Page 35 of Hidden

“Freelancer,” the female said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I’m here because I share an interest in locating the cause of so many deaths. The drug connection is one explosive headline.”

Errata’s smile was confident, as if she had every right to be in the room. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, high cheekbones, and olive skin that contrasted with bright green eyes. She wore a tight blue jacket with figure-hugging jeans and high-heeled boots. Her only jewelry was a diamond-shaped metal pendant on a leather thong. Izetta guessed she was some sort of cat shifter. A werecougar, maybe?

“To answer your question,” Izetta said, “I didn’t see anything like a lab.”

“Too bad,” the cat said. “I want to know how it’s made.”

“Any useful theories?” Izetta asked.

Errata shook her head. “We’ve just started hearing about the deaths in Fairview. Some think the root cause comes from the Castle, but the earliest reports seem to be from your neck of the woods, not ours.”

“Could be.”

The Castle was a supernatural prison in Fairview, a university town to the north. The prison had a complicated history and even more complex inhabitants, and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that a strange and powerful drug had come from there. But Errata was right—the first deaths had been local.

Izetta picked up the stack of money Malatest pushed her way and flipped through the bills, double checking the total.

“Who lives in the forest house?” Errata Jones asked, jotting on her notepad.

“Nobody lives in a fae way station,” Izetta replied. “Not on a permanent basis. It’s like an upscale hotel, except this one had a dungeon.”

Errata’s pen froze, and she looked up. “Seriously?”

“They still have my friend in a cell.” Satisfied, Izetta folded the money, stuffing it into her pocket. “They want their secrets to stay secret.”

Malatest frowned, locking the safe again. “You got away. They won’t let that slide.”

“Neither should we,” Izetta replied. “We tracked the Magician there, but I think he’s just the cherry on top of a big bowl of crazy. Whatever is going on in that way station is likely to spill over into everyone’s business.”

“Like what?” he demanded.

“They were expecting someone else to show up. For all that they were breaking out the thumbscrews, my hosts were nervous.”

“Who frightens the immortal fae?” Malatest sat back in his desk chair, the old springs creaking. “Their magic terrifies the rest of us, not the other way around.”

Errata had stopped writing and was watching Malatest with a frown. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m considering motive. The supernatural community is an untapped market for narcotics.” He stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head, for a long moment. Then he leaned forward again, bracing his arms on the desk. “All the victims are new to this life. Our young—the newly made—are still struggling to learn how to survive as one of the Undead. The Magician tempts them with oblivion before they make peace with their new existence. He preys on their grief and doubt.”

“How will you stop him?” Izetta prompted.

He laughed, and it was bitter. His already pale face had lost what color he had. “I thought your investigation would find a single fae, a murderous misfit his own kind would despise. We could survive exterminating one such madman.”

Errata closed her book, a grave look settling over her features. It was as if she sensed an end to the story and needed no more notes. “But now?”

“Way stations belong to the fae kings and queens.” Malatest rose, pacing from his desk to the wall and back, shoulders stiff. “Whatever happens there is royal business. And this place is not the norm, not with a dungeon and gargoyle servants. It’s a death trap.”

Izetta’s shoulders ached with tension. “I heard you were careful, but not bloodless. I accepted your job because I thought you’d get rid of the Magician.”

Malatest swung back to her, anger in his dark eyes. “You took the job for money, and I gave it to you. There is no debt between us.”

“But we know where he is. Rafe tracked him to the door,” Izetta protested.

“I have a strong nest, but it’s small.” Done pacing, Malatest dropped into the chair again. “I’m not starting a war with an entire kingdom of fae. We have weapons, but not enough warriors and zero magic.”

Izetta’s skin went cold, fatigue catching up with her. The urge to shout at Malatest bubbled up like lava, but she forced it down with a brutal act of will. “You saw what happened in the bar tonight. Are you going to let them get away with this?”

“I’m a realist,” he said. “Losing a war would finish my nest. I need a less costly solution.”

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