It used to be a simple enough rule.
And one of the fae? Absolutely not. That was basically asking to be thrown in prison and tortured for the next few hundred years. Not my MO. Besides, there was no body in the office while I was there. Pretty sure there wasn’t, anyway, but there was that overwhelming cherry blossom scent. Did the killer leave that behind to cover up or throw me off?
“Thanks, Kit. Did you check out the vic’s background?” I asked.
“You sitting down?” she typed.
I groaned. Before I had a chance to reply, her next message beeped through, “Broderick Ó Faoláin, a Duke of the Autumn Court, specifically the Mac Tíre clan—one of the wolves.”
Books and studying hadn’t really been my “thing” growing up—that was more my brother’s gig—but I knew she didn’t mean werewolf. The fae organized themselves into various factions based on an animalistic hierarchy. Wolves were fairly high up, but only the Lions of the Summer Court or Bears of the Winter Court had enough power to become a king or queen.
Kit continued, “The Mac Tíre have been extremely vocal in their disagreement with the new Summer Court Queen, who wants to bring all fae back to the Otherworld. Rumor has it that the queen doesn’t believe in mingling with those beneath their kind, which is everyone to her. One too many half-bloods as a result, I guess.”
“So the queen had Broderick assassinated?” I typed.
“Seems like it.”
It felt too easy and blaming it on me still didn’t make any sense except as a coincidental scapegoat. Did my buyer have ties to the Otherworld? “What about the box? Can you look into that?”
I couldn’t find anything on the damn thing when I did my own search before the party, and foolish me had shrugged and let it go. I could just slap that earlier me.
“On it.” Kit’s status changed to red once again.
I closed my laptop and stared out across the water, dark waves breaking gently against a multitude of docks. I finished my banana and set the peel on the small table beside me. Something about this whole mess wasn’t right. A fae nobleman who opposed the queen had been murdered. That should be reasonably straightforward. Except his body was found in an office hiding a supernatural item that my buyer was willing to pay a hefty sum to possess.
Was Broderick after the jewelry box, or was he simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Were the murder and theft even related?
What the hell did this damned box even do?
5
Sunday Morning
I hadn’t had a nightmare in well over a year, maybe even two, but the stress of everything going on brought them back with a vengeance. I sat up with a start in the dark, breathless, my hair and tank top drenched and stuck to my skin. The image of his limp wrist hanging off the edge of his bed, an empty pill bottle on his nightstand, seared through my mind.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, refusing to give in to the pain and grief that had consumed me for months after I lost Mad. Only Kit was able to bring me back to life.
Rain pelted against the windows outside as if weeping for my loss. That would have to be enough.
I swung my legs out of bed and checked the bedside clock—6:15 in the morning. Darkness still filled my room because of the storm sweeping through, which also meant the Shadow Market would be virtually empty. I’d need to risk a visit to the computer lab if I wanted a chance in hell at clearing my name.
Going to Kit’s was out of the question; there was no way I would drag her into this mess any more than I already had. They weren’t close, but she had family members to consider if things went south. And while she might be a technological genius, she was also a witch, and I was up against the FBI’s supernatural equivalent. Maybe even the fae queen. Oi.
Speaking of the witch, my phone blinked with a waiting message from her: “No luck on the box. Whatever it is, the DEA is keeping a tight lid on it.”
I grumbled at the agency’s secrecy and her horrible pun, though I had a feeling she hadn’t even noticed, nor would she care if I pointed it out to her. Kit was way too literal to get half of my jokes.
After splashing some water on my face, I tied my hair up into a messy bun, then pulled a dark hoodie on over it. My white-blonde hair, sometimes flashing hints of gold depending on the light, was too noticeable to be kept down.
I pursed my lips. Depending on how bad this situation got, I might even have to dye it. I grimaced. That would be a last resort.
I decided against sunglasses because they’d be too obvious with the gloomy skies, but I popped in a pair of brown contacts and applied a shit ton of smoky eye makeup. All-nighter chic, or perhaps even rocking the walk of shame.
On a Sunday morning in downtown Miami, the streets were often pretty sparse until the brunch crowd finally rolled out of bed. Today was the same, except add in the thunder and the pouring rain, and I was lucky if I saw another soul. I chose to enter el Mercado Sombra a different way than the piano shop so as not to draw any unwanted attention to Tony. He got plenty all on his own as a gatekeeper.
The Death Enforcement Agency had two primary jobs these days: collecting souls and policing the Community. It had started who knows how long ago with just collecting souls, then the agency became an enforcer of rightful deaths before it finally took on the role of keeping the Community safe and contained. Killing a member of that Community, and a fae of Broderick’s distinction, was a huge fucking no-no.
I had basically topped the most wanted list overnight, and I still didn’t know what they had on me other than the photo. But merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time didn’t equate to murder. There had to be something else.
Because it sported illegally tinted windows—not uncommon in southern Florida—I drove my bright red Mercedes Benz to the parking garage, flashed a parking pass to the attendant through my cracked window, and headed down to lower level one. After finding an empty space, I parked and got out. The beep of the alarm ensured the expensive car would stay put.
A door on the far wall led to the sub-basement unless you were a Community member or a human with a pass. In that case, the magic read your DNA or barcoded pass and ported you straight to the market. Not only that, but this particular entrance dropped me off right next to the computer lab.
It paid to know all the ins and outs of a place. Part of my job as an acquirer meant getting as much information as possible about a place before going in, everything from blueprints to frequent visitors. Not-so-frequent ones, too. I had turned the same careful eye on the market before ever entering it. Back before I got careless enough to earn a murder charge, if that time ever existed.
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
As predicted, the market street was empty due to the rain, all the tented stalls covered to protect the wares beneath, the food carts’ windows closed tight. I ducked into the twenty-four-hour lab, surprised to see even one other person there. Like me, he wore a hoodie that covered most of his face with shadows. I guess we all had business to do, sometimes even on Sunday mornings before seven.
I took my usual seat, stuck my thumb on the reader, and logged in. Well, that’s what should have happened. Instead, I received an error message stating my account was locked and to please call the DEA administration team for assistance. I rolled my eyes. As if that was going to happen.