Blood Games

He scratched the back of his head, yawned hugely—and sourly—while he led us to a glass case in the back of the store. He pointed at it. “Cards are in there. I’m right in the middle of a count. Let me get someone to help you.”



She put a hand on his arm. “Actually, before you go, a question—Mitzy Burrows. What do you think of her?”



His expression went guarded. “The CPD has already asked me about Mitzy. They asked all of us.”



“And I’m sure they appreciate your cooperation. It’s just—someone else was killed. We really need to find her.”



“Someone else was . . .” He began to talk, but then shook his head. “Look, nobody was perfect. But she wouldn’t kill anybody. She certainly wouldn’t kill two people.”



“You were friends?”



Something flashed in his eyes. “We were, and I’m not going to stand around gossiping about her. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t work here anymore, so what she does isn’t my business. And frankly, I don’t see that it’s any of yours.”



Mallory waited until he was gone. “He’s tense.”



“Yeah,” I agreed. “And maybe a little bitter. Did you see his eyes? There was something there when you asked if they were friends.”



“You’re thinking ex-friends?”



“Or ex–something else.”



Mallory nodded, gestured to the glass case he’d pointed out, and we made our way toward it.



Boxes of cards were displayed in tidy rows, from oversized cards that could have doubled as door hangers to a deck of cards half as big as a credit card. The art varied from fantastic to art nouveau, and so did the price. The decks ranged from a few dollars to several hundred.



“The Rider-Waite,” Mallory said, pointing to a yellow box. “Probably the classic American tarot card. Old-fashioned artwork, lots of delicious symbolism.”



Most telling was the empty spot in the third row.



“Someone bought a box of tarot cards recently,” Mallory said. “And they haven’t restocked yet.”



“Inventory,” said a woman behind us.



We turned around, found a petite human with her dark hair pulled into a topknot, the tips of her ears shaped into delicate elf-like points. She wasn’t an elf—or magic at all, as far as I could tell—so the ears must have been an homage. She wore a black skirt over chevron tights, clunky boots with thick, flat soles, and a shirt with short, puffy sleeves. She also carried a clipboard, a yellow pencil tucked beneath the silver clip.



“I’m Skylar-Katherine Tyler,” she said.



“Hi, Skylar. I’m Mallory, and this is Merit.”



“Skylar-Katherine.”



Mallory blinked. “I’m sorry?”



“My name is Skylar-Katherine. With a hyphen. Middle name Mary Francis. Last name Tyler. Skylar-Katherine Mary Francis Tyler.”



That seemed like a lot of letters to lay on a kid. More power to her for remembering them in order. “I bet when you were little you could never find one of those little license plates with your name. I certainly couldn’t.”



Skylar-Katherine stared at me. “You’re asking about the tarot cards. We had a Fletcher deck. Sold it a week ago.”



Excitement built, and I saw the gleam of success in Mallory’s eyes. It was the right deck and the right timing—a week before both of the murders.



“You haven’t replaced it yet?” I wondered. “I understood you bought the back stock?”



Skylar-Katherine nodded. “We did.” She gestured toward the stockroom. “Inventory. We’re not bringing anything else out until we’ve counted everything.”



“Could you tell us who bought the deck?” Mallory asked.



“Our customers like their privacy. Not everyone who shops here likes that fact announced to the public.”



Mal’s blue eyes flashed with irritation. “I’m one of your customers, and normally I’d agree with you. But we think the deck was used to commit a crime.”



Skylar-Katherine looked us over, and she didn’t seem impressed. “You’re not cops.”



“We’re working with the CPD and the Ombudsman’s office,” Mallory said. “We thought your staff and customers would prefer a visit from us—people who know the ropes—instead of police in uniforms. I don’t imagine that would be very good for business.”



Skylar-Katherine looked irritated, but she must have recognized the logic. “Fine,” she said. “Give me a minute.”



“Damn,” I said, as she disappeared through the door. “That was seriously impressive.”



“I have mad skills. But, you know, if Mitzy really did this, she could have just taken the box. There may not be a receipt.”



True, but I doubted Skylar-Katherine wanted to answer our questions about Mitzy. On the other hand . . . “If Mitzy—or any other employee—was going to take a deck, why take it from the display box? They’d know it was missing. They could have lifted it from the back room.”



“True,” she said.



I shrugged. “We’ll want to see the receipt either way.”



When Skylar-Katherine emerged a minute later with a slip of paper in her hand, I decided they should be paying Mallory a lot. At least until she spoke.



“The receipts from a week ago are already in storage. Inventory,” she said again, this time her tone haggard. “This is the manager’s name and address. You want the information, you’ll have to talk to him.”



“Will he be available later today?” Mallory asked.



“He might be. He might not.”



“Let me guess,” Mallory said, tucking the paper away. “Inventory.”



* * *



Mallory chatted with Skylar-Katherine about a deal on phoenix feathers (or so I guessed) while I perused the store. It was an opportunity I couldn’t exactly pass up.



Every time I thought I’d begun to get a handle on the world of the supernatural, something surprised me. In this particular case, it was the half dozen shelves of jars that apparently held ingredients for charms and spells.



Shakespeare had been right: “Eye of newt” was really a thing, as were toe of frog, wool of bat, and lizard’s leg. I decided to believe the newt, bat, frog, and lizard had been thoroughly compensated for their contributions to the magical arts, because they didn’t look especially content as their bits floated in yellowish liquid.



“I think we’re all done,” Mallory said when she joined me.



“Do you buy this stuff?”



She glanced at the shelves. “Sometimes. I really like to browse, but I try not to pay retail,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You go through a lot of stuff, you need to keep an eye on the coin. I use Spellseller.com quite a bit. It’s cheaper, free shipping, points with every purchase. Although . . . ,” she said, trailing off as she picked up a white box with “Wolfsbane” printed in calligraphy on the end.



Mallory opened the box but then closed it and returned it to the shelf. “Hey, Skylar-Katherine!” she called out.



A pause, then “What?” echoed through the store.



“The wolfsbane. Do you have any more in stock?”



“Isn’t that poisonous?” I asked, vaguely remembering a warning Catcher had given.



“Deadly to shifters in large quantities, but according to Berna, pretty useful in smaller doses. And hella hard to find online.” Berna was a shifter, aunt to the Apex of the North American Central Pack, and a damn good cook.



Skylar-Katherine appeared at the end of the row. “Empty box?”



Mallory nodded as Skylar-Katherine checked her clipboard. I guess the inventory had been useful after all. “Not at the moment. Hey, Curt!”



“Yeah?”



“Wolfsbane?”



He appeared on the other end of the row, a stack of boxes in hand. “What about it?”



“You got any restock in the back? They need some.”



Curt looked at Mallory appraisingly. “That’s dangerous stuff. Could make someone sick.”



“I’m all but licensed,” she said. “And it won’t be for humans, if you catch my drift.”



“Okay. Just so you know. There’s a shipment from our herbalist coming in day after tomorrow. It should be on that truck.” He adjusted his boxes, scratched his cheek. “We can hold it for you.”



“Might be after hours before I can get over here.”



Skylar-Katherine tapped the clipboard, walked toward the back of the store. “We’ll be here. Inventory.”



* * *



“When was the last time you ate?” Mallory asked as the bell rang us out and Curt locked the door again.



“I had a bite of breakfast. And several madeleines. But I should probably get back to the House. I can grab something on the way.” I needed to process what we’d learned, update Luc and Jonah, find out whether we’d heard anything else about Darius.



“You probably should get back to the House,” she agreed as we walked back down Division. “But right now you’re with me, and I’m starving, and you have to eat anyway, and I’m jealous.”



That stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk. “Jealous? Of what?”



“Of Ethan. Of Jonah.” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “Of Lindsey. We’re getting our shit back together—I’m getting my shit back together—and I miss you.”



“You do recall that I had to move into Cadogan House in the first place because you invited Catcher in?”



“Young love,” she blandly said. “It had been a really long time since I’d been with someone who got me the way that he gets me. I kind of dived headfirst into it.”



“You did,” I agreed. “And I don’t fault you for that. But I didn’t pick teams. I just needed a place to live. Furniture that Catcher hadn’t been bare-ass naked on.”



“He and Ethan were friends,” Mallory pointed out. “There’s no telling how bare that ass has been in Cadogan House.”



“Don’t want to think about it.”



“I just—I miss you. And I’d like us to spend more time together. Maybe I can’t make up for that lost time, for choosing dicks over chicks, so to speak, but I’d like to see you more often.”



She said it so shyly, so meekly, that I nearly got teary-eyed. But I’d had enough near-tear moments in the last few days, so I sucked it up.



“You’re right—I have to eat, and you’ll definitely be better company than Darth Sullivan. I can check in with the House while we eat. And speaking of”—I glanced around the darkened streets—“there’s not much open around here.”



“Oh, but there is,” she said, turning around so she walked backward in front of me. “Do you remember what we’ve always talked about? Our dream restaurant?”



“The All You Can Eat Bacon Hut?”



“The other one.”



I searched my memory, stopped still. “No.”



Mallory stopped in front of me, grinned. “Yes.”



“No freaking way.”



She nodded briskly. “Uh-huh. Some restaurateurs are doing a ‘beta test’ or something, and it’s only two blocks away.”



This time, I tucked my arm in hers. “In that case, let’s eat.”



* * *



It was the concept of our dreams, born after one too many nights at restaurants that offered rice bowls of the Choose Your Own Adventure variety.



But what if the bowl wasn’t just rice? What if it wasn’t just faux Chinese or Tex-Mex?



What if the bowl could hold anything?



We’d spent one warm spring night on her stingy back porch with cheap blush wine and her current incarnation of a boyfriend, and we’d set out a plan: a restaurant in which you could assemble the bowl of your dreams. The bowl of your deepest longings. From shepherd’s pie to a barbecue sundae, seven-layer dip or a trifle of cakes and berries if that floated your boat. There’d be cold stations, hot stations, and plenty of snacks.



We’d called it “Baller Bowl.” And it was going to be legendary.



The restaurateurs called it “Layers,” and they’d built it in a long, narrow space with exposed-brick walls and small tables in front of an equally long oak banquette.



A man with black disks in his earlobes and wearing a snug plaid shirt brought cups of water and two sturdy white bowls to our table.



“Welcome to Layers, ladies.” He reached for silverware in the black apron around his neck. “Spoon, fork, or spork?”



Mallory and I looked at each other, eyes wide. “Sporks,” we simultaneously said as our dreams came true.



The waiter put two silver sporks on the table. “Hot bars on the right, cold bars on the left. One trip per bowl, and each bowl’s ten dollars. Fill it ’til you spill it,” he added, pointing at the motto on the wall behind us, and left us to work our magic.



* * *



I walked Mallory back to the town house with a belly full of layers—heavy on the mashed potatoes, lardons, peas, and grilled chicken.



We reached the front porch, turned to face each other like teenagers at the end of an evening. “Now that you’ve fed me, I should get back to the House. Do me a favor? Don’t tell anyone about the proposal thing. Especially not Catcher. I don’t think I’m up for that kind of teasing.”



“Like he would tease you about that.”



I gave her a flat look, and she waved away her argument.



“You’re right. He’d be unmerciful. We’ll wait until Darth Sullivan pops the question and plants a two-carat”—she paused to let me argue with the prediction, but I just shrugged—“or four-carat or whatever ring on your finger, and let Catcher torture him instead. That seems safest.”