The Last Word

Part 1

By the way all the stories start, you'd think it was always rainin' in New York City just before the hero gets dragged into a mess of trouble by a pretty girl.

But I swear, it really was rainin' that evening when I stepped into the Howler, a club just far enough off Main Street to not be the spot, but close enough that the hoity-toities didn't mind drinking there. Most of the folk there couldn't understand how the Howler kept itself from gettin' raided, given the Prohibition and all. I knew.

Giselle, the owner, was fae.

She stood behind the bar at the right side of the room, resplendent in a tight red dress that clung in all the right spots without looking trashy. Her hair was cut in a daring bob, and her heels made her taller than the rest of the women in the room. The top of her honey-blonde head was almost level with mine, and I was no slouch.

She looked up and made eye contact with me, and I immediately felt the glamour swirling around her. Fae glamour kept normal folks from seeing the bar as it really was. At the same time, it pulled them in with a powerful urge, making the Howler one of the most popular speakeasies around. Being half-fae myself, I could see through the glamour and resist its pull, but I figured since Giselle obviously wanted to talk to me, I should probably oblige her. After all, she gave me free drinks in return for the occasional pro bono job. I walked over to the bar and shucked my coat and hat, tossing them on the seat next to me.

"Evenin', Giselle."

One side of her lips curved up into a flirty smile. "Owan. The usual?"

I nodded carefully. So far, she seemed to be in a good mood, but I'd been around long enough to know that could change on a dime.

She set a glass down in front of me and poured in a measure of Irish honey whiskey. The rich amber color reflected off the polished surface of the bar as I picked up the glass and took a sip.

Giselle leaned her elbows on the bar, watching the door over my shoulder. Though ever the gracious hostess, there was a nervous energy in the way her glamour swirled through the air, sparkling off the low-lit lamps and candles on the tables. She caught me watching and ran her fingers through her hair, sweeping golden strands behind her pointed ears.

"So what did you need me for?" I asked.

She raised one elegant eyebrow. "What makes you think I need you, shamus?"

The term for private detective made me grin—Giselle rarely used slang.

"I dunno. It's just that every time you're in need of a little off-the-record help, my feet turn here of their own accord. D'ya know that tonight, I'd actually planned to go home and read? Rex Stout's new book came out last week, and I've had a copy sittin' in my flat for two days. Haven't even cracked the cover."

"Hmm. Sorry, baby." Her smile widened.

I kept grinning, even though my stomach turned. I'd been trying for five years, ever since I first met Giselle, to figure out how she'd laid a charm on me that set my feet to doin' whatever she asked. It went beyond the normal requirement of owing a favor—I was pretty sure I'd paid that debt to her long ago.

It wasn't in the way she prepared the drink, 'cause I'd watched her close, and she put no glamour into that whiskey. It wasn't when she touched me, 'cause I'd've felt it right away—instead, it had taken me near to six months of these "spontaneous" visits and the coincidences pilin' up before I realized the problem.

Folks didn't call Giselle a sly vixen for nothin'.

I downed the rest of the whiskey. No use in delaying the inevitable. "Whatcha need this time, doll?"

Lugh's Spear, she hated when I called her that. I could see the thunder clouds gathering in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes, turning them a burnt-sugar brown. Then she blinked, and the smile and the twinkle in her eyes was back in full force.

"There's a new hire. Roe Gillam." Giselle reached out, traced a circle on the back of my hand. "She's having a bit of an issue with a patron."

Her touch was cold as ice. I forced myself still, though the tickle of her fingers sent chills up my back and made the hair on my arms rise. My eyes focused on her lips, her soft smile. She was gorgeous tonight. Things around me faded to a fuzzy gold, and I leaned forward slightly.

Outside, thunder crackled, and I jumped. The movement jarred Giselle's hand off my arm, and the glamour snapped. My heartbeat sped up. She'd almost had me there. I met her gaze, took a deep breath.

"So what d'ya want from me?" I asked, keeping my eyes locked on hers.

"Just a little lesson. Nothing much," she purred. "But enough that he'll leave the girl alone."

"You can't block him from entering?" I checked the red-and-gold-shaded lamp hanging beside the door. It was one of the stronger anchor points for her glamour wards. A thick flurry of glamour floated around it, meaning the wards were in good working order.

She pouted. "No."

I raised an eyebrow. Saints. "You can't just change Roe's work schedule?"

"He always seems to know."

I swore and wished I hadn't already finished the whiskey. "I dunno, Giselle …"

Her red lips pushed outward in a pout, and she traced another circle on the back of my hand. This time, I could feel the slight nudge of power she put into it. I raised a second skin of my own glamour along my arm.

Again, the thunderstorm in her eyes flared, along with a crack of more thunder outside. "Come, now, Owan. This guy's done nothing too forward yet, but Roe's scared. She doesn't even like to walk home by herself anymore."

"Appealin' to my chivalry is a low blow, Giselle."

Another grin. "So you'll do it?"

I sighed. "Aye. Where's the girl?"

Giselle nodded at a point in space somewhere over my left shoulder. I spun to my right, swinging the barstool all the way around so I could lean my elbows on the bar. No use in askin' for bad luck by going around widdershins.

A jazz quartet was setting up at the other side of the room on the small central stage, while another guy in a newsie's cap was sweeping and polishing the dance floor. It was near seven o'clock, and most speakeasies would be bouncing by now, but the Howler served fae and those who dealt with them. Things really got movin' here closer to what normals would consider breakfast time the next morning.

Some of Giselle's girls were weaving among the tables, serving the few customers that had already showed up. Giselle only employed women as waitresses, but she treated them well, and usually had no issue with kicking out wise guys who tried to get too handsy. The fact that she wanted me to take care of this guy for her made me uneasy.

"Which one's Roe?" I asked.

"The redhead."

Redhead was a bit of an understatement—Roe's hair was gloriously bright and curly, with the kind of soft shimmer that made a man want to run his fingers through it. She wore it swept up and secured with pins and a sequined headband. Even halfway across the room I could see the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, adding a touch of warmth to her pale skin.

"Pretty, isn't she?" Giselle asked.

I picked up my drink, trying to figure how best to answer.

"Baby," she whispered, lips tickling my ear. "You forget, I can feel it when your heartbeat speeds up."

I eased my arm away from her grip and kept watching Roe.

Despite the wide grin on her face, she seemed skittish. Her blue eyes darted about the room, bright and birdlike, even as she chatted with customers.

So the problem guy wasn't here yet, else she'd be looking at one spot a lot more. I turned back to Giselle, keeping my eyes fixed on the big mirror behind the bar. I could just see Roe in it.

If Giselle couldn't ban the guy, that meant one of two things: she was afraid of him, or he was more powerful than any glamoured wards she could muster.

I couldn't see Giselle being scared of anyone. Wary, maybe. She should've been able to keep this guy out, if she wanted. But she obviously didn't, and so she'd called on her pet watchdog.

I growled under my breath.

Giselle's lips curved up in an impish smile. "Excuse me, baby, but I've got to go greet a few people."

Giselle moved away and motioned to Roe to come take her place behind the bar. As Roe passed me, she smiled, a warm and open smile that spoke of genuine friendship as opposed to Giselle's flirtatiousness. "Evening," she said, in a slight drawl of a Midwestern accent. Not a native, then.

"Evenin'," I replied.

Behind us, the band started to play a jazzy ragtime number. Roe turned and pulled a couple of bottles down from the mirrored shelving behind the bar.

The bell over the door rang. I deliberately didn't move, but Roe straightened, and her lips parted as she sucked in a sharp hiss.

"Roe! Baby doll. Let's see a sidecar, would ya?" The voice was loud and brash. Its owner moved into my peripheral vision—a tall, slim guy with dark hair parted to the side. He wore a nice suit, gray with darker gray pinstripes. He dropped his hat on the bar and straddled a bar stool. As he leaned his elbows on the bar, I could see the outline of a knife press into his jacket. His ears were just this side of fae—not fully pointed, but not rounded like a full human's. Half-fae, like me.

Roe set a glass down in front of the man with a sharp clink. Liquor sloshed over the side, dripping to the bar. "Why are you here again?" she demanded.

He leered, brushing his thumb along her knuckles as he moved the glass closer to himself. Roe started to move away, but—quick as a wink—the guy's hand snaked out and pinned her wrist to the bar. His chuckle sounded like grinding gravel.

I clenched my hand under the bar.

Roe put her free hand on the guy's arm and dug her painted, sharp nails into him. He winced, and his expression shifted from a mocking smile to thinned lips, eyes fixed on Roe.

"That hurts, doll."

"Giselle and I've both warned you, Eric," she whispered.

He laughed derisively. "Your boss don't care, Roe, otherwise she would've banned me. 'Fraid you're on your own here."

Roe gritted her teeth.

Eric stood, brought his right hand up to her face, and brushed a curl away from her ear. She tried to jerk away, but his fingers went around the back of her neck. He pulled her forward, lips almost touching hers, and whispered, "Roe. C'mon, kitten. What're you afraid of?"

"Not you," Roe snapped, the quickness to her words belying the faint tremble in her voice.

He laughed again.

I didn't like that laugh. It had a nasty tone. And I didn't like the dark look in his eyes. Dammit, Giselle knew me too well. I couldn't let this continue.