Chapter 83
“Bourbon, on the rocks, please,” Benedict chugged, signaling to the morose-looking waiter before turning to face Lucille.
She was aware all eyes and antennas in the room had turned to him, the hush masking the usual debauchery.
“Still looking to find your sister?” Benedict murmured in askance, drumming his long, hairy fingers on the marble tabletop, seemingly enjoying the authority he possessed that kept everyone hooked. His arms bulged from the navy blue khaki of his police uniform, making him appear intimidating even when he was relaxed. Werewolves were like that: big, hairy, and dapper-looking bears.
Lucille nodded disjointedly; she’d already heard the chime of the doorbell ding as several people
Flew out of the nightclub, their familiars hot on their heels. People with bigger secrets than the rest of the folk that had ambled into submissive silence
“No one has been able to cross the rift since the night of The Reckoning,” Lucille said, shuddering before she swirled her drink and flicked one long strand of blood red hair before continuing as the man’s pale brown eyes followed the movement.
“If Luna had somehow managed to cross, she had to be on the other side, wherever that light leads.” You’ve got to help me! Lucille managed through the lump in her throat, flailing her pale hands. The thought of that night always gave Lucille the shakes.
Benedict knew the girl hadn’t been the same ever since her twin disappeared; it was like there was a great hollow in her chest that the chocolate sundaes she always seemed to have in her hand didn’t quite fill.
The werewolf fixed his coppery gaze on Lucille thoughtfully, scratching at the tufts of patchy brown hair on his chin that hadn’t managed to connect into a full beard.
His brows creased over the brown expanse of his forehead. He was giving Lucille that alpha detective stare again, the one that made her feel like he was staring straight through her. And maybe he was; he radiated the energy of Magnus, the brown bear.
“If she’d passed through that light, Gingerbread, she’d be dead.” Benedict spoke slowly, as though Lucille would understand better if he did.
“You don’t know that!” Lucille’s high-pitched squeal made a few of the Fae turn towards her again. Nosy things.
“I saw what happened to the old cathedral when it was sucked into gingerbread; that light, whatever it is, crushed the edifice into smooth powder.” He reasoned, gentling his tone.
“Okay, maybe she didn’t use the rift; maybe she’s still in Armagetton!” Lucille squeaked, and Benedict sighed heavily.
“Please! Please Ben!”
“I dunno, ginger.” There have been lots of petty bloodsucking cases on my table since that night. Benedict growled, tipping his police hat conversationally.
Lucille made a small sound of outrage, slamming her hands on the table, but Benedict hadn’t so much as flinched.
“Did you think that maybe wherever your sister is, she doesn’t want to be found?” He prodded, his roguish face now caked with hard, unsmiling seriousness as he leveled the scarlet-haired raven with his gaze.
“I mean, it’s not exactly the first time she’s run off now, is it?” Benedict interrupted Lucille with a raised hand as she opened her mouth to disagree.
Benedict still remembered how often Lucille’s mother would sit in the miniature waiting room of the department, stubbornly eyeing the police register with a cup of cold coffee cuddled in her lap.
“All I’m saying is look around, will you?” I’m only a worker, Alpha! Some parts of this goddamn city I can’t go to! “And my poor girl, she’s had a hard life!” Their mother had begged before bursting into wracking sobs when Benedict had finally shuffled out.
“Ma’am.” He’d sighed, tapping his pen on his half-folded note lightly as he towered over the slender woman.
“Please, Alpha sir!” She screamed suddenly, rising to her tiptoes to grip his belt buckle, prompting him to nod confidently.
They’d found Luna sleeping on the long pews of the old cathedral, the halo of the cop flashlight illuminating her full face. She’d been mooching off the Reverend for days before they’d taken her back to their derelict Moose Street cottage.
He quite liked Lucille, but Luna Arkavis wasn’t anything like her twin; she never had the stomach for Armagetton, a runner, not a fighter, something he didn’t quite tolerate, not even in his pack!
“I don’t have a choice, Ben; she was all I had!” “And now I’m stuck with him.” Lucille whispered, motioning to the cobra that looked to all the world to be sleeping peacefully on the marble glass of the counter, but Lucille knew better.
She watched the snake out of the corner of her eye, momentarily stunned when it slanted one eye open, the gold iris narrowing to slits as it watched her, unmoving.
Benedict emptied his glass and sighed as he rose to go. Werewolves weren’t allowed to have familiars, but he could see how that night had derailed the lassie. He’d lost both his own parents and a few noble pups of the Armagetton werewolf clan to The Reckoning.
She looked fragile, Lucille, and delicate, like his mother’s antique collection of bone china cups, and damned if Benedict wasn’t a sucker for a damsel in distress; he felt the tug even now in his loins, but the Alphas controlled themselves. Sometimes.
“Graveyard Café, tomorrow at eight; don’t be late; I might know a few people we could ask.” Benedict grunted, earning him a gummy smile from the curvy woman.
“It’s a date.” Lucille finished, smiling, the heat in her voice replaced by something honeyed.
Only later, when the residents had emptied out of Devil’s Lullaby and she’d been rearranging her teeth in the small mirror of the restroom, did the uneasiness in her gut slowly start to unravel.
Outside the wicket doors of Devil’s Lullaby, the chaos had progressed as the night climbed on.
Two Faes were arguing loudly on the sidewalk; if it were any other day before her sister went missing, Lucille would stop to watch, taking in the flying fists and stories of cheating wives greedily, running home when the cleanup crew arrived to fill her sister’s ears with the gossip.
This night, she gave the pair a wide berth when they began tussling just as she hurried past.
Lucille’s neck was cranked backwards in awe of the heavy masts of dark clouds that now fitted across the navy-gray sky like a black smokescreen.
Lucille didn’t think she would ever get tired of Armagetton and its odd depravities, like how it was always dark and grey even in the mornings or the streetside contortionist on Anarchy Avenue that always seemed to have his ankle twisted around his neck, groaning deeply and spitting on passersby.
She was glad to have left Saint behind when she slipped out the club; it was likely he’d have spit back at the contortionist and gotten them a decent chase from the six-legged creature for their troubles.