Chapter 10
“Mois Aviyente.” Silas turned his screen around to show a corporate headshot of a white man with shrewd green eyes in a conservative suit. “Fifty-three years old, he parlayed a modest inheritance into one of Vancouver’s largest real estate development firms. He’s vacationing at his place in Buenos Aires, which explains why his RSVP on the guest list was marked as not attending.”
“Location and lack of motive rule him out as Jared’s attacker, but this is a hell of a connection between Chandra and Casey.”
Silas clicked through a few links. “Mois is also Trad.”
I flung my head back with a groan. “On a scale of tax audit to pumping the Bilge, how likely do you think it is that Mois or Roger is mixed up with the matchmakers?”
“Half a pump?”
“Half?” I grimaced. “Is that a thing?”
“Ask Ez.”
“You found Chandra for me in the first place as a possible matchmaker. What led you to her?”
“A whisper of a murmur of a rumor deep in the dark web about her off-the-book specialty services. At that point, I was ready to chase anything.”
“Could you find that comment again?” Swinging my feet onto a chair, I phoned Gemma. “Mois Aviyente, Chandra’s Trad ex-husband, donated to Jared Casey. Follow this up. Was their divorce acrimonious? And get hold of Mois. He’s in Buenos Aires, but we need to rule out his involvement as a matchmaker.”
“Will do,” Gemma said.
This agreeable version of her was fantastic. I got off the call feeling buoyed.
Unfortunately, Silas was unable to find the comment that initially led him to Chandra, or any mention of her on the dark web. As disconcerting was that almost all of her digital footprint on the regular internet had also been scrubbed. The website for Express Recruitment, Chandra’s employment agency, was “currently under construction” and the phone number had been disconnected.
“The matchmakers cleaned up,” I said.
Silas scanned the screen for another moment, then grunted. “Mois and Chandra have a daughter.”
Something about the way he said it, like he’d caught a tug on a line, made me sit up with a curl of excitement. “And?”
“Linda Aviyente, twenty-six. Owner of the Lions Gallery. Odd name.”
“The Lions are the two tallest peaks of the North Shore Mountains. Solid local branding, though she’s young for a gallery owner.”
“Nepo baby,” Silas replied. “Also a member of the Eishei Kodesh Leaders of Tomorrow as a teen.”
I plonked my feet onto the ground. “Not a Trad, then, and not sharing her father’s beliefs.”
“You’re assuming Mois supports Jared for his anti-magic position,” Silas said. “He might like his fiscal conservatism or his stance on housing. Casey is a big proponent of urban development without any pesky social housing requirements.”
“Big draw for a real estate developer,” I conceded.
“Mois also set up a trust for his magic kid, so he can’t be totally opposed to the existence of Eishei Kodesh.”
“Or his daughter is the exception to the rule,” I said. “Mois is a Trad. No magic and he isn’t even in town.” I got up to pace and think. “The Supernatural: Debunked exhibit was held at a local gallery. What does that get us?”
“Not much. That owner was Trad. Linda isn’t.”
“True, and the artifacts would have come with provenance and be acquired legally because that exhibit was too high-profile to do otherwise.”
“Roger transported them, though, and knew Chandra,” Silas said. “Does that also link him to Linda?”
“Is Linda a matchmaker? Did Chandra groom her future leader magic daughter to one day take over? And did that day come sooner than expected with her murder?”
“Too bad Nichols is a dead end,” Silas said absently, his eyes on the screen.
“Phrasing,” I coughed. “I still feel really bad about her.”
“Sorry.” He winced. “I meant that she’s not around to question.”
“No worries. I know what you meant. Now, how do we get into Linda’s orbit?”
Gemma phoned back, which surprised me until I checked the time. Hours had passed since our last call.
“Starting from the top with the tasks you gave us,” she said, “there aren’t any Eishei Kodesh with a rap sheet or anyone the Maccabees are monitoring right now who makes sense for the attack on Casey.”
“What about Eishei Kodesh donating to anti-Trad politicians?” I set the phone on the table and put it on speaker, not for Silas’s benefit since he’d hear both sides of the conversation regardless, but because my neck and shoulders were tight from sitting here all day.
“We don’t have any politicians who come close to Jared’s hatred of our kind,” Gemma said. “No CCTV footage of any protesters heading to the manor either.”
That doesn’t mean one hadn’t. It just meant they hadn’t been caught on camera. “And Mois?”
“We’re still trying to get hold of him, but nothing in the court records suggests the divorce was messy.”
I pushed away the dregs of the sandwich I’d been eating. The plate had been sitting on my incident report, and when I shifted the dish, a phrase caught my eye. “The guards last night wore shielding devices.”
Silas looked up from his laptop with raised eyebrows.
“Didn’t Roger Henderson confirm he’d purchased them as a precaution?” Gemma said.
“Yes, but from who? Those magic contraptions cost a bundle, and they aren’t exactly easy to find.”
“You think he got them from Chandra Nichols?”
“It would explain those phone calls better than consulting on some alarm system, but if not, perhaps her daughter, Linda, got them for Roger. Lean on him. The court of public opinion doesn’t require hard proof. Neither he nor Jared Casey want any association with a murdered Eishei Kodesh to come to light.”
Gemma stopped typing. “Michael said Roger was a no-go.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making the executive decision otherwise. I’ll take all the responsibility.”
“And the blame?”
“And the blame.”
“All right, then. I’m on it, boss.” She hung up.
“Boss.” I dusted my knuckles off on my chest.
Silas gave a pleased little hum. “Oh yeah. Linda will take this bait.”
“What bait?”
He blinked slowly at me, like he’d forgotten I was there, then he blushed. “I have an art collection. Of sorts.”
“Of sorts?” I raised an eyebrow. “Do you collect tasteful nudes in oils and acrylics, Silas?”
“Naw.” His blush deepened. “Trains.”
“Your model trains?”
“No, I branched out into train-themed artwork ages ago,” he mumbled to his feet. “Linda’s gallery focuses on twentieth-century art, and I really do want to sell some pieces.”
I paced the room, picturing paintings featuring old-fashioned trains chugging through nondescript rural landscapes, depicted with sloppy brushstrokes in a thousand shades of brown and black. I grasped at a tactful way to ask why he thought she’d be interested. “Any artists I’ve heard of?”
I didn’t recognize the first few names he tossed out, my heart sinking that I’d have to kibosh his idea, but my jaw hit the floor with Edward Hopper and René Magritte. “You—you—that’s a serious collection, Silas!”
He crossed his arms, shifting defensively. “I bought them in the early stages of these artists’ careers because I liked them. I got lucky that they’re worth something.”
I sat on the edge of the table and touched his arm. “I was a judgy asshole and I’m sorry. Art should bring joy, and trains are just as deserving a subject as anything else. You have provenance for them?”
“Darn tootin’ I do. And photos.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
The plan was that I’d meet Linda at her exhibit opening Thursday evening, along with my boyfriend, Silas, who happened to have some prominent artwork he was looking to sell.
We’d connect with Linda on a social and professional level, spend time with her to gain her trust, and, fingers crossed, catch our first break in exposing the matchmakers and any connection with Roger or Jared.
I just hoped Darsh didn’t get pissy at me for monopolizing Silas’s time and attention. He wasn’t the best with sharing. He was, however, phenomenal at disguises, and he agreed to help transform me into someone unrecognizable. Tomorrow—since he was working graveyard. Literally. The Spook Squad had definitively identified the vamps responsible for the murder spree last month and were moving in on the suspects tonight.
By the time Silas and I compiled a detailed profile on Linda, and he’d snagged us a spot on the guest list at her gallery opening, the moon was shining through the windows at the far end of my open-concept condo.
I did a double take. The full moon. Checking that we were done for tonight and agreeing to reconvene at Darsh’s in the morning, I saw Silas off and prepared myself for a date with a maggot.
Whether it was the lunar pull or just its own vicious temper, the googly-eyed, fat little bugger that I’d gotten from Daphne thrashed around even more.
Once in the kitchen, I pulled off my sock, so I was barefoot as instructed, and prodded the bag with tongs I’d grabbed. While the maggot didn’t appear to have a mouth, I still handled it gingerly.
Holding the open bag in one hand, I fished the dripping creature out with the tongs, but it slipped free and plopped to the tiles, wriggling back and forth. Steeling myself for the gross squelch to come, I smashed my bare heel down on it.
Sawdust scattered under my boot, my footfall a heavy thud on the worn stone. Whispers swept around me on the icy breeze, but I ignored them, refusing to be cowed. The others had been unfit, but I was specially chosen to carry this word.
Torches flickered over a face carved into a rough block of stone, its mouth hanging open in an “O” shape, like the Mouth of Truth in Rome. The empty eye sockets filled with an awareness, but I stared it down and the flames shifted, the illusion falling away. Tricks wouldn’t work on me.
“I come as one of the Ashbishop’s flock to reignite the spark of life. Give me the healing power to set things right.” My voice rang out clearly, my entire vampire existence leading to this one moment. This one purpose.
The mouth twisted into a leering mass.
“Take my blood but know you will find me worthy.” I thrust my left hand into the stone mouth.
The sentience chuckled, sending a shiver down my spine. We shall see .
A raspy tongue brushed over my fingers as the words brushed against the inside of my skull. A lake full of maggots writhed in my head.
I gritted my teeth but stood still, cloaked in my belief—in my desire—to heal our kind. To finally bury my sorrow like I’d buried my human child years after I was changed. To once more hold a child, my child, in my arms. I ran my hand over the scar on my abdomen.
Needle-sharp stone fangs dropped from the mouth’s upper jaw and tore through my flesh.
I bit back my scream, my blood staining the sawdust.
Say your name and I shall hand down my verdict .
“I am?—”
NO! A roar inside my head split my skull in two.
“My name—” I fell to my knees with a scream. My flesh was ruined and my fingers… I gasped. I flexed my claws and a hot blaze shot up my arm.
Wake up. This isn’t real .
Cherry! And I was— I slammed the brakes on even thinking my name, lest I be trapped in this memory for good.
The carved face zoomed toward me, its command to say my name lashing me like ropes.
Get out of this memory. Now . That supplicant is dead and if you stay here, you’ll die too!
Flooded with a rush of adrenaline, I sprinted for the exit, the ground quaking and bucking under my feet.
The magic guardian of the power word nipped at my heels, demanding my name.
I tripped over the threshold?—
—and snapped my eyes open, back in my kitchen, my face pressed to the tiles and my heel filthy with maggot goop. Trembling, I held out my hands. They were uninjured, the pain gone, but the ache of that supplicant’s sorrow over her lost daughter lingered.
I sat up, pulling my knees into my chest, one hand resting on that phantom scar and the other clenched in a fist at having lost my chance at the supplicant’s name.
She failed the test , Cherry said. She was separated into bones for a wall and her name turned into a maggot . You were magically bound to that memory and the second she stopped existing, you would have as well . Whatever guards the power word never intended to let you live.
I shivered and hugged myself more tightly. Now that I was out of the memory, I agreed with Cherry’s assessment of the situation. I hadn’t been found worthy to get the supplicant’s name, nor was this a test.
It was a trap.
“Avi?” Sach crouched down next to me. “Move out of the wet patch.”
“Heard that one before,” I joked weakly.
Sachie kicked away the empty plastic bag, helping me to my feet and away from the maggot water. She kept an arm over my shoulder as we made our way into the living room.
I dragged the blanket draped on the back of the sofa over my shoulders. “I didn’t get the vampire supplicant’s name, but whoever she was, she wasn’t doing this to fuck over humanity or change the power balance. She’d buried her human daughter.” I clutched the two ends tight. “I never considered what it’s like for vampires to outlive their children. She longed for another baby to fill that hole in her heart.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that vampires achieving procreation is dangerous for humanity,” Sachie said.
“No,” I said heavily. “It doesn’t.” I clutched the blanket tighter. “Her sorrow was why she was chosen to undergo the test for the word. She followed someone called the Ashbishop.”
Sachie groaned. “I hate cryptic villain names. What’s wrong with something sensible like Babel City Local #39?”
I mustered up a weak smile. “Any vamp going by the Ashbishop carries a fuckton of Catholic guilt.”
“That’s a place to start.”
“Tomorrow, okay? I need to…separate myself from that grieving mother.”
“Of course.” Sach flicked on the TV, searching for something suitably mindless.
“Cherry pulled me out,” I said. “Not with her armor, just her presence.”
“So, you pulled yourself out,” Sach said wryly. “Being her.”
“Yes, but…” I shrugged. “I like thinking of her as a distinct personality.”
“Whatever keeps you alive, weirdo.”
“Darsh is going to create a disguise for me to go undercover, except I left it up to Silas to tell him we’re going in as romantic partners. Want to be there when Darsh inevitably announces his opinion to me about that?”
Sach stuffed a pillow behind her back as a show about renovations at a beach community began to play. “Now you’re talking.”