Getting Wilde

The Devil was in the details. Again.
 

I leaned against the sticky countertop at Le Stube and glared down at the faded Tarot cards, the best Henri could scrounge up on short notice. The Devil trump looked particularly foul in this deck: all leering grin, fat belly, and clawed feet. Worse, it was the third time in as many days he’d shown up in my reading.
 

And this time, he’d brought along some friends. I’d turned up the Tower, Death,
and
the Magician card in quick succession. Heavy hitters of the Tarot who had no business being in my business, at least not tonight.
 

Tonight’s transaction, while unpleasant, wasn’t supposed to be complicated. It
wouldn’t
be complicated, I’d decided. I’d had enough of complicated for one evening.
 

Le Stube’s front door opened. I sensed Henri peering past me with his sorrowful bartender eyes—just as I caught a whiff of the guy coming in. I sat up a little, blinking rapidly. Dude was
pungent
. Even by Parisian standards.
 

I tapped the Prince of Coins card lying in the middle of all the Major Arcana cards. It was covered by the Five of Wands. So I was pretty sure this newcomer was my contact: some low-
level knuckle dragger muling cash for his king, the buyer who’d commissioned this deal, here to relieve me of the artifact I had snugged up against my right kidney. Unfortunately, I was also pretty sure said contact was spoiling for a fight. Which might become an issue, since neither prince nor king was going to get his trinket tonight, if the payoff wasn’t right.
 

Not my problem, though. I wasn’t the one who’d lied.
 

“
Un autre?
”
Henri sighed. Like most bartenders in the City of Light, Henri was a master of the resigned sigh.
 

I swept the cards into a stack and nodded to him, then pocketed the cards. It wasn’t the prettiest deck, but it was trying, at least. I owed it a one-way ticket out of Paris. Henri plucked my glass from the counter, making a big production of concocting something way too involved to be my drink.
 

He set the mess down in front of me and scowled, gloomy concern evident in every line of his thin, hunched body. Which was more than I could say for the guy shuffling up to the bar, stinking of sour cheese and bad karma, and maybe…peanut butter? Didn’t want to think too much about that.
 

I barely avoided a wince as he sat down. “You ’ave it?”
 

“You didn’t tell me about the competition,” I said, picking up my glass. “The price has gone up.”
 

“You
do
’ave it.” He leaned toward me, his gun nudging into my side. Henri was applying his bar towel diligently to nonexistent dust at the far end of the bar. As if nothing that happened here would bother him, as long as I kept it tidy.
 

I could do tidy. The cards and their crazy were not the boss of me.
 

“If you have the money, we have a deal,” I said, Miss Congeniality all the way. “Just at double our original price. What’s more, I suspect you do have the money, honey, because you
knew what I was walking into. Unlike me, for the record. Which, frankly, wasn’t very neighborly of you.”
 

His face didn’t change expression. “You agreed to the terms.”
 

I shook my head. With the mule this close, we could talk freely without being overheard. If only I could manage it without breathing. “No. I agreed to lift a minor, plate-sized relic off a clueless museum intern. You missed the bit where said flunky
was also being targeted by the
Swiss Guard
, who, by the way, apparently don’t wear pajamas when they’re not at the Vatican. You also missed the part where the Swiss Guard had become ninjas. All that’s a little out of my pay grade.” I took a sip of my drink, wincing at the tang as I set the glass down again.
Horseradish.
Nice. If I had to use it on this guy, it was going to sting like a bitch.
 

“But you
’ave
it.” Clearly the guy thought he could get what he wanted simply by boring me to death. I considered my options. He was powerfully built, with a thick jaw and a boxer’s nose—but his curled upper lip shone with sweat, his beady eyes looked just a teensy bit feral, and his cheeks were flushed. Something wasn’t right here. He was too nervous, too intent.
 

“The transaction was compromised.” I spread my hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “I wasn’t given full information. With full information, I never would have taken the job. But, I can be reasonable. Which means your new price is merely double. So go talk to your boss, get the extra cash, and then we’ll have something to discuss.”
 

“No.” Again with the gun. Harder this time. Sharper. “You must give it to me
now
.” The man practically vibrated with intensity, and my Spidey sense went taut. This definitely was too much reaction for the relic in question. We weren’t talking the Ark of the Covenant here, no matter how much I was going to charge the guy.
 

I reclaimed my glass of horseradish whiskey and took in Henri. He remained at the far end of the bar, well out of the way of any untoward blood spatter. Very efficient, our Henri.
 

“Take it easy, my friend,” I said, as casual as all hell. “We’re just having a conversation.” It wouldn’t be long now, I thought, watching his nostrils flare. The golden seal of Ceres suddenly weighed a hundred pounds in its slender pouch against my body.
 

It was a pretty thing, really: a flat gold disk the size of a dessert plate, imprinted with an image of the Roman goddess of fertility and grain on one side. On the flip side, a half-dozen thick, raised, symmetrical ridges lined its surface at odd angles.
 

Not the most spectacular artifact I’d ever been asked to locate, but not the most mundane either. And with the help of the cards, I’d tracked it down easily enough.
 

Then again, I maybe should have asked a few more questions before I headed out this evening. A third-century BC seal featuring a corn-festooned pagan goddess shouldn’t have been entrusted to your average intern for a late-night museum transfer. And the guy had been really
young
too. Too young, too clueless.
 

Which might have caused me to stop and reconsider what I was doing, if I hadn’t been so distracted by the ninja shadows of death who’d swarmed the Metro platform the moment I’d made the grab. I’d immediately thought the Swiss Guard had come to swipe the relic out from under me, but why? What had I seen to tip my mind that way?
 

And why would the Swiss Guard give a crap about such a minor artifact?
 

“Give it to me,” my contact hissed, officially signaling the arrival of the next stage of our negotiation process: brute force. Then he lunged at me.
 

I moved just as fast. With a sharp, cutting jerk, I splashed the horseradish whiskey into the guy’s eyes, then shattered the glass against the bar as his hands went to his face, his scream a guttural bellow. Henri was right beside me, ripping the man’s gun away as I shoved my contact flat against the bar, the cut edge of the glass tight against his collarbone, pressing into his thick, sweaty neck.
 

“And now the price is triple.” I glared at his clenched-shut eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks. “You want to pay, you know where to find me. You don’t want to pay, I got plenty others who will.”
 

“You wouldn’t,” he sputtered. He tried to open his eyes, but that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. “You were ’ired to—”
 

“You bet your crusty baguette I would. Tell your boss that if he’s got the money, then he’ll get the package. Otherwise, no deal.” I stepped back as Henri and Le Stube’s bouncer moved in. Henri whipped a spotless white towel off his shoulder to help my contact get cleaned up, while his muscle stood ready to hold the guy tight until I got out of there.
 

No wonder I liked this place so much.
 

Stepping into the warm, muggy night, I strode toward the Luxembourg Gardens without too much hurry, the popular tourist destination still illuminated despite the fact that it was nearing midnight. I angled my way through a dozen or so manicured plots, waiting for a tail to materialize. None did that I could see, so I changed course. I had that creepy crawly feeling of being followed, but there was nothing for it. I had more work to do.
 

Besides, all was not lost tonight. Not yet, anyway. Chances were good that the king of coins would cough up the money for his relic. Even at triple his original cost, it was probably a steal, if my contact’s panic and the interest of the
freaking Swiss Guard
was any indication.
 

But, if the deal blew up, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been left holding the proverbial bag; it wouldn’t be the last.
 

And I hadn’t been lying back at Le Stube. The magical antiquities black market
had
been heating up for the past couple of years. If there were already two parties gunning for this chunk of gold—my buyer and, apparently, the pope—then someone else with money to burn was probably sniffing around too.
 

That cheered me up.
 

I left the Luxembourg Gardens and skirted the Odéon, turning onto the Rue de Tournon as I let my stride lengthen. Paris was drying out from a recent drizzle, and everything smelled like spring.
 

Father Jerome would be waiting for me, and though I’d wanted to be able to give him more cash tonight, I was not arriving empty-handed. It would be enough, I thought. It had to be enough.
 

I turned onto the Boulevard Saint-Germaine and scanned the long, wide street. As usual, the neighborhood was hopping, but that didn’t concern me so much. As I approached the church, however, something about the tone and tenor of the large crowd milling around struck me as odd.
 

Specifically, that there was a tone and tenor.
 

Rollicking music blasted out from several venues, the partiers unusually raucous, while jazz, booze, and pot all hung heavy in the air. I finally caught sight of a large banner flapping in the evening breeze that explained all the crazy: Festival Jazz à Saint-Germaine-des-Prés!
 

Ah, Paris. City of Festivals.
 

I slipped into the throng, drifting toward the arched entryway to the church. With this many people, I could have been a gorilla in a tutu and no one would have noticed me. The main church entrance was locked at this hour, but, as expected, the side door opened easily into the cool quiet of the ancient church.
 

I’d barely stepped through before the bolt slid home, then the short, cloaked old priest was at my side. “Bienvenue, Sara.” As always, his quiet greeting was as comforting as warm bread. “Is everything all right?” Though a native Parisian, Father Jerome’s English was flawless, his words sounding richer and somehow more intelligent in his thick Parisian accent.
 

I shrugged. “I had to cut short tonight’s negotiations.” We walked toward the nave of the church, where colorful frescoes gleamed in the gentle light of dim sconces, and I let myself relax a notch or two. Here in this sacred space, there was solace to be had. Even if just for a little while.