Devon Monk - [Ordinary Magic 02] - Devils and Details

  “No.”

  “I’m not leaving this room until you agree to keep your hands—and everything else—off Ryder.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  I could lie. I could try to strong arm him with legal threats. He wasn’t the only one who could hire vampire lawyers. Just because Rossi ruled the vampires didn’t mean he ruled Ordinary. But I figured the truth would work best.

  “You understand that I am the law over you, over the mortals, and over the gods of this town. If you do anything illegal, I will throw you out of town. Permanently.”

  “You would never do that.”

  “Test me.”

  He glared at me. I glared right back.

  “Do you love him?” he finally asked.

  I don’t know what he saw in my eyes. Probably something I wished I knew how to hide.

  Rossi blinked. Opened his mouth, shut it, blinked again. “Oh, Delaney,” he breathed, “are you sure?”

  “No. Yes. Sometimes?”

  “Is this recent? Since he’s returned to town?”

  “Yes and not really. I’ve loved him for years, but never said anything. We finally tried it a couple months ago.”

  “It? Sex?”

  “Dating. And sex. But I got shot and we decided to take it slow.”

  Red flashed across his eyes, a flame moving fast. “Did he dump you?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m still sorting through the whole thing, which is personal and not a part of this case. You will stay away from him. I will find out if he is involved in Sven’s death. If he is, if I find anything to tie him to Sven—”

  “Such as his blood?”

  “Which could have been stolen, or taken without his agreement. If I have any solid proof he was actually involved, I will let you question him while I am in the room with both of you. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll also take your word that the other vampires in town will stay away from him.”

  “I’ll let them know Ryder Bailey is untouchable. But Delaney, if he is involved, I will not stand aside. Not even for you.”

  No pressure.

  “If he’s involved you will talk to me. We’ll decide what’s best. Unlike the vampires in town, Ryder Bailey has family who would wonder what happened to him if he went missing. He has college friends, business colleagues. He can’t simply disappear without turning a lot of unwanted attention to our town.

  “Remember, I am the police. I won’t allow the murder of any creature, deity, or mortal to go unpunished. Do you understand me, Travail?”

  Very few people knew Old Rossi’s first name. Even fewer ever spoke it. Something like anger hardened his features and I could see in him the soldier, the warrior, he had once been.

  “More than you would think, Delaney Reed.”

  In those words were my dismissal. So I moved quietly through the door and closed it behind me, careful not to rattle a single, fragile shell.

  Chapter 4

  The rest of the day dragged by with a few actual incidents to deal with—mostly fender benders from cars not stopping quickly enough on the wet street, or cars that were stalled while trying to navigate the puddles that swallowed the wet streets, or the car that got swamped because some tourist didn’t realize driving on the beach in the waves wasn’t as safe as it looked in a car commercial.

  It wasn’t until almost ten that night that I finally had a chance to talk to Myra and Jean.

  We had the calls from the station forwarded, and met up at the all-night Blue Owl diner that had opened up on the north end of town last month. Terrible weather meant tourist traffic was cut to almost nothing. The diner had been struggling when it should have been doing its best business of the year.

  The owner, Joe Boy, also owned the gas station where Sven had been found. I figured the diner could float for a year or so on the gas station profits. The diner had enough room in the parking lot and the back gravel lot for truckers to catch some sleep before taking the highway east toward the capitol of Salem, north to Portland, or further on to Seattle.

  Other than one burly guy in a trucker’s hat skyping on his tablet in the corner booth on the far side of the restaurant, it was us, the cook, and a single waitress.

  We sat in one of the retro-style 1950s booths, each of us with a cup of coffee. The waitress, Piper, a mortal who had just moved into the area, had poured our coffee without asking, somehow knowing Myra would want decaf.

  “What can I get you ladies? We have pie that would make your granny jealous.”

  Piper was in her early thirties, had long blonde hair that fell in soft curls. Her ears were pierced with tiny jeweled studs all the way from her lobes to the inward curl of the helix, and her face was squared at the chin, which somehow made her wide, sea-gray eyes softer.

  I hadn’t heard where she’d come from originally, but figured one of the town gossips would eventually fill me in.

  “Let’s make granny jealous,” I said, realizing she had nailed exactly what I wanted. “Pecan if you have it and only if it’s amazing.”

  “Best in the state.”

  “I’ll have...”Myra started.

  “Apple ala mode?” Piper suggested.

  Myra looked a little startled and studied Piper’s face. “Yes. That’s perfect.”

  “And give me anything banana with lots of whipped cream,” Jean said.

  “We’ve got a banana-bourbon caramel cream that will knock your socks off.”

  “Good. I’m tired of these socks.”

  “Great.” She jotted our orders down. “Sisters, right? Reeds?”

  Looking between the three of us, most people might guess friends instead of sisters. I was built taller and more athletic like our father, had my long brown hair pulled back in a scrunchie and hadn’t bothered changing out of my tan, button-down uniform over which I’d thrown a plaid flannel.

  Myra was shorter than me and curvy in a soft blue sweater, rocking a noir pageboy hair cut and deep red lipstick. Jean, the youngest, currently had her long pigtails in several shades of turquoise tucked behind her ears and, even though she was the one who was actually still on duty, wore jeans. Her T-shirt had a head shot of the cartoon spy Archer on it, under which was written: I’D DO ME.

  Despite our differences, it was something about our eyes that tagged us as sisters, all shades of blue from deepest to lightest. But it wasn’t just the shape and color of our eyes that made it obvious we were from the same blood. It was the light. It sounded weird when I thought of it that way, but it was true. There was something about the Reeds in Ordinary, our bloodline having been chosen to uphold the laws of the town, that gave us a certain kind of light.

  “I’m Police Chief Delaney Reed, and these are my sisters, Myra and Jean.”

  “Oh. I thought Robert Reed was the police chief.” She paused and must have already figured out the expression on my face because her eyes instantly filled with regret.

  “He was,” Jean said before I even had time to think of an answer. “He passed more than a year ago and Delaney took his position. All of us are on the force actually.”

  Piper’s face fell and it was clear she was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry to bring it up. And I’m sorry for your loss. My condolences to you all.”

  “Thank you,” Myra said. “He was a wonderful chief and dad.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “Well, if you need anything,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Just give us a call. Welcome to Ordinary, by the way.”

  “Thank you. It feels like coming home.”

  I smiled. The little town had that effect on people sometimes. Someone would stop in on a vacation and then never go home.

  “We’re glad to have you. Where are you from?”

  “Oh, we moved around a lot, my mother and I. Most recently, Utah.”

  “Pretty out there,” I said.

  “Pretty, but nothing like the seashore. I just hate living anywhere away from the ocean. Miss it too muc
h. Now let me get you that pie. On the house.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Myra said.

  “I’d like to. In thanks for all your work to keep this town—my home—safe.”

  “Sounds great,” Jean said. “Thank you.”

  Piper nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

  We all took a moment to ourselves and sipped coffee. Even though it had been over a year since Dad died, it was still hard to think that he was gone for good. There was a Dad-shaped emptiness in all of our lives, and I didn’t think any of us knew how to fill it yet.

  Music played softly in the background, a sort of melancholy blues and rock station that seemed to fit the rainy night, the diner, and our mood perfectly.

  Jean pulled out her phone and fiddled with it a bit, Myra sort of gazed into the middle distance, and I rested my head against the booth, staring through the window beside us out at the night and the rain.

  Piper was back before a new song started, just before things would have gotten really sad, pies balanced on a tray and a full, fresh pot of coffee in hand.

  “Here you go, ladies. Pecan, apple, and banana bourbon caramel cream. Enjoy.” She set the plates down, topped off our coffee, and sashayed off to check on the trucker in the corner.

  “So what did Old Rossi say?” Myra ate the crust off her pie with bites of vanilla ice cream first before working her way toward the apple center.

  I picked at the pecan, which was actually very good, then sat back and drank coffee. My appetite wasn’t the best right now.

  “Trouffle?” Jean mumbled through a mouthful of whipped cream.

  “Yeah, trouble,” I said. “Sven’s been murdered. Bullet through the head wasn’t enough to kill him but the blood symbols on his body were. Apparently Rossi came up with the blood-kill thing over a thousand years ago. He calls it ichor techne. He didn’t explain how it’s done, but he did say it’s only used to kill vampires.”

  I wrapped both my hands around my cup and stared down into the liquid blackness.

  “And?” Myra asked. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “He said it was Ryder’s blood on Sven.”

  They both stopped moving. Stopped chewing, stopped everything. Well, except for staring at me.

  “You think he’s telling the truth?”

  I sniffed, and rubbed at my eyes. Suddenly I wished I could just curl up in the booth and ignore this day had ever happened.

  “I don’t know why he would lie about it. He was angry. He has every right to be angry. I’m angry.”

  Jean reached across the table and patted my hand. “Ryder doesn’t have anything to do with this. He might be stupid sometimes, but he’s not a killer.”

  The image came back to me of Ryder bursting into the station a few months ago when I was held at gunpoint by a woman. Ryder had handled his gun, and the high-charged situation, like a natural.

  Maybe not like a killer, but like someone who knew how to deal with one.

  Jean had always sort of idealized Ryder. She’d always thought he should be my handsome prince who would sweep me off my feet.

  I didn’t think she’d gotten over him dumping me yet.

  “Rossi says it’s his blood. We have to assume he has some tie to Sven’s death. Did we get labs back on that bullet hole?”

  Myra speared an apple chunk and used it to wipe up some of the melted ice cream. “It’s a clean shot. 9mm bullet. There were no other bullets at the scene.”

  “Any prints?”

  “Nothing clear enough. No boot prints, even though it was muddy out by that shed. Any tire tracks would have been run over by other vehicles using the gas station and washed out by the rain.”

  “So we’ve got nada,” Jean said.

  “We’ve got a dead vampire and a pissed off vampire,” I said. “Rossi was holding a meeting. I told him to let his people know Ryder isn’t to be messed with.”

  “What if he’s trying to throw you off?” Myra asked.

  “Rossi?”

  She nodded. “What if he just wants you to think Ryder was involved?”

  “Why would he do that? Ryder and I aren’t dating. We’re barely working together. What would Rossi get out of casting suspicion on him?”

  Although, now that I thought of it, Old Rossi had warned me about trusting Ryder before. And Ryder had made a point to tell me that Old Rossi wasn’t who he seemed to be.

  Maybe something had happened when Ryder was younger and he still held it against Old Rossi. Or maybe Ryder had done some stupid kid thing that irritated the vampire.

  Could it just be an old grudge?

  “Do you two know if Rossi and Ryder get along okay?” I asked. “Are there any hard feelings between them?”

  Jean licked banana cream off the tines of her fork. “Don’t think they really run in the same circles. Clean-cut Ryder and free-loving Rossi? There aren’t a lot of social situations that would have put them in close contact over the years. Except the festivals and things like that.”

  We had four festivals a year in Ordinary. If you asked me, it was four too many.

  “There’s one more weird thing about this,” I said.

  They didn’t seem at all surprised there would be more weird things. This was Ordinary, after all.

  “The other vampires can’t see the blood markings on Sven.”

  “Are you sure?” Myra asked. “Can they smell them?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He brought Ben in to prove it to me. I’d never seen Ben so close to a panic attack. He told Rossi all he could see was the bullet hole—he said it was a silver bullet by the way.”

  “Silver bullets kill werewolves, not vampires,” Jean said.

  I nodded. “Still, any kind of bullet is still a bullet.”

  “Okay,” Myra said, compiling all that data into organized subsections in that methodical mind of hers. “Ryder should be back in town tomorrow. We can talk to him then, see if there’s anything that points to him being involved with Sven’s death. Maybe I’ll drive by his place tonight, see if he got in early.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Delaney,” Myra started.

  “Let me. I know you and Jean have been trying to keep him out of my way, and I appreciate that. But I’m the chief here, and I’m the one who talked to Rossi and promised him I would check into Ryder.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jean said.

  “No, you’ll go back to the station, or home with the calls forwarded, okay? Let’s just keep everything about this as normal as possible.”

  “Dead vampire is not normal,” Myra muttered before sipping her coffee.

  “I know.”

  “How about the god power?” Jean asked. “Did you hear anything else about that?”

  I shook my head. “Which reminds me, where’s Crow?”

  “I took him home,” Jean said.

  I groaned. “Really?”

  “There wasn’t any real legal reason to lock him up, and it’s not like he’s going to leave town without his power.”

  “He could,” I said.

  “Sure. But the gods in town would stop him before he even got one foot outside city limits. So I took him home—well, not his home.”

  She looked far too pleased with herself.

  “Jean,” Myra said. “What home? If I find him at my place, in my kitchen—or in my bed— I’m going to throttle you.”

  “Shit. Why didn’t I think of dropping him off at your place? I have a key and everything.”

  “Jean,” I said.

  “Oh, take it easy. He’s staying with Bertie.”

  Bertie was the town’s only Valkyrie. She appeared to be a slight, bird-like woman in her eighties. While she was that, she was also the creature who made it her job to drag warriors off battlefields to their final resting places whether they liked it or not.

  No one had ever put up a fight against Bertie and won.

  It was no surprise Bertie was also the head of the community center, an
d pretty much ran all the behind-the-scenes events and gatherings that were hosted in Ordinary.

  Those four festivals? All Bertie’s doing. Honestly, I couldn’t think of better hands, well, talons, in which to leave Crow.

  “Okay,” I said. “I give. That’s brilliant. How did you get Bertie to agree?”

  “I told her we’d each volunteer our time—no more than eight hours—at the next event she needed hands for.”

  Myra groaned and thunked her head on the table.

  Dramatic? No. Not at all. The last time I’d gotten roped into owing Bertie a favor she’d forced me to judge a rhubarb contest.

  Rhubarb.

  Tastes like a demon’s butt, no matter how much chocolate or alcohol is added to try to hide it. I thought giving ourselves over to Bertie deserved a little, no, maybe a lot of head thumping.

  Jean, however, looked like she was enjoying torturing us. “Doesn’t matter how much brain damage you give yourself,” she said to Myra. “She’ll still find you something to do for eight hours.”

  “I hate you,” Myra mumbled.

  Jean laughed and patted Myra on the head.

  “When’s the next thing?” Myra sighed.

  “It’s a fundraiser,” Jean sing-songed. “Want to guess what it is?”

  “No.”

  “Canoe jousting?” I said.

  “Not this time. C’mon Myra. Guess. It involves pancakes.”

  She shifted her head to the side and cast a suspicious gaze at Jean’s grin. “Is it a cook-off? A pancake breakfast? That wouldn’t be terrible.”

  “Boring.” Jean practically glittered with excitement. “Cakes on Skates!”

  I heard the words, but couldn’t make them fit together in my head.

  “Skates?” Myra said. Was that actual interest I heard in her voice?

  “Breakfast delivered to your door by people on skates. Costumes encouraged. She’s got Hogan on board, so there will be cake donuts and cake cupcakes and cake cake, but he’s got four kinds of pancakes he’s going to whip up too.” From the smile on her face, you’d think the man had invented breakfast pastries.

  “Why skates?” Myra asked.

  “It’s also a contest.”

  We waited.

  “How many deliveries a skating team can make. How many times a skater drops their delivery. How many tips they can get out of the delivery. Who gets back to the finish line first. That kind of stuff.”