Читать книгу Keeper of the Moon - Harley Jane Kozak - Страница 10

Declan’s assistant, Harriet, had set up a business meeting for midnight, texting him Reggie Maxx’s confirmation before calling it a day, leaving her boss to his nighttime assistant, Carolyn. Declan stood now in a corner of the Snake Pit’s main room, surveying his club in full swing. The place ran well in his absence, a fact he knew because he was in the habit of shifting and showing up to observe operations. It took him a full minute to spot Reggie, because he was looking for a man on his own and Reggie had brought a date. They were on the dance floor, the date a well-built blonde with a short skirt and a serious shimmy, Reggie a tall, sandy-haired man towering over his fellow dancers.

“Hey, Declan,” Reggie said, coming over to shake hands. He was breathing heavily, flushed from the exercise. The Elven Keeper was in his early thirties, just shy of handsome, but with a freckle-faced charm and impressive physique. “Hope you don’t mind—this is my associate, Kandy. We wanted to, uh, see the band.”

“Not at all. Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” Declan said.

Kandy shook his hand with enthusiasm. “Are you kidding? I told Reggie he had to. You’re like a celebrity, you don’t need notice. And I’m Kandy with a k, so I’m easy to remember.” She wore six-inch stilettos studded with metal, which also made her easy to remember, Declan thought. “I made Reggie bring me along, because I’ve never been to the Snake Pit and I’ve lived in L.A. like three whole years.”

“Then I won’t interrupt your night for long.”

Kandy giggled. “This is our night. I love your accent, by the way. You’re Australian or one of those, right?”

“English and Irish, love,” Declan said.

“Ooh, Black Irish. That’s where you get that smoky look and those baby blue eyes, right?”

Reggie turned to her. “Kandy, Declan and I need to talk business, so why don’t you take a little tour of the place? Just don’t get in trouble.”

Declan hailed his bartender and told him to keep Kandy supplied with whatever she wanted, then led Reggie toward a staircase leading to the underground level.

Reggie gave a sheepish laugh. “She’s … a great assistant, actually. Paralegal. Draws up real estate contracts like you wouldn’t believe. Anyhow, she wanted to come and she’s … persuasive.”

Declan could well believe it. As an Elven Keeper, Reggie would have a strong measure of his species’ sexual appetite, and their magnetism. There were mortals who found the Elven irresistible without, of course, knowing what they were dealing with, and Kandy was their prototype. “No surprise,” Declan said. “She’s pretty, you’re a guy, it’s a full moon.”

“Yeah, true.” Reggie said. “Anyhow, I’m very curious as to what you wanted to see me about.”

Declan led Reggie into his office, a futuristic-looking space in gunmetal gray. He closed the door. “I need information.”

“Name it.”

“The Scarlet Pathogen deaths. Anything you can tell me about them?”

Reggie looked around, as though someone might be hiding under the concrete desk. “Why are you asking me?”

Declan gestured toward a leather sofa, inviting Reggie to sit. “You’re one of the few Elven Keepers it’s not a chore to have drinks with. What are you drinking, by the way?”

“Scotch, straight. Thanks. But what I meant was—I’m not a cop.”

Declan moved to a bar across the room. “No, but you’re the Coastal Keeper, and Charlotte Messenger’s body was found on the beach. Your jurisdiction.”

Reggie grimaced. “Well, there’s that.”

“And you know the cops are involved, that this is more than a health department matter, a communicable disease.” Declan handed him a glass of scotch and sat on a leather chair opposite the sofa.

Reggie took the highball glass. “Yeah, that’s true.” He took a sip of scotch, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want his thoughts read.

Typical, Declan thought.

He hadn’t encountered the Elven or their Keepers until his late teens, when he’d headed west from New York City. The dry heat made Southern California a favorite Elven habitat, and their incandescent looks made them naturals in the film industry. Outwardly social, they thrived on the admiration of lesser mortals, not to mention casual sex, but Declan knew that at heart the Elven were as clannish as Gypsies, distrusting outsiders. Reggie was now exhibiting that Elven reticence. “I don’t expect something for nothing,” Declan said. “Excuse my directness, but we’re both businessmen. I’d like you to handle a real estate transaction I’m planning.”

Reggie blinked. “Don’t you have a Realtor?”

“For my Hollywood properties. This involves Malibu. I want to buy Dark Lagoon.”

“Dark Lagoon’s not for sale.”

“That’s about to change,” Declan said.

“Interesting.” Reggie sat forward, all ears now. “But why Dark Lagoon? It’s not even attractive. Have you walked around there?”

“Frequently. I’m obsessed with wetlands. The lagoon is a stopover for migrating birds along the Pacific Flyway.”

Reggie laughed shortly. “Sorry, not into birds. Too … flighty.”

Declan smiled. “Ever seen a golden eagle drag a goat off a cliff?”

Reggie eyed him speculatively. “You can’t do anything with the place, you know.”

“That’s the point. I want to save it from being developed. Save the coastal commission from having to spend their own money to buy it and protect it. I’ll pay a fair price, even a generous one, then donate it to them.”

“Happy to help, then,” Reggie said. “I’ll take a look at the property tomorrow. There’s a house just south of there that I rent out to film companies, and I’m meeting a location scout at noon.”

“That can’t be pleasant for you, hanging out on the beach.” Even Elven Keepers, Declan knew, disliked water. It wasn’t necessarily the full-blown phobia it was for the Elven themselves, but for some, it came close.

“In this economy, I’ll put up with some unpleasantness.” Reggie took a long sip of his drink, then said, “So what do you want to know about the celebrity deaths?”

“The night Charlotte’s body was found. Because it was your district, I assume someone notified you?”

“You’d think.” Reggie put down his glass and lowered his voice. “Elven Keepers operate a little differently. You shifters have some autonomy. We go through a chain of command, an executive committee.”

“With Charles Highsmith leading that committee?”

Reggie glanced at Declan. “Off the record, right?”

“Completely.”

“Yeah, Highsmith controls things. I mean, theoretically we could overturn his decisions, but it’s like herding cats to get a consensus on anything, especially if Highsmith’s against it. Anyhow, it was Highsmith who got the call from the sheriff’s department when they found Charlotte.”

“Who’s the contact in the sheriff’s department?”

“Guy named Riley. Werewolf.”

“But no one contacted you? Malibu’s your district.”

“Highsmith called me the next day to tell me it was under control,” Reggie said. “Meaning the flow of information was contained, the right cops were assigned to the case, the right medical examiner doing the autopsy.”

“But Elven women keep dying,” Declan said. “Doesn’t Highsmith consider that worth controlling?”

“As a matter of fact,” Reggie said, “he’s called a closed meeting for tomorrow. I got an encoded email ten minutes ago, telling me and the other Elven Keepers to stand by. Time and place to be announced.”

“Now what prompted that, I wonder?”

Reggie shrugged. “You understand, what gets said in closed meetings I can’t share with you, Declan, much as I’d like to. Closed meetings are a big deal. We haven’t had one since winter solstice.”

Over five months ago. “Was Rafe Gryffald at that one?”

Reggie nodded. “I think Rafe Gryffald was the only thing holding Highsmith in check the last ten years.”

Declan paused, then said, “Met his daughter yet? Sailor?”

“No. I’ve seen her around, but we haven’t met. Why?”

“She may be there tomorrow, but she’ll be in over her head and could use a friend.”

“Happy to help. Can I ask what’s your interest in this?”

“I have friends among the Elven,” Declan said. “Also, the other species are about to get involved, so we’ll need interspecies cooperation, which has to start with the Keepers.”

“I’m all for that. But to be honest, you should be talking to Highsmith, not wasting your time on the second string, which would be me.” Reggie gave Declan a wry smile. “Not that I’m not flattered. All I can tell you—and it’s not much—is that the cops are convinced these deaths are homicides, and they’ll be making that announcement anytime now.”

Declan nodded. The moment they’d found Charlotte on the beach, he’d known in his gut that her death was a murder. But now, it seemed, the whole world knew it, and that hardened his resolve.

Reggie was watching him closely, reading his thoughts to some degree. “And you have a personal stake in this, don’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to date Charlotte Messenger?”

“Yes.”

“Bad luck, her being found so close to your house.”

“Bad luck her being dead at all,” Declan said. “But worse luck for her killer.”

“Why is that?”

Declan smiled grimly. “Because I am going to send him to hell.”

The bouncer must have been given her name, Sailor thought, because he waved her through with no questions. Elven, she thought, and gave him wide berth, then entered the darkly atmospheric club.

She’d been a regular at the Snake Pit since turning legal. Back then it had been the heady thrill of drinking alongside celebrities. But some months ago she’d been part of a movie deal made right there at an A-list table, a role she’d been euphoric about playing—until the deal fell apart. The whole incident had left a bad taste in her mouth, and since then she’d avoided the chaotic main room, sticking instead to the quieter venue next door where Rhiannon could often be found singing and playing her beloved Fender. In the main room the music—and crowd—was rougher-edged.

Sailor made her way toward the stage through throngs of people, some dressed to the nines, some with the grunginess of migrant farmworkers. She took care to steer clear of any Elven. She was still in her waitress uniform, black polyester velvet, but theatrical, and with enough spandex to cling to her like an ace bandage. She’d traded her comfortable shoes for a pair of heels she kept in the trunk of her car, but she still longed for a shower and some real clothes. Her arms were bare and the concrete room cold, with a blue mist coming up from the floor, but she welcomed the sensation. She suspected she was running a fever.

Unless it was the thought of seeing Declan at any moment that was raising her temperature.

The band was tuning up, an unwashed quartet wearing chain mail, but Declan wasn’t anywhere nearby, so she climbed a spiral steel staircase to a cavernous green room furnished with cubist sofas, where one couple openly snorted cocaine and a trio of uncertain gender engaged in some act of sex. No Declan there, either.

But she noticed something. Her vision was sharper than usual, colors more vibrant and people more attractive. It had happened at work, too, now that she thought about it. Not all night, not consistently, but in waves. Similar to what she’d experienced when she’d awakened in Alessande’s house. Once she’d taken the síúlacht she couldn’t recall it happening anymore. Until now. So maybe it was a symptom that the síúlacht suppressed, and maybe now the síúlacht was wearing off.

She descended to the basement, a different scene altogether, with its own bar and two poker games in progress. She asked a cocktail waitress where she might find Declan Wainwright, and the woman nodded toward a corner.

Sailor saw the back of his head, his black tousled hair, and then her heart did a fluttery thing and her bravado started to slip. Not good. She needed confidence if she hoped to be taken seriously. Unless she could get her game on, this wouldn’t work.

A restroom was to her right, and Sailor slipped in. It was stark and dark, illuminated by floating votive candles, on the assumption that no one wanted to see herself clearly at this hour of the night. Sailor leaned in to stare at her flickering reflection, giving herself the equivalent of a half-time locker-room talk. “I know that in Hollywood terms Declan Wainwright is a rock star and you’re at the bottom of the food chain. But in Otherworld terms, you’re both Keepers. And that’s why—”

Three women entered the bathroom, two heading for the stalls, one stationing herself at the adjoining sink. Sailor glanced at her: nightclub-chic, exotic clothes. Great. Here she was in her cheap uniform with her crazy eyes, talking to herself.

“Be careful, sister,” the woman said.

Sailor looked at her, startled. The woman was applying lipstick, her face close to the mirror. She paused, pressed her lips together to blot them, then said, “The one who can fly through the air, he is not to be trusted. Nor can you trust your own kind.”

“Excuse me?” Sailor said.

The woman shrugged, still looking at herself in the mirror. “I’m a messenger. I hear words, I repeat them. Does the message mean something to you?”

An image of the winged creature flashed through Sailor’s mind. “Yes, I think so. But who are you?”

“I just said. A channeler, okay? I hear messages. Usually from the dead. Not always. Runs in the family. Kind of a drag. Anyhow …” With a last look at herself, she turned to go.