Wicked Misery (Miss Misery) (7 page)

It wasn’t their fault. They weren’t bad people. Just the opposite. Their love of life made me ill. They’d gotten the dream—wore the black-and-gold uniform, learned the secrets of magic, and were held up as saviors of my race. All because no one had screwed with their gifts.

Really, the way I blasted my misery to the world it was amazing a horde of preds didn’t hang around me like groupies. No wonder Lucen encouraged me to stop by more often. I was an emotional feast for the taking.

“What?” I’d totally missed whatever Bridget had said.

“I asked how are you, but it looks like you’re as tired and out of it as me.”

“Too many long hours chasing this serial killer?”

Bridget didn’t move as she stared at me for a good five seconds. “I didn’t think the cops were officially calling it a serial case yet.”

“I don’t think the cops are working on it anymore.” I raised an eyebrow.

“Ah. So this is what you wanted to discuss? Jess, come on.”

“Come on what? Look at the photos of the four victims. I could be any of them.” If I were an addict, that was.

“So could I. So could a thousand other women. You’re not worried about this. Aren’t you a black belt or something? What do you really want to know?”

I sipped my coffee, trying to decide on the best way to tackle this. Subtlety had never been one of my strengths. Meanwhile, Bridget was watching me expectantly. No sense hemming and hawing. “Rumor has it that the victims were all vanity addicts. True or false?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“At the diner. We get a lot of cops in there.”

Bridget borrowed my stalling technique, taking long sips of her chai. A twinge of something, annoyance or general unhappiness, had zipped through her mind when I mentioned vanity addicts. She was trying to decide whether to tell me the truth.

No matter. I could sense her deception, but I’d prefer if she simply admitted everything. To that end, I put on my best somber, responsible and concerned face. Probably, I just looked constipated.

Bridget’s shoulders slumped as she relented. “Yes, they’re all vanity addicts. But please, don’t go around confirming those rumors. The less the public knows, the less crazies we’ll have coming forward to confess. It’s one of the reasons we haven’t been releasing all the information we have.”

“Gotcha.” I twisted the ring I wore around my middle finger. All the information, huh? “Anyway, someone choosing to target the sylphs’ addicts could have serious repercussions, I’d think. Do you know if all those addicts belonged to the same master, or were they spread out? ’Cause I can’t imagine the sylphs taking that lightly.”

“They had different masters, so far as we can tell. The sylphs aren’t exactly cooperating with our investigation.”

That was hardly any wonder. The only times Gryphons ventured into Shadowtown were to rescue ghouls and addicts, arrest or kill preds, or bust illegal magic operations. Humans and preds might be living uncomfortably side by side these days, but relations were hardly cordial. At least half the Gryphons I’d met during my time at the Academy longed to return to the good old days when the Order had the right to kill preds on sight. Many preds, I suspected, wouldn’t mind the same arrangement, just with them doing the killing.

“You’d think the sylphs would want to cooperate if those were legally obtained addicts.”

Bridget shrugged noncommittally. This wasn’t getting me anywhere. Subtlety could bite me. “So what other information aren’t you releasing to the public?”

“I could hardly tell you, could I? But that’s about it.”

“Nothing else earth-shattering?”

“Nothing else earth-shattering.”

Everyone’s anxiety rose when they lied. Not consistently, and not always the same way, which was why polygraphs weren’t perfect. But it rose, and the taste of that particular anxiety was one all of its own. Kind of like burnt toast. I didn’t care for it, but I could identify it better than any polygraph. And the bigger the lie, the stronger the flavor.

Which meant Bridget was holding back at least one huge piece of information. That couldn’t be good.

Most importantly, did it have anything to do with why the sylphs had harassed me?

Despite my best attempts to focus on the murders, Bridget cleverly directed the conversation to other topics, mainly the possibility of me returning to the Academy to discuss life outside of the Gryphons. I told her I got the letter and would think about it.

I exited the coffee shop without much more insight than I’d entered it. In a pissy mood, therefore, I set off for my next errand—new charms.

I’d meant to get them refilled on Wednesday, but one of the Tallyho’s waitresses had called out sick and I took an extra half shift instead. Charm refilling cost money, and I could use the pay. Truthfully, though, I never enjoyed going into The Feathers, so I’d procrastinated.

Stepping out of the human-dominated areas of the city and into The Feathers was every bit as jarring as stepping into Shadowtown, albeit for very different reasons. No lack of color or life here, and no lack of garbage. The wise and allegedly benevolent magi were slobs.

Slobs with tacky taste in décor, mind you. I stepped around a pancaked rat and crossed under the grand arch that read The Feathers.

Colorful storefronts stretched up the long, straight street. The streetlights were painted red, and flags with pictures of crows, owls and falcons flew from them. Street vendors hawked their wares from gaudy carts. In the intersection ahead, a young magus on a bicycle and a human cabbie started shouting as they almost collided. Distracted by the near miss, I stuck my foot in a patch of something wet and sticky.

Swearing, I scraped the side of my sneaker on the curb. No one with half a brain wore sandals in The Feathers.

As I removed the crap from my sneaker, someone else—also on a bicycle—hit a bump, and his bags smacked me in the back. I stumbled into a magus purchasing something from a street vendor.

“Sorry,” I muttered, hoping the guy who hit me rode into a light post.

“Not a problem,” the magus said.

We stared at each other. The magus was an owl shifter, and a couple feathers around his pointy ears twitched. He had deep-set but kind eyes. Familiar eyes.

“Ms. Moore, a pleasure.” The magus extended a four-fingered hand toward me. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Olef—my brain dredged up the name at last. He frequented the diner every Tuesday morning on his way to some business meeting, buying a cup of coffee and a walnut Danish to go. Seeing him outside of the Tallyho was weird. I didn’t think I’d ever run into him before.

“You mean because I’m not dressed in some ridiculous wench uniform?” I asked, relieved that I wasn’t the only one surprised into stupidity.

“Exactly. Funny, isn’t it, how we come to associate people with certain transient qualities?” Olef handed a five to the street vendor and took something warm and wrapped in a puff pastry in return.

I repressed my gag reflex. Alongside the usual fare of coffee, pastries and hotdogs, in The Feathers one could purchase earthworm pie, mouse kabob and seven-seed pizza. At least that last one didn’t sound inedible.

“What brings you to this part of town?”

I finished cleaning my sneaker. “Charms.”

“Indeed?”

Most humans didn’t buy charms—or any sort of magic—except for special occasions, so Olef’s curiosity had good cause. Not to mention the type of charms I bought weren’t the usual ones. Among those who didn’t shun magic entirely, humans favored things like good-luck charms or protective charms. Or for those with medical issues, an all-purpose healing charm or a fertility charm could often produce better results for a lower price than traditional treatments.

“One of my roommates is paranoid about the recent murders. So I volunteered to get us some magical protections.”

“Oh dear.” The brown and white feathers that passed for Olef’s hair ruffled. “I do believe we have a serial killer on the loose, though I don’t expect the police will admit it for some time. It would explain the strange visions I’ve been having.”

“Visions?” Some magi were well known for their clairvoyance and often worked closely with the Gryphons in magical crime-related matters.

Olef nodded. “I’ve had a few. This killer targets women in your age range, it appears. You’d do well to take care, Ms. Moore.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but before I could ask more, Olef indicated he was heading into the library down the next left. I filed my questions away and waved goodbye. It was probably best to concentrate on where I stepped anyway.

I walked—dodged obstacles might have been more accurate—my way down the next block with my gaze cast resolutely on the ground. In that way I managed to avoid a steaming pile of dragon crap, a newspaper filled with rotting fish, and a stream of something purple leaking from a trash bag. The Feathers was dangerous in its own I-should-get-inoculated-before-entering kind of way. It was almost enough to make me long for Shadowtown’s evil fastidiousness.

Outside the charm shop, I paused. The peculiar minty and citrusy taste of agitation headed my way. I glanced behind, and sure enough, two uniformed Gryphons were crossing the street.

The magi stepped aside as the Gryphons passed, but they snuck glances at the humans’ backs. Some faces were scared. Others angry. Most were distrustful. Weird. The expressions on those birdlike faces made me feel like I was back in Shadowtown where dislike of Gryphons was the norm. But in The Feathers? No way.

I didn’t recognize either of the Gryphons, and neither one gave me a second glance as they strode down the tiny, gritty side street. That was when I noticed the blades dangling along their legs. Gold symbols decorated the black sheaths, but those weren’t ornamental swords. The symbols on the sheaths were magical glyphs, and the blades inside had been forged in salamander fire—a technique that made the metal particularly lethal to preds.

No wonder the magi appeared unhappy. This was no social or consulting visit.

I peered around the corner. What looked to be a restaurant had propped open its door, and the Gryphons climbed down the five stairs and went inside. Curiouser and curiouser. What could possibly be going down in The Feathers that would have all the magi on edge and Gryphons brandishing the threat of lethal weapons?

My mind immediately jumped to my conversation with Bridget and her monumental lie. Something earth-shattering. Something that might be related to all the serial-killing victims being addicts, a fact that only a few races would know. Like the magi. I sucked in my lip. Yeah, magi involvement would be earth-shattering and worthy of a cover-up until the Gryphons had a better grasp of what was happening. It might even explain Olef’s strange comment.

I ducked down the street and jogged to the staircase. Piles of trash blew about the asphalt. My sneakers crunched over sand and broken glass, and the stench of piss rose into the air. The street was deserted, and yet I recognized the restaurant’s name painted on the glass over the door. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was a well-known and supposedly excellent—if you were of the feathered races—place to eat.

Since there was no one around and very few windows to allow anyone to spy on my spying, I crept down the first two stairs, my back against the restaurant wall. Down here, the yeasty scent of baking bread overpowered the less pleasant reek at street level.

“Damn it, Xander. You know what this suggests.”

Xander. I recognized that name.

“It suggests nothing,” came a deep voice. “We do not appreciate your insinuation, Gryphon.”

A delivery truck roared by, blocking out the Gryphon’s response. I bent my knees, trying to lop a few inches off my height so I could fit under the restaurant window, a move that would bring me closer to the door.

“—better spent questioning the others instead of marching around here with your weapons hanging out.”

“The council’s authorization—”

“Means nothing to me. I cannot speak for—”

Again, traffic. This time horns interfered with my hearing. But
council
triggered my memory of Xander. Unless I was getting my names confused, he was a very influential magus, a member of the Boston Magical City Council, advisor to the mayor, occasional magi representative to one or both of Massachusetts’ senators, and the owner of The Nest, the dining establishment by which I was currently crouching. Well, that explained a few things, and opened up a whole ’nother can of worms.

Worms. Magi. I killed myself sometimes.

A young dragon skidded across the sidewalk and stared at me from atop the steps.
Go away,
I willed it, returning my attention to the barely audible conversation.

“—with the preds.”

“Get off it, Xander. Their hearts were missing. We all know what that means. No one’s persecuting—”

Fuck! I snapped my wrist violently, and the reddish-brown dragon flew into the concrete steps. I doubled over in pain, blood oozing from between my fingers where it had bitten me.

Goddamned, scaly, oversized, fire-breathing rats! Unable to hold in a scream any longer, I dashed up the stairs.

Sometimes having magical blood sucked. First the imp sting and now this. I stole a look toward the restaurant’s steps. The dragon had climbed to the top, shaking its head as though attempting to shrug off the impact. It flapped its wings a few times and stumbled forward.