CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

When we left the Huntsman, I texted Gabriel a quick You still up?, which got an immediate Of course. I called and told him we had information and a lead. Gabriel didn’t even let me finish that sentence before naming a coffee shop halfway between his place and the clubhouse.

The coffee shop was surprisingly funky—surprising in that Gabriel knew of it. At one in the morning, most patrons were sitting alone, headphones on, chugging coffee, catching their second wind as they chased some deadline or other. Gabriel had taken a table and comfy chairs in a corner nook.

Three cups waited on the table. Gabriel’s coffee, of course. Black. A mocha for me, with slowly melting whipped cream. Black coffee for Ricky, too, with cream and sugar on the side. Apparently, buying him a coffee and knowing how he took it demonstrated the proper degree of consideration—fixing it for him would cross a line.

“Eventful evening?” Gabriel said as we sat down.

“I killed an elf,” Ricky said.

“A dökkálfar,” I said. “If I’m saying that right.”

“Which is why I’m sticking with elf.” He looked at Gabriel. “It was self-defense. It attacked.” He pointed to the bandage on his neck. “Elf bite.”

“Vampire elf?” Gabriel said.

“There is no such thing as vampires.” I turned to Ricky. “He keeps hoping for them, and he’s always disappointed.”

“I am not—” Gabriel began.

“Are too.”

He opened his mouth to retort and settled for, “You’re serious, then. About the . . . dökkálfar?”

“I wouldn’t lie about elves,” Ricky said.

“We were in the forest outside the clubhouse,” I said. “We got separated. Ricky was attacked by a dark elf who’d been posing as a hanger-on in the club. There were also disir.”

“Wights,” Ricky said.

“I like the foreign names. It makes these conversations mildly less ridiculous.”

“We’re still talking about being attacked by an elf.”

“True.”

“So I killed it,” Ricky said. “Killed him. I shouldn’t call him an it. Makes it sound better, less culpability, but yeah, it was still a guy, of some sort.”

“Who tried to murder us,” I said.

“True. Then the Cwn Annwn showed up,” Ricky said. “They’ve looked after the evidence. The remains, the knife. I’ll get Liv a new one as soon as possible.”

“You said this dökkálfar was passing as human? Is that a concern?”

“I doubt it,” Ricky said. “There was an incident at the clubhouse earlier. No one will expect him back. The Huntsman said he’d take care of the rest.”

“We should be fine,” I said. “I don’t think Illinois law covers elf-icide.”

Ricky found a smile for me. I knew it bothered him more than he let on. I’d pointed out earlier that I’d been the one who put the knife in Beau, but we both know that wasn’t what killed him.

“So why exactly did this dökkálfar attack you?” Gabriel asked.

“Taking out Liv’s bodyguard.” Ricky lied as smoothly as Gabriel, then redirected the flow. “I found out about myself, too. My heritage. I’m up to speed on all counts.”

Gabriel glanced at me.

“I told him the Matilda connection, too,” I said. “He needed to know why they all want me. Which leads back to the original purpose for this meeting. I know who offered my parents the deal, but that doesn’t tie things up as neatly as we might have hoped.”

—

As we talked, I e-mailed Detective Pemberton to see if he’d give me the name of Marty’s girlfriend. I gave him a story adjacent to the truth—that we had a good lead on someone who said she’d been involved.

Even without the name, Gabriel wanted to start digging, and I was fine with that. There’s no way I could have slept. Ricky had a presentation in the morning, so he took off.

Gabriel drove and we were halfway across the city before he said, “About what the Huntsman said . . . Your parents . . .”

“Hmm?” I said.

He fell silent, shaking his head.

I looked over. “I know you said it doesn’t matter if they’re guilty or innocent, you’ll still defend Pamela. This doesn’t change anything, then? Knowing she’s guilty?”

He drove another block, streetlights flickering through the car. “Under the circumstances, you might prefer I dropped the case. I would consider it if you did. But . . .” He rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what my decision would be.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for saying you’d consider it. And thanks for being honest.”

—

We spent the next few hours at the office combing through the first two pairs of murders again, hunting for a connection and finding none. When my yawning got too loud, Gabriel promised we’d leave soon, and suggested I rest in the chaise longue in the meantime. I did . . . and woke four hours later to find him still in his office chair, laptop shoved aside, arms folded on a stack of papers, his head on them. Sound asleep. He looked adorable. I considered taking a cell phone picture for future blackmail. I may even have done it, but I’ll admit nothing.

I went out and returned a half hour later. Gabriel woke when I placed a steaming coffee beside his head. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Groaned louder, pairing it with a wince, when he lifted his head.

“Yep, that’s going to hurt,” I said. “You should have taken the longue.”

“It was occupied.” He winced again as he pushed himself into a relatively upright position. “Even if it wasn’t, I don’t fit on it.”

Which was true. It looked as if it had never been used. He was too tall to sleep on it, but I’d bet he’d never even sat there. So why buy it? Another Gabriel mystery.

“Coffee,” I said, pushing it toward him. “Extra large.”

“Thank you.”

“And this.” I fished a vial of Tylenol from my bag. “For your neck. But don’t take it until you’ve eaten. Luckily, food is also provided.” I set down a box of four still-warm muffins. “Blueberry, banana nut, lemon poppyseed, and double chocolate. Your pick.”

He took the banana nut and set the double chocolate down by my coffee cup. I smiled. “Thank you.”

He leaned back with the muffin and coffee as I settled into the other chair. He eyed the painkillers but didn’t open them. I reached over, popped the lid, and shook out two.

“Your neck is hurting from sleeping like that. It’s only going to get worse. We may have a full day ahead. Take.”

He did.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, when you’re feeling better, Detective Pemberton got back to me with a name.”

He looked up so fast he winced, pulling his neck again.

“Relax,” I said. “Let the meds kick in. It can wait.”

“You realize, as your employer, I legally have access to your e-mail.”

“I didn’t use my office one.” I smiled and let him simmer for a minute, just for fun. Then I said, “Imogen Seale,” and he was on his laptop in five seconds flat.

I waited until he said, “All right. I have—” Then I passed over my notebook, with Imogen’s current address and a page of notes.

“Early bird gets the scoop,” I said. “Eat, drink, let those pain meds do their work, and we’ll get out of here.”

We were heading out as Lydia arrived. I left the two remaining muffins on her desk. She said, “Good morning,” and refrained from comment on the early hour or the fact I wore an oversized Iron Maiden concert shirt, grabbed from the Saints clubhouse because mine had been stained with blood.

“It’s too early to buy a shirt, isn’t it?” I said to Gabriel as we walked down the front steps.

“At this hour, if you hope for business wear, yes. There are a few options, though. Nothing fashionable, but perhaps a little less . . .”

“Like I slept with an aging roadie, and he ripped my shirt off?”

A quirk of a smile. “Yes.”

“Lead on, then. I won’t ask how you know where to buy clean clothes at eight in the morning.”