Moonshine

"Pretty much," I admitted without compunction.

He laid an arm along the back of the bench and gave a grin birthed in vice. "Who could say no to that?"

The warehouse was as deserted as it had been that morning. Most of the crew were keeping as low a profile as possible after yesterday's failure. They would trickle in around dark, heads down and tails tucked. Cerberus was gone. High-level Kin meeting, stress-relieving massacre up north—I didn't know and I didn't care. I simply seized the opportunity. And after said opportunity spit me out I was back with reinforcements. "She's in the office," I muttered, scanning the gloomy interior for any unexpected visitors. "She's bound to be suspicious, though, a strange puck just showing up out of the blue. How are you going to get around that?"

Managing to swagger and limp at the same time, Goodfellow shot the cuffs of his shirt. "Succubi don't think like that. They're interested in eating and sex and they never have to work very hard at either. She won't think twice about me walking through the doors. She'll just light a few candles and put on a bib." He ran a smoothing hand over his hair. "Snakes don't wonder where their food comes from. They simply accept it. It's all about the ego."

"Too bad they're not humble like you," I said dryly, stopping in front of the door. "You want an introduction?"

"No." Linking his fingers, he extended his hands to pop knuckles. "It would only slow me down." He opened the door, then closed it behind him, disappearing into the office. Exhaling, I leaned against the wall and did my best to not picture what might be going on behind that door. I doubted I'd ever look at a snake again without feeling the phantom sensation of cool scales under my fingers and a slithering tongue twisted into a noose around my own. And the taste. Wet sulfur, it had tingled in my mouth like venom. Still did.

I'd bent over to spit when the sounds started from behind the wall. A rattle filled the air, buzz saw sharp and spine twisting in its intensity. A hundred pissed-off rattlers or a hundred orgasmic ones—I didn't even want to guess. Moving several feet away, I fervently hoped that was a good sound and not an indication that Robin was being swallowed whole by a supernaturally horny boa constrictor. Covering my ears would've been the cowardly thing to do; instead I folded my arms and tried to keep my head down… mentally speaking. I counted floor tiles, roaches, whatever I could lay my eyes on… anything to keep my mind occupied and out of the office.

When the door opened, I automatically checked my watch. Twenty minutes. Only twenty. I would've sworn it'd been an hour at the very least. Hair still immaculate, Goodfellow stepped out into the hall and shut the door quietly behind him. Unfolding my arms, I straightened out of my slouch. "You find out anything?" That's when I noticed the stains on his shirt. Deep blue, they were splashed liberally over a sleeve and half the chest. Not Robin's blood. I'd seen that and it was ordinary crimson. Ah, shit. "What happened?" I demanded.

The hand that had been hidden behind his back appeared holding a knife. It was a match for the shirt, dripping cobalt. Ignoring my question, he countered with one of his own, "Who here deserves to go down the most?"

"What the hell happened?" I repeated as I stepped closer. Now I could see the claw marks on his neck. They bled sluggishly. "Jesus, Robin."

"She wasn't in the mood," he replied with grim savagery. "Now, who deserves to go down? Aside from Cerberus, who is the most evil son of a bitch here?"

It was a question that didn't require much thought. Flay or the revenant, and we still needed Flay. "The revenant," I said automatically. "You killed her? You couldn't just… damn. Haven't you ever heard of no means no?"

"She was in the mood for sex," he snapped, heading past me. "She wasn't, however, in the mood to talk. She was more afraid of Cerberus than she was stupid, and that's saying something. This revenant keep any personal things here?"

We clattered down the stairs with Robin using his free hand on the banister to keep his leg from giving out beneath him. "How the hell should I know?" I shot back. "I've been here a grand total of two days. If the Kin passes out employee lockers, I haven't got my combination yet."

"Think." He hit the bottom and whirled to face me.

"If we don't pin it on someone else, you'll go down for it. You're the new one and all suspicion will fall on you. I did get some information, but we'll need you in at least one more day to verify it. So think."

"Son of a bitch," I hissed under my breath, more at the situation than at Robin himself. Scanning the warehouse, I tried to replay yesterday. Where had the revenant stood? Where had he come from when he'd slunk over? I focused on one area hidden behind a row of dusty, empty crates. "Over here."

Behind the crates was a messy conglomeration of blankets, empty bottles, spilled cards, and other mounds of discarded garbage. The employee lounge. One blanket was off a little from the others. In the midst of the wool nest was half of a desiccated human leg. Bite marks were evident in the long dead limb, and graveyard dirt was a litter beneath it. "There." I indicated the blanket with a grimace of distaste.

Goodfellow ignored the leg and shoved the blade under a fold of cloth. "All right. Let's go."

"Won't they smell you? On the blade or upstairs?"

"Do you smell me?" he challenged, wiping his hand on his pants without a single wince for the ruination of fine fashion.

As a matter of fact, I didn't. There was only the sharp smell of musk and spice. Cologne, and a strong cologne at that, to cover up any hint of puck scent. "Neat trick," I admitted reluctantly.

"It's a special mixture. I've been wearing it since this whole debacle started. I prefer to stay nameless and scentless until all of this passes. I'm a survivor." He moved toward the door at the quickest pace his limp allowed.

I studied the blood on his shirt as he passed me. "Yeah, I noticed."

That stopped him in his tracks. Green eyes hit me, harsh and uncompromising. "Do you want George back?" He leaned closer. "Well? Do you?"

It struck me that I might not know Robin as well as I thought I did. Complacent in his loyal but breezy friendship, I'd forgotten who he was. Who he'd been. Who he would always be. Pucks were good at most things, but they were absolutely exceptional at one. No matter what they had to do, they got their own way. Luckily, Robin's way was fairly benign. Comfort, luxury, a wildly varied sexual life, all of that came easily to him with little effort expended. But now… now he wanted George back.

Guess what. So did I.

"I want her back," I replied levelly. "I want her back and I don't give a shit how we do it."

When she'd first been taken I'd worried how she might feel if bad things were done to get her back. As the days went on and she remained lost, I decided I just wanted her back. Period. Bring on the bad things. Bring them the hell on.

The dark gaze lightened, then ran clear. "And we'll get her back." We moved on to pass from the warehouse into the light. "Don't waste any tears on the succubus. She'd killed more humans in her long life than you could begin to count. A predator falls. It's the way of the world."

"Law of the jungle?" I snorted with dark skepticism.

"If you want to be clichéd about it." He gave a weary sigh, rubbing at the weeping claw marks on his neck. "Let's get something to drink, several somethings in fact, and I'll tell you what I learned."

Goodfellow usually chose bars that reflected his personality, upscale and pretentious. This time he threw image to the wind and picked the first one we came across. We lucked out. It was dark, as all good bars are, but it was clean—from what I could tell. Plants were everywhere… hanging in baskets, creeping over the tables, casting branches toward the ceiling. And I'd have sworn there was a bird on every one of those branches. Parrots, finches, parakeets… and a shitload of others I couldn't identify. I wasn't much on our fine-feathered, jet-force-crapping friends. These seemed well behaved enough, chirping or squawking only occasionally, but I still shot a wary eye upward when I grabbed a spot at the bar. "Weird place," I commented, checking the pretzel bowl suspiciously for white streaks.