Greg, Weaselly Fuck

I couldn't find the Bok Building. I knew where the damn thing was, but the entire city block it occupied was engulfed in fog. Couldn't tell up from down in it. Thick. Cold. Noxious. The sulfuric stench was mild by human standards. Nauseating by mine.

Didn't spot the Magistrate barricade cordoning off the scene till I tripped over it. The grunt I made after stubbing my toe caught the attention of the rookie officer obviously posted on crowd control duty, but by the time he turned around I'd melted like a shadow into the fog and slipped behind the barricade. The haze thinned on the other side. So'd the crowd that had been lined up only hours before. Seemed only a small handful of Magistrate officers remained on patrol.

Octavius Dillard, the Magisterial Inspector I sought, hovered at the main entrance, giving orders to another uniform. He looked grim. As usual. Under that beard I could tell his jaw was tense. His long dreadlocks were half tied back and half swaying around his elbows as he shook his head at the officer and shooed her off into the building. Octavius, clearly unhappy with how the conversation went, tugged on the collar of his long duster.

A knit scarf was coiled around his throat and hung down his back. I could see the runes and sigils of spells, old and new, not dissimilar to the one's in Isla's window frames, woven into the gray wool with emerald thread. It matched his eyes.

One of those sigils at the bottom of the scarf glowed green. The gray threads surrounding it rose in twisting tendrils that dissolved to create the fog surrounding us.

"Neat trick," I coughed. "That Wizardry degree from community college really paid off, eh?"

Octavius spotted me and frowned. Probably cause I've made the same joke every time I've seen him since he graduated over a decade ago.

"Standard issue Magistrate Crowd Disbursement Enchantment, actually." The wizard extended me a hand to shake. His woolen, fingerless gloves matched his scarf, and itched my palms. "Cut the coughing shit, you don't need to breathe."

I snapped my fingers. "Dang. My next guess was going to be you pinched it off a sleeping witch."

Now, I know what you may be thinking, a witch and wizard, what's the difference? Short version: An education and lots of paperwork. Witches are all born with power and the ability to cast. They use spells and rituals to channel that magic to meet their purpose. They can create magic and charms and enchantments. It's all very spiritual, or so I'm told. Passed genetically through one's maternal side. Wizards are born human – not unlike vamps – and learn their magic. Bookworms. They can't create, but they can cast. And casting from written spells without any inherent magic required scientific accuracy. According to Octavius, at least.

"Ha ha," he said, without a hint of joy. "What you want, Greg? You look like you're on your way to the opera."

I nodded at the building. "What's the scoop here?"

As if on cue, a uniformed officer emerged, trailed by some other black clad government employed creatures. They dragged a stretcher – hovering four feet off the ground by magic – that had a rather person sized lump draped in a white sheet. Octavius gestured for them to pause.

"Incident on the roof. Dead waitress. Know her?" He peeled back the sheet. The mess that was left of dear Britney grinned at me, all lopsided. Couple teeth poked through her gory cheek. Couple more were collected into a little baggy lying beside the flattened half of her face.

Shook my head.

"Taylor Tyler," said Octavius (yikes, Isla would say if she heard that name). "Human. Nineteen. License says she lives in Bucks County, but I bet that's her parents' address. She waitressed up at the vamp bar. Irwin's. Hey, didn't you used to work at a bar with that name, back in the day?"

I shrugged. "Popular name."

"No, it's not, asshole." Octavius laughed. It was a tired, joyless noise.

"What happened to her?"

Octavius pointed up with a twirled finger. Kept his gaze downcast, however, examining the mutilated body. "Window to the VIP lounge was broken. You know it? Small room, hidden staircase, situated above the main bar. Seems Ms. Taylor," he checked a notecard clipped to her stretcher, "Ms. Tyler, here, went and belly-flopped through said window. With some force too. Tell me, why you suckers couldn't've just drained her? Still not illegal for a vamp to drain a human dead without a permit. It just is to keep them alive without one."

"And to sell unlicensed, underage blood donors out to the highest bidders."

He raised a brow. "And how you know there was illegal blood exchanges going on up there, you weaselly fuck?"

"Cause I'm a weaselly fuck," I said, throwing the sheet back over Britney's broken face.

Octavius waved his people forward. They carted the girl off. Time to get to the point, old fella, this wasn't a good night to loiter on the edge of a crime scene.

"And I may have also left something upstairs. Documents. I suspect they'd be in the manager's office."

"You suspect?"

I grinned, flashing a bit of fang.

"I suspect," said Octavius, "it be very illegal for me to just give you evidence, bud."

"The D'Onofrio Pack owns this whole joint. Believe that? High roller vampire like Dmitri Favichia rents a bar in a wolf owned property?"

Octavius swore. At least it sounded that way. Not sure, I wasn't the one with the Wizardry degree, but whatever ancient language he so aggressively mumbled caused the sigils on his scarf to flare a sickly green. He extended a finger and a green spark jumped off his glove and formed an ethereal cigarette cradled between his lips.

"Docs can prove that?"

"We can find out," I shrugged. "What's that education doing for you, if you can't even get taken off the werewolf turf beat?"

"Nothing."

"You know you're shit at vamp/wolf politics."

"Cause I don't give a shit 'bout your petty feuds."

"Bet the wolves in your department are all paid off anyway. Let me peek at those papers, and I can give you some insight—"

"You think that girl was pancaked over real estate jawn?" Octavius deeply inhaled the green smoke from his cigarette. "Kind of tracks. Lady who runs the joint was screaming her fangs off. Slapped her with some undocumented blood selling charges, booked her, but she'll be out before morning. You tend to take care of your own like that. See?" He elbowed me, "hang around the wrong crowd enough and you pick up a few things. Me and my shitty degree can handle the case, Greg."

While that certainly sounded like a dismissal, Octavius ushered me inside the building. As we crossed the threshold, the wizard tugged on a thread in his scarf, and those that had formed his fog spell wove themselves neatly back into place. Plain old scarf, good as new. Like magic.

Our footsteps echoed along the deserted halls. Some Magistrate worker bees were buzzing softly about, snapping photos and levitating evidence boxes down the hall. None questioned Octavius as he led me to the elevator.

It seemed bigger now. The elevator. Quieter and staler, too.

"You been to a baby shower lately?" Octavius mumbled into the tacky silence. "Er, sprinkle, whatever."

"The hell's a sprinkle?"

"Like a baby shower, but for your second, or in this case third, kid."

"Aren't those usually a ladies only affair?"

"Co-worker's doing this mixed gender thing in the spring," he gestured to my outfit, "what'd you wear for something like that?"

"You? Something that makes you look less homeless."

Octavius grunted.

Upstairs, the bar's crowd had thinned, and then added some more Magistrate goons. Not as many flannel clad servers as I remembered seeing earlier stuck around. They gave their statements in hushed voices. Faces pale and gray and too bony now that the fluorescent lights had cranked on. It reflected off abandoned, half drank glasses, and some knocked over bar stools. Pair of panties were forgotten on a fern. I spotted what I assumed to be the bloody hoofprints of the minotaur leading from the patio into the stairwell.

Octavius guided me through quickly, ignoring any uniforms glancing my way. Found myself back in that pungent locker room. Tucked away in a corner by the showers, behind an opaque glass door, was the manager's office (according to the plaque on the front). It was no better than a windowless closet. Desk and chair crammed against one wall. Filing cabinet against the other. Lingerie and jock straps hung on the coat rack.

"This better be a worthy case of yours," said Octavius.

I yanked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. "To be determined."

Accounting, alcohol, catering, costumes, donors, expenses, blah blah boring.

"So Ms. Tyler fell out the window of the VIP lounge, onto the patio one story below. Whoever did it must've had one hell of an arm," he continued, probably out of boredom more than anything else. "Course that lounge was empty by the time we showed up."

"What you expect, the killer to stick around and confess to murder before sunrise?"

Themed nights. That was—hm that wasn't at all what I was looking for but I was curious. 90s was circled in red for January. Ah, next month's theme was safari. Somebody had doodled a giraffe in the margins.

Isla'd probably find that funny.

"Pfft, you know my job ain't to solve the murder of an unregistered human," he sucked in a deep enough drag at that cigarette that it dissolved into sparkles. "No registration, no donor license, not a member of Society, not my jurisdiction."

"Such compassion for your fellow humans."

His shoulders slumped. "I don't make the rules."

A folder in the second drawer was labeled dog walker.

The manila envelope inside was unaddressed. But inside that was bingo! Looked to me like a property sale contract, all filled out and waiting for signatures. The vampires were out to buy this place. I whistled at the price Sloane offered. Showed Octavius. He whistled too. The leader of the Pack would be a dumb mutt not to take them up on it.

But then why send an errand boy and not your lawyer to finish the deal? From what I overheard, that was clearly who Sloane expected.

"If this thing turns into some kind of territory war, then..." Octavius shook his head, mouth twitching at the corners, but didn't finish. He didn't have to spell it out. It meant this unfortunate dead waitress case just got a touch more high profile.

"Then to hell with the waitress. Your bosses'll have a hard time denying you a raise when you finally cuff an illegal blood trafficking ring and the D'Onofrio kingpin, that it?"

Octavius cracked a genuine smile for the first time since I think he was born. It didn't last long. Fading the instant he noted: "Why a waitress?"

Why several?

It hit me then. Like a blood craving in a Red Cross tent.

I was wrong. Back at Isla's place. We weren't set up. The bar was. The D'Onofrios' lawyer didn't show because the D'Onofrios didn't want the deal. They wanted the vamps out. Britney was killed for the attention. To draw the Magistrate inside and break all this up.

When I was done, I returned all the papers, without snapping any photos (Octavius watched me too closely to get away with that). Did another quick check of the donors file for hiring and employees, but as expected, no resignation from Lily Perez, and no list of her usual clients. In fact, seemed only a small handful of humans legitimately worked here on paper. Not nearly as many as I'd seen this evening. Meaning none of those kids serving their veins up out on the patio had the protections being a legal donor afforded.

Namely, the privilege of the authorities giving a damn when you die or go missing.

Your death would have to lead to a blood bust for that.

"Thanks," I said, wiping my prints off the cabinet drawer. "You're a real pal.

Octavius manifested another cigarette. "Don't thank me yet, I haven't mentioned what you're going to do for me."

Ah. Of course. "A favor's not just a favor?"

"Not till it's returned. What you know about a break in at the library?"

What?

"What?"

"The library, you uncultured swine. Couple of books got lifted from the Cursed Tomes wing from the main building, some heavy dark magic, nasty shit. Had hexes on 'em and everything." As he spoke, Octavius ushered us out the locker room and swiftly back to the main lounge. He craned his neck, obviously looking for something, eventually pointing his fingers and snapping at a sofa in the far corner. A baby-faced vamp in a shirt unbuttoned all the way to his naval sat, pouting, while an officer stood watch. "Witness tonight claims a human woman was here, alone, threatening him. Something about secretly stealing—ahem, draining—a donor from a rival vamp, not that it matters to us, statute of limitations on blood donor pouching is beyond up. If that vamp's still kicking though," he clicked his tongue, "heard you had the tendency to the be the possessive types. Hold grudges."

I pinched my nose. The bile rose again. Hot and acidic. I swallowed. It went down easier than the thought of Isla being interrogated by the Magistrate over the two-century old 'property dispute'. "Sorry, friend, I don't follow. What's that have to do with library books?"

"Funny timing?" Octavius twirled a finger, and a glowing thread shot out from his glove to catch the elevator doors as they were about to close. Looks like I wouldn't be allowed to speak to said witness, get a description of that woman (not that I needed one). "Listen, if I knew, I wouldn't have to ask you. You can slip in and out of the, uh, darker corners of town more smoothly than I can."

The elevator doors closed behind us.

"You give me too much credit."

"You snuck away when a body hit the roof. And guess what? Nobody's named you so far," he shrugged. "Don't play that vampy coy shit with me and say you weren't. You still got blood on your jacket."

"Vampire." I licked my thumb and dabbed the stain on my lapel. Isla was wearing this jacket. The collar smelled like her. Mint and orange shampoo. Incense. That wine like fragrance that seemed to cling to her skin. "That could be from anyone."

"Anyone with a permit."

We exited onto the ground floor and I sighed. "So the deal is you want me to find stolen books?"

"If you can get that chatty secretary of yours to pencil it into your busy schedule."

Octavius held out a palm and whispered an incantation, blowing softly on his glove as he finished. The threads rose and shifted, knotted and looped around each other, eventually forming words. Another wave of his hand and a few magic words later, alakazam, the threads were pinched off and floating into my awaiting pocket.

"The book titles," he said.

I stretched the threads out like an accordion.

"Could've just written them down you—" my throat tightened. The Black Book of the Dead, English Translation by E. O'Connell 1923. Handbook for the Recently Deceased, 1988 edition. Necronomicon, Bound in Human Flesh, 2nd edition translation. "What kind of mope you take me for? I'm already dead. Now you're trying to throw fanging death curses at me?"

Octavius wasn't listening to my snarls. Instead, he slapped me on the back, like a cowboy telling his horse to scram, and turned back into the elevator. "I'm not asking for a fucking book report."

Good.

Cause I wasn't putting my mitts on any of those tomes.