Who Needs Enemies

“I’m a dragon. Trust me, my priorities are in the right order.” His smile faded. “How come you were looking for me? I mean, I’m grateful and all, but it is a little unusual, really.”



“Keale mentioned he’d been drinking with you, and given the mess he’s gotten himself into, I figured it might be worthwhile checking to see if you were okay.”



He raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised he could even move if the doctors are right about the amount we must have consumed.”



“So am I, actually.” So how the hell was he flying? He should have been as comatose as Numar by all rights. Unless, of course, his poison had been Prevoron rather than booze. “Did either of you do anything more than drink?”



He frowned. “What do you mean? Like drugs?”



“Prevoron, actually.”



“No way. I’m allergic to the fucking stuff and, for as long as I’ve known Keale, he’s barely had enough money to keep up with his weekly booze consumption. How the hell would he be able to afford Prevoran, especially in the quantities he’d have to take to get the high?”



Good question. But if it wasn’t Prevoron then it had to be booze, and given he had been flying, it meant he couldn't have consumed as much as Numar. And that, in turn, meant there were no excuses for his actions—and no way out of a murder charge.



I didn’t want to believe he could have been that foolish—that careless. I wanted to believe the niggle inside that said there was more to this than met the eye.



Even if that niggle was getting drowned under mounting evidence.



The nurse reappeared and said, voice crisp, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go now.”



I nodded, then said to Numar, “I’ve bought in your wallet and a change of clothes, but if you need anything else, just give me a call.”



He nodded, and suddenly looked tireder than he had before. Talking had obviously washed him out again. “Thanks, Harri. I really do appreciate it.”



“No problem.”



I slipped off the bed and headed back to my car. By the time I got back home, the ogres were rummaging through the freezer, dragging out pizza and party pies. Lyle was lying on the living room floor, snoring loud enough to rattle the glass doors in the nearby blu-ray cabinet.



“How long has he been like that?” I dropped the carry-all on the table and walked across to turn on the percolator.



Guy shrugged. “Half an hour. He finished the Johnny Walker without sharing, I might add.”



I smiled. Not sharing top shelf booze was practically a crime in an ogre’s view. “He never was very good at sharing.”



The microwave pinged. Curly opened it, and the smell of ham and pineapple pizza wafted out.



“Want some?” Guy asked, reaching over Curly’s shoulder to grab a slice.



I shuddered. “I can think of nothing worse than microwaved pizza.”



“How about a party pie?”



“Except that.” I walked across to the fridge and opened the door. The seafood curry I’d made was still there, although it showed signs of a recent spoon attack. Obviously, none of the ogres had liked it enough to eat it. I’d have to start making it more often. I threw it in a pan to heat it up and shoved some bread into the toaster. “You guys hanging around very long?”



“If you want us to shove off, just say so.” Guy gave me a wide grin. “I’ve got a microwave and the pizza is portable.”



“My father and brother are coming around. It’s not likely to be pleasant.”



“The gay brother or the snotty politician?”



I smiled. “The latter, I’m afraid.”



“Saw him on the TV the other day,” Guy said. “They were asking about his prospects for the upcoming election. I ain’t voting for him, I tell ya.”



“Neither am I.” Not that our votes—or lack thereof—would affect Gilroy’s chances in any way, given the polls had him streets ahead of his opposition. “They’re due here at seven.”



“Then me and the boys will head off.” He paused, giving me a somewhat concerned look. “Yell if you need help. We’ll come a running.”



“I will. Thanks.”



He nodded, collected the stack of party pies and sausage rolls they’d pilfered from the freezer, and headed out. Ceri walked in just after they’d left.



“That’s what I call perfect timing.” She peeled off her coat then headed for the percolator. She poured two cups, and handed me one. “What’s been happening? And who the hell is that snoring?”



“Lyle. You want some curry?”



She walked over, gave it a sniff, then wrinkled her nose. “Seafood. No thanks.”



I shrugged and spooned it out onto my toast, and alternated between eating and updating her on events.



“So,” she said gloomily. “Keale is basically up shit creek without a paddle.”



“Unless the blood results come back showing Prevoron, he could be.” I scooped up the last bit of curry, then said, “I don’t suppose you have anyone in the force who still owes you a favor or two, do you?”



She regarded me steadily. “Why?”



“Because I’m a little curious who the woman Numar met was.”



“Again, why? She left his room well before he met up with Keale and starting drinking.”



“Yeah, but it’s been bugging me. He has absolutely no memory of what he did either during the day or with Keale, and yet he can remember the exact time a woman left his bed?”



“We are talking about a dragon here.” Her voice was dry. “Their lives to tend to revolve around sex at certain times of the year.”



“I know, and that fact alone makes me wonder why Keale would risk getting drunk. He was still seeing Rebecca—who is in season, remember—so why would he go on such a bender when she apparently hated the smell of the stuff?”



“Good question.” She paused for a moment, then said, “The only way we’re going to get a picture of her is to pull it from the hotel’s security tapes—and success depends whether they write over the same disk or not.”



“Doesn’t hurt to try.”



“That it doesn’t. I’ll see what I can organise before I go meet the weepy wife again.”



I raised my eyebrows. “You got the pictures she wanted?”



“In full, glorious color.” She grimaced. “I hope we start getting meatier cases. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing this sort of stuff.”



“We’ve only just opened. They’ll come once word gets around.”



“Maybe.” She hesitated. “I’ll be upstairs if things get a little heated with your father, brother, or uncle.”



“Lyle’s the only one I have to watch, and him I can cope with.”



“I’m not here to cause problems, Harriet,” he said, voice tart as he appeared in the doorway. He gave Ceri a barely civil nod as she walked past him, then dropped heavily into a chair. “I told you, I’m just want to hear what Gilroy has to say for himself.”



I rose, poured Lyle a coffee, then refilled my own mug. His fingers shook as he wrapped his hands around the mug. “You really need to cut the drinking, Lyle. It’s not doing you any good.”



“And who appointed you my fucking keeper?”



I raised an eyebrow and sat back down. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.”



I did—a hell of a lot of booze. “Were you and Mona having trouble of any kind before she disappeared?”



His gaze sharpened. “Why would you ask that?”



I shrugged. “Just curious. I mean, I know it must be hard for you living with a siren, and I wondered if that was why you’ve been drin-”



“I wasn’t living with her,” he cut in. “Couldn’t, with Adelia sniffing around for excuses.”



“Then who was? Because someone was keeping a whole lot of beer in her fridge.”



“Yeah, well, it wasn’t mine. Can’t stand the stuff.” He took a large gulp of coffee that must have scalded his tongue, though he gave no evidence of it. Maybe there was enough booze in his system to dull sensation. “Why do you keep asking stupid questions?”



“Because that’s what you are paying me to do.”



He didn’t answer, just sat there glowering at me. Thankfully, the doorbell rang before the silence got too grating. I walked down the hall and undid the chain that was all that was keeping the door closed. My father and Gilroy stood on the other side. Neither looked particularly happy. No surprise there.



“Come on in, gentleman.” I stepped aside and waved them in. “The coffee has just been brewed.”



“Let’s not make any pretense at civility.” Bramwell’s voice was cold as he stepped past me. “We will be here no longer than necessary.”



I’d expected nothing less. Gilroy—a younger replica of my father—didn’t even acknowledge me as he went past, but the faint look of disdain etched into his features grew as his gaze roamed the shadows of my hallway. No doubt the house was nowhere near the level of comfort he was used to.



They walked down to the kitchen, their footsteps sharp against the old wooden floorboards. Bramwell stopped just inside the kitchen doorway. Gilroy did the same, and I was surprised to discover my brother was a good three inches smaller than our father. In fact, he was only a little taller than me, and at five six I would have been considered a runt if I’d been of pure Elven stock. He was slightly broader at the shoulders, and though I was slender, he was even more so. My gaze slipped down to his hands. White and soft. Not the hands of anyone who’d ever worked an honest job. Not the hands of a murderer.



Frowning at the thought, I squeezed past the pair of them then waved toward the free chairs. “Take a seat.”



Gilroy looked at the chairs and his expression, if anything, became more disdainful. Something I hadn’t thought was possible. “Are they safe?”