Hour of the Dragon - Heather Killough-Walden Page 0,28
make you an offer, Mr. Price.” Then, in the style of one of the few human characters he’d ever appreciated, solely due to the amount of entropy the mafia created, he finished with, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Chapter Six – Damp and empty warehouse in some unnamed US city.
“You say this girl is your sister.” Detective Hendrix James turned the photograph slowly from side to side, tilting it in the sparse light of the room. The photograph was creased at various folding lines and frayed at the edges, clearly frequently used, hence not in the best condition. A single un-covered bulb hung from a similarly naked wire in the ceiling. It was the room’s only décor, and it didn’t offer the best illumination for studying something up-close. But James didn’t need to study anything about this offer up-close to understand it quickly and thoroughly.
The woman in the photograph was uniquely pretty, with masses of wild reddish-blonde hair and vivid eyes of a color he couldn’t quite place due to the photo’s shoddy condition. She was looking away, smiling and laughing at something or someone outside the photograph. She was also in ultra-clear focus, but on a background that was distinctly out of focus, indicating a great distance between the photographer and his subject. Meaning, whoever had taken the picture had done so without her knowledge.
“That’s what I told you,” said the man who’d given him the photograph.
I know that’s what you told me, thought James. Clearly I don’t believe you. If only he could read minds like some of the people he knew.
“Mr. VanGogh, or whatever your name really is,” James said wearily as he sighed, “I don’t track down women on behalf of their stalkers. You’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”
The man cocked his head to one side and studied James carefully, but his expression admitted neither surprise nor disappointment. Only intelligence. “Is Henry truly your first name, detective? Or is it perhaps actually Hendrix, and this counter-order of the rather noteworthy nomenclature, not to mention the obviously healthy sense of humor your parents displayed, has caused you to cultivate the truncated version, Henry, out of awkward embarrassment?”
James said simply, “It’s Mr. James.” He was fairly sure he’d never told the man he was a detective, much less hinted that Henry could be short for what it was short for. He was fast growing uncomfortable with this meeting.
VanGogh smiled broadly. “If you’re concerned about payment,” he said easily, “I can assure you that you needn’t be.”
But James wasn’t worried about the money. He had plenty of money. He’d agreed to meet this man for two other reasons. One, if this potential client had been legit, it meant a young woman was missing and the client had been genuinely concerned for her safety. No harm in helping find a lost soul. And two, James had already been tasked by someone else with looking into things like this. Disorderly things, so to speak. Things like men hunting down women.
The sovereigns had put out what amounted to an APB on criminal activity of a more primordial nature. Stalking, rape, violence, murder – these were primordial. They were man’s most ancient emotions put into action, and those ancient emotions were chaotic by nature, which is why they were currently on sovereign radar. They might be linked to the entropy god. Or chaos god. Or whatever he was.
James had been hired not by the sovereigns, but by the Nomad herself.
They were old friends, he and Katrielle. They went way back.
Kat asked him to investigate and notify her of anything involving women, in particular. She seemed to believe that there was an integral link between the chaos god on the loose and a string of odd and unnatural events, the latest and most gruesome of which were a rash of serial killings taking place in the United States.
Shit like this required someone “on the inside” who could break down the chain of command and get to the source without raising suspicion. James was that someone because he had strong ties to both the mortal and supernatural worlds.
He liked to think of himself as a superhero of sorts. His partner on the Force would disagree wholeheartedly of course, but she also liked hazelnut creamer in her coffee, so obviously she was screwed in her adorable head and her opinion didn’t count. Like any good superhero, James maintained two personas. By day, he was a cop. He had a trusted partner,