Matt theoretically knew the location of Sammie’s nightclub. He’d never actually visited, but his aunt and uncle spoke of it on occasion. It wasn’t their favorite night spot, but both of them enjoyed the music and ambience now and again. If he remembered correctly, Sammie had been another of Aunt Ophilia’s many suitors in her younger years, before she met Uncle Micah.
Now Detective Miles guided him through the alleyways that led to the entryway to Sammie’s. As the door came into view, he gave voice to something that confused him. “I thought this place was hard to find.”
“It can be, yes.”
“Are you telling me there is some form of mystical protection on Sammie’s?”
Michaela’s voice worked well with the dry humor she favored. “Well, no. I’m telling you there are more mystical protections on Sammie’s than there are physical protections on fifteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Is this Belle likely to be under Sammie’s protection?”
“Possible, but I’m hoping not.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I might be able to arrest Belle. Sammie is another kettle of fish entirely.”
Matt felt a headache coming on. He concentrated on what Detective Miles was saying, trying to ignore the way his head tingled. He spat his response to keep her talking. “Why?”
“First of all, because he’s just flat more powerful. Second, because he’s on his home ground. Third, and this is the big one, because he’s not a damned idiot.”
“That’s good.”
Detective Miles’ replied with unusual ferocity in her voice, “No, Frank, it isn’t. If he’s sheltering Belle, I’m really not sure we can even get her to answer questions. I want Greco, but if he didn’t do this thing, or if Belle made him pull the trigger somehow, I want her to pay the price.”
The headache receded as he focused on talking things through. “So we go in, convince Sammie to let us take her, and leave?”
“If things go well.”
“What if things don’t go well?”
“We hope one of us is in good enough condition to bury the other.”
They’d reached the doorway to the club. A slim young woman carrying a clipboard and silver pen stood in front of the door, waving individuals forward as patrons left the club. Behind her a pair of hulking guards stood like bookends. When Matt and Detective Miles approached, both thugs looked at him wide-eyed. He expected they didn’t see anyone taller than them that often. He smiled pleasantly, trying to keep the situation friendly.
The young woman frowned as they walked past the line and approached her directly. Her clipboard pulled up to her svelte chest, her pen came halfway to pointing at them. She spoke with a voice both cultured and mature, a surprise given her apparent youth. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle et Monsieur, but Sammie’s maintains a very strict policy regarding our dress code and our line.”
When she got within two steps of the Door Warden, Michaela suddenly held a leather wallet with an inset badge. The woman twitched, her pen glowed, and she opened her mouth to speak. Detective Miles cut her off. “Detective Michaela Miles. We’re investigating a murder. I have reason to believe a woman wanted for questioning is currently a patron of this establishment.”
The pen’s glow remained steady. The Door Warden’s eyes narrowed; her tone icy when she spoke. “I believe you’re a bit out of your jurisdiction, Officer. Perhaps it would be best if you sought your evidence elsewhere.”
Michaela leaned forward slowly and bared her teeth in what might charitably be called a smile. When she spoke, her voice barely carried to Matt. If his ears hadn’t been as good as they were, he would never have heard it. “Are there humans in your club, sweetheart?”
The Door Warden didn’t move, but a slight lowering of one eyebrow indicated her confusion at the non-sequitur. “Yes.”
“Are any of them adherents of the Roman Catholic belief system?”
“In this town? I’d be surprised if they weren’t.”
“Are there any dangerous non-human entities in your establishment?”
“Of course.”
“Then this is my jurisdiction. And you’re standing in my way.”
The Door Warden’s voice got even icier. “That little silver shield won’t save you, Officer.”
Officer Miles’ smile melted into an actual grin. “That’s okay. I didn’t think it would.”
Matt didn’t see her move. One moment Michaela stared into the Door Warden’s eyes, the next she stood behind her, one hand gripping one of the Door Warden’s wrists, one hand holding a set of handcuffs. One of the cuffs had already ratcheted down around the Door Warden’s other wrist. When the guard on the left made a move toward the pair, he found Matt’s walking stick leveled across his path at eye height. Both guards looked at Matt, and he shook his head slowly.
Detective Miles spoke again, her voice the overly saccharine sweet tone adults took with disobedient children. “Now, let’s try this again. I am a police detective. You are a rent-a-cop. I am asking you politely if we may go in and speak with one of your patrons. You want to help me.”
“Sammie will have my head if I let you go in and start shaking down his patrons.”
When she spoke again, Michaela’s voice took on a condescending, pseudo-conciliatory tone. “Did I say we were on a fishing expedition? Sam is an old army buddy of mine; I would never do that to an old army buddy. Would I, Frank?”
Matt had no idea, but he wasn’t about to leave his partner hanging. “I don’t believe you would do anything harmful to a comrade in arms. Even a former one.”
“See? I tell you what, miss. Why don’t we go see Sammie? If he’s okay with it, I’ll look around for our witness.”
“And if he’s not?”
Detective Miles’ pupils narrowed; her jaw tensed. Before violence could ensue, he chimed in to defuse it. “I’m sure an old army friend of Sammie’s would be a welcome guest. We’ll have a few drinks while he and the detective reminisce about old times.”
The Door Warden took the opening Matt offered. “I can’t leave my post here. You’ll come right back out if Sammie doesn’t want you in there?”
Desperation filled the Door Warden’s eyes. He nodded his acquiescence, and she relaxed. “Of course we’ll leave if we’re not wanted. We’re not uncivilized.”
“The boss is at his booth on the floor.” The warden’s voice took on a tone of ritual formality. “May you find what you seek in Sammie’s demesne.”
Again Matt couldn’t follow the way Detective Miles moved from one place to another. In the blink of an eye, she stood an arm’s length from the sorceress, cuffs back on her belt. The detective held out a business card, which the Door Warden snapped to the clipboard in a single smooth move. Without looking at it, she looked at Detective Miles with a raised eyebrow. “You give me a personal item?”
“If you ever need a police officer, call the precinct. They know how to get in touch with me.”
***
Matt followed her into the club. She felt his presence behind her, solid and comforting, as they went through the entryway. When they entered the main room of the club, he was all that kept her from turning around and walking right back out again.
The room reeked on every level she could sense. It reeked of power. The brimstone of infernal power, the green smell of faerie power, the coppery aroma of sanguine power, even hints of the burning sugar of angelic power permeated the air. She hadn’t felt this much power since…
Since…
Shaggy horses carried rogue legionnaires toward the gates. She stood with her crippled sisters in front of her. In the distance, through the trees, they all sensed…
A hand that seemed big enough to compass her waist brushed against her shoulder, sparks crackling from the contact. Frantically, she pulled herself from the past, ripped her mind free from memory. She brought her hand up to her face, surreptitiously summoning up the tip of her spear. The smoky sweet scent of burning sugar filled her nose, blocked the rest of the odors in the air. Banishing the spirit of her weapon, she turned her head and nodded to Matt.
“Thanks. The smell was getting to me.”
His eyes unfocused, but his jaw clenched. When he spoke, he obviously held himself under tight control. “It is a remarkable mélange of pheromones.”
Michaela blinked, her nose flaring involuntarily, and got a whiff of what he was talking about. Before the scents of magic subsumed it, but without that distraction the musky aroma of desire was palpable. A shudder rippled through her, and a muscle in Matt’s jaw twitched. She had never come into Sammie’s during working hours before.
She turned, Matt’s hand sliding across her shoulder with a succession of small discharges as she did so. They both trembled in the sudden assault of sensual impulses. Looking up into Matt’s eyes, she saw him glancing about, trying to stay aware of their surroundings. She cursed herself for a fool and did the same. She shouldn’t have.
The club was broken up into tiny enclosures, with a bar visible along one wall and a dance floor in the center. The room was dark, the enclosures unlit, the air filled with incense smoke, leaving clear visibility limited to a few feet in any direction. In each enclosure a different sybaritic vision played itself out. Her self-control weakened. She reached up with one hand to touch Matt’s where it gripped her shoulder. Before she completed the motion, his soft, powerful voice interrupted her.
“I think this particular gratification needs to be delayed, Detective Miles.”
She whimpered, and the sound drew an answering snarl from deep within her. A pit with walls covered in salted razors. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”
She turned again, her anger driving away the lust that tried to overwhelm her. Matt spoke from behind her, just loud enough to hear. “That won’t last forever. Anger transmutes too easily to other passions. We must work quickly.”
“Did your aunt ever tell you where in here Sammie hangs out?”
“Follow me.”
He brushed past her, and ozone overwhelmed the myriad scents of sex. That smell focused her; helped her escape the pull to mayhem of a wanton flavor. She followed his huge silhouette through a maze of booths and tables until they reached the dance floor. Unlike the booths, the floor had spotlights shining from above. The beams tracked individual dancers, highlighting some and leaving others lurking in darkness made deeper by the nearby light.
Across the heavily populated floor, at the juncture of the dance floor and the bar, stood a single large, lit table. Behind it sat three figures. To the right, sitting separate from the other two, a figure shrouded in darkness. Obviously female even when obscured, and equally obviously unaffected by the miasma of desire and sybaritic delight in the club. In the center, a man of indeterminate age, features too perfect to be human, leaned back and surveyed the dance floor, pointing out particular spotlighted individuals to his companions. He wore a fashionable suit, probably Armani. Despite immaculate tailoring it didn’t look quite right. Something told Michaela he would look just out of synch no matter what he wore, the specter at the feast. The final figure at the table…
Michaela’s gaze locked onto the young-looking woman to Sam’s right. Her hair twisted into a fantastic up do, with ringlets spilling out of the mass of hair to frame her face. Her lips formed a perfect bow, painted to call attention to their shape. They seemed permanently fixed in a faint pout, even when she laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. The illusion of beauty ended in her eyes. Michaela knew any human in the room saw a pair of bright, lively orbs. Her nature denied her that pleasant illusion. Eyes were windows to the soul, and the creature in the pale peach hoop skirt had none. She had long ago forsaken even the possibility of ever gaining one.
Michaela realized she was moving across the dance floor when another blast of ozone hit her nose, a wave of electricity washing along her side. She looked up at Matt, trying to sort out the mix of arousal and annoyance in her head, and stepped onto the dance floor.
Music assaulted her. She didn’t like much music, except maybe trumpets. This wasn’t trumpets. It was a mix of drums and horns and strings designed to evoke a response in anyone who heard it. She couldn’t help herself, her heels tapped in syncopation to the beat as she made her way across the floor. Matt followed behind her. His footfalls almost too soft to hear; she realized he was walking normally.
The ragged need in her own voice startled her. A pit! “You’re not dancing? Careful, I’m going to think you have no soul.”
“My first sensei explained the need for complete body control.”
“Yeah, no. Explanations don’t override this…” She waved a hand at the dancers they passed. Her hand even moved to the beat.
“He explained it with a very hard stick moving at high velocity.”
“So getting hit a lot made you not want to dance?”
Matt finally showed some strain in his voice, mirroring the need in her own. “Getting hit a lot taught me to control the impulse. I’d love to dance when we have some time off.”
“A pit, I swear.” She stoked her anger, using it to get control of her feet, of her voice. She would pay later, and the price would be high, but for now she had to deal with Sam and Belle and Sam’s other visitor. She looked up to get another look at the mystery woman, and a cold chill ran down her spine. Her back itched, and she almost didn’t notice. The woman had disappeared into the darkness between one moment and the next. She froze for a moment, and Matt stepped past her.
Trailing Matt across the floor like a tug trailing a freighter, she held herself under rigid self-control. When she arrived at Sam’s table, she thanked the Creator for her habit of wearing a thick, waterproof trench coat. She could handle the accumulated heat, but it ought to make her sweat. She didn’t sweat, and if her trench didn’t hide that, anyone seeing her would immediately know she wasn’t human. Her coat and fedora covered up the worst of it, made her look normal. Appearance was everything. She kept her voice level by force of will, but it was hard, so hard, to keep it from lust or anger.
“Sam. You didn’t tell me you were running a brothel.”
Sam’s cultured voice held only the barest hint of the corruption that lay underneath. “Mike, you wound me. This is a night club. They’re terribly fashionable. It’s not a brothel. That would be crass.”
Michaela cast her gaze around the dancers, into the one booth close enough to see easily, and then leveled it back on Sam. One eyebrow lifted in an expression of patent disbelief. Her voice was a carefully controlled deadpan. “Really?”
Sam’s expression held a masterful imitation of surprised comprehension. “Oh, this?” He waved a hand at the dancers, both horizontal and vertical. “It’s Sunday.”
Sam left the statement in the air, unexplained. Michaela’s temper flared. Her jaw clenched and her hand ached to hold her spear, preferably with Sam’s snide face decorating the spearhead. Sam knew the casual intimation of blasphemy would enrage her, and he did his best to send her over the edge. She still cast about for a way out that didn’t involve attacking him when Matt rescued her.
His voice soft and deep, he had it almost completely under control. A little fuzz around the edges of his words held the only evidence he felt the impulses she fought. It seemed his curiosity completely overwhelmed his lust. His voice entranced her so much she almost lost the meaning of what he said.
“You don’t have any of the ritual trappings of the worship of Venus, Aphrodite, Astarte, or even Eoster, nor do I see the transactions expected of ritual prostitution, so I can only assume you’re not trying to imitate the worship of one of the old European deities. There are no religious paraphernalia at all, actually, so you can’t be performing a Black Mass, even the more corrupt version currently in vogue among hedonists.
“Given the observed lack of decorations, it’s hard to pinpoint the reference, but the only subject that creates such instant animosity is religion. Now, it’s quite obvious that you’re paying some homage to carnality, and linking that to the day of the week…”
Matt trailed off, and Michaela realized with a start how much his soothing pedagogy calmed her. She looked down at Sam, who stared at Matt like some strange species of insect. She wasn’t certain if he wanted to swat her partner or put him in a box for future study. She interrupted Sam’s musing with a subdued sense of glee.
“So, looks like your orgy isn’t to everyone’s taste. What’s the big deal with an orgy on Sunday? Or did Inspector Franklin get it wrong, and you can’t afford the right accoutrements for your Black Mass?”
Sam looked at her with annoyed impatience. “Silence. I want to see if he gets it.”
Michaela let her own impatience leak into her voice. “We have a job to do, Sam. We’re not here for fun and games.”
Sam’s voice took on a warning note. “You’re not here at all except on my sufferance. You know you can’t best me as we are now.”
“What’s the worst you can do to me? Send me home?”
“I’m sure you’d like that. I might, at that, just as a favor to an old friend. But you know if I do that you won’t be rushing right back to save your little friend here.”
Michaela tensed. She was willing to put herself at risk at the drop of a hat. She couldn’t do the same to another person, and Sam knew it. She ground her teeth and kept silent.
“We have an understanding then. Well, Inspector Franklin? Do you have an answer for me?”
Matt’s voice was still, but Michaela heard the heat lurking beneath. “Am I under a time limit?”
“I do not have all night, young man.”
“Ah. Well then, Mr.…?”
Sam reached one hand, a ring on each finger, toward Matt. Heedless of Michaela’s attempt to block him, Matt reached out and took it, grasping it firmly for a few moments. “I go by the name of Samuel Edward Levitz. And you are?”
“George Matthew Franklin, Mr. Levitz.”
“Call me Sam. Sammie, if you prefer. Everyone else does.”
“Friends call me Matt.”
“So, Matt. Do you know why all this is going on today?”
“It’s Sunday.”
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Sam’s voice took on a warning note. “That’s tautological, young man, and therefore useless.”
If he was chastised, Matt didn’t show it. “This is only a guess, mind you, but I would say you have theme nights. One for every day of the week would be seven. Given tonight’s revelry, I suspect you’ll have a feast tomorrow.”
A broad grin spread across Sam’s face. “Brilliant, Matt!” He pulled his hand from Matt’s, clapping gently. After a moment more, he turned to face Michaela. “So, do you get it?”
She shrugged. Mind games had never been her thing. “Not really. Why don’t you explain it to me, Frank?”
Matt’s voice remained calm, soothing; just what she needed to keep herself from exploding at Sam. “He is basing his nightly themes on the seven deadly sins. You haven’t been to church in a while, have you, Detective?”
Michaela grimaced. She had reasons for not going, but she’d never spoken of them with anyone. “No, I’m not big into religion.”
Sam exploded into laughter. If there had been room for him to fall off of his deep, plush chair onto the floor, he would have. Instead, he curled about his gut, guffaws rocking him for a good ten seconds. When he had control of himself, he wiped his eyes and turned to his remaining female companion. “Did you hear that, Belle? Our Mike isn’t big into religion.”
When Belle spoke, the permeating miasma of lust in the room dissipated, only to be replaced by a nihilistic air of despair. “She’s here, isn’t she?”
Sam chastised his guest gently with voice and expression. “Come now, Belle. We mustn’t be petty. You and I chose to be here. Our Mike didn’t, did she?”
“You think I’d be here of my own free will, Sam?”
The look on his face, dripping with false sympathy, made her want to skewer him. She shook her head to clear it. She needed to get out of here, and fast. “Look, Sam. I need to talk to your guest, here.”
“She’s here. You’re here. Talk.”
Belle’s voice leached the air of feeling once more. “Yes, angel. Talk.”
Michaela ground her teeth once more. “Two days ago there was a murder.”
“No.”
“Don’t play with me, Belle.”
Belle’s voice sounded distant, distracted. “It was sunsets ago now. It was not a murder. It was a sacrifice. To my greater glory.”
Matt tensed behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the electricity between them was practically leaping across the gap. She pinned Belle with a gaze. “Are you saying you were responsible for the murder?”
Belle’s tones revealed her annoyance, but she remained distracted, satiated. “Sacrifice. I took them, the innocent and the guilty. They are both mine, now.”
“Both?”
Belle’s voice was flat, dead, yet still carried the faintest echo of satiation. “The agent of order and the agent of chaos. One was pure, and I took his blood after I let it rot inside him. One was corrupt, and I left his blood in him. Both are nothing now. Both children are nothing now. Both wives are nothing now. They are mine.”
Michaela wasn’t buying it. “Why is it Johnny’s fingerprints were the only ones on the gun, Belle?”
Belle just looked at her, uncomprehending. From behind her, Matt’s voice rolled out, calming her, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. “Miss Belle. We haven’t been introduced. George Matthew Franklin. Are you aware the ritual of the handshake started to ensure medieval combatants that the person they were greeting was unarmed?”
Confused, and more than a little irritated, Michaela glanced at Matt to shut him up, only to see him reaching one hand toward Belle. Without thinking she grabbed his wrist, preventing him from completing the motion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belle move, and her gaze snapped back to cover the demon. Belle looked at her and laughed, the sound thick with mockery. She lifted one hand, palm outward, and wiggled her fingers.
“What’s the matter, Detective? I am unarmed, as you can plainly see.”
Matt’s oddly satisfied interruption cut Michaela’s response short. “Detective Miles, were the prints on the murder weapon complete?”
Michaela wasn’t about to leave him in the lurch. Better yet, this particular question she even remembered a true answer to. “No they weren’t, Inspector Franklin. The folks doing the matching were all up in arms about it, said someone with gloves had messed them up. Implied it was me, like I’d make a rookie mistake like that.”
Matt’s voice hardened. With the depth in it, it was enough to scare even Michaela a little. “Miss Belle has no fingerprints. I believe she is our murderess. I would advise you to take her into custody.”
Michaela balked, not because she didn’t want to take Belle in, but because she didn’t know if Sam would let her. It galled her to admit that, even to herself. Her voice was harsh when she spoke. “Are you sure you’ve got enough to get a conviction, Inspector Franklin?”
Matt’s voice was bedrock. “I am absolutely certain, Detective Miles.”
“Well then. Belle, it looks like you’ll need to come...”
Sam cut her off in mid-sentence. “I hope you’re not about to molest my guest, Detective Miles.”
Michaela looked at the reclining club owner, her frustration overwhelming her once more. “She stopped being your guest the moment she confessed to murder. Are you going to make an issue of this?”
“Detective Miles, what kind of host do you take me for?
“Cut the noblesse oblige act, Sam. We both know you’d sell out your closest companions for your own amusement.”
“Don’t you mean friends?”
“You don’t have friends, Sam.”
Sam looked at Michaela, feigning hurt. “You wound me.”
Michaela realized he hadn’t said no yet. She pressed him before he came to his senses. “So let me take her out of here.”
“Say better, I will declare today Thursday, the day of Wrath, and let you try.”
Michaela and Belle’s responses were perfectly synchronized, Michaela’s confused, Belle’s outraged. “What?”
Sam’s voice mocked her as he turned to the woman beside him. “You fear her, Belle?”
“Of course not.” Belle’s indignant reply seemed to amuse Sam, but he didn’t give Michaela time to savor her victory.
“If you can arrest her and take her from my demesnes, you may arrest her and take her from my demesnes.” Sam leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Michaela’s back itched so bad it burned.
Belle stood, slamming her palms down on the table, trying to awe Sam with her physical presence. Her mouth dropped open, presumably to protest, but she never got a chance to say a word. The moment her hands hit the table, Michaela moved.
***
The thing called Belle stood up, and then Detective Miles teleported. She didn’t transit the space between where she had been standing and the space where she knelt on the table. She perched without disturbing the glassware or dishes. One hand spread on the table providing a third point of balance. One hand grasped the short chain strung between her handcuffs. Belle’s head lolled toward Detective Miles, her mouth opening to speak once more, but the diminutive detective cut her off.
“Belle Isle, you are under arrest for the murder committed two days ago at 528 South Street. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”
The entire time Detective Miles spoke, the demon stared at her, mimicking shock. The detective turned toward Matt and said with a tiny grin, “You know, I’ve never gotten to that point without someone swinging at me?”
She turned back to the motionless Belle. “Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?”
Belle remained motionless, her gaze slowly drifting down to the steel cuffs on her wrists. Matt worried about the look of amusement on Sam’s face, but Detective Miles seemed confident enough to let her voice feign concern. “I think I broke her, Frank.” She turned back to Belle. “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”
The thing in the hoop skirt, the thing without a scent, or breath, or pulse, brought its gaze back level with Detective Miles’. Its mouth opened, and a single word creaked out. “No.”
The cuffs on Belle’s wrists dissolved, a fine silver powder cascading to the tabletop. The chain was dissolving as well, and Detective Miles moved again. One moment she knelt on the table, handcuff chain in hand, the next she stood to Matt’s left, just outside his reach. In her right hand she held a stout length of silvery wood, the grain so fine it looked almost like metal. The business end of the wood held a short, sharp spearhead that shone like frozen light.
The scent of brimstone and burning sugar nearly overpowering him, Matt slipped his left foot back, slipped the tip of his walking stick forward. He’d doffed his hat when they’d entered; now he rolled the brim into his left fist, the crown covering his knuckles.
Belle took half a step forward, the table dissolving where it touched her. Before she could complete the step Sam’s voice rang out, freezing all three combatants in place. “Enough!”
Belle’s head swiveled back to Sam. Matt was astonished to find that despite the lack of any visual cues like pupil dilation, muscle tension, or heart rate, he could tell that she was furious with her host. Her voice still didn’t rise, instead becoming, if anything, even more deadpan. “She assaulted me.”
Matt was pleased to see that Sam was still unconcerned. “No, Belle. I believe she arrested you. There is a difference, you know. In point of fact, I don’t believe she laid a hand on you.”
“She chained me.”
“And you unchained yourself. In any case, her lack of etiquette is no reason to damage my tables. Take this conflict onto my floor, if you wish to pursue it, but do not damage my property any further.”
Belle’s gaze rolled back to Detective Miles, passing over Matt as it did. When the demon’s eyes met his, his gut clenched and his breath went out of him in a sigh. In that moment, he knew there was nothing they could do to bring this thing to justice. A dull ache throbbed between his temples. Matt took himself in hand, forcing his face to remain still, his breathing to remain regular.
Then the thing’s gaze focused on Detective Miles. She crouched on the floor, her spear angled toward Belle’s eyes, her body angled to keep the spearhead between them, to keep herself between Belle and Matt.
Matt blinked in surprise. Michaela was trying to protect him. As the two women stared one another down, he considered how he felt about that. While he found it a touch silly to be defended by someone not much larger than his leg, he also realized that he lacked the ability to teleport, nor was he able to pull spears from thin air. Conclusion reached, he slid himself around behind Detective Miles, turning himself slightly to guard her back.
There was no need. The rest of the club acted oblivious to the fight happening around the owner’s table. The dancers still engaged in their coupled or trebled gyrations, oblivious to anyone outside their intimate circle. The group in the closest bower, now dimly illuminated by the light of Detective Miles’ spear, was involved in the complicated politics required to ensure all seven of them left the club satisfied. Matt blinked in surprise as the miasma of pheromones hammered at him once more. Only the growing spike of pain behind his eyes kept him focused.
Belle’s voice, flat and mocking, sounded from beyond the detective. “So, Mike. Do you really think you can stop me, crippled as you are?”
Detective Miles’ voice was oddly upbeat, as if the prospect of a fight, even an unwinnable one, thrilled her. “What’s the worst you can do to me, Belle? Kill me?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mike?”
“If you think you can.”
The thing called Belle carved a hideous mockery of a grin across its face. “So, Michaela. Do I kill the humans before, after, or during our little melee?”
For the first time since he’d met her, Detective Miles didn’t fake her body language in the slightest. Her head bowed in defeat, her shoulders hunched in frustration. Belle’s voice gained the faintest of overtones, mockery barely heard, but still unmistakable. “Care to wager? Can your spear find my heart before I reach thirteen of them? Seven? Three? A score?”
“This isn’t over, Belle.”
“Yes it is, Michaela. You go now, with your word that you will not pursue me again, and I will wait to take another sacrifice.”
Michaela’s words were forced out between clenched teeth. “I can’t give you that. My will is not my own. You know that.”
Belle waved a dismissive hand. “So swear to me you will not act against me unless you are compelled to do so, and I will… diet… tonight. Yes, I have to watch my figure, after all.” One of the thing’s hands stroked along its flank in a parody of a woman concerned about her weight. The dress dissolved under her fingers, reforming a moment later with a waft of brimstone.
The detective sounded like she’d been chewing glass when she spoke. “I swear, an you harm none of these here tonight, I shall not act against you unless I am compelled to do so.”
Belle collapsed into her seat, both detective and inspector no longer of any concern. Matt’s headache threatened to blind him, but he had to lead the detective out. With Belle’s influence waning, the club’s aura of wanton lasciviousness washed over him once more. He reached out, laid a hand on her shoulder, and guided her around. Her eyes closed, and she shook softly.
She still shook when they passed the Door Warden. Matt’s headache filled his eyes with static now, but he’d walked this way before. He guided her to the entrance of the network of alleys that led to Sammie’s club, and sank gratefully into the bench on the corner bus stop.
She still shook with anger, tiny vibrations quaking through her whole body. He tried to calm her. “We’re safe now, Detective Miles. I’m sure we’ll get that thing next time.”
“No. I won’t. And there will be a next time. Unless it’s one of the people in that club, I won’t be able to stop her. No one else capable of stopping Belle will even try. Not even your precious Auntie.” The detective’s words were bitter, galling, but Matt barely heard them. The pain in his head had gone beyond blinding. His stomach roiled; he could do little but avoid retching. He barely heard Detective Miles speak. Only the clarion notes of her voice made her audible at all.
***
Matt wasn’t looking so good. He’d taken the comment about his Aunt hard. It really was unfair, too, which made Michaela feel even worse about making it. Ophilia Morgan had Power in her own right, and connections even further up on the metaphysical food chain, but she wasn’t a combatant. Belle wasn’t either, but Belle had one huge edge. She was, by human standards, utterly sociopathic.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but Matt spoke before she could say a word. “Detective Miles, can you lead me to the nearest cathedral?”
His voice sounded raspy and tight, like he was trying not to vomit. She took his hand and pulled him upright, setting his hand on her shoulder, leaning his weight on her. He might have been surprised by her show of strength, but he was too messed up to notice or care. Before she led him off, her lingering guilt made her try to be the voice of reason. “Are you sure you don’t need a hospital, Frank?”
His voice was firm, controlled, and she was shocked by what she heard lurking under that control. Whatever was ailing him, something had sparked all the emotions he bottled up in the club into a burning rage. “A cathedral, please, Detective Miles.”
“One Catholic House of our Lord, coming up.” Luckily they were in Philadelphia. They were never far from a Catholic church. A few blocks away, she turned him toward the doors. “We’re here.”
When he heard her voice, he straightened, forcing himself upright despite his obvious pain. She admired him for that, nearly as much as she appreciated not being dragged into the cathedral. She hadn’t seen the inside of once since…
Cold. Dark. Alone, or nearly so. Three of them, four if you counted the twins separately, which was foolish. One man, alone, had called them here. So cold, so dark, and their compulsion was not…
Michaela came back to herself alone outside the cathedral. She missed his arm around her, so warm and strong. Just this once, she missed it so much she didn’t even care to visit imprecations of pits upon Mike. Instead she just shivered, pulling the belt of her trench snug and tying it off. She assumed Matt was still inside. If he’d come out while she was in the past, she wouldn’t have seen him. He might have left. Few things had left her feeling as powerless as that long-ago defeat.
The doors to the cathedral did not slam open. He had too much respect and too much self-control for that. The doors did swing wide, Matt’s hands on them the entire way. When he looked down on her at the base of the steps and smiled, something frozen inside her shattered into little melting pieces. His eyes were clear, his brow unfurrowed. When he spoke, no pain colored his voice, just determination and anger.
“Detective. We have a criminal to apprehend.”
When he walked away, head held high, she had no idea what he was doing. The melting thing in her chest had her stumbling to put words to thoughts. Her first conscious observation was that he must have been healed inside the cathedral. It wasn’t unknown, after all. Opening herself, she looked to the cathedral for signs of who or what might have helped him.
Nothing. She detected the faint, sweet smell of consecrated ground. Beneath that, an even fainter smell of corruption. She’d smelled the same combination on any number of crooks like Johnny Greco; they were ever conscious of their immortal souls, but seemed ignorant of how their actions in this life could taint them. By the prosperous look of the church and the poor look of the neighborhood, she guessed this was some gangster’s personal choice of confessional.
Still, a well maintained church, even one with actual consecrated ground, wasn’t enough to end a full blown migraine in seconds. Another smell tickled her nose as well, something she’d not scented before. It smelled like clean new oil and steel heated to smoking. Michaela blinked, snorting. Trying to sense magic in Philly traffic was always a bad idea. She looked another few moments, satisfying herself that there was no one inside the church except an old priest preparing for evening Mass. Turning, she scanned the streets for Matt, trying to figure out why he’d hurried off in such a rush.
He had such a long stride that he surprised her with how quickly he walked. She finally saw him as he turned down the alley that led, eventually, to Sammie’s.
She couldn’t move over that distance the way she could over a few yards. Instead, she ran. Legs pumping, skirt riding up, thankful that her trench covered her, and cursing whoever designed women’s shoes, she ran. Her back burned like the Legions were having their annual Dance of Devils on her spine. Of course, every person living between the alley and the cathedral chose now to start heading for evening Mass. She ducked past the first pedestrian, spun around the second, and then leapt through a gap in the parked cars, landing out in the street. Most cars left a foot or so between their bumper and the parked cars. She flew down that foot wide gap, wishing she could pray that she would be in time.
She hit the corner to the alley at a sprint, grabbing the street sign with one hand to slingshot herself into the alley. The pole bent, but she headed down the alley and couldn’t bring herself to care about property damage. He wasn’t in sight, and her heart sank. She sprinted for the next corner, picking up speed the whole way. When she hit the corner she moved, changing direction as she did so. The sounds of the pavement rippling where she’d twisted reality attracted the attention of the last few people in the line to Sammie’s. She shouted as she approached.
“Big guy just pass this way?”
One of them pointed. She flashed him a smile as she went by. “Thanks!”
When she came in sight of Sammie’s, Matt was only a few paces away from the Door Warden. She had no idea what words had passed between them, but Sammie’s Door Warden held her silver wand out, bringing it down to point straight at Matt’s heart. The guardian shouted a word of power that twisted the air in the alleyway. An amorphous silver twist of air, edged in ragged black, flew from the tip of the wand. It arrowed through the air, and Michaela watched, helpless, as Matt lifted his hand.
The death spell hit Matt’s bowler hat, which was clutched around something in his hand. Black lightning arced around his fist, leaping to the ground, to his chest, to the low hanging power lines across the alley. Her feet rooted to the ground, Michaela heard a power transformer a block away explode spectacularly as the spell spent itself. Through it all, Matt never stopped advancing. The guardian stood stunned a moment, then backed away from Matt’s still crackling hand, which he held in front of him like he was carrying something dangerous. Michaela grinned and forced herself back into motion. She supposed the Door Warden’s half-spent death spell was fairly dangerous toxic waste.
When the two thugs stepped forward, Matt shook his hand, and the remains of the spell grounded itself into the pavement of the alley, adding a new set of cracks and pits to its already scarred surface. Matt paused, looked at the guards, and brought up his walking stick. His voice remained calm and reasonable when he spoke.
“Gentlemen, I have no dispute with you. I have business from our earlier visit to complete.”
The thugs didn’t speak. Michaela had never heard them speak. She wasn’t sure they could. They leapt at Matt, and his walking stick blurred into action. Michaela realized with a start that a walking stick that looked normal on a seven foot tall man was, for anyone else, a good sized cudgel. It bounced off the head of one of the pair, who went down with the boneless lack of grace of the newly unconscious. The other guard brought his hands up to protect his head, and the stick speared down between his knees. Matt swept his leg, twisted his stick, and the second guard fell to the ground face first. A quick rap atop the skull and he stopped moving.
Matt never did. He went through the door, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Michaela steeled herself against the miasma of lust and debauchery that she knew waited inside and followed. It was worse than she remembered. As if to make up for time lost to Belle’s earlier outburst, the patrons engaged in a frenzy of pawing, writhing, and rutting. She swam through a vat of hormones as thick as treacle. The only reason she could move was the swath of burning steel Matt left in his wake.
He moved through the club like a tank rolling through a department store. The crowd, now spilling from their booths, clutched at him, ran into him, and generally made a nuisance of themselves, but he was neither slowed nor disturbed by any of it. The men running into him bounced like they were made of rubber. The women clutching him were politely yet firmly detached and set to one side, all without causing him to break stride.
He hit the dance floor, at which point he had a clear line of sight to Sam’s personal table. Sam saw him, waved in his general direction. The wave was neither greeting nor dismissal, just an acknowledgement of Matt’s presence. It did, however, alert Belle. Michaela knew there was something she needed to do, something she needed to tell him, but the smothering weight of lust was preventing anything resembling thought.
Belle stood, sliding out around the table with a sour look at Sam. Free of that constraint, she walked toward Matt, her body moving in a slow, seductive sway. Sudden fury gripped Michaela. Not him. Not her. No way. Michaela tried to step forward. She nearly wrenched her leg out of the socket at the hip. She could not, no matter how hard she tried, take a step toward Belle. Fury and pain burned at the lust holding her in place, cleared her head of all but the familiar wrath.
Freed from the miasma of lust, she looked to Matt. He had nearly crossed the dance floor, only a few arm lengths separating him from Belle. Michaela started across the floor to him. She had no idea what she could or couldn’t do, but she wasn’t about to abandon him. She didn’t know why she wasn’t… pits, Mike, pits. She wasn’t about to admit her reason, even to herself, but she wasn’t going to let Belle end him.
Belle reached out to Matt, the sleeve of her dress dissolving from her arm as she reached to him. Her hand hung there, beckoning. If Michaela ignored Belle’s eyes, it looked almost like she was a beautiful woman trying to seduce a man with gesture and grace. Belle’s eyes shattered that illusion. There was nothing behind her eyes, a dull, endless, corrosive nothing that would tear apart anything that came within her grasp.
When Michaela cried out, it was less a shout and more a wail, but it got Matt’s attention. His eyes tracked to her a moment, his voice too quiet to be heard over the music. That moment’s inattention was what Belle was waiting for. She lunged, the air going grey before her. Michaela had no idea how Matt knew, but he reacted the moment Michaela saw Belle move.
He threw himself to the side, avoiding her grasping hand. Something whipped out from his bunched fist as he did so. Whatever it was wrapped around Belle’s wrist, and when her lunge carried her past him, he yanked backward, pulling her arm behind her. When Belle reached around behind her with her other arm, the thick irregular coil Matt was using whipped around her other wrist, pinning both of her arms backward.
Unlike Johnny, Belle wasn’t done. Matt wasn’t either. He whipped his walking stick around, something glinting near the end. Belle didn’t dodge, and when the stick caught her in the shins she howled with the heart-rending pain and fear of an immortal who had seldom known either. She went down on her face, unable to use her hands to break the fall, and apparently unable or unwilling to damage Sam’s floor. Leaning on his cane to force her knees to bend, Matt pulled her wrists to her ankles and whipped the binding around them.
Once the hog tie was secure, Matt lifted Belle from the floor by it. Holding her at arm’s length with one hand, he lifted his walking stick with the other. Michaela had moved closer in the few moments the fight had gone on. She heard him when he raised his voice above the noise in the room.
“Belle Isle, you are bound. Cease struggling immediately or I will be forced to belabor you with this until you lose consciousness.”
Michaela looked closer at Matt’s stick. One end was no longer the smooth ebony shaft she recalled. Instead it was covered by the oddest studs she’s ever seen. They were flat, round, perhaps an inch of some metal wrapped half around the stick and bound in place with wire. The first few she saw were smashed flat and shiny. When she saw a face on one of the undamaged ones, she looked up at Matt in awe.
“Saint’s medals. You used blessed saint’s medals as studs for a club.”
“They seem to have been effective. Shall we retire to the penitentiary?”
“Jail comes first. Trials, y’know.”
“You lying bitch! You told me you weren’t going to move against me!”
Michaela craned her head around to look at Belle. “I didn’t. This is all Frank’s idea.” Michaela’s grin threatened to split her head in two. She turned to Sam, who glowered faintly but refrained from acknowledging what had just gone on.
“Did you see that, Sammie? I mean, did you see that? Belle Isle, Legion lord, hog tied by a mortal.”
Sammie looked at her, faint disdain etched on his perfect features. “Gloating does not become you. If your mortal would take her, do so and be gone.”
She turned back to Matt. Today was a good day. She’d collared a major bad guy, her back barely itched, and she’d met a really hot guy.
Pits, Mike. Pits!