Chapter 3
DECLAN
Bang-bang-bang.
Glancing up, I scowled at the door, then back down at the book I was reading. It was too goddamn late for anyone to be stopping by. Whoever it was could kick rocks.
As I started reading again, another rattling knock came at the door to my office.
“Son of a bitch,” I hissed, slapping the paperback down and standing up fast enough to send my desk chair rolling back to bang against the wall.
My office was on the far side of the building that was my home. A door in the back led into the one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. I could afford better accommodations, but why the hell did I care? All a man needed was a place to lay his head.
I’d almost reached the door when another knock sounded, and I gritted my teeth.
“This better not be some prick out at goddamn nine o’clock at night trying to sell me fucking Wi-Fi,” I growled, snapping the deadbolt back, then yanking the door open. Blustery cold air blew in, along with swirls of snow from the flurries outside.
I sighed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Good evening,” the wispy man said, smiling, to reveal his long canines and running a deathly pale hand through his platinum-blond hair. The guy wasn’t even wearing a jacket against the cold. Of course, he was technically already dead, so I guess that didn’t fucking matter.
“I don’t have any blood to spare,” I said, eyeing the vampire with mild distaste.
“No thank you,” he said with a genial smile. “I ate earlier. A lovely young woman, actually, and no worries, she’s safe and sound back home, perhaps a half-pint lighter, but none the worse for wear.”
Leaning against the door frame, I glared at him. “How delightful. Now, can you tell me why the absolute fuck you’re here this late?”
“Apologies,” he said, bowing his head, and then clasped his hands before him. “This is McClintoc Detective Services, correct?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I grunted. “At one time it was. Retired now. Declan McClintoc, at your service.”
He smiled and extended his hand. I stared at it until he let it drop. “I came to hire you. My name is Sebastian Walker, originally from France, but I immigrated here to Chicago a couple hundred years ago. I wanted to—”
“Retired,” I said again, cutting him off. “Did you not hear that part?”
Sebastian froze, his eyes going wide. “Oh…uh…I’m sorry. You don’t look old enough to have retired. Unless you’ve magically changed your age?”
“Forty-one years old last month,” I said. “After the shit I’ve seen, that’s plenty old enough to retire with or without magic. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a Mr. Louis L’Amour.”
I made to close the door, but his hand shot out, moving with that insane, unearthly speed vampires had.
“Please,” he said. “I’m in dire need of help.”
I glared at the offending hand clasping my door. With what I considered a great force of will, I suppressed my irritation and looked into the vampire’s hazel eyes.
“You have one minute. Spit it out.”
Sebastian visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging in relief. “It’s my grandfather.”
“Dead?”
“Yes,” he said with a wince. “The issue is, he has died under…shall we say…strange circumstances.”
“Uh huh,” I said, my voice sounding as bored as I felt.
“Well, the Walker family fortune was under his full control, and since I am the eldest living member of his family, I am in line to inherit the controlling ownership of the fortune.”
“Then take the fucking money and be done,” I said, growing more weary by the second. “Why do you need a human PI for this? If the old bastard is dead, what do you want from me?”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and sighed. “The issue is the probate attorney. He’s a real asshole. A werewolf, of course. Ugh, I hate those people. I would have much preferred a shifter or warlock or something, but this is the hand I was dealt.”
“Twenty seconds,” I muttered.
“Sorry,” he said, almost yelping the word.
“The attorney says the will cannot be finalized until the cause of death has been established. Which will be difficult to figure out, mostly due to the fact that his body is nothing but ashes at this point. I need you to investigate and ensure it was only an accident. If it turns out he was murdered, the fortune could be tied up in court for decades, maybe even forever if no suspect is found. Please?”
I stared at the man, forcing myself not to grind my teeth. Already, a hunch was forming in my mind. Three years after retiring, the old skills were still there.
“You say you’re the one who benefits if his death is ruled accidental or natural?”
“Uh…yes,” Sebastian said, nodding once and frowning.
“Mr. Walker,” I said wearily. “Whoever sent you to me, did they tell you who I was?”
The vampire’s frown deepened further. “Well, of course. Declan McClintoc, a human private investigator that specializes in crimes and investigations of the magical population. One of the few humans fully read into our world. They said you would be the best to assist me in this endeavor. Can we please—”
“My greatest gift is the ability to know when anyone is lying to me,” I said. “Anyone. A blessing, you might say. Honed over years, and always one hundred percent accurate.”
Sebastian’s left eye twitched slightly. “Uhm, that’s, uh, interesting. That’s…well, that’s a wonderful ability.”
I was tired of this, and I really wanted to get back to my book.
“Listen, Mr. Walker. Look me dead in the eye and tell me you didn’t stake your grandfather. Tell me that, and if it’s the truth, I’ll take the case. If not? It was nice meeting you, and you can go about your night, and I can go about mine.”
From the look on his face, I could see I’d nailed the situation. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out. It was still tinged red from the dinner he’d had earlier—or was it breakfast? I couldn’t quite recall how vampires’ days were set up.
Finally, the other man took a hesitant step backward.
“Mr. McClintoc, I’m not sure this is necessary.
This is a business transaction. Nothing more.
The lawyer needs the death signed off as an accident by a licensed investigator.
Once that is done—by you, hopefully—we could perhaps discuss a…
uh, bonus of some sort. How would that sound? ”
I leaned out the door, pressing my face toward his, forcing him to take another step back.
“Sebastian, tell me you really want to hire a private investigator who will know the moment you lie to him. One who will be able to see past any fake story you spin. Also, do you want to hire one who may or may not have the morals to go ahead and handle things himself the second he has proof of what he suspects? Is that really what you want to do?”
The vampire took another step backward, almost tripping on the stairs leading to the sidewalk.
“You know what?” he said, smiling back at me with the fakest smile I’d ever seen, his fangs glinting in the light from the street lamps.
“I think I may have been wasting your time.” He hurried down the last few steps and straightened his shirt.
“I’m truly sorry, Mr. McClintoc, you have a great night. ”
“Uh huh. Hopefully you get what’s coming to you.”
His smile faltered, morphing into an angry scowl.
“Yes. Well. Good evening,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked away, the echo of his dress shoes on the sidewalk clicking away, until he was out of sight.
“Prick,” I muttered as I locked the door.
I glanced at the paperback, and shook my head in disgust. There was no way I could focus on a western right now. That asshole vampire had gotten me all riled up. I needed to burn off some energy.
Walking to the side door of my office, which had turned into more of a man cave since I’d retired, I stepped out into the garage, where my car sat on one side and my home gym on the other. Stripping off my shirt, I tossed it aside and went to load up the barbell. A good sweat always calmed my mind.
After loading two-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds on the bar, I did a few quick warm-up squats to get ready for something heavier, re-racked it, then glanced into the mirror hanging beside my shelf of dumbbells.
My body was as hard, fit, and strong as it had been two decades ago.
In my youth, I’d been vain enough to shave my upper body to show off the chiseled abs and pecs, but now I’d given up on that.
A sheen of dark hair covered my chest, fading until it almost vanished at my belly.
Grunting, I slammed two more plates onto the bar, bringing the total to three-fifteen.
If anything, I was stronger and fitter than when I was younger.
Since retiring, I’d used fitness to try and calm all the stormy and intrusive thoughts that tried to overtake me every day.
My legs were denser, laced in thick, ropey muscle.
My arms tended to strain the seams of my dress shirts, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on my stomach.
Still, as the days went by, even punishing myself in my gym wasn’t enough to keep the old memories away.
Six sets of ten reps later, I slammed the barbell back onto the J-hooks and went to the pull-up bar.
Pull-ups, knee raises, muscle-ups, and chin-ups.
Sweat shone on my body when I was done, and still it wasn’t enough.
I stepped onto the treadmill, cranking it up to nine miles an hour.
I ran at a steady clip, my breath hissing in and out of my nose while I tried to let my mind drift off to other things.
Memories still trickled up. Not even ramping the speed up to twelve miles an hour could stop the flashes from blasting across the internal movie screen of my mind.
Soulless eyes staring at me.
My lungs burned, my controlled breathing becoming quick, heaving gasps.
Footsteps echoing as I ran.
Legs aching, I pushed myself harder.
The screams, panicked and terrified.
“Don’t stop,” I panted as my energy began to wane.
My knuckles turning white as I gripped my gun.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
I leapt off the treadmill and sank to my hands and knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping off me. All the while, the treadmill kept going, its high-pitched whine screaming in my ears.
Once my heart rate slowed, I stood and turned the machine off. I yanked the gym towel off the hook beside the stationary bike and wiped the sweat off my body.
My stomach gave a painful growl as I finished, and I trudged inside, the whispers of past trauma still reverberating through my head.
I tended to forget to eat most days, going about my usual daily routine and only eating when my body screamed out for sustenance.
When I found myself starving like I did now, I threw together something quick.
Standing at the stove, I tossed a piece of flatbread into a pre-heated pan, then added some chopped tomatoes, olives, spinach, and onions, followed by a handful of crumbled feta cheese, making a bastardized Greek/Mexican quesadilla.
While it cooked, I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sipped as I folded, then flipped the flatbread.
With it sizzling away in the pan, I glanced around at the tiny kitchen.
I didn’t need much to live, but sometimes I wondered what my life might have been if things had gone differently. Most of the time, I was fully content with my bachelor pad and my solitary life. It was usually when the old memories surfaced that I felt incomplete and lonely.
Sliding the food out of the pan and onto a plate, I tossed the pan into the sink.
Walking across the room to the large window, I inspected my pride and joy: a four-foot-tall fiddle-leaf fig tree I’d been babying since I bought it three years before.
The large, fiddle-shaped leaves stood out proud, rigid, and glossy.
Before returning to the table, I quickly dusted the leaves, then spritzed them with a spray bottle.
After watering the pot and rotating the planter, I sat back down.
Downing the last of the whiskey, I winced at the burn of the liquid, chasing it with a bite of food.
My hunger faded as I continued eating while staring at the fig.
It was one of the bright spots I had in life.
I’d raised it from a small sapling and hoped to one day see it grow to a massive tree.
I looked forward to the day that it stood above my own six-foot-three frame.
Done with my meal and feeling a bit fuzzy from the alcohol, I got ready for bed. I brushed my teeth, then stripped down to my boxers.
Leaning on the bathroom counter, I gazed back at myself, inspecting the face that grew older each day. My blue eyes had obviously stayed the same color over the years—unlike the salt-and-pepper hair that used to be brown—but there was a haunted look to them that always made me uncomfortable.
With a low growl of irritation, I scooped up the pill bottle from the counter, twisted the lid off, and tilted out a single white pill.
The doc always told me not to mix these with alcohol, but fuck him.
He didn’t have the kinds of nightmares I had.
A little whiskey, tequila, or vodka, and one of these bad boys?
I’d be out like a light and my sleep would be blessedly dreamless.
The last thing I needed was to see more death while I tried to rest.
Though, even with the meds, the last thing I heard before slipping into dreamless bliss was the sound of screaming in my head.