"I had to lock Quick up at the cottage when Haskell charged in or the creep would have shot him. The dog goes out alone at night a lot. He could have trailed Haskell's scent to hell and back. He was not happy about being shut out of the action or what Haskell was doing to me."
Ric eyed Quick. "Possible."
"Or…Hector could have loosed a really nasty CinSim on Haskell."
"A paternal meddler, maybe, but I don't see Hector Nightwine as the Black Knight riding to the damsel's revenge after the fact."
"He was really upset Haskell had crashed his security devices and violated his property."
"And you're his property too?"
"In a way, in his mind. He's hired me to research crime stories for his shows and I live on site. Sometimes I think he confuses me with one of the staff CinSims."
"Anyone else in your circle of suspects?"
Yeah, Christophe, a.k.a. Snow. Pointing that out would tip Ric off to the fact that another man, one he regarded as beyond a bad guy, had roped Ric's girl with a permanent silver lariat, now masquerading as handcuffs.
Snow was like Nightwine. He owned so much of this city and so many CinSims that he tended to confuse that with owning people. A lot of mobsters and lobbyists make that mistake. Not that Hector was a mobster. He was too egocentric to even have henchmen.
"You must have felt a lot of satisfaction," Ric said, "cuffing Haskell in return for the brutal way he searched and cuffed you at Nightwine's cottage."
"You must have enjoyed kicking him in the family vault."
"Not as much as whoever"-he glanced at Quicksilver, panting amiably as he lay on the slick Sinkhole street, tongue limp in a forest of sharp white fangs-"really maimed the bastard."
"And you must enjoy cuffing my hands behind my back." I grinned as Ric suddenly realized he had me in a very compromising position.
"I'm used to seeing a sexy thin silver chain around your hips." He released my second wrist as I pretended to fool with the one shut cuff. "When'd you add concealed handcuffs and a pseudo-cop belt to your walking-around wardrobe?"
"Found 'em at a second-hand store," I said, now pretending to slip the cuffs into a belt pocket. In reality, the instantly liquid silver ran up my arm and back down my side to my waist, where it became the spitting image of the thin sterling silver hip chain I wore. "They were so shiny and new I couldn't resist them. You know me and silver."
"You sure there isn't some Latina in you, Querida? You wear silver so well. Your jewelry always rocks."
Well, it came from a headlining rock'n'roller's head. I was speechless. Ric took that as a pleased response to his compliment when I was scared stiff he'd guess the nature of the silver familiar.
"You should resist your faux law enforcement tendencies," he went on. "They could get you into serious trouble sometime."
So could Snow's morphing lock of hair.
Ric still had custody of my right arm and used it to steer me through the ambling tourist traffic. Quick was up and heeling alongside me like a service dog. Which he was to me. He kept so close to my outside leg that he reminded me of Achilles.
"I sort of had to go into a trance to get here," I said. "How do we get out?"
"Trance, huh?" Ric's grin was white-hot against the black, two-day beard smudge. "Like you went into in Sunset Park when we first met. You're full of surprises. The rest of us just take the completely natural mobile spiral staircase."
I stared at the ornate wrought-iron corkscrew that appeared out of the smoky air like something very Jules Verne glimpsed in a London pea-soup fog. "You're telling me this thing moves?"
"Think of it as the Devil's auger to the Lower Depths." He hitched up my arm to help me onto the first step. They were higher than ordinary ones. Quick brushed past to bound up three risers sniffing the iron, the smoke, the upper air.
Meanwhile, Ric had mounted close behind me. Nicely close. As for climbing the spinning spiral staircase, we didn't need to move. It was as if we'd all jumped on a passing tram to Nowhere.
I wanted to grab the smooth metal handrail, because the stairs were indeed swirling around. The effect was so dizzying I closed my eyes, fighting nausea.
"We're here," Ric whispered in my ear.
My eyes opened to see downtown take shape around me, a panorama of darkness stabbed with slashes of light. Quicksilver was nosing around ten feet away, chasing the phantom scents of hundreds of pedestrians. We stood by a hole in the street bounded by a metal-pipe fence and orange safety cones.
"How does anyone know this hole in the ground from any other street-repair site?" I asked.
"It's always near downtown and the manhole cover is a Celtic design."
I peered at the pierced metal circle. "Celtic?"
"The assumption is that the fey folk created this underground retreat. With the green spaces declining, they've had to turn to the cities, and this desert environment isn't welcoming of the fey. Some of the stuff going around now is fairy stories, plain and simple. Some isn't. The anthropologists are still trying to sort legend from reality and delusion from actual experience." Ric made a face. "It's no delusion that the Sinkhole is a reeking, rank evil place. Let's get away from here."
It took a couple blocks' walk to reach the tourist-crowded areas and recognize landmarks.
"You parked by the Four Goddesses? Great," Ric said. "I'm there too."
Dolly was not hard to find.
At my car, Ric stood back to take in the faint fluorescent green glow haloing it.
"Some funky Hector Nightwine safety alarm," I explained.
He didn't know about the Enchanted Cottage oddities, either. I didn't want to freak him out any more than I had to. He had one stunning paranormal power. I had, and was surrounded by, a whole growing flock of weird little quirks I was still figuring out.
"The Caddy sure looks too toxic to steal." He glanced over to study me as thoroughly as he had my car. "I wouldn't have recognized you except for the dog." He paused long enough for our stressed-out pulses to beam us into a more intimate mode. "You make a hot blond, chica."
"Guys are always suckers for a bleach job." Compliments still made me want to make excuses. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have one rough edge in your high-end city slicker wardrobe, and here you show up with razor-cut seams on your jeans and a jaw primed to give beard burns."
"So you like?"
"You do dark well," I agreed demurely.
Ric picked up my return cue. "Undercover needs to be extreme, Blondie," he said in a mock street growl. "Speaking of which, the nice folks at Wrathbone's expected me to do something bad to you. I'm the law and it'd be suspicious if I didn't give you a strip search."
His eyes were doing a good job of that already; the effect was a world away from Haskell's impression of a tough cop. "That super-sexy utility belt is LVMPD property. Take it off."