struggling but was still conscious. Then he tossed the elf on the floor and put one hoof on his chest to hold him still. Though I don't think it was necessary. The accomplice had already paralyzed the elf. There are spells or drugs that can do that but leave the victim fully aware.”

God.

“So he felt it when they opened up his chest and cut out his heart.” Now Bert did look sick. “In his last moments of awareness, Sar Gedeon was forced to watch as the demon ate his heart.”

“There weren't any screams?” I asked quietly.

“His vocal cords were paralyzed, too.”

And now so were mine.

“What about the soul?” Ian asked.

“Held immobile until the demon was ready for it.”

“He ate it.” Ian's voice was flat and without emotion, but I knew my partner. He was feeling plenty of emotion. He was just keeping himself from putting his fist through the nearest wall. Sar Gedeon may have been a merciless criminal who killed people and destroyed lives, but no one deserved to die like that.

“What kind of thing can do that?” I asked Bert.

“Unfortunately more than a few. Equally unfortunate is that the perp foresaw Sar Gedeon's murder leading to a necromantic investigation. This thing took great pride and enjoyment in its work, and wanted it to be seen and appreciated.” His blue eyes went hard. “I hate to disappoint him, her, or it, but I didn't appreciate it one damned bit.”

“Sar Gedeon was also a mage,” Ian said. “Mid-level power, but it was enough that no one wanted to cross him.”

“He got crossed all right,” I muttered.

“I'm sure the killer knew that, which would only have increased his enjoyment.” Bert said. “I sensed a sadistic satisfaction—glee, even—because of Gedeon's inability to defend himself. This thing likes it when his victims are helpless.”

Bert's telling of Sar Gedeon's last minutes terrified me, but it also made me mad as hell.

“The thing fed Gedeon's heart and soul to his demon muscle while the elf had to watch and couldn't do anything about it. Is there a descriptor beyond sadistic? 'Cause this guy would qualify in spades.”

Ian spoke one word. “Monster.”

WE
left Bert in his infirmary bed, gearing up for the inevitable argument with Dr. Stephens about how long—or not—he was going to stay there.

My money was on Bert.

Ian and I had been issued new phones and were headed out to take the next step to finding out who murdered Sar Gedeon; and more importantly, who tried to fry the mind of our coworker and friend.

Part of me didn't want to find the trail that would lead me to what I'd seen beyond that portal, but that part was soundly outvoted by the certainty that the only way to get rid of fear was to confront the thing that scared you.

Even if that thing was a class-five demon that ate hearts and souls.

After being reamed out for letting the NYPD get the jump on them in discovering a new supernatural drug on the streets, SPI's narcotics team was left scrambling to get information for our Dragon Lady and get themselves out of the doghouse.

Ian and I had sources of our own that were more well-rounded in their knowledge gathering. If they could make a living selling or trading information about one segment of New York's criminal society, they figured that they could bring in even more if they broadened their base. Snitches, like investments, were more profitable when they diversified.

Ord Larcwyde had a financial goal and a life goal. Make enough money to retire well. Live long enough to enjoy both.

He was an entrepreneur and a veritable information clearinghouse.

And out of all of SPI's agents, he would only talk to me.

While I'd like to be able to say it was due to my street savvy, I knew it was my accent.

Twenty years ago, Ord had transplanted from Atlanta. Business was too good in New York to ever consider going back home, but talking to me helped ease his homesickness for all things Southern.

Ian was a barbaric Yankee who he tolerated only on my account.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a wee smidgen of pride at being able to be one up on Ian, even if it was only with a single snitch. My partner was nearly legendary in the agency, so I took what I could get.

Ord Larcwyde did business out of a small organic greengrocer one block south of the Meatpacking District on Horatio Street in the West Village. He had many information-related businesses, but only one interested me today. If you were on an extremely selective pre-approved list, you came in, bought a hundred dollar lottery ticket, and you got to talk to Ord. How long he'd chat with you depended on the questions you were asking—and how much he enjoyed your company.

Profits from sales of New York's lottery tickets went to the public schools.

Ord Larcwyde was very civic-minded.

Plus, you might actually win. So there was something for everyone.

Because I was Southern and he liked me, I got to talk to Ord for free. But today I laid a twenty on the counter to let Ord know I was thinking of the children, and that this wasn't just a social call. Plus, it was good manners.

While the elven store owner was letting Ord know we were there, I scratched off the numbers.

To win back the money I'd just spent wasn't my objective, though it would've been nice. My reward would be information on Brimstone, the murder motive, the identities of the killers, or I'd love the jackpot of getting all three.

Dang. The tickets were losers.

Hopefully Ord would be the source of my payout.

*   *   *

Ord Larcwyde kind of reminded me of Colonel Sanders. That is if the Colonel was a three-foot-tall gnome who wore a blue velour tracksuit and gold chains instead of a white suit and black string tie.

Ord stood, came around his desk, and treated my hand to a most-proficient kiss. Ian was on the receiving end of a terse nod.

“Makenna, you are a sight for sore eyes. Please, sit and make yourself comfortable.”

Ord had two chairs in his office: one for him and one for a guest.

Ian the Barbaric Yankee leaned against the open door.

Ord would close it for truly private conversations, but he knew I didn't like being closed inside what was essentially a vault.

The back room was spacious as far as Manhattan grocery stores went, but Ord's reason for choosing this particular location for his office was an oversized fixture left behind by the previous grocer tenant.

An old walk-in freezer. It was the Fort Knox of offices.

The present store owner had a newer model that he used, and the old one was too big and expensive to move. Ord
offered to make it worth his while to keep it. It was big for a freezer, but small for an office. Ord was a gnome; he didn't need space, just security. It didn't get more secure than what was essentially a big steel box. Ord got his office. The grocery store owner got rent to compensate for the storage space he lost by having the thing in his back room, as well as additional store and lottery customers from those, like us, who came in to meet with Ord.

Once again, everyone was a winner.

Ord had the freezer part disconnected, and had a handle and lock installed on the inside as well. He'd also had an opening installed for air to get in, though he'd never told anyone where it was. Since Ord was small, I imagined the air opening was, too. If someone ever wanted to kill Ord for running his mouth, they'd have better luck trying to off him after office hours. Either that, or bring the world's biggest can opener.

Ord had a step stool behind his desk that let him get in his office chair without any undignified hopping or climbing.

The gnome settled himself in the leather chair. “I'd ask what do I owe this pleasure, but I've already heard. A human who can't hold his powder sets fire to a restaurant, and an elf who's responsible for the deaths of at least hundreds finally meets Death for himself. You've had a busy day.”

Sounded like Jesin Nadisu, the building manager at the Murwood, wasn't as discreet as he'd claimed. Then again, goblins were known for having a different take on promises and agreements. He'd seemed like such a nice kid.

It must have shown on my face.

“Three representatives of Sarkowski Plumbing went in the back entrance of the Murwood, and they were seen wheeling out a black bag that could never be mistaken for a defective toilet.”

Of course. “Your pixies,” I said.

The gnome smiled. “Their loyalty and work ethic are unquestioned.”

Pixies were tiny, winged, and nosier than your worst neighbor. New York and Los Angeles were thick with the things. About the size and speed of hummingbirds, they were the eyes and ears of the city's supernatural paparazzi, and individuals like Ord who dealt in information. Like hummingbirds, pixies lived on a liquid diet. Pay them with Mountain Dew, Red Bull, or any other high-sugar, high-caffeine drink, and they were yours for life.

“My winged friends provide me with the information I need; I keep them well stocked with the beverages they want. It's a partnership made in heaven.” Ord looked at Ian. “While SPI really should change their disguises more often, in all fairness, there really is no disguising a dead body. You could hardly have folded up Sar and carried him out in a duffel bag. It would potentially destroy evidence on the body.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “So who did the elf finally annoy badly enough to kill him?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” I said.

Ian gave me a look. I'd just told a source that the all-knowing, all-powerful SPI wasn't all-knowing all the time, and Ian didn't like telling Ord that he didn't have all the answers. I liked the gnome, so I didn't have that problem.

“There is no shame in admitting ignorance, Agent Byrne,” Ord told my partner. “The only shame would lie in willfully remaining that way. Considering their success in keeping their operation ‘under the radar,' as you humans say, my guess would make the new boys and girls in town either elf or goblin. Both races are ever so adept at keeping secrets. What I do know is that the hornets' nest has been soundly kicked.”

“It couldn't be vampires?” I asked.

“Unlikely. There are three families that are not associated with any of the vampire governing covens. Two of them—the Frontino and Báthory families—deal in drugs.”

“Báthory? I asked. “As in Hungarian countess Elizabeth Báthory? Bathing-in-the-blood-of-hundreds-of-virgins Báthory?”

Ord gave me a nod. “That's her. The family's right proud of their ancestor.”

I made a face. “Nice people.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

I held up a hand. “And I'm fine staying that way.”

“And the Frontino family proudly traces their ancestry back to Cesare Borgia, who was also reputed to be a vampire.”

I nodded. “A Machiavellian bloodsucker. I can see that.”

“You got it. And . . .”

“And as interesting as the history lesson is,” Ian interrupted, “could we stick to the present for now?”

“You'll have to excuse him,” I told Ord. “He's no fun.”

“I've gotten that impression.” The gnome turned to Ian. “Their descendants aren't heavily into drug dealing, but they don't believe in ignoring a potential revenue stream, even though it risks contaminating their food supply, namely humans. For that reason, the vampire covens had nothing to do with the drug trade. These two vampire families market the standard products.”

“Not much into R&D?” Ian asked.

“None. Which is probably why they're interested what the newcomers are selling. Supposedly Brimstone lets the user see through glamours and read minds.”

I snorted. “So much for why the guy in the restaurant did a line or two before his meeting.”

Ian nodded. “Anything that would let you read the mind of a potential customer—or existing competition—would be worth its weight in gold in this city.”

“Too bad he couldn't get past the change of scenery.”

“Which is why the locals want a piece of the action,” Ord said. “The local businessmen asked, the newcomers refused. It seems they don't share well with others, though I can hardly blame them. Unfortunately some of our locals are slow learners. They asked again, and the newcomers began saying no in most impolite ways.”

“Such as?” I asked.

“Four days ago, the partially eviscerated body of a Báthory courier was hung on the front gate of the Báthory family compound on Long Island.”

Ian stood straighter. “Define partial.”

Ord looked from one of us to the other. “The heart had been cut out.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“A hoofprint had been branded into what was left of the chest. Some of their street dealers are missing.”

“The Báthorys didn't report any of it.” My partner didn't ask it as a question.

“To have a body deposited in such a manner . . .” The gnome swallowed queasily. “And in such a condition would raise questions about their business activities that the Báthory family would prefer not to answer. They cleared one racketeering charge last year by the skin of their pointy teeth.”

“Was Sar Gedeon one of the locals who wanted a cut?” Ian asked.

“Oh yes.”

“And?”

“
His
chief courier was found three days ago in the driver's seat of one of Gedeon's prized vintage Porsches inside his locked—and warded—twelve-car garage.”

I exchanged a glance with Ian. Sounded like Gedeon didn't take no for an answer until it'd been his heart and soul being scooped out.

“And the Báthorys aren't the only ones missing some dealers,” Ord continued. “The Gedeon organization and Frontino family also have fewer employees than they had two weeks ago.”

A buzzer sounded in the front of the store. The owner came down the hallway to the back.

“Delivery, sorry for the interruption.” He went to open the back door.

Ord made an impatient sound. “If this place wasn't so perfect for me, I'd have moved by now. The noise lately—”

The owner's body flew across the small storeroom and smashed into a wall lined with steel shelving. The shelving fell against a stack of boxes filled with garlic, which toppled onto the floor.

None of this affected the stance of the balaclava-wearing gunman who fired a spray of bullets through Ord's open door.

Ord hit the floor behind his desk. I plastered myself against the wall next to the door. Ian made a flying dive out the door and onto the floor of the storeroom, his gun drawn. This unfortunately coincided with the boxes falling over.

On top of my partner, burying him in garlic.

The gunman turned and ran.

Oh, hell no.

“You okay?” I yelled over the ringing in my ears from the gunfire.

Muffled curses coming from under the boxes indicated the affirmative.

This wasn't a robbery. The shooter had been posing as a delivery guy.

He'd been aiming at Ord.

“In pursuit,” I yelled over my shoulder.

Ian's muffled curses were less muffled. I chose to ignore the “No!” that I really couldn't be all that certain I'd heard.

What wasn't muffled was Ord slamming and locking the door to his freezer/office.

Apparently there were limits to his Southern hospitality.

The one thing I hadn't needed any training on when I'd started working at SPI was running. I'd mostly used it to run away from something trying to kill and eat me, though not necessarily in that order. Running was both offensive and defensive. Running
from
took the same skill as running
after
. Either one could help keep you alive.

Today I was running to apprehend an assassin who just
tried to kill my best source, even though Ord had locked me and Ian out of his office. I tried not to think that said assassin had a gun and had just displayed a willingness to use it. I also had a gun, but was lacking in enthusiasm.

Ian would follow as soon as he could wrestle his way clear of those boxes. Yasha was circling the block waiting for our pick-up call.