Made for Sin (3 page)

Speare returned the gesture, and they both drank a toast. “He was murdered.”

“I assumed that.” Felix poured some more. “You wouldn't be here about his death if he hadn't been. I also assume Doretti knows my price.”

Speare waved his glass; that could be worked out later. Probably by him, just like how he was probably going to be the one actually paying. If Laz hadn't done so much for him in the past—well, and if Laz wasn't possibly his father, and wasn't definitely the closest thing he'd ever had—he'd be counting up, with great pleasure, the number of favors he was accumulating.

As it was, though…sure, Laz would practically owe him a free murder or two and a new house when all this was over, but that didn't mean he'd ever try to call those chips in. It wasn't like he'd need to, either. Uncle Laz had never refused him anything.

Of course, he'd never asked for much, either.

“So what does he—do you—need?” Felix asked. “A Mask of Kai-tan? An All-Seeing Eye? I can call my chicken guy and have him send a few over. Pure black, the best in the state.”

The whiskey was, as always, excellent. Some friends of Felix's made it, with water from a hidden nymph-spring beneath the Superstition Mountains. Occasionally Felix could be persuaded to sell a bottle of it for an exorbitant price; more often he gave a bottle away for a special tribute or a birthday or anniversary gift of some kind.

It was also strong enough that Speare actually felt it, even with the beast and its bullshit superfast metabolism. Nice. Too bad he couldn't enjoy it, at least not yet. He kept his gaze on Felix's face, watching carefully. “I think he was killed with a demon-sword.”

Surprise—no, shock—flashed across Felix's face, genuine and unfeigned. Speare relaxed a little. “That's some serious money.”

“Yeah, I know.” He let Felix top his glass up. “Serious connections, too. Got any idea where somebody might buy one of those?”

Felix made a face. “Come on, Speare. You can't just buy a demon-sword like it was a coffin nail, you—”

“I can't start randomly questioning people with that much clout, either,” Speare said. “And Doretti doesn't have any real problems with anyone right now.”

“That he knows of.”

“That he knows of,” Speare said, nodding. “Yeah. But he hasn't gotten any declarations.”

Felix thought about it for a second. “I heard Fallerstein was awfully pissed about being outbid for that supply contract over at the Star. And the Martinez Family has been trying to—”

“None of the Legacy Families can do shit like this, though. You know the rules.”

“I know what the rules are.” Felix refilled his own glass. “But last I checked, Bart Hardin was still dead. Maybe the pacts he forged died with him.”

It was a thought. Hardin—head of a minor crime Family who spent more of their time acting as go-betweens and support for other Families than actually committing crimes themselves—was the one who'd set up the rules regarding the use of occult ritual in the underworld, back before Speare was even born. An attempt to create a fetch had gone horribly awry, resulting in the deaths of forty people on the Strip and a public outcry that had almost ruined business for everyone.

Hardin had come up with a set of regulations, and all of the Families had agreed to them. Family heads weren't allowed to perform certain types of magics, and they weren't allowed to pay others to do it, either. Any killings that took place had to be committed using real-world weapons.

“It's possible,” Speare said. “But Laz is still holding true, and I haven't heard of any of the others violating.”

Felix shrugged. “That's probably not it anyway. If it is, Theodore seems like an odd target for a first strike. I would have expected you would be hit before him, if war was coming.”

Speare raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You. Doretti's favorite son.” Felix sipped his drink, letting that sink in.

Speare kept his face immobile. Typical of Felix; typical of his brethren, really. Always looking for information they could use, even when it came to friends. Always looking for an angle. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do. So does half of the world we know.” Felix sighed. “But nothing is proven, and nothing will be proven, I assume. It doesn't matter. My point is, I agree with you. I haven't heard any rumors of war, and I'd think a war would start with someone who matters more. In the grand scheme of things,” he added quickly.

“Which brings me back to my question,” Speare said. “Do you know where someone might get hold of a demon-sword?”

Felix's long fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on the glass countertop, a holding pattern while he considered the question. Finally he said, “I might. I might know someone who can help you, at least.”

Silence. Any other day Speare probably wouldn't have worried about the whole dramatic-pause thing, and he definitely wouldn't mind giving his friend a chance to make a decision about whatever it was, but the clock on the wall told him it was past six, and his beast was really starting to squirm—especially given the nature of many of the items in Felix's shop. Being in proximity to demon-made, demon-powered, or just plain demon items made it harder to hold the thing in check. It wanted to play. If he didn't get out of there soon, he and Felix were both going to have a big, nasty problem on their hands—or rather, the problem would be on Felix's hands. His own hands turned into something more like talons when the beast came out.

He didn't want anyone to see those talons. Hell, he didn't want anyone to know about them at all. “So…who is he?”

“Not he,” Felix said. “She.”

No matter how bright the sun outside was or what time the clocks said, inside Fortuna's Wheel it was always two in the morning.

Like a dog who eventually came to resemble its owner—or vice versa—the interior of the Wheel had over time started to look like a reflection of its clientele: outdated neon, dirty black tile, mirrors, black stone runes on the walls, and pewter bar rails. An odd combination of Vegas tacky and ritualistic formality, basically, with a heavy emphasis on grubby and corrupt, which meant anyone and everyone could be comfortable there as long as they had at least a passing familiarity with either of the overlapping cultures that formed the usual crowd. As Speare passed the penny slots just inside the front doors and grabbed a beer at the bar, he saw a couple of sharp-suited money men with their very expensive women rubbing shoulders with some scruffy blood scroungers and a few random ritualists.

That was in the front, though. What he needed was in the back.

He made his way across the floor, past the pool table, past the bathrooms, and past the people lined up outside the bathrooms, waiting for either the toilet or the drugs that would be found within. Anything and everything that could be bought was available at the Wheel, and if somebody didn't have money they could pay with blood. Or energy. Or toenail clippings or dreams or memories, or just about anything else; almost nothing was so obscure that no market existed for it. Hell, Speare once met a showgirl who literally paid for her dance lessons with sweat, and another who earned enough selling her tears to buy a new set of breast implants. Anything could be sold—including souls, of course.

Good thing Speare didn't need to buy one. And nobody would pay much for one as ruined as his. A regular schedule of sin like the one he'd been forced to follow since he was thirteen didn't leave much of value to soul dealers.

It didn't leave much of value for soul owners, either. Sometimes he felt…hollowed out, like something vital had been scraped out of him. Sometimes it felt like that vital thing had been replaced with some kind of sludge.

Then he'd realize he was just feeling sorry for himself. There had probably only ever been sludge in there. Shit, for all he knew,
he
was the parasite, and his body really belonged to the beast.

Whatever. Thinking about it had never done him any good, and it especially wasn't going to do him much good at that moment. He had a woman to find, a murder to solve, and at least one bigger sin to commit before bedtime, and he'd like to do those things as fast as possible.

The back wall was lined with booths, cracked black leatherette and gray Formica with silver trim. Surprisingly comfortable, too, though he didn't usually spend a lot of time back there. The bar itself, the penny slots, and the pool table were more his areas.

His destination was the farthest booth in the corner, a shadowy hole beneath a burned-out lightbulb. The high backs of the bench seats prevented him from seeing anyone sitting in them, but he was pretty sure she was there. The beast was absolutely sure she was there; it could smell her, a light, spicy scent mixed with vanilla. A warm scent. An intriguing one.

Except he was going to have to work with this woman, at least for a day or two, which meant she was off-limits. A one-night stand with someone he had to deal with professionally wasn't a good idea, and there was no way he could have anything more—the beast made that too complicated, if not impossible.

Not to mention the fact that all he knew about her was that she was a thief, which meant she was probably not trustworthy. He valued trustworthy.

She came into view as he reached the table. Long wavy hair, parted on the side, flowing down her back. Its darkness emphasized how pale she was and made her eyes look huge.

Those eyes followed him as he sat down. She'd given him the seat facing the door; a courtesy, he guessed, because he couldn't imagine anyone who did what she did for a living would choose to sit with their back to the door for some other reason. “Miss Coyle,” he said. “I'm—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Speare.” The slightly mocking tone in her voice as she matched his formality grated on him. Her faint smirk, enhanced with lipstick the color of blood, didn't help. Nor did what she said next. “E. L. Speare, private investigator. Thirty-two years old. You worked in security, high-level stuff, before becoming a PI. You've never been married, you live in Winchester, you have definite ties to Lazaro Doretti, and—”

“I get it.” He didn't bother to hide the fact that she was pissing him off. Maybe next she'd start talking about the high school football team he'd been forced to quit when the beast decided it wanted to hurt other players, or the month he'd spent in juvenile detention for stealing a car when he was sixteen because the beast was about to take over if he didn't sin right that minute—those records were supposed to be sealed, but it didn't sound like that would be much of a problem for her. “You asked a few people about me. So what.”

“I just like to know who I'm talking to,” she said, still smiling. Her hair was red, he realized; the contrast between the deep cherry-toned glints of light and the paleness of her skin was striking. “Only, nobody seems to know what the ‘E' is for. The ‘L,' they know, but the ‘E'…I got like four different answers for that one, and nobody could say for sure they had it right. What's your first name, Speare?”

Oh, fuck this. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“See, that's the thing, right there.” Her smile didn't fade, even when she took a long drink from the beer bottle on the table next to her. “Am I going to help you. I have a choice. I don't work for anybody but me. I agreed to meet you here as a favor to Felix, but that doesn't mean I'm going to
help
you. Because I don't
help
people I don't know.”

He drained his own beer, eyeing her as he did. A delaying tactic, and she probably knew it, but he didn't really care. Even though the black T-shirt she wore clung to her upper body in a way that made him think about peeling it off, and the quick, graceful movements of her hands made him wonder what they would feel like on his skin. The thing in his head squirmed a little. So did other parts of him.

All of which he ignored, because he didn't take bitches to bed with him. At least he tried not to. “Look, Miss Coyle—”

“Ardeth. My first name is Ardeth.” Her smile widened, turned teasing. “There, I showed you mine.”

“Look, Ardeth.”
Demon-sword, demon-sword.
Demon-swords were bad news and more people could die, and if this woman could help him track down the one used to kill Theodore, she'd be helping him save some lives. “I appreciate that you're having a good time here, but this is actually important. Felix says you're a serious woman. Is he wrong?”

“If it's that important, you should answer my question,” she said. Her eyes twinkled in the dim light. “I'm just trying to get to know you. I don't—”

“Yeah. You don't like to help people you don't know. So here's what you need to know about me.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I think that when lives are at stake, it's not the best time to fuck around and act cute. I also think you probably get pretty far with this shit with most guys, and that's made you think you can flash those big blue eyes and simper and get whatever you want from any man on the planet, but that is not the case with me. I couldn't be less interested in getting into your pants, and I can't think of anything I have that you'd want, so you can quit playing this little game.”

He gave that a second, then continued. “Now, what I
am
interested in is the murderer I'm looking for. One who cuts up his victims. He used a demon-sword to kill someone and I figure maybe that's a way to track him down. Felix says you might be able to help me with that, so let's either get started, or go our separate ways.”

She looked at him for a long moment, sitting perfectly still as she did so. Her smile didn't fade, either, but the playfulness left her eyes. It felt like being examined by an adding machine; something mercenary, all business, looked at him from behind those thick black lashes and that inviting red smile.

She finished her beer. “Come on. Let's talk outside.”

Without waiting for a reply, she stood up and reached over the table. For one mad second he thought she was going to climb into his lap or something, but she didn't. She reached out toward the wall behind him—toward the corner itself, actually—and tugged at something. A small silvery light flashed, collapsing on itself as it flew into her hand.

“You set up a shabriri,” he said, impressed in spite of himself.

She gave him a quick glance, her eyebrow raised. “Did you think I'm stupid?”

“No, I just—”

“Nobody sneaks up on me,” she said, turning and heading for the exit near the bathrooms. She moved a lot faster than he'd expected her to, so fast he could barely hear her next sentence. “I sit with my back to the door, they think I don't see them. But I do. Is that serious enough for you?”

“It's better.” He managed to edge past her enough to push open the exit door and let her pass through it into the alley beyond. “It's a good idea.”

“I'm so glad you approve. Now. It's my turn to make a speech.” She spun to face him again, with her arms folded. That snug T-shirt was paired with equally snug jeans and a pair of flat-heeled shoes that made no sound on the cement beneath their feet. His burgeoning, reluctant admiration went up another notch. She was ready to go, if she needed to.

“I appreciate that you're worried about your mob cronies getting killed,” she said. “But they're not my cronies. I have to worry about me, first and foremost, because if I don't do it, nobody else will. My business is risky, and all that risk is mine—I don't have powerful people backing me up the way you do. Just admitting I might know of somebody who recently acquired a demon-sword could get me put on a lot of lists I don't want to be on, you know? So you're asking me to risk my life, and you won't tell me your goddamn first name. That makes me wonder what the hell else you're hiding, and why. It makes me wonder why I should trust you.”

It had cost him a lot of money, and a lot of time, to hire ritualists to erase that information from the memories of everyone who'd ever known it, and to get it removed from every public record he could find. Now he was supposed to hand it over to this woman, just because she wanted it? “You know what some people could do with my first name?”

“I do.” The streetlights and the lights from the Strip meant it was never really dark anywhere, but the alley in which they stood was angled so they were covered with shadows. He could barely make out her form, weight shifted on one leg, finger tapping against her upper arm as she spoke. “You know what could happen to me if the wrong person finds out I led you to them? Violated the trust of another person who does what I do, or someone who might be a client?”

She had him there. Damn it, she really did have him there. If she was involved in the sale of a demon-sword, and she fed him information about it…she could find herself dead, and fast. He guessed it was fair, then, for her to want a little insurance.

He sighed. “My mother was a showgirl—”

“I know. Va-va-voom-Vera, best legs in Vegas. Rumored to have spent time with the most powerful men in the city—I assume your middle name is evidence of that—up until she suddenly quit to have you. She made guest appearances after that, taught dance classes, makeup classes, how to—”

“Yes. She was a showgirl. She loved being a showgirl. She loved everything about it.” She still did, in fact. Visiting her house was like visiting a Polynesian disco decorated by Liberace. “Every gold-spangled, sequin-covered, feathered-and-tasseled thing about it. And about this city. So you tell me, Ardeth. You have a woman who spent her whole life worshipping neon while dressing like an alcoholic flamingo. What does that woman name her only son—what name that starts with ‘E' does she give him?”

He hadn't even finished the sentence when he heard the gasp, the half-choked laugh, that told him she'd figured it out. Faster than most of the people he'd told—which wasn't many, but still. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “You can see why I prefer to keep it private.”

“I can.” For the first time she sounded relaxed. Not overly cheerful, not cold and hard, but normal. It was kind of nice. It was kind of nice to stand there talking to her, actually, to someone who knew things about him and didn't seem to care one way or the other.

Unfortunately, he'd barely finished noticing it when his head went on high alert. He didn't know what prompted it. A footstep, maybe, a faint rustle or the sound of metal against metal in the distance? A scent that the beast picked up but he didn't? No way to tell. All he knew was something set it off, loud and sharp.

“We should go back—” he started to say, but he didn't finish. It was too late. The alarm inside his skull started screaming, drowning out the distant sounds of traffic and the muffled music from inside the Wheel. Whatever was going to happen, he couldn't stop it and he couldn't avoid it. All he could do was hope he survived it.

Time slowed. He saw his hand reaching out to wrap around the back of Ardeth's neck, shoving her to the ground as he flung himself down, too. They fell forever. An eternity passed while it happened, an eternity during which every pebble and crack in the pavement beneath them came into clear, sharp focus as they grew closer and closer. His hand hit it; he felt it scrape. He saw cement chips fly as something hit the wall right behind where they'd been standing, and he heard the gun's report echo in the narrow alley.

It lasted only a second or two, that time freeze. Then he was on his feet and Ardeth was on her feet, both crouched low, both heading as fast as they could for the front of the building.