A baton hit the steel bars of the cell like a gunshot. Kit jumped off the filthy bench and gave a little scream. And looked around, wild-eyed.
"That was loud, wasn't it?" The dhampir asked, from the opposite bench. "But I guess everything's kind of loud to you right now, huh?"
"You bitch," he whispered.
She moved her bench slightly, and the ear piercing screech-scratch-squawk of the protesting metal made him shudder and sit back down. "Uh huh."
"You two done?" the guard demanded. "'Cause you got a visitor."
"About bloody time," Marlowe said shakily. He didn't understand what had taken his men this long. He hadn't been able to call them -- hadn't been able to do anything since that damned dhampir shoved half a bottle of pills down his throat. Except get his ass kicked most of the way across New Orleans.
Until the last of his strength drained away, leaving him sprawled in an alley, half dead and weak as a kitten. Too weak to hear the damned bokor anymore, but also too weak to defend himself. Including against the two overweight cops who found them, still feebly trying to gouge each other's eyes out, maybe an hour later.
They'd been in jail ever since, cozied up to drunks and prostitutes and a guy in a feather bra who kept singing Cole Porter songs.
But now his men were here.
Finally!
Only they weren't.
Kit looked up to see a handsome senator, the rich nap of his tuxedo fabric -- bespoke, of course -- and the gleam of gold from his cufflinks looking completely out of place amidst the grime. But his smile was as easy as always, like the subtle pass of a folded bill to the cop. Who pocketed it on his way out.
"Why is he leaving?" Marlowe asked, grabbing the bars. "Where are my men? Damn it, Mircea! Get me out of here!"
Mircea's dark eyes swept over him, and Kit could swear he saw amusement lurking in their depths. "You don't look as bad as I expected."
"Did you hear me? I said --"
"I heard you, although it was difficult." He pulled over a chair and sat down, crossing his legs and taking out a gold cigarette case. "Is there a reason we're whispering?"
"I can't talk louder than this without giving myself a migraine!" Marlowe hissed, hearing every syllable reverberate in his already bruised mind. He shot the dhampir a look. God, when he got out of here, when he got his power back, what he wasn't going to --
"Cigarette?"
"I don't want a damned cigarette! I want out!"
"Well, I'll take one, love," feather bra said, smiling charmingly as he leaned past Marlowe.
Mircea obliged, and even lit the damned thing for him. Why, Kit didn't know. He'd given up figuring the creature out centuries ago.
He was sitting back in his chair now, watching Kit through a haze of smoke, one of those annoying half smiles on his face. Mircea did love his little jokes. And Kit clearly wasn't getting out of here until this one had played out.
"Your men are well, as is your lady," Mircea said. "The former are rounding up the last of a group of nefarious types, while the latter . . . is having a talk with our friend Alejandro."
"He isn't our friend!"
"No? Perhaps not. But he seemed . . . unhappy . . . with some of the same people we are. Including some of his own court, one of whom appears to have been in this up to his formerly intact neck."
"If we discuss this elsewhere, you won't need euphemisms," Kit said, annoyed.
Mircea smiled brilliantly. "Oh, I don't mind. It's something of a game that way, isn't it?"
"Mircea --"
"Rather like the games certain men have been playing with us. It seems you were right: some of Alejandro's people were engaging in illicit activities, including running drugs into our territory. The drugs were mostly benign; they were merely trying to get a foothold in the market here. But one of the men they were using for distribution seems to have been cleverer than most, and started tweaking the formula. He eventually found a version that worked . . . on a more widespread clientele. But then, I don't have to tell you about that, do I?"
"Damn it, Mircea! Did you catch that son of a bitch?"
"Yes and no. There were two in this particular charade, one of whom is currently enjoying the tender embraces of our friend Jack."
Marlowe smiled.
"He was the most important, as it turns out, as the new formula was his creation. He intended to use it locally, on a few of our wealthier friends, in order to pay off some gambling debts. And to fund a rather expensive set of tastes --"
"And the other?"
"In a moment. As I said, this man, Eric Montrose, is local, and small time. He stumbled across something, however, that wasn't, and was contacted some months ago about . . . expanding . . . his ambitions. He wisely did not give his new partners the formula, however, and his supply was burnt up in his shop this evening, all that didn't go into the rum."
"And what happened to the rum?"
"Some of it went up in flames, too. The rest is washing slowly out to sea. Along with the three men who worked for Montrose."
"And the other? The one who . . . inconvenienced . . . me?"
"The Reverend, as he was known, has suddenly vanished."
Marlowe snarled.
"Yes, I know. But it wasn't your Hounds who are to blame. We believe he may be . . . better connected . . . than his dupes. Quite a bit better connected."
The Black Circle, Marlowe thought. Yes, this reeked of them. As if regular mages weren't bad enough, his department also had to contend with the slimy, magic-addicted, completely unscrupulous bastards that populated the magical underworld.
"It doesn't matter," Kit said. "We'll find him. I'll find him. He killed Allen."
"Yes." Mircea's expression turned grave. "I hoped you had reasoned that out by now."
"It wasn't too bloody hard! I had him checking out Montoya, our senatorial friend. I suspected he might be behind the recent upswing in . . . illicit activities . . . in the area, but needed proof. Allen must have come a little too close to getting it, so they hired a dhampir to take him out. And when she failed, they dosed him up and sent him to her doorstep, like a goddamned present, to make sure she succeeded!"
"I didn't succeed. He killed himself; I told you that," the creature said.
Kit ignored her. "What I can't understand is why they sent him to her after he came under their control. They could have had him kill himself anywhere, including hundreds of miles away. Why do it here? Unless they wanted me to spend hours on a wild goose chase, until their noxious brew took effect!"
"No, they dosed him in the afternoon, before you touched the rum," Mircea murmured.
"Then why? What was the point?"
Mircea stubbed out his cigarette, and fastidiously tossed it in the trash, despite the floor being a muddy mess. "To cause further dissention in our ranks, most likely."
"Dissention?" Kit frowned. "What dissention?"
Mircea had gotten up, to knock on the door, but at that he turned. And met Kit's eyes steadily. "Specifically, to ensure that you and I were at each other's throats."
"What?" Kit wondered if his head had been hit harder than he'd thought, because that made no damned sense at all. "Why would you care if I killed a filthy, misbegotten, sordid half --"
He broke off, because the turnkey was back, and was finally opening the cell door.
But not for him.
Mircea -- elegant, dignified, polished Mircea -- slipped into the dirty cell after the guard. And picked up the damned dhampir. And not to throw her over his shoulder, either.
But to cradle her in his arms.
Kit just stared.
And then he noticed something, noticed a number of somethings, some of which should have registered before. Like as soon as the fight shredded enough of her suit for him to get a good look at her. Liquid dark eyes, finely arched brows, a hint of amusement in the tilt of the lips, which were also full and shapely and so similar to --
"No!" Kit said, but there was no denying it. The scent -- the damned scent -- no wonde
r Heinrich had thought it familiar! He hadn't smelled it before, no.
But he had scented it's . . . her . . . father.
"No!"
"I came myself to make sure that you understood," Mircea told him. "There was no harm done to your family by my own. There will therefore be no retaliation."
Kit just stared at him.
"I can walk," the dhampir protested, as he carried her from the cell. "More or less."
"Perhaps this is my way of making sure I have you where I want you, for once," Mircea told her.
Kit thought he might throw up.
"At least tell this oaf to let me go," he said, because the damned cop was in his way.
"Oh, don't worry," Mircea said, glancing over his shoulder. "Your men should be by to fetch you in an hour . . . or five."
"Mircea!"
"You've had a hard day, in more ways than one, Kit."
"Mircea . . . ."
"And you have a temper, you know you do."
"Damn it, Mircea! Don't you dare --"
"Just to be on the safe side, I think a little head start might be a good idea, yes?"
"Mircea!" The door closed. "Mircea!"
Kit felt something pop.
And realized that he'd just ruptured his own eardrums.
Goddamnit!
"MIRCEA!"
The End
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