The Cupid Caper

1 A Surprising Client Cornelius Lemann was a dictator. A grudge-holding tyrant. Alex and I were in a time-out. Professionally, not personally. Cornelius had a lot of influence, but not that much. The CEO of the Society for the Study of Occult and Paranormal Phenomena, aka the Society, overstepped his authority routinely, treating his staff and contractors like his own personal minions when it suited him. The whole blindly obedient underling gig wasn’t really me. I was an independent contractor. By definition, I was exempt from minion status. What right did Cornelius have to be all hypercritical about my past behavior? To basically blacklist me. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach indicated one reason—one pointy, sharp, opinionated, and no-longer-living reason—but Cornelius hadn’t mentioned Tangwystl. No, it was all about how Alex and I weren’t the best communicators. We were a work in progress, as most relationships were, both working and personal. But Cornelius controlled who was assigned which cases, and he’d decided that Alex and I weren’t a great package deal at the moment. And if anyone was going to choose between Alex and me for just about any kind of job, they’d choose Alex. As they should. Alex was amazing. And that wasn’t just my girly hormones speaking. My personal and professional selves were in agreement on this particular matter. So, Alex being the star, me being the understudy, and Cornelius adamant that we needed more time to perfect our communication skills meant no Society jobs for me for the foreseeable future. I’d already pitched working a case on my own, but the high-and-mighty Big C claimed that any case I started, Alex would invariably become entangled with. Sadly, I couldn’t disagree, because history was on his side. Whatever. I didn’t need Cornelius and the Society to keep me busy. I wasn’t tied to Society work. I could do other jobs. Probably. If I could convince someone to hire me. Which wasn’t looking good at the moment. I’d been twiddling my jobless thumbs for ages. Ever since I’d been officially declared fit for duty, after a tiny near-death experience. The weeks in bed had been a serious downer, but also not great for hustling up work. And then I’d been a little distracted when I finally made my way home, fully recovered and ready for action. Alex and I had made up. A lot. And then Alex had gotten an assignment from Cornelius. I had no gig lined up, and my honey was busy with a time-consuming case. Three days without a peep out of him other than quick check-in texts and a mysteriously well-stocked fridge. I had spicy veggie juice, carrot juice with turmeric, and vegan supplement shakes to last me days. Apparently, neither Alex nor Wembley believed that I could feed myself. Whatever. Meals were no big thing. What I needed was a distraction. A distraction from my lack of work, and also the small matter of a special day in February that my someone special hadn’t celebrated with me. Probably at least partially explained by the fact that he hadn’t been speaking to me at the time. I might have deserved that. But, again, we’d made up. A lot. The point was that we’d missed celebrating our first Valentine’s Day together. I’d mentioned a makeup date, and he’d muttered something that had sounded like agreement. And yet…here it was, early March, and nothing. No roses, no fancy vegan liquid dinner. Not even a cheesy card. Which wouldn’t have been at all cheesy, because Valentine’s Day got an exemption from cheese—even a belated Valentine’s Day. I thought we’d tackled our communication issues, the very issue Cornelius had us in time-out for. But…maybe not? Uncertainty sucked. I didn’t want to dwell, but I had no job to keep me busy, so…I reorganized my closet, emptied the kitchen shelves and cupboard for a deep clean, vacuumed (three times), cleaned both bathrooms, and bathed Boone (twice)…all within the last three days. In my defense, Boone rolled in mud, so that second bath wasn’t a time waster or some convoluted doggie torture. All of which I explained to him as he cuddled with me while we both binged old British mysteries and Supernatural. Boone was a particular fan of Sam. On that we disagreed, because I was Dean all the way. It was around eleven on Thursday, three days after Alex had been assigned a case, and I’d devolved to contemplating my baseboards. Maybe they did need a good dusting. My phone rang and I about hurt myself jumping off the sofa to snatch it from the coffee table. Thank you, thank you, thank you, whoever you are. Anton? My caller ID was likely possessed by a ghost with a bad sense of humor, so I disregarded the digital readout and answered it anyway. “I need a favor.” Before I could utter a greeting, the voice on the phone spoke, cutting me off in a very Anton-like way. Yet it clearly wasn’t mean Mr. Clean, because the Anton I knew would never ask me for a favor. I shifted the phone so I could see the screen and verify that it was, in fact, the mean muscley bald guy who wanted me dead who was calling. Forget ghostly possession of my phone. Even I knew that was a bunch of bologna. I must have misread the name…but I didn’t. By the time I’d returned it to my ear, he was saying, “I’ll pay you.” I almost dropped my cell. This was the guy who thought I was a waste of space. A sub-vampire. Broken. Not worthy of living. Who was he to judge? He was an assassin. Anyone whose magical type was the definition of killing people shouldn’t be allowed to judge the worthiness or lack thereof of another person’s magic. Also, since when did people pay for favors? This was sounding like…a job. My negative feelings toward a certain rude bald guy just lessened slightly, because… Ta-da! I asked the universe, and she delivered. So what if her postal service banged up my package a little and dropped a dented parcel—um, a less than desirable client—on my doorstep? A client was a client. Not really, but I was suffering from an acute case of boredom combined with a dash of desperation, so I wasn’t thinking rationally. While I might not be desperate for cash, I desperately needed purpose—and Anton was presenting me with that. Hence my reply: “Okay.” No negotiation, no fee agreements before committing. I knew better, and yet—I really wanted a project. Anton was just the sort of jerk to dangle some fun in front of me and then yank it away at the least sign of negotiation. “I need you to prove a…ah, a friend didn’t murder someone last night.” I didn’t say it. I wanted to, so, so badly, because, really, how was it possible that Anton had a friend? Instead of commenting on the miracle that was the existence of a person willing to call Anton friend, I pointed out the obvious. “I can’t prove a negative.” “I’m aware. You’ll need to find the murderer. But…” He sighed. “Ideally you’d prove that the murderer wasn’t my friend or any of his compatriots.” There was something in his voice. Embarrassment, perhaps? I swallowed the smile tugging at my lips on the off chance Anton might hear it in my voice. “And by compatriots, you mean…?” “His cupid buddies.” He spoke without any inflection, any previous hint of discomfort washed away by his Anton-ness. “They tend to run in packs of three to five, especially in late February and early March when they’re burning off the high of Valentine’s Day. My particular friend was out for most of the night with two of his cupid buddies.” Whaaaat? Was he pulling my leg? A gang of cupids…the high from Valentine’s Day. It had all the makings of a terrible joke. He wouldn’t call and make this all up as some way to haze me…would he? “Are you still there?” His voice was quiet, serious. “Yep.” “Look, if you don’t want the job—” “No. I said I’d do it. I’ll do it. But if your friend or one of his ‘compatriots’ killed someone—” “He didn’t.” The menace in his voice didn’t scare me. If he killed me, Alex would wipe him from the face of the planet—which Anton knew. He wasn’t a complete i***t…even if he did hang out with a bunch of love-arrow-slinging dudes with wings and no clothes. But for the whole issue of a murder, it would be funny. Well, that and there was no way that cupids actually slung arrows, ran around naked, had wings, or cared about anyone’s love lives but their own. Who knew what cupids were like in real life. Maybe they were murderous rogues, just so long as this particular cupid hadn’t murdered this particular…whoever was murdered. And speaking of that… “Who’s dead?” It almost hurt to have to ask. Even when Alex was busy working, I usually had access to all the good gossip via my roommate, Wembley. I winced, because thinking of him did hurt. Wembley was on a cruise. With my mother. My many hundreds-year-old vampire roomie was masquerading as my mom’s boy toy on a sun-drenched cruise in warmer climes, flashing his newly reacquired tight abs and doing unspeakable things with the woman who gave birth to me. Brain bleach required. Worse yet, he was popping the big question. Thank the heavens above and all the gods of every pantheon in existence, not the proposal one. No, he was popping the bite question. These days, it took a lot to trigger my blood aversion, but the thought of Wembley sucking my mom’s neck—or other parts—definitely made my stomach churn. Maybe she’d decline. My distracted state was surely the reason I’d misheard, because I thought Anton had just told me that Katarina had been the victim. “Katarina the witch?” “Yes.” Anton sounded snippy. Increasingly cranky mood notwithstanding, I said, “Katarina the witch who frequently subcontracts with the Society.” “Yes, that is correct.” Still cranky. Still not coughing up the details. Since he wasn’t answering the implied question, I laid it out in a more black-and-white manner for him. “Since your victim is a frequent subcontractor with the Society, Cornelius will have a vested interested in solving her murder.” “He does.” I ground my teeth. “So Cornelius has already assigned the case to an emergency responder.” “He has.” I waited, because pulling details from Anton the Reluctant was getting old. Finally, he said, “I was assigned the case.” After another annoying silence he added, “I arrested Michael Amor this morning. He was passed out on Katarina’s front porch all night.” Amor? Really? I swallowed a sigh. “This Michael guy you arrested, he wouldn’t happen to be a cupid, would he?” “Yes. Michael is the friend I need you to prove innocent.” Of course he was.