My anger drove the force behind my hammer as I got started on putting the hut’s framework together. I had to tone it down, make sure not to smash the wood to pieces.
Start local. I wouldn’t need backup for this particular trip into Valero. Florian and Samyaza could sit this one out.
It was time to pay Marcel Dubois a visit.
13
The back exit of the Amphora was nondescript and plain. No surprise, I guess. The Greek gods could be ostentatious and over the top, but why would Dionysus care about how this bit of his establishment looked? Maybe I was hoping for something more interesting beyond a heavy door, a dumpster, and a couple of rats.
The brick wall I was leaning on was sharply cold against my back. I flinched each time my neck accidentally pressed against the mortar. It may as well have been ice. That last time, I finally pulled my hood up over my head. The light from my halo softened, dampened by the darkness.
I couldn’t believe that worked. Maybe then I could find a way to sleep. I could feel it pressing against the crown of my head, though. Ugh.
Yeah, another night, another stakeout. But this time I brought a jacket. I didn’t need my glyphs to lure anyone out of the darkness, like one of those deep sea fish with lanterns on their heads. That was what my halo made me, an angler fish.
I shook my head and bit down on the inside of my cheek, a momentary reminder to stay focused. Dionysus had planned multiple degustations at the Amphora, each night hosted by and highlighting Marcel Dubois and his culinary talents. Granted, the guy was an amazing chef. But I also had every reason to believe that he was culpable, involved someway, somehow in the nephilim deaths.
“Bastard,” I muttered under my breath, the word leaving my lips in a puff of fog.
How couldn’t it make sense to anyone? Nephilim were being murdered, harvested for their organs. The Hunger was a global movement of morons who thought that eating said organs would imbue them with divinity and magic. And here was this wealthy famous dude in the food and beverage line, the perfect example of someone who might be involved in the Hunger hierarchy, who just happened to be in town around the time my kind were being slaughtered en masse. Marcel Dubois was in league with Beelzebub, a high profile worshipper of his, probably, and nothing could convince me otherwise. And part of his tour involved promoting a book called Cooking Man? I mean, come on.
Metal hinges squeaked as the door swung open, followed by the thumping drum and bass of dance music. I pressed myself against the wall, retreating deeper into the shadows, keeping my head down. It was just someone from the kitchens, a woman with a garbage bag, probably full of scraps. She might have been a maenad, too, one of Dionysus’s drunk revelers, much more dangerous than your average kitchen staff. She tossed the bag in the dumpster, dusted her hands off, then went back into the club.
And then the door swung open again, and out came Marcel Dubois, wearing his trademark cravat. Good thing I guessed right. Marcel didn’t seem the type to stick around for festivities, and this was just around the time that the degustation would have finished. He would’ve taken his bows, thanked everyone for coming, then packed up to leave. Dubois was rich and famous enough to have his people wrap things up at the Amphora for him, and right on cue, there he was, a messenger bag slung across his body, a slender cigarette hanging from his lips. He sauntered off down the alley, lighting the slim from a match as he went. I checked to see that no one else was coming out through the back door, then followed.
Not the smartest move, honestly, and maybe it came down to Dubois being too trusting of Valero and its denizens. Again, someone with his money and status should have just hired a car to wait upfront. Like it said in his author bio on the back inside cover of Cooking Man, Dubois wasn’t one for partying, and liked to head home as soon as he was done with work, whether home was his New York walkup or his hotel room in a different city, where he could enjoy his post-dinner glass of sherry.
Samyaza was right. Reading definitely taught you one or two things.
He turned down an alley, and I followed, surprised when I walked in to find him facing me directly, his hand stuffed into his messenger bag. Marcel glared at me threateningly, one hand still holding a smoldering cigarette, the other potentially reaching for something far more dangerous.
“Stand back,” he said. “I have mace. Wait. I know you.” He broke into a smile. “You were one of our guests, from when Dionysus wanted to do the initial tasting.”
I smiled back, my hands in my pockets, ready to conjure a weapon or a shield as necessary. “That’s me. Priscilla really appreciates the book you signed for her. Very kind of you.”
He pulled his hand out of his bag, his fingers fluttering at his chest as he laughed in relief. “Oh, I’m so glad. And thank goodness it was you. Here I thought I would be experiencing my very first West Coast mugging.”
I shook my head. “Not at all, Mr. Dubois. I just wanted to thank you. But I also had a couple of questions.”
His eyebrows furrowed, and he backed away a single step. I matched him by stepping forward, just once, in case he decided to run.
“What’s the real reason you’re in town?”
He gaped for a moment, eyes darting left
