Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (30 page)

T
hat finger poke, one more time. It was morning. Light didn’t improve the ambience of the vacant house, nor did it increase the appeal of the witch with whom we shared it. The floor—my mattress—remained as soft as chert. Tara Chayne showed me that she had the stamina of a sergeant major, last to retire and first to rise.

It was morning. Light was getting inside somehow. I grumbled, “Why the hell do you keep doing that? It hurts!”

“Because it works. Get up. Time to go. We’ve been in one exposed position for far too long.”

That made it feel like a recon mission back in the islands.

Misery, curdled, then double-dipped.

She did have a point. That little nasty was out there with her giant-ass friend, plus who knew what all else with a bad attitude where we were concerned?

Obviously, Tara Chayne Machtkess didn’t just sit around Force headquarters when she’d gone down South. She was here for this morning because she’d learned her lessons then.

I sat up. “I feel like death on a stick and we never had anything to drink.”

Brownie whimpered, maybe in sympathy but more likely in hunger. We’d been a team for no time and already she and her crew were spoiled.

I observed, “This is the hardest damned floor I ever slept on.” The room itself was as big as a barn. A ballroom once, I suppose.

Some thumping then, from beyond Tara Chayne.

“And your little sis agrees.” I leaned forward for a better look.

Mariska remained well and truly bound and gagged. She wanted to say something. She seemed desperate to speak. It might not be what I first thought. I could smell well enough to get that what she really wanted to do was complain.

Tara Chayne observed, “If you’d just stuck with us last night, you’d have woken up in a real bed, clean and dry.”

Thump-thump. Thump-thump!

I said, “I believe I sense some anger issues.”

“She can be that way sometimes.”

“Last night we said we were going to take her back to your place today. That made sense at the time. But couldn’t it be a little risky?”

“It could be. Yes. But I’ve already informed Denvers. Things are in motion. We’ll stick to the plan.”

She sent a message? How?

No sooner wondered than answered. The centipede thing.

It curled around Moonblight’s neck, whispered into her ear. Then it unwound and slithered into a corner, where it faded from sight.

Tara Chayne grumbled, “Get your butt up so you can help me get up.”

Oh. All right. She was in a foul mood because, despite not being bound, she remained a prisoner of her body. She resented the infirmities of age. More, she hated showing those where others could see.

Aching everywhere, I shifted my bones. I helped the sorceress. Between us, muttering and whining, we got Mariska upright, too.

Tara Chayne grumbled, “At least you didn’t sleep on a bare floor.” Not that the rag carpet would have given Mariska much comfort.

I growled, “Can’t we just shut up and go? We’re all hurting. This whining doesn’t help. And I’m starving.”

Mention of hunger, even if not by name, got the interest of the dogs, all of whom made noises showing that they agreed with me.

I limped to the door. We had left obvious signs of breakage. We—in the form of Tara Chayne Machtkess—would have to apologize to Richt Hauser and make restitution. I took a cautious look outside, saw nothing suspicious, nor anything likely to attract attention—other than the coach rolling up. The coachman was having trouble staying awake.

“Oh, excellent!” Tara Chayne barked. “Most excellent. Here already, Chase gets a bonus. Let’s move out. All aboard!”

She crossed to the coach boldly, indifferent to curious looks from a passerby, leaving me to manage Mariska. I would be the great hairy thing remembered if a kidnapping story began to circulate.

Tara Chayne opened the coach door, chucked dogs inside. That offended Mariska’s dignity. With hands bound behind her and wearing a gag, she still managed to make her displeasure plain. Stray dogs were so far beneath her that they did not belong in the same city, let alone the same vehicle, where they would shed mangy fur and parasites all over her.

Tara Chayne told her, “I could tie a rope around your neck and let you run along behind. You think you can keep up?”

Mariska allowed me to help her board.

Every facial twitch thereafter, as she sat facing us during our ride, betrayed a determination toward paybacks once the tables turned. And she was confident that they would.

These girls had been in this contest for a long time.

Mariska might be with the Operators more because Tara Chayne had chosen to oppose them than for some other irrational reason, including nostalgic romance.

I fought down a grin on imagining Mariska blaring mad laughter and yelling, “Retribution shall be mine!”

Neither woman was pleased when I couldn’t keep the grin off my clock. But I would survive. Brownie still loved me.

Th
e coachman dropped us in front of the Machtkess place while sunrise remained a looming threat. Denvers was waiting. He had no question or comment. Mariska was in a bleak mood. Her future could be nothing but a plunge over a precipice into the abyss.

Tara Chayne exploited the captive audience situation mercilessly, needling Mariska, trying to winkle out details by taunting her twin with what we knew already.

The technique was new to me. It might be proprietary, working only inside the Machtkess crew. Whatever, it did work in that Mariska became unable to keep her mouth shut. Still, yammer as she might, she didn’t give us anything really useful. In the main, she just hemorrhaged emotionally.

Maybe when you’re twins who have been at each other for three generations, you develop a shorthand script for cutting each other up.

Denvers was an amazement. He was the miracle man I always wanted Dean to be, with a better attitude. He had a breakfast ready when we got there. He began serving dogs and all as soon as he sent the coach on its way. He freed Mariska without comment, settled her in a chair that snagged her bony butt and held her down. She and Tara Chayne both seemed embarrassed around Denvers, like children who had done something naughty and expected to hear about it. Their manners toward each other were impeccable and ignored everything that had happened before they settled at the table.

The oddest thing was, Chase Denvers was younger than they were by more than a generation.

The dogs were settled and happy. Mariska picked at her food. Tara Chayne wolfed hers. I proceeded at a workmanlike pace. Denvers posted himself behind me. I sat opposite Tara Chayne. Mariska was between us, at the side of the table, to my right. He announced, “Madame Hedley-Farfoul wakened me in the night, having evaded and slipped our best wards.”

That pleased neither sister. It bothered me less because I didn’t know the woman. Mariska stopped eating altogether. Tara Chayne asked, “What was on Orchidia’s mind?”

“She was obscure. Her principal interest seemed to be locating your gentleman friend here, however.”

I pointed at my chest. Me? Couldn’t be me, surely. But Tara Chayne took a cue from Denvers and nodded.

Not good. Not good at all. “She say why?”

“She did not. As I reported, sir, she was opaque. Nevertheless, it did seem related to the tragedy involving your spouse.”

“How so? Wait. Never mind. Question withdrawn. You said she wasn’t forthcoming.”

He nodded, expression bland. The dummy was catching on. “She most certainly was not, sir.”

“Any cues in her attitude?” I was hoping she hadn’t gotten any crazy ideas about me or mine being connected to what happened to her twins.

My own twins had distant looks. Mariska cocked her head like she was trying to hear something faint from far away. Tara Chayne whispered to herself. Only her centipede heard her. It came out from under a sideboard, swam away through the air.

I wondered if she would ever put that thing away again.

Why would she in these exciting times?

Or maybe it wouldn’t let her.

Too often sorcery works that way. Once out of the bottle, it stays out.

Denvers considered carefully before telling me, “I believe she just wanted to talk, sir, about your mutual losses. But she did seem to feel that patience had become a luxury.”

Been there a few times. You just want to hurt things and break people till your own pain and anxiety go away.

“Then we’ll hear from her soon,” Tara Chayne said. “And she’ll make her interest clear. Chase, you’ve outdone yourself. I’m almost tempted to give you a raise.”

“Almost, ma’am?”

“Almost. If I actually did you’d be making too much to be hungry enough to always do your best. You’d start slacking off and then I’d have to fire you.”

Denvers said, “Very well, ma’am. Perhaps you are correct.”

“Of course I am. Never in the history of opinions have I been wrong, except for that one time when I thought I was wrong.”

“Yes indeed, ma’am. It is an amazement, how you can be so perfectly right in every instance, even when you disagree with Madame Mariska, who is also correct on every occasion.” Denvers turned to Mariska. Maybe she was supposed to threaten to hire him away, but her head wasn’t in the game. She was wandering the wilderness of her thoughts.

Tara Chayne said, “Harumph!” An expression you hardly ever hear these days, unless you’re around folks way older than you are. “All right. You’re safe for now, Chase. Tell me what you learned about the conflict on the Hill last night.” Sounding thoroughly confident that Denvers would have something to report.

Denvers launched a lengthy exposition that made it sound like he had directly witnessed two discrete incidents, one of which had dragged on for an hour, generating substantial collateral damage, then ended in a no-decision when the neighbors turned all buzz-kill on the duelists.

I observed, “Once again youthful high spirits are stifled by old sticks in the mud.” What’s a little property damage when you’re having fun?

My jest hit the floor and lay there twitching in terminal tremors.

The encounter had blown air through the banked coals of clan hatreds born generations before the tournaments began. This flare-up had involved more participants than the anointed sets of Champions and Companions. Neither family would take a ritual defeat.

Another flaw in the tournament concept had surfaced.

I said, “Bet that’s got the Operators all excited.” Seemed to me that nobody needed to sabotage anything. The tournament could go belly up all on its own.

Nobody wanted to stick to the once-upon-a-time formalized rules.

Hell, most people didn’t want to play. If anybody was going to get hurt, they hoped that would be the shithead Operators.

Mariska finally asked, “Orchidia really is involved?”

“Orchidia truly is, oh yes!” Tara Chayne burbled maliciously. “She lost her twins. She is not happy. Some have gotten hurt already, including your dear friend K’thul Hoo, who is no longer with us. More are going to get hurt. The Black Orchid does not fool around!”

Tara Chayne sounded thrilled. Mariska was aghast. “K’thul Hoo C’thug? What . . . ?”

Moonblight added, “Orchidia might accomplish what we couldn’t last time. She might rid us of the Operators and their agents forever.”

Moonslight began to shake.

Only then did Tara Chayne get it.

Mariska Machtkess would be on the Black Orchid’s list. Mariska was the quarry that had drawn Orchidia to my house in time to deal with the squid-headed doom.

Denvers said, “The second incident was considerably smaller and not nearly as flashy, but your guest will find it of more personal interest.” He faced me. “There was an attack in which your daughter was targeted. Thank heaven, it failed.”

I frowned. My daughter? What was he blathering about? I have no daughter, nor any other known offspring. Just some informally adopted . . .

“Excuse me, sir. Your stepdaughter is what I should have said.”

“Oh. Kevans? Oh! Shit! What happened? She’s all right? How bad—”

“Relax, sir. She wasn’t harmed and she’s quite safe now, thanks be to Bonegrinder, Kyoga Stornes, and a mysterious intercessor of unnaturally large size with an exceptionally foul temper. Witnesses said that he appeared to take the assault personally.”

Naturally, I got all angry impatient and demanded details only the attackers could know. Denvers, however, delivered to the extent that I wondered if he wasn’t making stuff up so he could answer increasingly minute demands.

“Stop it, Garrett,” Tara Chayne said. “Shut up and listen.”

“Huh?”

“You’re so tired you’ve started making yourself obnoxious. We didn’t rest well last night. I suggest we do so now, in real beds, and pick it up after lunch.”

Before I could commence to begin to start taking anything wrong, Denvers said, “I’ll show you to the guest quarters, sir. Your associates have been bedded down in the foyer.”

Guest quarters? Associates? I pushed back from the table and rose, snagging a roll as I went.

I had not yet cleared the room when the twins began to bicker, each bone weary and Mariska handicapped by the ration of terror found wriggling on her plate only moments ago.

I checked the mutts. They were all tangled up and sound asleep. Not one cracked an eyelid. All had bulging bellies. I told Denvers, “Thank you.”

He nodded, gestured for me to follow.

Guest quarters were back by the kitchen and just big enough to contain a cot. The door had a lockable outside latch I pretended not to notice. Good man Denvers went away without securing it.

I was as tired as I’d been in ages. So tired that I never had a thought about how my staying out all night might cause some worry elsewhere.

“Is there
a plan for today?” Tara Chayne asked, picking at lunch and pretending I was in charge. “Something more directed than what we did yesterday?”

“We did good work. We got stuff stirred. We got stuff done.”

Denvers had produced a fine lunch. I wondered what it would take to get him to take over for Dean. It was time Dean stepped back and slowed down.

Realistically, there was no chance that Denvers would. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

The sisters had made some surface peace. Tara Chayne was treating her twin as a truculent associate in our enterprise.

I couldn’t turn a blind eye to what had happened earlier, but they had no trouble because they had decades of practice.

I understood the core motives behind the shift.

There was an angry professional killer out there who might be interested in hurting Moonslight. Her place in the conspiracy needed redefinition.

I was too groggy to think about anything but aches and pains in a body unaccustomed to so much extended, unhealthy exercise.

Pain is proof that exercise is not good. Pain is nature’s way of telling you to knock it off or you’re going to hurt yourself.

Oh, sigh. “I was thinking about going to Constance’s place, getting everybody together, see who found out what, then scope out what to do next. Especially where Magister Bezma and Orchidia Hedley-Farfoul are concerned.”

I probably ought to see Morley and Belinda and check in at the house to see if anyone there had heard anything interesting. We had all kinds of people supposed to be snooping. And the Dead Man might, hopefully, be recovering.

The twins grunted in unison. Tara Chayne said, “I was hoping for something more direct. I like a plan more sophisticated than ‘Let’s go whale on some bushes with sticks and see what runs out.’” She eyed her sister as though willing Mariska to contribute.

Mariska had nothing.

Since her recapture Moonslight spent much of her time drifting off the way I was so much lately. Maybe we should become a couple. But of what?

Denvers still had dogs in the foyer, out of weather that had gone damp again. He felt comfortable leaving the door propped open so they could take their business outside.

They barked some, neither alarmed nor combative. Denvers went to check, came back to announce, “Some people to see Mr. Garrett. Associates of his, they say.”

Tara Chayne said, “Bring them in. See if they’re hungry. Unless there are a lot of them. We can’t feed a whole tribe.”

“There are two, ma’am. We have no suitable furniture.”

That told me who the visitors must be.

Sure enough, Denvers came back with Pular Singe and Dollar Dan Justice. Singe declined the offer of hospitality. Dan looked disappointed. He was a real rat, and real rats are always ready to tuck in. You never know when you will get the chance again.

I marveled that Singe had found me even in wet weather. Maybe I was developing Lurking Fehlske syndrome.

She started out giving me an evil, accusatory look but lost that after sniffing the air and finding me not guilty. I don’t know why she would suspect me, with Tara Chayne. Females always expect the worst of us, I suppose so they can be pleasantly surprised every dozen years or so.

I asked, “What’s up? Did something happen?”

“Very little. Yet. I became concerned because you failed to come home.”

“Exhaustion caught up.” I didn’t mention our gargoyle adventure.

Trying to stagger home last night would have been tempting fate. No way would I have been alert enough to slip another ambush. Nor had Brownie and the girls been at their best.

I was confident that “they” were still out to get me.

Whoa! Hey. Kevans became Mortal Champion because Furious Tide of Light had been eliminated before the tournament’s official commencement. And they had tried to get her already.

I told Tara Chayne, “We definitely need to go to Constance’s place.” I asked Singe, “Any change in Vicious Min?”

“Not obviously. She is restless again. With Himself asleep . . .”

“Yeah.” I had to worry big-time. Min might do some serious damage if she recovered even a little, as she had before. She might do permanent damage to Dean and the Dead Man.

Singe told me, “I brought in Saucerhead and Winger and told them to protect people and property if they could but to let her go if it looked like she might hurt somebody. If Kolda’s drugs are not enough. I had Kolda give her some herbals.”

Once again my little girl had proven herself so thoughtful and confident that it was scary.

“I told Penny and Dean no fighting Min. They should keep our inside doors closed so she cannot get into my office or the Dead Man’s room. Dean can barricade the kitchen and go out the back if necessary. Mr. Mulclar worked on the back door. Dean can manage it now. I do not think Min can get upstairs. She should only be interested in getting away, anyway. Humility will have someone there to track her if she does run.”

At her suggestion, no doubt.

John Stretch is brilliant, yet I do suspect that he owes some of his success to his sister’s quiet suggestions.

“That’s good,” I told her. She needs the occasional dose of praise. “How about Playmate and the girl?”

“Playmate has gone home. He was concerned about his business.”

“He should be. Why he leaves his idiot brother-in-law in charge is beyond me. What about Hagekagome? She go with?”

The dogs showed an interest when I said the name.

“He puts the brother-in-law in charge because he hopes responsibility will bring the man to a new appreciation of reality. An indulgence in willful wishful thinking, I expect. The girl stayed. Penny has her in with her. There is something exceedingly strange about that child.”

“No kidding. Both of them, actually. But some people who know about Hagekagome want to keep it secret from me.”

Tara Chayne might not have heard.

Singe asked, “How old would you guess she is?”

“Fourteen? Developed but a runt. And really, really slow.” Tapping the side of my head.

“I would have guessed her to be about ten, but I’m not the sort who focuses on a human female’s secondary sexual characteristics. Penny says she keeps telling stories about wonderful times you had together when she was living with you. Really simpleminded stories. Going for walks, chasing squirrels, curling up in bed together.”

“That never happened. I remember every woman and girl I ever shared a bed with, even when all we did was sleep. Like my cousin Hattie when we were five. I never slept with a ten-year-old. Ever. And squirrels? I haven’t seen a squirrel since I was ten. Not outside the Botanical Gardens. There aren’t any trees for them anymore. Firewood thieves cut the trees down and hungry people ate the squirrels.”

“I know. All that. None of it sounds like you. And Penny says the way Hagekagome tells it that stuff did all happen when you were ten.”

“What? No. But . . .” But.

I have seen enough to know never to use the word
impossible
. A dim and worshipful girl who had slipped a few decades in time? Unlikely, but I couldn’t reject the notion. I’d get my nose rubbed in it for sure if I did.

The trouble was, there’d never been a Hagekagome in my life before the funeral. Stipulating that I did have a vague sense that I ought to know that name.

A wave of sadness welled up and nearly brought me to tears.

“You remembered something?”

“No. I just thought about Strafa. Maybe I’ll go see her later.”