Winter's Knight

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

The phone started ringing at an obscene hour the next morning, and the fifth call irritated Lucian enough to shove aside the covers. His head was pounding, and his mouth was full of cat litter flavored cotton. It couldn’t possibly be past seven, and he spat a curse when he saw the familiar, amiable smile in the photo ID on the cell phone’s screen.

“Yes?” Lucian answered, pouring a metric ton of unpleasantness into the single syllable.

“Good morning!” Clark chirped.

“No,” Lucian countered, flopping onto the silks and satins of his bed. “But it tends to improve with the first kill of the day.”

“And, yet, alas and woe unto me, as I must deny my lord such invigorating privileges with my trivia.”

Lucian groaned. Damn Clark and every insufferable, military, morning soul on this god-forsaken rock. “The high protocol speech would probably prove more effective on your Sir, Maxwell.”

“But it serves me so much better as a way to remind you of the little pleasures in life, Luke.”

“And I really must speak to Daniel about why he lets you out of your pen.”

“He likes me free-range.”

“More’s the pity.” Lucian rubbed the bridge of his nose, thankful the shades were still drawn on their electronic timers. Waking up with a migraine diminished the enjoyment he usually took from Clark’s battle of wits. “What do you want?”

“To catch you before you headed to the office,” Clark said, tone morphing into respectful. “I have an update on our ongoing puzzle.”

Lucian’s eyes snapped open, attention riveted. “Should we meet for this discussion?”

“Not necessary,” Clark replied smartly. “Most of the details will be released to the press soon enough, and our talk is just speculation.”

Fears about communicating over an open line waylaid, Lucian relaxed. “Proceed.”

“I just received word that the latest victim matches the MO of the other seven.”

“Your connections to the coroner’s office once again prove invaluable,” Lucian said and sighed. “So that means Miranda Higgins…”

“Died of strangulation. Rope burns around her neck, wrists, knees, and ankles. They’re calling it accidental death by auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

“Bullshit,” Lucian hissed. “Though a very convenient way for a prostitute to die and have no one take note.”

“Just like the others, sir, yes.”

“Did she like to dance?” Lucian asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn.”

Did she like to dance was the code phrase asking if Miranda was tied to Haze, a b**m club on the outskirts of the city. It fed the least desirable customer and had made a name for itself by escaping any number of lawsuits. The owner was an expert in iron-clad contracts for every kind of play within the factory turned den of despair’s walls, and the right amounts of money were paid to the right people to keep it in business. Lucian would have taken the direct route and seen it burned to the ground years ago, regardless, but his father’s mob cronies were both the clientele and the people paid to keep the club running. Lucian’s ownership of Club Break, an establishment at odds with everything Haze stood for, was well known by Hendrick’s people, as was Lucian’s disdain for Haze.

Despite Lucian’s asshole father’s ties and the occasional scrap of blackmail material or information that came from Haze, one of Lucian’s goals was to see it shut its doors. He’d met Raquelle at a dirty nightclub when he was eighteen and high on freedom. The boy had been beautiful no matter what s*x he chose to be for the day or night, and Lucian had fallen in love in the way only first-time idiots could.

Raquelle used clubs like Haze to drudge for customers, and he spoke of bondage and pain as trials and tribulations of the job. While he was with Lucian, however, he didn’t trick. He didn’t need to with Lucian’s money lining his pockets, but he still put anything that came in powder form up his nose. Raquelle didn’t die strangled, beaten, or from HIV complications, but heroin killed just the same.

Lucian no longer saw it as a personal failure, except when half a fifth into his cups, but as soon as Lucian was back in New Amsterdam with the network and the clout he’d established with Clark’s assistance, he started the slow process of applying the right kind of pressure to end Haze.

In his effort to assist, Clark had started digging and came to Lucian one day with a theory about a string of murders that were all loosely tied to the club. All the victims were either Haze frequenters or ex-employees. That bit of information alone had taken years to acquire. Haze didn’t exactly keep pristine records, and those it did keep had a tendency to be doctored or lost.

Clark got in contact with their people at the NAPD and started building a file, but all the other leads on the case led to dead ends or more questions. There appeared to be loose connections between the victims and nefarious members of New Amsterdam’s underground—minor mob bosses, flunkie body guards, informants, etc—but nothing solid. There was nobody who either knew the missing pieces to the puzzle or was willing to risk their lives for a few whores nobody remembered.

Lucian took exception to that sort of recalcitrance.

“And I trust the other injuries are consistent?” Lucian asked in a dull, dangerous tone.

“Yes,” Clark answered. “One dislocated shoulder, remodeled. Old scars that could easily be from whips or impact play gone too long and too rough. Trace amounts of that unknown chemical in her blood.”

“Any leads on that?”

“Nothing substantial, but current educated guesswork points to an MDMA derivative. Something to heighten sensation, lower inhibitions, that sort of thing.”

“This isn’t enough to go to Issac,” Lucian said, right eye pulsing painfully.

“No,” Clark confirmed. “The chief of police would take one look at this and call us insane. He has to pay his dues to the power players just like the rest of us, and what we’ve got is just my flimsy connectors and your vendetta.” He paused. “Sir.”

“And what would he do even if it was more? Nobody to arrest. So many bodies, so little time to give a shit.”

“I’m sorry, Lucian.”

“Apologies don’t pay,” Lucian said, quoting one of his father’s earliest lessons beaten into Hendrick’s only child. “Get me a report on everything we know. We’ll meet first of next week.”

“Not earlier?” Clark asked, sounding surprised.

Lucian gritted his teeth on having to explain. He hated showing any kind of weakness, even to the man he used to fantasize about while jerking off in the dojo showers at age twelve. “Migraine.”

Clark sucked air through his teeth. “You only get those after a really tough job, boss. You been holding out on me?”

“I’m sure that’s quite impossible,” Lucian muttered, kicking back the sheet to let cool air touch his bare skin.

“This have anything to do with that Cartier watch you bought a week ago?”

Lucian paused in his act of rearranging his eight pillows into a pile. “How the hell do you know about that?” he asked, pain and shock doing away with his preferred formality.

“I keep tabs on your credit card statements,” Clark said, as though it should be obvious to anyone with an eighteenth of a brain. “Which reminds me, any luck finding an accountant to replace the last one you fired?”

“Not yet,” Lucian growled. “And I pay you to watch other people, not me, Maxwell.”

“I like to think I can save you from yourself,” Clark said, gentle and infuriating. “Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“Shea.”

Lucian flinched at the name. Usually Clark didn’t have the audacity to call Lucian’s hand. “Why should I bother answering when I’m sure you’re about to tell me whether I did or didn’t?”

“Holy shit.” Clark sounded awed. “You finally did it.”

“As fascinating as this is, I’m going to have to get on with my day.”

“Jesus, no wonder you sound like hell.”

“How kind,” Lucian drawled.

“I mean, you’ve only loved him all your life,” Clark continued like Lucian hadn’t spoken. “Telling him that and giving him all those presents you keep locked in your bedroom closet would take a toll on anybody.”

Lucian sat up too quickly and regretted it. “Maxwell, I’d hate to make my most valuable informant an experiment in pain and suffering, but I’m not above it.”

“Do you need anything at all in this matter, sir?” Clark asked, and by all things in creation, Lucian hated it when Clark went all submissive and thus impossible to murder in his sleep.

“Only for you to give your considerable attentions to the murders and realize they take precedence over your idiotic interest in my private life. I’ll meet you Monday. Call Melody to schedule it. Good day, Clark.”

Lucian hung up, grateful Clark didn’t even try to get the last word in edgewise. He moaned, tossing the phone aside and cradling his head in his hands. The memory of Shea rubbing his shoulders and scalp to ease the pain after exams in college shot a sharp stab of greedy want through his core. Lucian was dying to call Shea and ask for such a favor. So close, and yet he was still beyond Lucian’s touch, kiss, or needs. He’d gotten Shea to agree to a date. He didn’t dare push his luck. So little in Lucian’s world revolved around good luck, after all—best to savor it and encourage it to flourish.

Determined not to be utterly useless for the next two days until the charity ball, Lucian got up and headed for a shower and pharmaceuticals.