Chapter 3
Three
Istood up and sprinted toward Nick’s shield. Luckily, he was quick on his feet and dropped it before I could smash myself against it like a bug on a windshield. Then I was across the street and pressing every ounce of magic I had into a spell Laurel had taught me when we were kids.
It had some archaic name, but Laurel and I both called it was the I’m Not Touching You spell. It had the effect of pressing the witch flat against the ground as though I’d dropped a large mattress on her and then had a football team lie down on it.
Nick was behind me, releasing some remaining circles that bound any twitching lawn ornaments in what looked like green bubbles. I continued my chant as I stood over the witch.
The woman moaned, her face scrunched as she tried to push herself up. She was older than I’d thought. Maybe my bias was showing, but I expected someone my age or even younger, someone who looked like my little sister.
Instead, she was middle-aged. Gray hair was pulled out of her face in a bun that had gone askew from either her fall or the spell I was still performing. Laugh lines framed her eyes, although right then she was glaring at both me and Nick.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re Damon’s mother.”
“You can go to whatever hell you believe in,” she said. “Coming to my house, threatening me. You better believe I’m going to fight you.”
“Whoa,” I said. “Listen, this is a lot of hostility. We weren’t threatening you.”
“You’re hanging out in front of my house,” she said. “You going to try to convince me you were selling Girl Scout cookies?”
“No,” I said. “We were looking for Damon Griffith, and I assume you’re not him. We don’t want to hurt you, and we won’t hurt him. He took something, and we just need to find it.”
“Like I believe you,” she said, but her struggles slowed. I took a chance and let her up.
She pushed onto her hands and knees, and then sat up. Sneering at me, she said, “Kitchen witch.”
“I still beat you,” I said.
It was good to see that although she’d tasted my magic, she hadn’t recognized it as anything abnormal. Being a kitchen witch gave me a sort of invisibility because everyone knew kitchen witches fought dirty.
“You don’t want to hurt him? Why should I believe you?” she said.
“Because he’s an alchemist,” I said, jerking my thumb toward Nick. “And my name is Parker Ferro. You can call around and ask about me. You can even call the Kitchen Witches of East San Amaro. The head priestess will vouch for me.”
“Those kitchen b—” she broke off the swear word, seeming to realize who she was talking to. “You said Laurel will vouch for you?”
“You can call her right now,” I said. “We’re not going to hurt Damon. We just want to talk with him.”
“He used to live here,” she said. “He moved out when he started hanging out with…”
“A different crowd?” I asked.
“I don’t like them,” she said.
“You have a new address for him?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I have a new address.”
The address we got from Damon’s mother was in one of the gentrified areas of town.
They had torn down almost an entire block of houses and replaced them with expensive apartment buildings and a little line of shops that sold things like artisan meats and gelato.
It reminded me of where Nick lived, except this was a nice area and Nick’s apartment was in an area that had valets in front of every building and a private garbage company that made sure any litter on the ground was in a trashcan in minutes.
To be honest, I could see why someone who’d come into money would want to go from living where a pack fight was a common thing to an area where werewolf rights were discussed as a civil rights issue, something to be brought up in theory, not in fact.
Nick was clearly thinking the same thing, his expression suspicious as he looked up and down the street.
“This is a good neighborhood,” he said.
“This is an expensive neighborhood,” I corrected. “So Damon Griffith came into some money. I would bet my client isn’t the only one who’s had things go missing.”
“And no one wants to report it because people aren’t supposed to have fae artifacts.” Nick examined the street again.
That wasn’t strictly true. It wasn’t illegal to own a fae artifact, especially if it was an inherited item.
The law knew the fae had been in San Amaro longer than humans.
But, if during a police investigation they found you with a fae artifact, then it was definitely going into evidence.
After that, it got sent to some sort of government building that was warded only slightly less than the White House.
That was why most dealers of fae artifacts and curios were underground. No one wanted their valuable piece to suddenly become evidence.
“I don’t think Damon is a mover. Damon Griffith is a black-market acquisitions man,” I said. “I can see why his mom wouldn’t like his new friends.”
The black market wasn’t a place where normal people would find friends. Even me, who had a unique relationship with fae curios, only had a few people I would call acquaintances in the business. Maybe one or two of those I could stretch to friends.
I parked at a meter clearly only there to make sure riffraff didn’t park in the nice area of town overnight, and Nick and I headed to the building Damon’s mother had said he lived in.
It was tall for San Amaro, and when we got closer, I realized it wasn’t apartments at all, but rather expensive condos that cost as much as some homes we’d driven past to get there.
There wasn’t a buzzer out front, so I tried the door and found it open. For a second, I thought we had luck on our side.
I should’ve known better. Luck and me aren’t on speaking terms.
“Can I help you?” a low voice asked.
I glanced to my right and saw a massive security desk with two men sitting behind it. Both looked like they used to be linebackers in high school or college, and one was eyeing me like he thought I was there to steal things. Technically, I was.
Or rather I was there to reacquire something Damon had stolen, which had the same feel as stealing, even though the ethics were a lot murkier.
“Yeah, Damon asked to see us. Can we go straight up?” I asked.
If you bluff, most people don’t call it. Confidence has the same effect as actually having a key or an invitation. Most people ignore that niggling feeling of should he be here? because you’re acting with the certainty that you should be there.
“Do you have an apartment number?” the man asked.
“208,” I said.
“Let me call up,” Suspicious Security Guard said.
His partner got out from behind the desk, standing in front of the bank of elevators with his arms crossed. This wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.
After a brief conversation, Suspicious said, “Mr. Griffith is not expecting you.”
Grinding my teeth, I forced a smile and reached out with some of my charm. “Yeah, but let us go up anyway. He’s going to want to see us.”
It was like charming a brick wall. No, that wasn’t true. I’d charmed plenty of brick walls. This guy was a black hole of charisma. The more I tried with him, the more I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere.
Still, it was a challenge I wanted to see if I could pull off.
“You’re going to let us up,” I said. I turned everything I had up to eleven, every ounce of charm, every hint of attraction, everything that should make him fall at my feet like I was Helen of Troy.
There was a slight flicker behind his eyes, and two grooves appeared between his eyebrows. He’d never in his life thought another man was attractive, but I could tell for a second he was into me, then his partner cleared his throat.
Arms still crossed, Elevator Guard looked unimpressed. “If Mr. Griffith is not expecting you, then you need to leave.”
By the time I looked back at Suspicious, his face was back to its neutral setting, all my hard work flushed down the drain.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, guys.”
As we walked out, I saw Nick grinning out of the corner of my eye.
“You didn’t help at all,” I said, pointing at him. We walked across the street.
“Hey, I’m on vacation,” Nick said. “Plus, I was curious to see if you’d go as far as a strip show.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” I groused.
“You were ten seconds away from batting your eyelashes and throwing cartoon floating kisses.” Nick blinked his own eyes, his stupid-long lashes exaggerating the move.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I might’ve gone a little overboard on the charm.”
“You were just lucky that Vice wasn’t around,” Nick said. “They’d have arrested you for solicitation.”
We arrived at the car and both slid in. I lowered the windows again and reached in the back for another bag of snacks.
“How are you sure he’s going to leave?” Nick said.
“I’m not,” I said. “But that’s the parking garage, and I’d bet he isn’t going to stay in his apartment all day. Plus, isn’t sitting around doing nothing what you cops do best?”
“Pass me the chips,” Nick said.
I did and pulled out a mini DVD player I kept around for this purpose. Nick raised an eyebrow and watched as I selected a DVD from the case I’d stashed in back.
“Do you even know what his car looks like?” Nick asked.
I grinned. “Oh, do you think only the cops have access to DMV records? For twenty dollars I could get his social security number and the name of his dog in second grade.”
Grumbling, Nick slouched back in his seat. “What are we watching?”
It turned out that while Nick had done stakeouts before, notably when he caught me after I’d climbed out of a shallow grave, he’d never done it with snacks, a miniature DVD player, and running commentary on the fifth season of How I Met Your Mother.
“See? This is the high life,” I said.
“Are you sure you’re not going to miss him?” Nick asked.
Using a curved Frito chip, I gestured to the garage and glanced down at my notes. “Have you seen a two-year-old Acura leave that garage? License plate number 7CDB813?”
Nick tilted his head and gave me a smile, but when the scene changed on the mini screen, he burst out, “She can’t be taking this guy seriously.”
“Yeah, the writing of her character is a little inconsistent,” I said. “It gets better later. You really haven’t seen this series?”
“It’s not my style,” he said.
“Your style being documentaries in foreign languages that you have to buy on DVD because they aren’t streaming anywhere,” I said.
Nick wrinkled his nose. “I’m not that bad.”
“Who was it who watched the documentary about Monarch butterflies and ripped out all the milkweed in my yard?” I asked.
“Well, the foreign stuff is terrible for them,” Nick said. “It messes with their seasonal rhythm and changes their migration… You’re winding me up.”
I leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Do as much gardening as you want. I like how you look with your dorky hat and shovel.”
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you hired a real gardener,” Nick said.
“Hey, we aren’t all rolling in money,” I said. “Plus, I enjoy leaving the yard a little wild. It helps me find the right kind of plants for my magic.”
“You mean the kind of plants that can survive no water for months and then a flood when you finally remember they need hydration?” Nick said. “Or weeds that are so hardy they can grow in the cracks in your concrete patio?”
“Hey, if I’m building a fighting team, I only take the best of the best,” I said.
Nick muttered something about the plants matching my style, but before I could argue with him, the gate for the underground garage rose. We both turned like hunting dogs who’d heard the shot of a rifle. An Acura slid out, its license plate 7CDB813.
I turned on my car, the engine choking before it caught and then I pulled out into the street to follow Damon Griffith wherever he was going. He couldn’t bring his apartment security with him everywhere, which meant, wherever he was going, we would have an in.
I followed him through the streets of San Amaro, my complete attention on making sure we were far enough back that he didn’t notice us while never losing him.
Beside me, Nick had taken out his alchemy notebook and was tapping the edge on his knee.
He didn’t seem to realize he was doing it, and it didn’t bug me enough to bring it up.
Damon pulled up to a storage facility a few miles away.
“Crap,” I said.
He was going to go through the gate, and we might be able to follow him, but once inside it would be very obvious we were on his tail. To my great relief, he didn’t pull inside. Instead, he pulled into a parking space and got out of his car.
We got our first good look at him, and I had to admit I was surprised. Damon Griffith didn’t look like someone who had a moving company. He dressed like a rock star on his day off: expensive shirt, expensive jeans, and shoes Nick probably had in his own closet.
He walked into the office for the facility. There wasn’t much time.
Reaching into my snack bag, I took out one of the miniature muffins that came in a package with a pink rooster on it. Then I reached into the pile of trash on the floor in the backseat and drew out an old coffee cup, the lid still on.
“Wait here,” I said.
I crossed the street and waited half a storefront down from the office where no one inside could see me and the exterior cameras didn’t cover. Damon Griffith came out, an envelope clasped in his hand, and I took a few long strides, until I was right up on top of him.
As though distracted, I ran into him, smashing the muffin against his dark gray shirt.
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry,” I said. I ineffectively rubbed at his shirt, only proceeding to get more crumbs on him.
Damon shoved me off using both hands and glaring as though I was a piece of gum on the sidewalk that had started talking.
“Get off me,” he ordered.
I held up both hands, saying, “Whoa, whoa. No problem here, mi amigo.”
He ignored me and got back in his car. With a screech, he pulled back and then close enough to the gate to enter his code. I jogged back to the car and slid inside.
“How do you feel about getting a tour?” I asked.