Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
M alatest turned and scanned the room, a frown of annoyance pleating his brow. The patrons stood among the upended tables like embarrassed schoolchildren, only their wide, dilated eyes hinting at barely-banked bloodlust. Someone began clattering dishes at the distant bar, as if tidiness had become a sudden priority.
His eyebrows arched when his survey reached Chuck’s crumpled body on the floor. “That’s going to leave a stain.”
No one dared to reply as the awkward silence congealed. Izetta shifted, easing wounds that had reopened during the scuffle. The movement caught Malatest’s attention. His gaze landed on her lightly, like the brush of an ink-black moth, but it stirred every nerve. Malatest was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and as chiseled as an old-fashioned matinee idol. He might have played a ruthless millionaire or swashbuckling pirate with equal ease, and his reputation was all that and a dash of crime lord, too.
Malatest planted his feet wide and folded his arms. With a scrape of feet against the wooden floor, the patrons bowed or bent a knee. Izetta followed suit. No one disrespected Roman Malatest and survived.
Izetta looked up through her lashes, studying him. She’d only met Malatest a few times before, but his type wasn’t hard to read. His stance—the way he moved, the set of his head—belonged to an apex predator. Or should have done. Malatest had been sitting in the back room while the bar had spun out of control. It wasn’t a good look for the bloodsucker in charge, and someone was going to pay for that.
With a jerk of his chin, he beckoned Izetta forward. She rose slowly, the tension in the air almost solid. The scent of blood—even shifter blood—made it hard to think. She came to a stop before him, keeping a respectful distance.
He was more than a head taller, making it easy to look down his perfectly straight nose. This close, she could see he’d died young, before life had etched character into his features. It gave him the look of a vulnerable, if wicked, angel.
Not her type, though her blood still heated at the glint of interest in his eyes. She couldn’t be blamed for a flicker of response. Immortality got lonely, but nothing about Malatest said he was worth the sacrifice. For an independent agent like her, reputation was all.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I hired you to do a job. And you’re hurt.”
That was almost an insult among vampires. Injury was weakness, and the weak were prey—and she’d heard tales of this one’s ruthless appetites.
“I’m fine. I came to tell you what I found out,” she replied, smoothing the line of her battered leather jacket. “The floor show was just an extra.”
His lips thinned at the tasteless joke, but it seemed to strike the right note of cool nonchalance. He nodded. “Did you find your mark?”
Izetta looked behind her, ensuring there was no one else within earshot. The music had started up again, but soft enough to allow for conversation. “That’s what I came here to discuss. ”
He gave a satisfied grunt. “Give me a moment.”
Malatest motioned to two of his henchmen. They stepped forward instantly, their motions eerily in synch. Izetta wondered if they rehearsed.
He pointed to Chuck. “Clean that up.”
“Yes, sir,” one of them answered with a smart bow. Then the two strode to the body in a way that said this wasn’t their first time.
Malatest beckoned to Izetta. “This way.”
She followed him through the door at the back of the bar’s seating area and into Malatest’s office. The room was pretty much what she’d expected. An antique safe, probably dating from the venue’s speakeasy days, squatted in the corner. An old desk sat beside it, facing the door and a worn leather sofa.
Sadie reclined on the sofa, wearing a plum-colored slip dress and her signature string of freshwater pearls. Her long legs were bare but for silver high-heeled sandals that clearly cost more than Izetta’s entire wardrobe.
“Hey, pumpkin,” she said as Malatest entered the room.
“Hey, yourself. Where did you come from?” he asked, bending down to kiss her lips.
“I stopped by on my way out.” She flicked her strawberry-blonde mane. “It looks like you’re too busy for me tonight.”
“For now,” he replied. “I should be free in a couple of hours. Why don’t you stay here and wait?”
“Nah.” She gave a tiny shudder as she stood, picking up a miniscule handbag on a chain. “I don’t like your place tonight. I’ll come back later.”
“Where are you going?” Malatest asked, his voice hard.
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Where the mood takes me.” She blew him a kiss as she sashayed past Izetta and through the door.
“Be careful. ”
“Be good and I’ll be back before dawn.”
Izetta watched her go and tried to ignore the faint growl coming from the vampire who’d hired her. Sadie wasn’t playing the obedient female, and Izetta could hardly blame her. Still, she had questions about anyone who went dancing with a murderous fae.
“You hired me to find the Magician,” Izetta said, opening with the most basic fact.
Malatest circled the desk and sat. He leaned back, the glow from the green banker’s lamp highlighting the clean lines of his face. He did not invite her to sit.
“Did you find him?” he asked.
“I found much that will interest you, but I have a question first. Are you aware that the Magician’s been seen in the same clubs that Sadie visits? That they’ve been seen together?”
Izetta wished she still had her phone with the video, but that was lost somewhere in the fae way station. She’d meant to show it now, as proof of her investigation.
“I wondered.” Malatest glared down at his hands resting on the desk. Then he looked up again, erasing every hint of vulnerability from his face. “I didn’t know when we last spoke. Now I’m certain.”
Finding that answer was probably the motivation for hiring Izetta—or at least part of it. “And you know about the drug because you’ve been talking to Henry.”
“Yes.”
“Sadie is in danger.”
He made a strangled sound. “I’ve tried reason, and I’ve tried locks. She will not be tamed.”
There was no question an Undead with his power could make Sadie obey. The fact that he hadn’t made Izetta like him better. “Your only course of action is to get rid of the Magician.”
“Yes, so tell me what I don’t already know,” he said, making it an order and not a request. His eyes darkened, taking on a dangerous glow.
“Of course,” Izetta agreed pleasantly. “I will, according to our arrangement.”
He accepted the hint with a lift of one brow and turned to the safe. The ornate gold scrollwork had worn away, but it still had presence. He extracted a key ring from his vest pocket and unlocked the heavy door. When he turned back to Izetta, he held a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Start talking.”
“I coordinated with one of the Devries wolf shifters,” she began. “We tracked the Magician to a dwelling in the wilderness off the highway east of town.”
As she continued, he counted out a bill for every tidbit of useful information. She had just got to the part where they’d broken in when a figure appeared in the doorway and lingered there, clearly intrigued by Izetta’s story.
“Did you see where the drug was made?” the newcomer interrupted, pulling a spiral-bound notebook from her large shoulder bag.
“This is Errata Jones,” Malatest supplied with a touch of exasperation. “A reporter.”
“A reporter?” Izetta echoed in confusion. Vampires—especially those with vaguely criminal pedigrees—usually avoided the media. Or drained the blood from its representatives.
“Freelancer,” the female said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I’m here because I share an interest in locating the cause of so many deaths. The drug connection is one explosive headline.”
Errata’s smile was confident, as if she had every right to be in the room. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, high cheekbones, and olive skin that contrasted with bright green eyes. She wore a tight blue jacket with figure-hugging jeans and high-heeled boots. Her only jewelry was a diamond-shaped metal pendant on a leather thong. Izetta guessed she was some sort of cat shifter. A werecougar, maybe ?
“To answer your question,” Izetta said, “I didn’t see anything like a lab.”
“Too bad,” the cat said. “I want to know how it’s made.”
“Any useful theories?” Izetta asked.
Errata shook her head. “We’ve just started hearing about the deaths in Fairview. Some think the root cause comes from the Castle, but the earliest reports seem to be from your neck of the woods, not ours.”
“Could be.”
The Castle was a supernatural prison in Fairview, a university town to the north. The prison had a complicated history and even more complex inhabitants, and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that a strange and powerful drug had come from there. But Errata was right—the first deaths had been local.
Izetta picked up the stack of money Malatest pushed her way and flipped through the bills, double checking the total.
“Who lives in the forest house?” Errata Jones asked, jotting on her notepad.
“Nobody lives in a fae way station,” Izetta replied. “Not on a permanent basis. It’s like an upscale hotel, except this one had a dungeon.”
Errata’s pen froze, and she looked up. “Seriously?”
“They still have my friend in a cell.” Satisfied, Izetta folded the money, stuffing it into her pocket. “They want their secrets to stay secret.”
Malatest frowned, locking the safe again. “You got away. They won’t let that slide.”
“Neither should we,” Izetta replied. “We tracked the Magician there, but I think he’s just the cherry on top of a big bowl of crazy. Whatever is going on in that way station is likely to spill over into everyone’s business.”
“Like what?” he demanded.
“They were expecting someone else to show up. For all that they were breaking out the thumbscrews, my hosts were nervous.”
“Who frightens the immortal fae?” Malatest sat back in his desk chair, the old springs creaking. “Their magic terrifies the rest of us, not the other way around.”
Errata had stopped writing and was watching Malatest with a frown. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m considering motive. The supernatural community is an untapped market for narcotics.” He stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head, for a long moment. Then he leaned forward again, bracing his arms on the desk. “All the victims are new to this life. Our young—the newly made—are still struggling to learn how to survive as one of the Undead. The Magician tempts them with oblivion before they make peace with their new existence. He preys on their grief and doubt.”
“How will you stop him?” Izetta prompted.
He laughed, and it was bitter. His already pale face had lost what color he had. “I thought your investigation would find a single fae, a murderous misfit his own kind would despise. We could survive exterminating one such madman.”
Errata closed her book, a grave look settling over her features. It was as if she sensed an end to the story and needed no more notes. “But now?”
“Way stations belong to the fae kings and queens.” Malatest rose, pacing from his desk to the wall and back, shoulders stiff. “Whatever happens there is royal business. And this place is not the norm, not with a dungeon and gargoyle servants. It’s a death trap.”
Izetta’s shoulders ached with tension. “I heard you were careful, but not bloodless. I accepted your job because I thought you’d get rid of the Magician.”
Malatest swung back to her, anger in his dark eyes. “You took the job for money, and I gave it to you. There is no debt between us. ”
“But we know where he is. Rafe tracked him to the door,” Izetta protested.
“I have a strong nest, but it’s small.” Done pacing, Malatest dropped into the chair again. “I’m not starting a war with an entire kingdom of fae. We have weapons, but not enough warriors and zero magic.”
Izetta’s skin went cold, fatigue catching up with her. The urge to shout at Malatest bubbled up like lava, but she forced it down with a brutal act of will. “You saw what happened in the bar tonight. Are you going to let them get away with this?”
“I’m a realist,” he said. “Losing a war would finish my nest. I need a less costly solution.”
Izetta clenched her fists to hide the rage-filled tremor in her hands. “They still have my friend.”
Rafe had risked his life so she could escape. She had made him a promise.
“I’m sorry,” Malatest replied.
“You’re going to abandon him?”
Malatest spread his hands in an empty gesture. “He’s your friend, not mine.”
Izetta sucked in air, taking a breath she didn’t need to ease the pressure in her chest. Disgust and disappointment crowded in. She’d seen her brethren fed to the lions of Rome. This felt the same.
Izetta leaned over the desk, locking eyes with Malatest. He was powerful, but she was older, far older, and that made them equals. His smooth, pretty features seemed a shallow mask she longed to crush. Dark thoughts flitted through her mind, mostly involving knives and teeth. But ending Malatest’s existence wouldn’t defeat the fae. The fallout would just complicate her future plans.
She picked up the stapler and crushed it in one hand. When she dropped it back to the desk, it was twisted scrap. The skin around the vampire king’s eyes tightened, but his only response was a soundless chuckle.
“You’ve got nothing else to say?” she demanded in a soft snarl.
“No.” His tone was ice. “I’ve made my decision. I’m sorry it doesn’t meet with your approval.”
She cursed under her breath.
Malatest drew a laptop toward him and opened it, logging in with a quick flurry of keystrokes. It was as good as a dismissal. “Go get cleaned up. You look a mess.”
Izetta heard Errata’s stifled gasp but didn’t turn her way. Instead, she spun and walked out without closing the door in her wake. Pushing the few remaining patrons out of her path, she stalked by the janitor sweeping blood-soaked sawdust from the floor. With a quick wave to Henry, she stiff-armed the door and burst onto the street.
She got half a block before she came to a stop and wondered where to go next. This wasn’t her town. At least the bastard had paid her so she could get a hotel room and grab someone to drink. Then she’d plan her next move.
Izetta picked a direction at random and began scanning for hotel signs. A few places still had neon letters glowing over their facades, as if the street had been caught in a time warp. She started walking again just as she heard someone call her name.
“Izetta.” It was Errata, sprinting after her despite the high-heeled boots. “Wait.”
She turned. “What do you want?”
“He’s not the only game in town.”
Monumental weariness swept over her. “He’s the local boss. He has the clout.” And he’s afraid.
“Malatest is the boss of his nest,” Errata replied. “But don’t forget the shifters. There’s a large pack in town.”
Rafe’s pack. She’d have to explain how one more wolf got swallowed up by the forest. That made her stomach hurt. “What’s your point? ”
“I want answers.” Errata smiled, and this time it showed sharp, feline teeth. “And shifters don’t quit.”