Dirty Little Misery (Miss Misery) (8 page)

Recognition of such was all it took. The protective glyphs the Gryphons had drawn on my back grew warm. I focused on that heat, so unlike the heat the rest of me was feeling, and pulled the power in deeper. I hadn’t thought I’d need to use their magic at all, but I guess it could be handy.

With the protective magic dulling my senses to Lucen’s power, I pushed him backward and extricated myself from the cabinet. “You don’t get to do that. You know I want you, but I’m not an addict you get to fuck into submission.”

Lucen flinched. Then he ran a hand through his drying hair with an apologetic expression. “Sorry, Jess. You haven’t minded when I’ve used my magic on you before.”

“No, but that’s not the point, and you know it.” I wanted to stay angry at him, but the chagrin on his face was softening me. Damn him. “You were using it to try to distract me. That’s what I object to.”

I didn’t expect him to deny it, and he didn’t. But then, I suspected that Lucen didn’t lie to me often, if at all. If he didn’t want to tell me something, he was upfront about it. Maddening, but honest.

He was quiet a moment longer while I fixed my clothes. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I’m going to go light the grill.”

I collapsed at the table with my wine as he stepped onto his tiny deck off the kitchen. Well, this had gotten off to a great start. The Gryphons thought I was going to dig out information? The only satyr I could actually call a friend was not merely clamming up on me, but being dickish and manipulative about it. Lucen must know something about F that he didn’t want to tell me.

I wasn’t going to get answers. Just frustrated in a variety of ways.

I was mostly through my wine when Lucen returned. He opened the fridge and took out the food. “Come on outside. It’s cooling off.”

I eyed him warily from where my head rested on my arm, then joined him. It had indeed cooled off, but the setting sun continued to throw off an orange-gold heat that illuminated the deck. Especially with the grill going, it was toasty.

Lucen’s deck was barely big enough for the two of us and the table of charm-making supplies he had out here. There were glass jars filled with clear liquid that could have been water but probably wasn’t, and a variety of substances of even less certain origin. Some required time to soak in the sun, others the moon. Hence, their positions on the table. I didn’t touch them, but I examined them.

“They’re mostly for making some basic healing aids,” Lucen said, putting the burgers on the grill. “Can’t be too careful when you’re friends with a woman who carries a salamander-forged knife around at all times.”

He smiled, and I returned the gesture.
Mostly
for making healing aids. Got it. He wasn’t about to say what the rest were for. “Maybe I should take the knife off before I try jumping on you next time? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Maybe not a bad idea. It’s all fun and games until one of us bleeds to death.”

His tone was joking, but I’d seen what those blades did. Lucen had only been nicked by one once. If it weren’t for having a magical remedy quickly on hand, he might well have bled out from it. The memory of seeing so much of his blood everywhere still horrified me.

He probably noticed my anxiety because he kissed me again, less chastely this time but with none of his magic behind it. “So you want to know about how F is made?”

I almost knocked my wineglass into one of his jars in surprise. He was going to talk, after all? “I’d appreciate learning whatever you’re willing to share.”

“Honestly, little siren, I don’t make it, so I can only tell you in the most general of general senses. So back to your first question—yes, it’s usually made by satyrs because it requires certain bodily fluids that would be challenging to get without our cooperation.”

I choked on the wine. “Really? That’s what goes into it?”

He laughed. “Sweat. It’s a potent source of pheromones. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Ah, okay. I mean, not that I’d have been shocked or anything if it were something else.”

Lucen continued to silently chuckle as he finished his wine. “In the future, keep in mind that you never want to ask what the goblins put in their fertility charms.”

I shuddered. “Thanks for the warning. So anything else you can tell me about F?”

“Don’t know. You tell me—what was the F contaminated with? Magic or mundane?”

“Magic.”

He flipped the burgers thoughtfully. “Then I can’t tell you much except if it’s being cut with something, it’s probably happening with one of the dealers.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Dealers are usually addicts. They’d have to be buying charms or curses off another pred to mix in. Why would they do that?”

“I have no idea, but she—” He swore and shut the grill.

“She? It’s a she who produces F? Just one person?”

Lucen opened the deck’s screen door with unnecessary force. “Jess, if you want me to ask some questions for you, I can. But you’re on the wrong trail, and you’re just going to have to take my word on that and any answers I get.”

“Not good enough. Nine people are dead, and you know who produces our best lead.”

He returned to the deck a moment later, carrying a plate and some cheese. “Nine people are dead, and it has nothing to do with us. Why is everyone so eager to blame us for murder these days? First it was the sylphs. Now it’s you. I think you’d have learned. It’s probably the furies again. We’re the least violent of your so-called pred races.”

Generally speaking, that was true. “Well, it would be convenient if it were the furies, since they already hate me. This doesn’t seem like their M.O. though.”

Lucen handed me the burger plate. “Nor ours, little siren. Don’t forget that.”

Chapter Eight

I scored a second good night’s rest in a row, then snuck out of bed Monday morning while Lucen slept. After a quick trip to my apartment so I could refill my overnight bag, I headed into work.

There was something thrillingly strange about being around so many Gryphons and clipping an ID badge to my shirt while knowing that last night I’d been sleeping with the so-called enemy. Badge or no badge, I didn’t fit in around this place for a multitude of reasons.

That didn’t affect my enthusiasm, however, when I saw what was hanging on the back of my desk chair. “Sweet.”

Someone had dropped off an official windbreaker. Black with gold lettering and the winged insignia on the back, it was the sort of jacket Gryphons wore over their uniforms in chillier weather. Although this wasn’t the sort of weather that called for jackets, I’d take it. Honestly, I hadn’t expected Olivia would give me one.

I put the windbreaker back on the chair and checked the new pile of notes that had been left for me. One was from Andre, telling me to email him once I got in and set up.

IT’s instructions for getting on the computer worked fine, and I found Andre’s address in my email program, along with those of the rest of the Boston office. While I waited to see what he wanted, I explored the file access I’d been given. There was a document left on the computer desktop for me, explaining my access allowances, though it was only a rehash of what Olivia and Andre had explained. Basically, my access was seriously limited. I’d have to ask for anything I wanted.

Next, I went through the files on F that Andre had given me. I was halfway finished when he tapped on my cube wall. “Afternoon, partner.”

“Afternoon?” I checked the computer’s clock. “Oh, so it is.”

“So it is indeed.” He bumped his knuckles together.

“You’re perky. I hope you’re not expecting me to have already cracked this case and discovered who’s producing F.”

“You haven’t? Slacker.” He shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Actually, I’m here because we’ve got another lead. Well, maybe we got another lead. Come on, we get to go meet him.”

I got up and stretched my back. “Our lead is a him?”

Andre consulted a notepad he was carrying. “It is, and he has a name too: Curt Murphy. He came forward to the Newton PD, and they turned him over to us. He just got here, and we get to question him. Aren’t you excited?” He punched me lightly on the arm.

I punched him back. “I can barely contain myself. Suspect, witness or something else?”

Andre scratched his head, his expression turning serious. “Something else from the sound of it. He’s a friend of the Stacys who wanted to give a statement. He thinks he might know something.”

Down on the first floor, we passed through a cluster of rooms I’d gotten very familiar with during my own questioning. Those few days after Victor Aubrey had been arrested, I’d been forced to tell my story over and over again to multiple Gryphons while sitting in one of these bland little rooms with their bland little furniture, often while drinking bland little cups of coffee. I shuddered to see them again.

We entered one such gray-walled room, and its sole occupant checked us out expectantly. Curt Murphy appeared to be in his late twenties and was in every way as bland as the room, from his khaki pants to his blue, button-down office shirt. His hands fidgeted with his phone, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his face. It was over air-conditioned in here, so that had to be the result of nerves. Beneath his not-so-calm exterior, he was filled with indecision, fear and no small degree of boredom. None of that was surprising under the circumstances.

Andre held out a hand and did the introductions. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Curt shook his head. “Not long. I’m just… I’m not sure I can help, but Mike was a good friend. I want to do whatever I can.”

“Michael Stacy?” Andre confirmed. “Did you know his wife too?”

“I knew them both, yeah.” Curt spun his phone around on the table. “The thing is, the police aren’t saying exactly what happened, but it sounds like everyone at their party on Friday was murdered. Is that true?”

I took a seat and waited for Andre. He’d told me on the way over to let him do the questioning, and I was fine with that. This was another watch-and-learn session.

Andre laid his notepad and pen neatly out on the table while he assessed Curt. If I could have, I’d have told him there wasn’t much to assess. Curt’s anxiety spiked when he mentioned the party, but I didn’t sense anything malicious in it. It was a good bet Curt knew what went on at those parties and was feeling awkward discussing it with strangers.

“The people at the party died,” Andre said. “Whether it was murder, an accident or some other cause remains to be determined.”

“So it wasn’t necessarily foul play, or whatever the reporters are calling it?”

Andre picked up the pen. “Nine apparently healthy people dying in one place for no clear reason is suspicious. Let’s go with that. So what do you know that might be helpful?”

Curt squirmed in his seat. “I was supposed to be at the party, but I backed out at the last minute. I got sick Friday afternoon, half of my office did. Anyway, I was feeling it Friday night, so I stayed home.”

“Good call,” I muttered.

Curt’s attention shifted to me, maybe hoping I’d be more sympathetic. “Come on, tell me. What happened to them? It wasn’t just Mike and Shannon that I knew. I had a few friends there.”

Andre cleared his throat. “What happened is something or someone killed your friends. Can you tell me about them? Start with the Stacys. Did they throw these sorts of parties often?”

Curt must have figured out what Andre meant by “these sorts” because his cheeks burned and the vinegar-like taste of his embarrassment flooded my mouth.

I supposed I was spending so much time around satyrs that other people’s sex lives no longer seemed weird. I’d witnessed too many idiot humans driven to all sorts of public displays of depravity at The Lair. At least these people had been having fun behind closed doors and not in a place where I’d have to be an unwilling witness.

Curt talked a bit about the Stacys before finally coming around to Andre’s question about the party. “They had parties about once a month or so.”

“How long had that been going on for?”

Curt twisted his fingers together. “A year, maybe more?”

“And did you know everybody who was supposed to attend Friday’s party?”

Curt took a deep breath, and his body sagged. “Yes. I wasn’t close with everyone. But Mike and Shannon were careful, you know? They didn’t just invite anyone. You had to be vetted, so I’d gotten to know everyone there at least casually.”

I bit my tongue because I wanted to make an inappropriate comment about our differing definitions of casual. Andre caught my eye, apparently sensing my childish behavior.

“But that’s actually…” Curt cringed. “That’s what made me think I needed to come talk to you about it. Something was supposed to be different this time.”

I leaned forward. “Different how?”

“Mike said something about a surprise. I don’t know what he meant by that.” Curt rested his face on his hands. “I was super pissed off to not be able to go because whatever it was, he was very excited about it.”

Well, that was ominous. I looked at Andre, figuring I should keep my mouth shut.

Andre seemed to be debating something. “When your friends died, they all had F in their systems.”

Curt’s icy surprise and fear peaked then dimmed like a melting sour orange popsicle. “Did they?” Curt glanced between us. “I wouldn’t have thought…”

And now he was lying. The burnt-toast taste of that sort of anxiety was unmistakable.

“Sure, you would have. I mean, that wasn’t the surprise, was it?” I asked, taking a stab at what I was sensing. “They’ve had F at their parties before.”

It was Andre whose surprise I noticed this time, but the corners of his lips twitched, so I thought he was pleased. “Mr. Murphy, we’re only interested in the F if it relates to why your friends died. So you need to be honest. You came to us because you had information and wanted to help.”

“I know. Sorry.” Curt rubbed his stubble. “Yeah, that wouldn’t have been the surprise. They used to get F occasionally.”

“Do you know from who or where?”

“Only that it was at some club.”

“What kind of club?”

Curt stared at his phone as though he wanted to hide behind it. “A dance club. That’s all I know. I never went with them. The noise and the crowds—not my thing. But I guess this club did some fetish thing every now and then that they liked. That’s all I can say.”

Dance club. Fetish thing. F. Checkmate. I knew our club, and it wasn’t a surprise considering it was owned by a satyr. Damn it.

Andre probed Curt with a few more questions, but the guy didn’t seem to have much else of use to share. He was feeling survivor’s guilt and thus obligated to tell us what he knew. His problem was that he felt like an idiot doing it. An embarrassed idiot.

Andre got Curt’s contact information then walked him to the lobby. I was still sitting in the room, silently cursing what the next item on my to-do list was likely to be, when he returned and collapsed into the chair across from mine. “That explains why there were ten wineglasses sitting out at the party, but only nine used. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Even numbers?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Sure. What do I know about swingers’ parties? Handcuffs and blindfolds and whips, oh my.”

I snorted, grateful to Andre for relieving some of my tension. “What? You’ve never been to that sort of shindig?”

“I’ve never been that cool.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You?”

“Closest thing I’ve ever gotten was working at a satyr bar.” It was a risky thing to admit, but not like my very temporary stint as one of Lucen’s servers would be difficult to uncover. Besides, I’d rather these people know as much of the publicly strange parts of my life as possible. It might keep them so distracted that they wouldn’t think to search for all the truly important strangeness I was hiding.

A smile slowly crept over Andre’s face. “You did what? I have to hear about this someday. I could tell you were crazy.”

“Oh, come on. Anyone who knows how I got drafted into working here knows I have to be crazy.”

Andre laughed. “True enough. Okay, so back to the case. Curt Murphy’s information about a surprise at the party is interesting, but not illuminating. We’ll have to keep digging. And that reminds me—nice job catching him on the F. I forget sometimes I’m working with an empath.”

“A very limited-in-her-scope empath.”

“Limited or not, it’s plenty useful in this line of work. We’ve got all kinds of tricks for detecting lies, plus regular old polygraphs, but I’m going to guess you’re just as efficient and accurate. And best of all, I don’t need permission to use you.”

“I’m probably more accurate.” I slid off the chair, frowning. Might as well bring up the next point. “The club he was talking about—I think I know which one it is.”

Andre picked up his pen and paper. “Now see, that also surprises me because you don’t seem like the clubbing type.”

“I liked to go dancing when I was younger.” Actually, I’d liked to go dancing at that club in particular. Fetish Fridays—which I guessed was what Curt was talking about—wasn’t my favorite event, but in general the place had been a haven for dark, angry dance music. I’d had a lot of angst to work out of my system back then.

Hell, I still did.

Andre seemed amused by my comment as he chewed on the pen cap. “Okay then, clubbing queen, what place do you think he’s talking about? I think I know too. It would be good if we were thinking of the same place.”

I sat on the table. “Purgatory.”

“Purgatory, it is.”

“Damn. And how did you know the club?”

“We keep a list of all the businesses in the area that are owned by preds, especially the ones that are pred-owned but not obvious about the fact.”

I squeezed the table edge. “Like Purgatory.” As with so many things, I’d had no idea the club was owned by a satyr until recently. “So are we going to go there?”

“Do dragons bite? We just got a tip that F is being dealt out of Purgatory. This means we can be thorough and professional about it.”

I got off the table and followed Andre out of the room. “And thorough and professional—what does that mean?”

“It means if someone’s dealing F out of Purgatory, and satyrs produce F, and satyrs own Purgatory… Then you add it all up, throw in nine dead humans for extra credit, and we can get a warrant to search the premises.”

I paused in the hall, my stomach sinking to my boots. “Do I really have to go with you?”

Andre threw me a funny look. “You’re my partner-in-training. This is our case. Of course you’re coming with me. Just hang on because it could take a couple hours to get the warrant. I have to do the dreaded deed called paperwork.”

“Got it.”

I took several deep breaths as he walked away. It wasn’t just satyrs who owned Purgatory. It was Devon. Which meant in a couple hours I was going to be pissing off Dezzi’s lieutenant.

Fucking awesome.

While Andre obtained the warrant, I returned to my desk. Though I tried reading the files on F, I wasn’t comprehending much. Showing up at Purgatory with a warrant, getting on Devon’s bad side—these things didn’t leave me with lots of good feelings.

I looked up at the sound of someone approaching, and Tom Kassin gave me one of his strained smiles as he stopped at my cube. “Ms. Moore, I’m glad to find you here. Would you mind coming to my office with me so we can talk?”

Actually, I would mind. The unsettled feeling I got around him hadn’t subsided since Saturday.

I made a show of checking the time. “I’m waiting for Agent Pagan to let me know—”

“Yes, I know about the warrant, but that’s going to take a while. This won’t.” He stepped back and gestured into the hall. “Please.”

“Of course.” What else could I say?

Tom’s office was down the hall, a weirdly shaped interior room that was covered in boxes. I supposed even Gryphons from World Headquarters didn’t have the seniority to bump someone out of an office with a window. Some of his boxes were unpacked, and the contents—or so I assumed—were sitting on one of the several bookshelves behind his desk. The books themselves appeared gravely old. Many were leather-bound, and the writing on the spines of several had worn away to the point where I couldn’t read it.