Elven Blood (Imp Book 3) (25 page)

I met his eyes, but something crashed inside me, aching like a wound in my chest. “Okay.”

So there I was, at two in the morning, digging up a corpse. I’d brought Boomer to help, although I’d had to stress several times that he wasn’t going to be eating this body. Hellhounds were amazing diggers, and Boomer would make short work of it. I was grateful for his help since I hadn’t had much sleep in the last few days. It would have taken me a whole night to hand dig the grave solo. Thirty minutes and Boomer hit the lid of the liner.

Modern cemeteries insist on either a grave liner, or a vault for all burials. Their use makes landscaping much easier as the ground doesn’t settle as much, the body decomposition is less likely to affect the ground cover, and the casket lid won’t be crushed by the repetitive traffic of heavy grounds maintenance equipment. It made grave robbing much more difficult. In the olden days, the wooden casket lid would be rotted and splintered by the weight of the ground above. Dig, pry some spongy wood away, then grab the remains. Now, after all the digging, I’d have to blast off a sealed, heavy, concrete, metal–reinforced lid from a tightly confined space.

I’d been dreading we’d find the child buried deep in a vault. Although not guaranteed to be sealed off from all the natural elements, vaults were over two inches thick, wire reinforced, and often lined in plastic. They were built to last for centuries. Their lids were sealed tight, usually with tar, requiring a jackhammer to smash through to the casket inside. Boomer could get through one, but the noise was deafening, and we’d both be covered in white dust within moments. A huge percentage of graves had the dreaded vault, so I was ecstatic to see a simple liner on this one.

I shimmied my way into the musty grave, and managed to wedge myself sideways enough to loop the metal cable I’d brought through the liner’s top’s ring. Thankfully they made these things with rings or handles attached so excavations wouldn’t be impossibly difficult. People did relocate loved ones, and the occasional forensic investigation required an exhumation.

Boomer helped me out of the hole by dragging me out by my arms, soaking them in drool and grave dirt.

The Hellhound grabbed the end of the steel cable with both of his jaws and pulled, neck muscles corded and straining. There was a faint crack, and the liner top popped free from the grave in a shower of soil. I looked over the edge. The coffin was a beautiful thing, white, even after years in the ground, with barely faded pink roses carved along the top.

“Just lift the lid.”

Easier said than done. Caskets are sealed before burial with a line of adhesive in the tight fitting groove that joins the lid to the base. The pretty brass latches along the side and matching hinges in the back were nothing to that adhesive. I swear at the end of times, when the world becomes a fiery ball of death, that adhesive will still be intact, strong as ever. I was glad I’d brought Boomer. The hellhound ran a fang around the edge of the casket lid, literally cutting through the top and bypassing the dreaded stuff. Within seconds, he’d pushed the lid up and out of the grave, revealing the remains within.

“I’ll hop down and run a scan. I’ll probably just take the head. It will be easier to transport.”

Boomer looked at me with inquiring eyes before leaping out of the grave.

“No, you can’t eat the rest of her. We may need to come back.” Who knows if that crazy elf lord would want the whole thing.

I climbed in. I’m not squeamish, but I was glad to see the liner hadn’t been one of those air–tight vaults that keep all the anaerobic nasties on the inside and the scavengers on the outside of the coffin. I didn’t relish having to slosh around in a sea of liquid, smearing it all over the seats of my Suburban. At least I’d had the forethought to bring the SUV instead of my Corvette. Boomer always made a slobbery mess of my upholstery, and I had a feeling I’d be bringing a head back with me. Not something I wanted up close and personal in a little sports car.

There was a moderate musty–sweet smell of old decomposition, but the body wasn’t as far along as I had expected. Skin stretched tight, blond hair still curled with ribbons. Such a waste. I reached down and sent tendrils of myself into the body, checking for demon energy and traces of elf genetic material. Frowning, I sent more of my energy in, but found nothing. This child was human: one–hundred percent human.

I pulled back and looked down at the body, perplexed. Had Joseph Barakel taken the identity of the elf baby to his grave? Or perhaps the other Joseph Barakel had been the correct one, the guy who had died a few weeks back. Either way, they were both beyond my questioning at this point. I was back to having to weed my way through over twelve thousand names. Unless Dar could manage to get something from the demon postman that would lead us to the child, I was screwed. I thought about going back and fighting Haagenti, like Gregory kept insisting. I didn’t want to do it. But I might not have a choice.

20

D
ar’s messenger never made it to my house the next morning, but Gregory did. He actually rang the bell at my front door and handed me an envelope, pushing past me to walk into my living room.

“What’s this?” I asked. It looked like a party invitation.

“A demon was killed while coming through the gate at Columbia Mall last night. He had this on him. It survived his transmutation, and it is warded to be opened only by you.”

“You killed Dar’s messenger?” I was pissed. “You let every piece of shit Haagenti sends to kill me through, but you kill a messenger sent by my own household?”

Gregory shrugged. “Demons are not allowed in this realm as stipulated by the treaty. We make every attempt to dispatch all who violate the law, but an occasional one does slip through.”

“Occasional my ass. Wyatt killed one last night while I was out digging up a body, er, I mean, doing important Iblis duties. Your gate guardian couldn’t catch that Low piece of shit, but Wyatt took him out with a forty–five?”

“We both have experienced firsthand what an excellent aim your human toy has. Oh, and I wanted to compliment you on the very effective barrier around his home. Eloa was quite impressed.”

“Michelle’s aunt did it,” I admitted. “She’s some kind of priestess. Unfortunately it doesn’t keep demons from lobbing shit at Wyatt’s house, or trying to set it on fire.”

Gregory nodded. He’d picked up my report and was paging through it. “Hmmm, yes. That is a significant design flaw. I like how you addressed the deceased’s lack of artistic sensibility in this report. Raphael will be particularly sympathetic to that point.”

Oh good. At least someone on the Ruling Council would vote in my favor. I had no doubt where the others would stand.

“So I expect your next four–nine–five report tomorrow?”

What the fuck was he talking about? “Why would I do another one? That one is for the serial killer I had Boomer take out this fall. I didn’t kill the teenagers in Pennsylvania. Do I need to do one because I fantasized about killing someone? I hope not, or I’ll be doing these stupid reports every few hours.”

The report vanished from his hands. No doubt it was already being delivered, in triplicate, to the other council members.

“They are only required for actual killings, not imagined ones. I’m referring to the human in Northern Virginia that you killed. I believe his name was Bagel or something.”

“Joseph Barakel.” I was sure Gregory knew his name. That angel knew everything, omnipotence aside. He was just fucking with me.

“Yes, yes. That’s the one. Please have the four–nine–five report in my hands by tomorrow midnight. That should be more than enough time.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I protested. “He stroked out in front of me. I never laid a hand on him. I didn’t even get to serious threats. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Still, he died as a direct result of your presence. Tomorrow midnight is your deadline.”

I tossed my party invitation on the table, and marched over to the angel. “Fuck you. I am not doing that fucking report for a guy I didn’t fucking kill.” I punctuated my words with a finger on his chest.

“Tomorrow. Midnight.”

And he vanished. Asshole.

I picked up the note the dead messenger had been carrying and checked it out. Pretty, cream doeskin parchment with no name or address. The paper had been folded into thirds and sealed with a wax sigil that burned as I ran my finger over it. The characters in the wax danced with a spray of gold glitter, and the seal released. The writing inside was angelic script in gold. The elves had their own language, but the sender had kindly written in mine, no doubt in case I didn’t read Elvish.

Greetings to the Distinguished Iblis from Tlia–Myea of the Glorious Kingdom of Cyelle,

I was most distraught at our meeting, and uncertain that I conveyed all the information I had regarding my shameful actions. When I saw that I had given birth to demon spawn, I had the baby killed and submitted as a changeling. I had the demon I sent to accompany my human kill him after he made the baby exchange, to avoid any future blackmail. I purposefully remained unaware of the demon spawn’s destination, but recently, information has come to light that may help you support my claims.

I was certain the baby had been transferred to human foster parents alive. Otherwise she wouldn’t need a demon to communicate back and forth. Why was she going to all this bother to send me a note re–iterating the lies she’d told me before?

There is a child buried in Mount Olivet cemetery, in Frederick, Maryland. That child is elf born. I’m positive with your skills you can find that baby. I’m certain that as the baby is presented to my Lordship, it will be discovered to have demon energy signatures. Although I am facing death, my family will be joyous that the deceased demon spawn has been found, and the matter put to rest forever.

I only longed for a child to love. A child I could protect with all the ferocity of motherhood. As a mother, I would have done anything for my child, given my life to protect her, cursed with my dying breath any who would do her harm.

I am grateful for your service to my Kingdom and my Family,

Tlia–Myea

I stared at the letter—a carrot and a stick, all embedded in the flowery language of the elves that led to so many misunderstandings among our kind. I’d learned to read between the lines though, and I could understand her need to be obscure, in case the message was intercepted and the ward broken. The baby was clearly alive. Hidden away somewhere, safe to live a human life. She’d offered me a way out. A dead elf changeling baby buried nearby that I could dig up and present, if I could somehow alter it to make it appear part demon. And in return for my participation in the deception, I’d earn the gratitude of her family. A dead woman could grant no favors, but elves would always honor a family member’s request. And then there was the stick. The little paragraph at the end, basically letting me know that if I were to find her half–breed daughter, and lead her to harm, she would curse me. Elf curses were not something to be taken lightly. And a curse could not be lifted once the caster died. I’d just have to live with it forever.

“Leethu,” I shouted up the stairs. “Can you come down a second?”

Leethu raced down the stairs like her pants were on fire. They probably were. I don’t think there were enough pizza delivery guys in the tri–state area to satisfy her at this point.

“The elf maiden you fucked and impregnated, Tlia–Myea, who is she? What family connections does she have?” Leethu would know. Demons don’t bother much with family history, but Succubi have always kept track of that sort of thing. They are master manipulators, and knowing family connections helps in blackmail.

“Oh she is well connected, Ni–ni. I would not have impregnated just any old elf, although I would have been happy to have sexual relations with any of them or their humans. Her mother was a half–sister to a previous Lord of Cyelle, and her father was a member of the court of Wythyn.”

“A cross kingdom mating?” I was surprised. “But the kingdoms generally dislike each other and think that the others are beneath them. Why would they cross breed?”

“Oh it happens all the time,” Leethu assured me. “It keeps the gene pool from becoming overly inbred. They do have diplomatic dealings with each other and invite notable individuals to social events. Even the lower–ranking elves will negotiate to do some skills exchanges with other kingdoms. There is no shame in having sexual relations with an elf from another kingdom, and the joy of birth overcomes all prejudices.”

“She was clearly raised in Cyelle. Identifies herself as a member of that kingdom. Would she have pull with her father’s family in Wythyn?” If so, maybe this connection could help me get my horse back.

“Oh yes. Elf children are raised in the highest–ranking parent’s household, but they are still beloved by the other parent’s family. This kind of thing helps solidify alliances between kingdoms and can prevent war if conflicts arise. No one wants to risk the chance of killing his or her offspring.”

This was looking better and better. But there was one thorny problem to address.

“Say I want to make something dead look like a hybrid. A dog or something. Any ideas on how I might do that?”

That shrewd look flashed across Leethu’s face, reminding me she was far more intelligent than she appeared. Succubi were always considered dim bulbs, beautiful, sexually appealing, fragile, with the mental abilities of a box of rocks. They worked that perception to their advantage.

“That would depend on who you need to convince,” she replied. “Slap some horns on it and the humans will be calling in their exorcists. Drive a bit of your personal energy in it and it will pass a casual scan by demons, elves, vampires, and possibly werewolves, although they would be the most difficult to fool.”

Her innocent eyes were contrasted by the smug smile. “Okay, what’s the hitch?” I asked.

“A really good demon scan, really deep, will reveal the deception. Most demons are sloppy and lazy. They’ll just take it on face value. You would notice, Ni–ni. You are curious and greedy for sensation and knowledge. You would sense it right away.” She paused for effect, and I obligingly waited, hanging on her every breath. “Sorcerers would be a problem.”