The Brimstone Deception (3 page)

Ian swore mildly, like a man who knew he wasn't going to have time for more fancy lunches anytime soon.

Fred nodded. “Yeah. I'd bet my next paycheck that Brimstone came from out of town.”

WHEN
you worked for SPI or were clued in to the supernatural world, “out of town” didn't mean Hoboken.

A supernatural criminal entrepreneur was cutting him- or herself a slice of New York's drug-dealing pie. The highly profitable, upper-crust part. That wasn't going to make the city's established drug lords and ladies very happy. And when they weren't happy, and that much money was involved, blood would start flowing.

What lunch I'd managed to eat hadn't even had a chance to settle before we got the call.

The goblin manager of an upscale apartment building had received a tenant complaint of heat and a really bad smell coming from the apartment next door. Suspecting a fire of some sort, he'd quickly knocked, and when no one answered, he used his master key to open the door.

He saw what was inside and promptly closed it.

He then called SPI, not the NYPD.

There was a dead body, it was a supernatural, and the stink was sulfur.

Sulfur could mean one of two things: demons or a black-magic-spawned portal. Or both. None of the above signaled fun times ahead for us.

Sulfur was another name for brimstone.

Coincidence?

I wasn't gonna hold my breath on that one. Especially when we learned who the dearly departed was.

Sar Gedeon.

Elf, exiled aristocrat, and drug lord, who was most definitely from out of town, just like the new designer drug.

The apartment building was only two blocks from Café Mina.

We were there within minutes.

Normally Ian and I weren't part of an initial response team unless the investigation required the services of a seer, but we were the closest agents. Our job was to secure the scene from mortal authorities until SPI's crime scene investigators could get there.

Like humans, supernaturals died every day in New York, and everywhere else for that matter. There was a problem when supernatural deaths involved a crime. Crime meant police, and police meant the potential for exposure.

Literally.

Supernaturals who didn't look human needed a glamour to disguise themselves. Any glamour, regardless of the power of the spells that held it in place, faded within one hour after death. In a murder investigation, that meant that the victim would go through a quick and rather startling transformation, either before the police arrived or while they—and the body—were still on the scene. Those were the tough ones.

Each major city had its own supernatural medical examiner's office that reported suspicious deaths to the regional SPI office.

Supernatural families also notified SPI in the case of any
unusual deaths, and our investigators and medical examiners responded. Humans have local morticians and funeral homes, and so do supernaturals. Each race has cultural or religious beliefs that dictate what is done with a body after death—without attracting the attention of mortal authorities. But when supernaturals made themselves a part of human society—or were inconsiderate enough to get themselves murdered in public—things could get dicey.

That was the situation we were dealing with now.

*   *   *

Ian discreetly showed his badge to the doorman at the Murwood.

The man glanced down at the ID and at Ian's face without moving anything except a pair of cool gray eyes. He wore the double-breasted, quasi-military style of long coat and hat that seemed to be the uniform of doormen at upper-crusty apartment and condo buildings citywide. His bearing said ex-military or police, loud and clear. Then his face took on the neutral and faraway expression that signaled someone was speaking to him on his Bluetooth earpiece. Either that, or he was having an out-of-body experience.

“Mr. Nadisu is expecting you.” Not taking his eyes off either us or anyone else on the street nearby—which was a nifty trick—he reached back and opened the door for us.

The lobby of my apartment building was more of a foyer with mailboxes against one wall. It was almost impossible to squeeze past anyone checking their mail without way too much intimate contact with a neighbor whose name you didn't know.

At least a dozen of my lobbies would have fit in the Murwood's.

The goblin who met us there looked like his day was going worse than ours.

Goblins liked being in control of themselves and everyone and everything around them. You'd never see a goblin
frazzled, at least not in public, and definitely not in front of strangers. This guy was frazzled. He wanted to be cool and collected, but today just wasn't his day to get what he wanted.

As Ian and I could attest, there was a lot of that going around.

There was no one else in the posh lobby, but Ian still kept his voice down as he introduced us, even though Jesin Nadisu knew who we were. Official protocol had to be observed.

Anyone else, Ian included, would see a human man, in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a suit that probably made him fit right in with the building's wealthy tenants. He wouldn't want to offend his tenants' sensibilities by wearing anything that came off the rack. Other than that, there wasn't anything that made him particularly noticeable.

Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height. Like his suit, Jesin Nadisu had gone out of his way to blend in.

With my seer vision, I saw a surprisingly young and unsurprisingly handsome goblin in his early twenties (or whatever the goblin age equivalent was) with sleek, shoulder-length, blue-black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, with large dark eyes. Elves and goblins age slower than humans, and do a better job of it while they do; no plastic surgery or Botox shots needed.

The goblin gestured. “This way, please.”

We took one of the elevators to the seventh floor.

“How long has Mr. Gedeon lived in the apartment?” Ian asked.

“Mr. Gedeon owns . . .
owned
the apartment,” the goblin said, “but he didn't live there. He visited once or sometimes twice a week. He kept the place for a lady friend.”

“The name of the tenant?” Ian asked.

“Mara Lorenz. She went out of town two days ago.”

“Then why was Mr. Gedeon here?”

Jesin Nadisu's professional reserve cracked and he smiled slightly. “The same reason he was always here. To get away from his wife.”

When we got to the seventh floor, the stench of sulfur smacked us all in the face.

The goblin unlocked the apartment door, but made no move to open it.

I didn't blame him. He'd been there, done that, got the trauma.

Ian broke the silence. “Mr. Nadisu, I need you to return to the lobby and wait for our lab team.”

The goblin nodded with no small measure of relief and turned toward the elevator.

“And don't let anyone in unless they live in the building or are from Sarkowski Plumbing,” my partner added. “They're our lab team.”

“I wouldn't anyway. This is a secure building.” The young goblin winced. “At least it was.” He swallowed in an audible gulp. “And on my watch.” He paused. “Would your non-admittance request include any of Mr. Gedeon's business associates?”

“It would. And do not discuss what you have seen with anyone.”

“My discretion and that of the Murwood is assured for
all
of our tenants.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I noticed he never said he wouldn't tell anyone, just that his discretion was assured. With goblins, you had to watch for the small print. Many of the top lawyers in the city were goblins—and more than a few of the politicians. I was sure Ian had noticed; he chose not to try to wrangle a promise out of him. A goblin could find ways to get around those, too.

But I still felt sorry for him. Contrary to what Ian had told him, he'd have to tell the owner of the building what had happened. I was sure we could count on their discretion as well. No landlord wanted to spread around that a murder had occurred in one of their buildings.

“Have any of the other tenants been asking questions?” Ian asked.

“No, just from the apartment one floor below, and the couple next door. They've since left for a luncheon engagement. I've called and told them that I've looked into it, and there's no cause for concern.”

Goblins could spin a lie as easily as breathing. Like I said, they were great lawyers and politicians.

In my book, your next-door neighbor getting himself murdered was plenty cause for concern. Though if Sar Gedeon had been specifically targeted—considering what he did for a living, that scenario was highly likely—there really wasn't any need for the neighbors to worry for their own safety. That is, unless they stuck their noses where they didn't belong and the killer got wind of it. So, when you looked at it like that, the manager's lie might have saved their lives. See? He lied and it was for their own good. It was all in how you spun it.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Ian drew his gun, which was loaded with silver-infused hollow points.

“Stay here,” he told me.

“I can do that.”

Not only could I do that, I was glad to do that. Running underneath the sulfur stink was an odor I could only describe as burned beef brisket. I wasn't a math whiz, but the smell of burned meat coming from a room with a dead body? Those added up to a cause of death I was in no hurry to confirm for myself.

Ian opened the door and slipped into the apartment.

I had the smell of sulfur and burned flesh to keep me company while I waited in the hall. I didn't know which one was worse; but since they were both here, I didn't have to choose. Lucky me.

I was familiar with the smell of brimstone. I'd gotten a snootful of the stuff only once before, and that was one time too many.

My SPI training had included a class in what was generously called “Aroma Identification.” When tracking a
supernatural suspect, let's just say that sometimes visual contact didn't come first.

One of the aromas covered in class was brimstone. Our instructor kept samples in airtight containers of substances we needed to immediately know when we caught a whiff of it.

Brimstone was the biggie.

Its presence at a crime scene or while in pursuit of a suspect indicated two things that set my survival instinct to twitching: demons and black-magic-spawned portals.

Neither were things you wanted catching you by surprise.

Two minutes and no shots fired later, Ian opened the door and I stepped in just far enough for him to close the door behind me.

WHEN
a supernatural dies, any glamour they might have been using to disguise their true appearance fades within the first hour after death. A supernatural creature manifesting on a slab in the city morgue in front of a screaming technician was one of those awkward moments it was part of our job to prevent. The scene inside that apartment was bad, but wasn't the worst I'd ever seen. Believe me, you haven't seen a murder scene until you've busted into a room after a grendel has had ten seconds to rip arms, legs, and head off some poor sot, and dangle his intestines from an overhead light fixture like a party streamer.

I thought that had to be the apex of disgusting, and as far as the ick meter went.

This came close. What the building manager had found beyond that apartment door jumped right over awkward and landed smack dab on bizarre.

Sar Gedeon had gotten away from his wife. Too bad he hadn't had similar success with his murderer.

And it was most definitely a murder.

The dead elf was shirtless, as if the killer wanted to show off his work. Though at least he still had his pants on. His killer had apparently decided to confine his work to above the waist.

Gedeon's hands were clenched into claws, and the palms and insides of the fingers had been burned black. So much for the source of the burned brisket smell. The other burned body part was the skin over and around the breastbone. It had been branded with a single hoofprint. Though considering the presence of the sulfur smell, I figured we weren't dealing with a homicidal cow.

The brand was either a signature by the demon that had done the burning, or the way it had held down the elf while it—or a partner in crime—had caused what looked to me, a non-medical professional, as the likely cause of death.

A gaping hole in Sar Gedeon's chest.

Ian approached the body, careful not to step on any stain or splatter, squatted down next to the chest, and looked inside.

His brow creased. “That's interesting.”

Only a man who'd spent five years as a homicide detective in the NYPD and the seven years before that doing something in the military that he wouldn't (or couldn't) talk about would describe the inside of a man's open chest as “interesting.” Made me wonder what it'd take to make my partner regret eating lunch, which made me know I didn't want to find out.

However, being the curious type, I found Ian's description irresistible.

I went to where Ian squatted, leaned over his shoulder, and took a peek.

And regretted it.

Curiosity wouldn't kill a cat, but getting a gander of this could make it hork up one heck of a hairball. Right now, I was about to do something similar.

I'd heard our folks who dealt with bodies as part of their
jobs carried a little jar of Vicks with them. Constantly. On duty or off. With SPI, you never knew when off duty could turn to very much on duty.

Back in North Carolina's pollen-filled spring and fall seasons, Vicks was my best friend. Some nights I was so stuffy I couldn't get to sleep without a swipe of that wondrous eucalyptus-scented goop under my nose. Since coming to New York, my allergies were gone. My Vicks was buried in the dark recesses of the cabinet under my bathroom sink. When I got home, I was going spelunking.

I already carried Dramamine and Tums. Now I was adding Vicks. I'd only been on the job a year and I was already carrying around my own starter pharmacy.

Ian had his phone out. The pick up on the other end was quick. Ian's communication was even faster. “We've got a demon, Class Five or higher.”

That'd send the folks at headquarters scrambling. Classes of demons went up to twelve. In my opinion, five was bad enough. Anything higher wasn't known for having a light enough touch to leave a brand. We wouldn't have found a hole in the victim's chest; we'd have found a hole where the vic had been squashed into the floor.

Not all demons had cloven hooves, but no other supernatural did—except for satyrs and minotaurs, and neither one of those could radiate heat through their bodies to burn hands and brand a chest.

“You're sure it wasn't a branding iron?” I didn't think it was, but it never hurt to hope.

“The burns on Gedeon's hands weren't made by grabbing a branding iron,” Ian said. “The fingers are spread the same width apart and burned in the same places. Our vic was grabbing a demon's leg. The span of his hands indicates a larger demon, at least Class Five. The cloven hoof was holding him down while the demon's partner cut his chest open and ripped his heart out.”

My lip curled. “That looks a bit jagged for a knife. Maybe a claw?”

Ian looked closer at the inside of the elf's ruined chest. “A possibility. Good catch.”

My lip twisted further. “Thanks.”

“Do you see any other evidence to support that?”

Only my partner would turn a gruesome murder scene into a pop quiz.

“The lack of blood and dark edging around the entry wound suggests cauterization.” I managed a swallow, though it was more of a gulp to keep from gagging. “And what blood is there is blackened.” I gulped again, any attempt at cool and casual be damned. “Like it was heated.”

Ian nodded approvingly. “Nice.”

None of this was nice . . . not sight, nor smell, nor oily feel on my skin from the brimstone and burned flesh.

It'd take me a while before I'd be able to eat barbeque again. And for a Southern girl, that was a crime in itself.

The NYPD knew Sar Gedeon as a human drug lord. If they'd come in here now, they would have found him dead, sporting Spock ears, a cauterized hole in his torso, no heart, and a hoofprint branded into his chest. I'd like to be a fly on the wall for that investigation.

“So what would your precinct buddies have to say about this one?” I asked, putting a couple steps distance between me and the elf brisket.

“From a human viewpoint, we've got cosplay with the ears, possible devil worship with the brand, and apparent human sacrifice. This case would drive them crazy, but they'd love the challenge. I never thought I'd say anything like this, but knowing elves and demons are real can certainly simplify an investigation.” One side of his mouth quirked in a quick grin. “Makes me damned glad I came over to the dark side.”

I nodded. “And we have cookies.”

“The locked door and no sign of entrance or exit would
have thrown them for a loop. We know that brimstone could very well be from the leftovers of a gate. Demons aren't exactly known for walking in through the front door. With a gate, they're in, rip out a heart, they're out. Nice and neat.”

I wasn't seeing anything nice or neat.

“Why would a class-five demon kill a drug lord?” I asked. “Would one of his business rivals hire demons for a professional hit?”

“Never heard of demons hiring out their services.” Ian paused. “Unless the guy doing the hiring was interested in offering his soul for the low, low price of one murder.”

I raised one brow.

“Demons don't accept cash,” Ian explained.

“Not even credit cards? With the interest rates some of those things have, I wouldn't be surprised to find Satan himself in the big office.” Then I remembered about the heat the other tenants had complained about. It felt fine in here to me. “So was the heat coming from the body or the demon?”

Ian shook his head. “Neither. It would have been from the portal the demon used to get in.”

“That makes sense. That Jesin Nadisu guy seems to be on the ball. I couldn't see him missing a pair of demons strolling through his lobby.”

“The area near the wall around the corner felt warmer,” Ian told me. “Since there aren't any vents nearby, that'd be the most likely portal location.”

I went to take a look.

Unless a portal was standing open it couldn't be seen. If Ian hadn't seen the portal, that meant it was closed. Closed equaled safe. A portal could only be used by the being that created it, or someone the creator had keyed to that specific portal. It was security at its finest.

I stepped into a short hallway. . .

And simply stared.

The wall was glowing. Orange. Not the entire wall, just a section, a seam running from the floor to a few feet from
the ceiling. The seam was closed, but that didn't keep the glow from spilling onto the hardwood floor at my feet.

The light didn't come from the wall itself. It came from what lay beyond, and I didn't mean in the next room.

It was the portal, complete with sulfuric heat coming from it in waves.

A shadow from the other side eclipsed the light.

I took a step back, eyes locked on the opening.

There was something just on the other side.

Watching me.

It knew I could see it and the portal.

Terror put my gun in my hand, even though I knew that whatever was on the other side would laugh at my puny mortal weapon. I slowly backed away, my gun held low in a two-handed grip, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

My terror made it past my lips with one word.

“Ian.” I could barely hear myself.

No response from the front room.

I swallowed hard and tried again.

“Ian.”

An instant later, Ian was beside me, gun drawn.

The shadow retreated.

Ian looked where I was looking, body tense and ready for anything.

He saw nothing.

“Mac, we're looking at a wall.”

“And it's not all there.”

My partner looked like he was thinking the same thing about me.

“There's a big glowing gash down the middle,” I said.

“Describe it.” His voice immediately went tight with apprehension.

Now we were getting somewhere.

“It's a gash in the middle of the wall,” I told him, trying to be the analytical professional I was supposed to be. “It starts at the floor and goes up about six feet. The gash is closed, so
it's more like a seam, and where it comes together is . . .” I made a face. “Squishy. Like glowing orange Jell-O.”

“Orange?”

“Jell-O.”

“And you can see it.”

“I could also see the shadow of a thing on the other side.”

“The other side?” Ian adjusted the hold on his gun.

I suddenly needed a place to sit down, but I'd only be doing that after I ran all the way down to the lobby, probably to the accompaniment of my own screams.

“Uh-huh. But I can't see portals.”

“That appears to no longer be the case.”

I took another step back. “How?”

“Don't know.”

We both looked at the wall: me at the portal, Ian at where I'd told him the portal was.

“I take it the color means something?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.”

Ian had his phone out again, eyes still on the wall as if he expected something to jump out of it at any second. That made both of us.

I waited for someone at headquarters to pick up. I had no doubt Ian was calling headquarters again, just as I had no doubt that orange wasn't a good color for a portal.

Sulfur stink plus hoofprint brand equaled a portal that in all likelihood went to a place I had no desire to go.

And something in that undesirable place had seen me see it.

Oh crap.