Page 1 of The Elementalist
Chapter One
The Dame
I see it again in my dreams.
The fire... blazing across the night sky.
It is the third such time I have seen it, but this time is different. This time, I awaken, gasping, and covered in sweat. I am certain, yes, beyond certain that my hands are glowing.
Dreaming... I’m obviously dreaming.
I lay my head back down on my pillow, tucking my hands under the covers, and fall asleep again, dreaming of rushing water, blowing wind, shaking earth... and a raging fire...
***
The day started like any other day in recent memory. Ordinary.
I’d been sitting in my office eating a cold bologna sandwich, watching highlights from California Tech’s worst season in twenty years whenshewalked into my life.
She was a dead ringer for Veronica Lake: pale skin, silky hair swept over one eye, and bow-shaped lips plumped up to a quarter-pout. The girl had curves in all the right places and moved with fluid ease, more floated than walked. Chic high heels supported a pair of shapely legs peeking from beneath a mid-thigh navy skirt and matching blazer. For a millisecond, I caught a glimpse of lacy white camisole as she peered at me through my half-open office door.
I blinked and turned off the YouTube video. In fact, I almost pinched my arm.
Before I made too much a fool of myself, I swallowed the giant mouthful of sandwich as discreetly and fast as possible,cringing at the bite of strong mustard.
She stood there like a shy, demure creature not quite sure if she would be safe stepping into my domain. The look suited her, though—and I couldn’t quite say why—it didn’t make her come off as a helpless damsel, more like she deliberately put on an air of harmlessness. An act, perhaps. My instincts said to be careful with this one, that I stared into the pretty blue eyes of a trap.
Beautiful women didn’t exactly grace my humble office often. Hell, lately, clients in general rarely graced my office. These days, investigation gigs were few and far between, which I didn’t mind much. My landlord, however, did mind. Especially when the lack of clients caused my rent payment to wind up being late. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite pretty enough to bat my eyelashes and pay with my good looks, so I actually had to work a case every now and then.
“Come on in,” I said, before taking a sip from my lukewarm can of Diet Coke.
The woman had been crying, that much was obvious. I didn’t consider myself an ace detective for nothing. She crept in the office door, looking a little bit hesitant and a lot beautiful. Her misty blue eyes warned me she had a story that would get me so choked up I wouldn’t even care if she could pay me. Yeah, she wasthatgorgeous.Thatclassy. Andthatvulnerable. Something about her struck a chord in me. Up until that moment, if anyone had asked me if I believed in love at first sight, I would’ve laughed at them. But the more I stared into those teary eyes of hers, the more I felt like a high school kid who unexpectedly wound up face to face with his crush, simultaneously thrilled and wanting to run away screaming.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice squeakier than I would have liked.
“Are you a real private investigator?” she asked in a shy voice not far above a whisper. I detected a trace of awe in it, too, as ifshe’d placed private detectives somewhere between Bigfoot and the Second Coming.
“I am. To the envy of all my friends,” I said, milking it. “Please, sit. I have coffee if you’d like some… I have tea, too. I think.”
She thought about it longer than I would have liked. These days, people’s need for private eyes has diminished thanks to the internet. Computers and broadband had pushed a lot of us out of work. Most people could track—aka stalk—anyone they wanted online. Although I didn’t consider myself a professional stalker, I had once made a good living by locating people who didn’t want to be found. These days, I mostly dealt with cases from the odd housewife who suspected her husband of cheating or the even rarer husband who suspected his wife of cheating. Every so often, I had someone asking me to background check someone—usually owners of small business around here. And twice, I tracked down guys not paying child support. I tried to avoid taking missing persons cases around here, since nine times out of ten, they either went nowhere or ended up as a body in the woods.
I got why people thought private dicks were sleazy. Ifeltsleazy following sleazy people doing sleazy things. I felt especially dirty after I took zoom-lens evidence photos of marital cheating in progress. However, I took whatever work came my way. It was a seedy job, but somebody had to do it.
At first, I expected this girl to say her hubby cheated on her and she needed me to find proof. If she had a husband, they couldn’t have been married for long. I figured her for maybe twenty-one or so. She looked way too...niceto have sex outside of marriage. Yeah, a real angel face. My second thought was that she should definitely get back at the jerk—with me, of course.
Okay, maybe Iwasone of those sleazy detectives.
Eventually, she nodded and came in. “Yes, coffee would befine.”
I rushed out of my chair, banging my knee in the process, and limped around my crumb-strewn desk. “Cream and sugar?” I only had dehydrated Coffee-Mate, but ‘cream’ sounded classier.
“Yes, and yes,” she said, which I thought sounded adorable.
My hand shook a little as I reached for the guest mug. I poured her a cup of my best java, which is the only kind of java I drank. I might skimp on the office rent, but never the coffee.Never.
“Is now a good time to talk?” she asked. “Or should I make an appointment?”
“You’re in luck,” I said. I hadn’t had anyone call me for an appointment in maybe two months. “My next appointment just canceled. I’m all yours.”
