Wicked Misery (Miss Misery) (33 page)

My thumb hovered over the talk button on my cellphone. Lucen could be down at Gryphon headquarters for all I knew, but then it wasn’t as if anyone would know I was the one calling. I hoped.

My hope was for naught. No one answered. That twisted my stomach into all kinds of complicated contortions. Lucen had better be all right. I had a feeling bad stuff was going down. Bad, bad stuff. I should not be wandering the streets alone and undisguised.

So, naturally, I took a few more steps forward. The temperature difference between here and the attic was amazing. I raised my arms, letting the breeze cool me down and dry off my sweat. But despite feeling better physically, my anxiety continued to grow. I needed a plan.

Okay, first move. Take my belongings back to Lucen’s. The less I had anything to do with Lucrezia, the better. Second move? Worry about that once at Lucen’s.

I hurried down the street and had just unlocked the door to Lucen’s apartment when the hairs on my neck stood on end. Following it came the unmistakable sensation of someone watching me. I dropped the bag in the foyer, and my hands snatched at my knives as I spun around. No one.

Heart pounding, I shut the door and scanned the vicinity. A dragon skittered across the street. And aha—there, in the shadow of the gothic, stone staircase of an apartment building, imps congregated. Definitely odd. Imps wouldn’t normally swarm in darkness.

I didn’t bother pretending to stroll casually, and twenty feet from the shadows, someone laughed. Although I’d never heard that particular noise from those foul lips, I instantly knew who it was. A slow smile curved on my face. Lucen might kill me for going out alone, but this would be worth it.

Got you, you bastard.

“Your detective skills truly are something.” Note-writer’s voice made my skin crawl.

“Yeah, well, your hiding skills suck.” Score one for me putting on a new speed charm earlier. This was ending tonight.

I sprang. And crashed into the stone wall. My shoulder roared in pain. Damn it! Note-writer was wearing a charm too, and he’d disappeared. I jumped back and searched the vicinity, knives out and ready.

“Yoo-hoo! I’m over here!”

He’d chosen his spot well. I couldn’t see his face clearly. I charged, and he darted. I leaped again. He moved just in time.

Over and over it continued, like we were opposing magnetic poles and I couldn’t get closer without repelling him. A couple blocks later, I caught my breath. Frustration built inside me until I was ready to howl.

Note-writer took off down an unfamiliar street, and I followed, heady with some satisfaction at least. I’d gotten Dezzi’s proof. She might not trust Xander’s word, but she’d been willing to trust mine for the most part. And now I could say for sure—Note-writer was a fury addict. No imp sting hid that knowledge from me tonight. I could sense the fury’s power hovering around him like a noxious cloud.

Now if only I could catch him.

More people were out and about on this block, although their faces were tense and their voices hushed. Everyone was armed too. Several shops were open for business, some goblins and sylphs dined al fresco at an Italian place to my right, and music blared from a bar farther down the street on my left. A couple sylphs nudged their companions and motioned toward me.

I swallowed down fear, not about to give them the satisfaction.

“All this and I only wanted to play with you,” Note-writer said. He’d returned to the shadows.

“I don’t play your games.”

“No? You’re playing them now.”

“Listen, asshole—” I lunged.

This time I caught him off-guard. My right-hand knife connected with something fleshy. Note-writer swore in such beautiful language that I almost didn’t care that he’d gotten away with only a light wound. Score another for me.

I started to attack again, and he was off, scampering across the street toward the bar. I raced after him.

He disappeared inside in a faceless blur. Without pausing to consider what a bad idea it had to be, I barreled through the open door after him.

I only got a couple steps inside before I collided with something solid and humanoid. The fury placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was like a vise.

“’Scuse me, Miss, but those are some attractive knives you got there.” He grinned down at me, displaying a mouth full of pointed teeth.

Oh. Fuck.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Now that’s a line I’ve never heard before.” I craned my neck to look around the bouncer’s car-sized chest. The back of Note-writer’s head was disappearing into an almost entirely fury mob. The humans scattered about were all men, and all rage addicts. It was the happy hour from hell.

The bouncer looked me up and down. “Your other assets aren’t bad, either, for a human. You can’t come in with those weapons on your back, though.”

“I can’t bring weapons in here?” What kind of lame fury bar was this?

“Manager claims it makes too much of a mess.”

Crap. No way was I relinquishing my knives in this crowd. I made a small move forward. “I was just looking for a friend.”

“Uh-huh.” He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stare into his pecs again. “Give me a name and I can ask around.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not on a first- or last-name basis.”

The bouncer crossed his arms.

“All right, all right. Forget it. Have a good night.”

The music in the bar changed from industrial metal to more industrial metal. Between songs, someone yelled out, “Hey, girlie!”

I paused in the middle of backing away. Five furies sat at a table not far beyond the entry. Two of them appeared familiar. One of them was waving at me.

“Bob, let her in,” the waving one called.

Bob? The fury’s name was Bob? I held in my smirk. Don’t piss off those who are more badass than you, especially those who favor beating people up as entertainment.

I concentrated on figuring out who these two furies were, and the laughter died away. It was Red-eye and Mace-head, two of the furies who I’d last seen when the satyrs were hauling Scumbag Pete’s ass to The Lair. A light dawned in my head, and I hoped the importance of that comprehension didn’t show in my eyes. It was a positive feeling, so the furies probably wouldn’t detect it.

Note-writer had disappeared for the moment, but he was becoming less important in my mind. Sure, he’d most likely committed the actual murders, but he was a patsy. An addict. I needed his master. And for the first time, I had a chance of deciphering who that was.

Never mind that what I was about to do meant I was freaking suicidal.

I raised an eyebrow at Bob the Big-ass Bouncer.

“Not with these, princess.” He removed my knives.

“I will get them back when I leave, right?”

“Absolutely.” The gleam in Bob’s black eyes as he admired the knives suggested otherwise.

Well, at least he hadn’t removed my charms.

Radiating anxiety like a nuclear power plant, I approached Red-eye and Mace-head. The bar reeked of alcohol, and my sneakers stuck to the floor. Furies, rage addicts and liquor. It was a combination more explosive than TNT.

“Do I know you?”

Red-eye held out a hand. “Not personally, which is really a shame after all this time.”

“All this time?” My hands remained planted at my sides.

“After all this time when we’ve heard so much about you. You’re the girl the sylphs blame for their addict murders.”

I flattered him with a thin smile. “The sylphs are dumb.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mace-head said, snorting. The rest of the table cracked up. “Sit down, have a beer. You’ve got a fascinating gift, girlie.”

Red-eye or Mace-head? Red-eye or Mace-head? Who’s the power behind Note-writer?

“Thanks. I don’t think I’m the only person around here with it, though.”

“Don’t you?” Red-eye nodded at his friends. “Maybe we can scrounge up someone like that for you to play with.”

Play with—that was the same phrase Note-writer liked to use. Did it suggest anything?

A few yells broke my concentration. The mosh-pit-like chaos on the dance floor deteriorated into real fighting. People hooted and cheered, and several tables emptied to observe. I prayed Note-writer would be among the crowd, but no. I turned away at the sound of breaking glass.

“What do you say?” Red-eye asked.

“Scrounge him up tonight?”

“Tomorrow. At the Matches.” He winked. “You, him, a cage. I think you’d enjoy that given what you two have in common.”

My better sense broke through the suicidal tendencies. “You think wrong.”

“I’d like that,” said a fury I’d never seen before.

“Yeah, don’t be so quick to discount the euphoria of an adrenaline spat.” Mace-head grinned. “You’ve got a lot of anger to expel.”

The pumping music made it difficult to feel, but the poke in my brain was undeniable. Mace-head whittled his way inside, or was trying to.

Every muscle tensed. I fought the urge to lash out, to fling myself at him and wrap my hands around his throat. Hot blood rushed to my face.

Get the fuck out of my head!

I gave him a good mental shove, but it was the wrong plan. Anything angry only fed his strength. His grip around my soul tightened.

My vision blurred as I retreated inside myself, breathing shakily. Darkness swept over the room, and the music became almost inaudible. Dragon shit on toast, I had to resist my natural instinct. I must remain calm. But oh crap. Mace-head’s black eyes locked with mine. My soul writhed. It wanted to give in. Everyone had their weakness, and I’d always suspected mine would be anger. Sure I could lust after Lucen with the best of them, but lust didn’t consume me. Temper, though? Why yes, there was a reason I stayed clear of furies.

Mace-head licked his lips. What a mistake this had been. I had to get out of here before I lost control.

“We’ll see tomorrow, I guess.” The steadiness of my voice amazed me. Half blind and forcing myself to breathe, I marched over to Bob and held out my hands. “My knives.”

“What knives?”

Oh come on. I’d known this was going to happen. Bob Biceps-for-Brains grinned. I bit my lip and turned around. Red-eye chuckled, and Mace-head made a kissy face.

All right, calm, Jessica.

I’m going to fucking murder them!

No. No, you’re not. Honestly, how do you expect to take down a bar full of furies, with no weapons, and not become an addict?

Screw you.

There was no time to continue my internal argument. Far in the back, clutching a beer, was a familiar form. To hell with the knives.
Got you again, asshole.

Note-writer finished drinking and lowered his glass. Although the bar was dim, he looked right at me and—finally—I saw his face. My breath caught in my throat. Narrow head, thick eyebrows, dark eyes that practically screamed “I’m a creep.” Like the furies, I’d seen him before. But where?

For the moment, it didn’t matter. Excitement, the thrill of the hunt maybe, drove away Mace-head’s influence. His crushing grip vanished. My soul expanded in my chest, and my gaze fixated on Note-writer. Sight and sound returned with a vengeance. I breezed past the furies’ table without incident. Human hands groped for my body, and furies groped for my mind. I dodged them all.

This wasn’t so bad. All I had to do was keep my focus, and they couldn’t touch me.

Smoky air choked my lungs, and my ears rang. Note-writer pushed open a door and disappeared down a flight of dark stairs.

No one stopped me, so I followed. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The stairs wound and curved, and already Note-writer disappeared from view. Narrow, dark gray walls loomed in on me as I descended. Blood-stained pitchforks, whips, even a piece of steel mesh decorated the place. Lovely. Only a fury would find this attractive. It must have been memorabilia from particularly entertaining Matches.

The air at the bottom of the steps was clearer, thank dragons for small miracles, but there was no sign of Note-writer. The room was tiny, cramped in spite of being mostly empty. A deserted, dust-coated bar stood off to the side. Nearby, black booths and tables were covered with boxes. To my right were three doors. One was lit by an exit sign.

There was no hint of an alarm, so I pushed it open. No Note-writer. Time to try door number two. Door two produced a grimy toilet and sink. I shut it quickly.

Ready or not, asshole.
I yanked open door three. Well, tried to. The door moaned but didn’t budge. I tugged again, put some real force behind it, and my strength charm burned against my chest. Wood splintered as a cheap lock gave way.

I blinked and looked at my prize. It was just a closet. But whoa—what a closet.

Now I knew where my confiscated knives might end up. Guns, switchblades, brass knuckles, a machete… Eek. I found a couple pairs of Gryphon-issued handcuffs that made me shudder to think how they were obtained. There was a rusting ax, and a pile of small pebble-like things that could have been curse grenades. And, ooh. A knife.