Death & Desire (The Jezebel Files #2) Ebook

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Chapter 1

I never expected Touched by an Angel to stray into bad touch territory.

“Tall, white robes, white wings. Was there a celestial light? Did anyone see a halo?” The questions I asked in pursuit of the truth.

“It’s an Angel of Death. It kills people.” Husani Tannous, a late-twenty-something Egyptian, adjusted his baseball cap to hide his receding hairline. “It doesn’t get a halo.”

Ironclad logic from a man who’d paired his masculinity issues with the semi-automatic at his feet. Like fine wine with cheese. Or gasoline with a match.

This living room was as much a battlefield as any muddy trench. There was even a dead body upstairs, and if the animosity down here got out of hand, more casualties to come. The fluttering in my stomach did double duty as nerves and a coiled excitement.

“I’m not trying to be facetious,” I said, steepling my fingers and leaning back in a fancily embroidered chair. “But I do need the facts.”

“The facts are that it murdered my brother!” He shook his fist. “And I will avenge him!”

His cousin, Chione, slowly stroked a finger over the handgun in her lap, all the while sucking butter off her toast.

I leaned in, fascinated by her particular brand of multitasking.

“Big talker, Husani. How will you find this angel? Are you going to fly up into the sky?” Chione said in Arabic-accented English.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Flying magic doesn’t exist.” Rachel Dershowitz, early fifties and mother of the bride-to-be Shannon, was as bitter as the gin and tonic she gulped down. The gaudy rock on her finger had fewer facets than the sneer she shot Chione.

Chione’s hand twitched on her gun and I stepped between the two women. “Did Omar have any enemies? Any reason why anyone would come after him?”

“Omar is a good boy. No enemies. This is a hate crime. Those sons of dogs killed our firstborns before and they’re doing it again!” Thank you, Masika Tannous, the grandmother and matriarch of the clan visiting from Cairo. While the little old lady was knitting a sweater like many a sweet grandma, she wielded her needles with a savage ferocity that scared me more than the Uzi of questionable origin propped against her side.

Between Masika, Husani, and Chione, this mercenary family packed more firepower than the Canadian Armed Forces, but like I’d always said, Mundanes didn’t require magic to be dangerous.

The physical weapons from the Tannouses were countered by serpents made of light magic that writhed above the table, ready to pounce on their victim and squeeze the life out of them.

I wanted to smack sense into all of them, but it was hard enough doing my job, never mind exuding enough badass vibes to keep these two families in line.

“You brought death into my home. Jews shouldn’t mix with Egyptians,” said Ivan Dershowitz. The fleshy home-owner on my left sat next to his wife and daughter on a high-backed chair with spindly legs that strained under his weight. His light magic bobbed like a cobra.

The two families hurled racist epithets back and forth, this season’s bridal registry must-have.

The delicate-featured Shannon let out a hysterical wail that probably used up her caloric intake for the week. However, she was the only one acting appropriately in my opinion, given her groom-to-be had been murdered. The heavens agreed with my assessment as a shaft of sunlight cut through the clouds on this March morning to confer a kind of benediction upon her.

What can I say? When I was right, I was right.

I whistled sharply. “Assuming we take the story of Passover literally, Malach, that Angel of Death, killed all the firstborn sons to free the Jews from an oppressive slavery. While it is Passover this week, we have only the one death, though I’m monitoring that.” I turned to Masika. “I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your grandson Omar, but one murder isn’t exactly mass smiting, not to mention, the Jews are sitting right here in their own home.” Low class, but hardly enslaved. “We need to keep an open mind. Perhaps it’s an Angel of Death and perhaps someone is using a good story, preying on centuries of superstition and hatred to hide what’s really at play.”

You point out one hard truth and suddenly the place was all twitchy gun fingers, snaky beams of light, and a knitting needle jabbed at you like a curse.

My command to shut it down was ignored. Fantastic.

The person standing in the center of the room cleared his throat, and everyone immediately fell back into their corners, muttering angrily.

In his forties, he had white hair and a white suit that veered sharply towards the 1970s. Between his wardrobe choices and the fact that he was the right hand man of the Queen of Hearts, my moniker of White Rabbit Man was hardly a stretch.

One day, I’d call him that out loud.

Given his overall vibe, he shouldn’t have commanded any respect, but the motherfucker of a sword in his hand helped.

Big deal. I could decapitate a few dozen people and get that response, too.

“If someone could show me upstairs so I could examine the scene?” Collecting the shreds of my patience, I met the cold beady eyes of the showpiece of this ostentatious living room: a massive crystal chandelier in the shape of a bird with its wings outstretched, soaring overhead.

Even the decor wanted out.

“Mr. Dershowitz,” I said.

“Rebbe,” he corrected.

Yeah, right. Ivan had earned that nickname not for his religious leanings but because, during his high-profile incarceration for assault and battery, he’d beaten a fellow inmate into a coma with a copy of Genesis. Can I get a hallelujah?

I gritted my teeth. “Rebbe—”

Ignoring me, he sent his serpent slithering to the ground where it circled the room. The urge to pull my feet up was strong. “This marriage was a mistake,” he said.

No, the real mistake was coming to this shitshow. Although it wasn’t as though I’d had a choice to refuse this “request.”

“We can stand here and argue the existence of angels,” White Rabbit Man said, “or you can allow Ashira, the private investigator vouched for by the Queen, access to Omar’s room so she can determine precisely what happened.”

After another couple minutes of mutually insulting each other’s matriarchal lineage coupled with some anatomical suggestions that I never intended to Google, Rachel called for a maid. Husani and the help escorted White Rabbit Man and me through the mansion down a long hallway filled with bookshelves that contained zero books but an extensive and disturbing collection of china bird figurines.

Birds! They’re just like us. They nest, they whistle, they rub their genitals against tufts of grass in a lusty manner.

“Was beheading too fast a way to torture me?” I muttered at White Rabbit Man.

The tiny quirk of his lips was the only thing on his impassive face that betrayed his amusement.

“We can take it from here,” I said to the people following us, when we reached the stairs to the second floor.

My escorts didn’t move.

“The Queen thanks you for your service. I’ll be sure to mention to her how you allowed me to do the job that she so kindly recommended me for.”

Still nothing.

“We’ll call should we require your assistance,” White Rabbit Man said.

Sure, that got them going.

I stomped up the stairs, stopping in the doorway of the guest bedroom to gather my first impressions.

I’d spent a summer during university working in the coroner’s office, mostly filing and doing data entry, but I’d been given the opportunity to accompany the coroner to the morgue. That’s when I’d seen my first dead body. Seeing that person so cold and alone and irrevocably gone had hit me hard. The coroner had shared the deceased’s tragic history and how he had been revived from drug overdoses on numerous occasions before finally succumbing to this one. Struggling to remain as professional as my boss, I’d asked how she dealt with this. Her advice? Learn to straddle the line between empathy and being pulled under, because these people needed you to swim, not sink.

I’d taken that advice to heart, so while I had no problem with death, the naked hairy ass currently assaulting my eyeballs was another matter entirely. That shit demanded danger pay. To be fair, those glutes were tight, but damn, they were practically obscured in a pelt of dark hair. And now all I could picture was Shannon threading her fingers through it during sex and holding on for the ride.

Yeehaw!

The bloated corpse lay on his side, facing away from the door. Omar’s skin was mottled purple and black and he was clad in only a white undershirt and a single white trouser sock. The other sock lay near his elbow. Given the condition of the body, my first thought was death by drowning, though he was bone dry.

Gingerly, I skirted the edge of the room and checked the ensuite bathroom. No bathtub, and while Omar could have been drowned in a shower with a clogged or blocked drain and then dragged into the bedroom, the shower and bathmat were dry and the drain was unobstructed.

Strangulation? There weren’t any obvious ligature marks.

Shards of glass from the shattered skylight in the high ceiling dotted Omar’s skin and glinted amongst the fibers of the area rug with its dizzying white and gold vine pattern. If there were birds hidden in there, I didn’t want to know.

Letting the possibilities percolate in my brain, I touched a fingertip to the window frame.

“No wards,” I said. “What kind of special idiot doesn’t ward the many, many giant panes of glass in their house, given the shady characters they associate with?” Wards sensed hostile intent and then held potential attackers, freezing them in place and neutralizing their magic if they had it. I dusted my hand off on my black jeans. “With oversights like that, I despair for the continued success of the criminal class.”

“I dare you to comment on the Rebbe’s intelligence,” White Rabbit Man said. “To his face.”

“Hard pass. I refuse to engage in any activity that causes you glee as it will be detrimental and deleterious to my well-being.”

White Rabbit Man shrugged. “Regardless, you’ll have to deal with him now.”

“If I take this cockamamie case.”

“You will. Your greedy little fingers are practically twitching in anticipation.”

I humphed. True, murder was a huge—and exciting—jump from the cases I’d generally dealt with since starting my own private investigation firm, but this particular gig came with a number of ethical implications.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I slid it out.

Imperious 1: Come to HQ immediately.

Me: Busy.

“This is murder,” I said. “How are you going to keep the cops out of it? Nefesh or Mundane?”

“That is your concern.” White Rabbit Man didn’t take his eagle-eyed gaze off the staircase to ensure we weren’t disturbed. “Both families were most insistent about that.”

I snorted. Shocker. The magic criminals and non-magic guns-for-hire wanted to keep the fuzz far away. I snapped photos of the space, leaving a closer examination of the body to the end. Surveillance work was better suited to a proper camera but, for quick and dirty documentation like this, my camera phone worked fine.

Another text.

Imperious 1: This is more important.

Me: My cases > your random problems.

Nothing in the luxuriously appointed room was out of place. Omar’s clothing lay unwrinkled on the plush mattress. Other than the broken skylight, all the furniture was intact and the freaky oil paintings of—wait for it—birds that looked like Edgar Allen Poe had dropped acid with Andy Warhol hung in perfect alignment.

Imperious 1: I thought you’d be interested that we identified the deceased Jezebel. But your cases >…

Me. Wait. What?!

Silence.

Me: Levi!

Imperious 1: We’ll talk when you’re less busy.

Me: You fucknugget.

Imperious 1: You’ve the soul of a poet.

White Rabbit Man raised an eyebrow. “I trust this murder isn’t getting in the way of your social life? Perhaps making plans with your delightful roommate, Priya?”

“Yeah, yeah. You can get to me if I step out of line.” My flip tone belied the lead knot in my gut at him going after my best friend. “Spare me the ‘Bad Guy 101’ speech.”

“But they made me memorize it to get my certificate and everything.”

“Hilarious. The world of stand-up awaits you. Getting back to the case at hand, what about the fact that, according to public record, I’m listed as Mundane?”

“Since the victim is Mundane,” White Rabbit Man said, “you’re being hired by the Tannous family. There will be no conflict should anyone look closely.”

“Someone is going to miss Omar. You planning on telling everyone he’s moved to an island in the South Pacific, or do you expect me to procure a phony death certificate stating he died of natural causes? Technically, I can investigate this, but I’m not committing outright fraud.”

“No need. Your job is merely to find the murderer and hand them over to me. That way you won’t be violating the conditions of your license trying to make an arrest.” He spread his hands wide. “Your professional well-being is our foremost concern.”

I brushed away a pretend tear. “I’m verklempt. Hand the murderer over to you and I’ll be bypassing such pesky things as law and order or justice entirely.”

“Oh, there’ll be justice.” White Rabbit Man gave me a cold smile that sent shivers up my spine. “The Queen guaranteed your discretion. She assured the families that you would investigate this case without putting it on the radar of the police or House Pacifica. She’s most insistent that your magic be kept under wraps for the duration of this job.”

This was the second time in less than two weeks that I’d been hired with that specific qualification. The first time was by Levi Montefiore and now it was the Queen, ruler of Hedon. I was beginning to feel typecast.

“Now,” he said, “are you satisfied, or do you wish to voice any other issues with your perceived moral dubiousness of this case?”

With White Rabbit Man and the Queen involved, the murderer was a dead person walking. Omar and his grieving family deserved answers and closure on this tragic chapter. Even if I wasn’t already delighted by the prospect of my first murder case, I was the only P.I. with the skillset to pull it off. In this instance, I’d concede that it came in handy being Mundane on the record but actually Nefesh.

“The Queen doesn’t want to get too involved if you’re bringing me in to investigate instead of her own people. Why not?” I snapped a photo of the bed.

“The attack didn’t happen in Hedon, therefore, the Queen has no jurisdiction to be a part of this.”

I snapped off several more photos from carefully staged angles, zooming in on what I was missing. “I’m her way of staying involved without looking like she’s involved.”

“You’re the only one we trust to handle this. If you refuse to investigate, neither family will go to the police for obvious reasons. It will remain unsolved, tensions between those people downstairs will spill into who knows what kind of bloodshed and retribution and—”

“Geez. I’ll take the case.” I pulled off the top blanket and covered Omar’s dangly bits. Whatever had happened to Omar, he deserved a little dignity in death. “However, the status of my magic is Levi’s call,” I said. “He’s House Head and if he pushes my registration through, it’ll be public record. There’s not much I can do about it.”

Besides which, I had zero desire to keep my abilities secret. I had a world of Nefesh mysteries to tackle.

White Rabbit Man smiled thinly. “I’m sure you can persuade Mr. Montefiore otherwise.”

Ignoring his implication, I noted that his shoulders were tense and his words clipped. He, or rather the Queen, wanted me specifically for some reason beyond the stated one. Normally, I’d have walked out the door at the very real possibility I was being used, but her knowledge of my blood magic hung over me like an executioner’s sword.

I cut a sideways glance at White Rabbit Man’s razor-sharp blade. Death wasn’t the worst fate. A betrayal that left you bleeding out on the sidewalk and never fully healed was far worse. Until I’d removed the Queen’s ability to blackmail or out me in a way not of my choosing, I was caught in this game.

I crouched down by the body.

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. Especially in the hands of Her Highness. But everyone had secrets. She had mine, I’d get hers.

Meantime, I had a murder to solve.

Were Omar’s features not frozen in an expression of agony, he would have been a handsome man. He was probably around my age of twenty-eight, with deep, soulful brown eyes, dark curly hair, and aristocratic features—other than the bloated tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“What’s in this for the Queen?” I said.

“The wedding was supposed to occur in Hedon.”

“In the matchmaking business, is she?” A closer inspection revealed no gunshots or stab wounds.

“She is the Queen of Hearts.” White Rabbit Man stepped into the bedroom, his sword now magically gone, and smoothed out an edge of the area rug that had flipped up.

I examined Omar’s hands. His skin wasn’t scratched and his fingernails weren’t broken, both of which would have indicated he’d fought off his attacker. Either he couldn’t fight back or it was over too quickly for him to defend himself. “Could this be a veiled attack against the Queen? Why not strike in Hedon?”

White Rabbit Man laughed, then saw my puzzled expression. “Oh. You’re serious. No one wishes to run afoul of the Black Heart Rule.”

“Is that what you call the Queen’s guards?”

“No. The guards police Hedon as a whole, but the Black Heart Rule is specific to the Queen or anyone she has placed under her personal protection. Any attack on those individuals results in swift and dire consequences. It’s a very effective deterrent. While this attack wasn’t directed against Her Majesty, she wishes to maintain the good relationships that she’s developed with these people, and if there isn’t going to be a wedding, then it’s imperative to her to give the poor bride and groom’s families closure.”

I snicked a hand across my throat. “That kind of closure?”

White Rabbit Man remained poker-faced.

“Plausible deniability. Got it.” I checked for bloodstains but found none. “If you want me to prevent Levi from alerting authorities, Nefesh or Mundane, that’s a separate fee.”

“Keeping the police away is part of the job you’ve been hired by the Tannous family to do,” White Rabbit Man said.

It wasn’t his completely reasonable tone that made me nod in agreement so much as the dark flash of anger he couldn’t quite hide.

“Can’t blame a person for trying,” I muttered, and took a few more photos of the body from various angles.

From downstairs, Husani demanded to know what we’d found.

“Ah, the dulcet tones of the belligerent male,” White Rabbit Man said.

“Hope your pay grade makes it worth it.” I stuffed my phone in my back pocket.

“Not everything is about money, Ashira. Excuse me a moment while I parlay with Mr. Tannous.”

“You do that. Me and Omar will hang out here.” I shooed him away.

White Rabbit Man stepped into the corridor and shut the bedroom door behind him.

I moved around to the opposite side of the room to consider the crime scene from a different angle.

The two families had been staying together to get better acquainted in the run-up to the big day. Sometime around 4AM this morning, the crash of the skylight woke everyone up and they’d come running, guns and magic blazing. The angel, with robes and wings as white as a Hollywood cliché, had startled and flown the coop. I shook my head. If we were dealing with a real Angel of Death, everyone should have been obliterated.

Not that angels existed.

Our world ran on power. Mundanes hungered to wield it over Nefesh and Nefesh over each other. We lived in a reality where magic was out in the open, and if there were supernatural beings of the undead, shifting, or celestial variety, then at some point in the past few hundred years, they would have boldly stepped forward and declared themselves top of the food chain. As none had, I took it as pretty concrete fucking evidence that there weren’t any.

However, I was a professional. Sherlock Holmes was a man of many theories, but he started each case with a blank mind. I had a room full of witnesses claiming to see an Angel of Death. Therefore, I would methodically pursue that line until I could, without any hesitation, cross it off.

Think an angel would respond to a pair of wings projected like the Bat-Signal? I snickered and eyed the body. “Okay, buddy, give me something to work with.”

Having ruled out the other obvious means of death, poison was the most likely culprit. Gently, I turned Omar’s neck, looking for any needle prick indicating an administered toxin or a point of origin if it was magic-based.

His neck was stiff and his skin cold. There was no pulse, not that I’d expected there to be.

When I turned his neck the other way, the motion caused his tongue to shift, revealing a white tip at the back of his throat.

“What have we here?” I murmured, worming my fingers into the gap between his locked upper and lower jaws. The item was slippery and the angle wasn’t ideal. I tugged on it, but the damn thing was jammed fast down the poor guy’s throat.

The scent of a hot sandstorm teased my senses, a delicate sensation of arid nights and dread. One more firm pull and I found myself holding a white feather that was a good eight inches—in ruler length, not man measurements. An ancient magic raised the hairs on the back of my neck. No, that couldn’t be right. This feather felt like it had existed for millennia, like it was older than time. But magic, the kind of magic that we knew of at least, was barely four hundred years old, having been unleashed on the world in the 1600s.

These were facts. The feather was old. Magic itself was not. And yet, here I was, holding a giant fluffy contradiction, still pristine even though it had been jammed down Omar’s esophageal tract.

I forced my shoulders down from my ears and, setting the feather on the ground, moved Omar’s head to see if there was anything else in his mouth.

That’s when his eyes blinked open and a perfectly nice murder got a lot more complicated.