Five Dead Herrings by E.J. Russell

Lachlan hadn’t returned by the time I’d photographed every square inch of the boat, including the—ewww!—extremely dead fish in the middle of what looked to be a very comfortable berth. Bagging the herring as evidence wasn’t the pleasantest task, but I managed. However, I wasn’t about to take it with me to my first solo interrogation. Okay, interview, but you know what I mean. I dropped it off with Zeke at the Quest offices. After I took a shower at my place outside Dewton—it wasn’t more than a mile from the bay—and called my FTA driver. Jeez, I’m not a total slob.

I took a plain old Uber to the Martinson place, since its West Hills locations wasn’t far from the Quest offices in the Pearl district and I didn’t know the layout. The FTA can go almost anywhere using Faerie as a shortcut, but the entrance and exit points need to be hidden from random human view. The Uber driver whistled as she dropped me at the wrought-iron gates.

“Fancy friends you’ve got. Must be nice.”

“They’re not my friends,” I muttered, but boosted her tip in the app, anyway. Then I stood there like one of those turned-to-stone trolls Mal told me about, because this place was totally outside of anything in my experience—and I traipsed through Faerie on the regular.

I mentioned the gates, right? Curlicues and leaves and a giant stylized M on each section. There was a security keypad to one side, along with an intercom and a security camera, but the gates weren’t closed at the moment, so I avoided them. The driveway wasn’t long. This was the West Hills, after all. Go too far back and you’d fall off into southwest Portland. But the house looming inside its surrounding stone fence gave the impression that it deserved a long driveway, if you know what I mean.

“‘Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again,’” I quoted as I walked along the slate flagstones that led to the door. The lawn was pretty wide by West Hills standards, the landscaping pristine, probably because three gardeners were hustling around with trimmers and rakes and spades. The big white panel truck with the landscapers’ plant-themed logo on the side was probably why the gates were open.

One of the gardeners was dead-heading a rose bush in the bed next to the big oak double doors. He smiled sheepishly at me and waggled his fingers. I blinked, nonplussed. Why would a gardener acknowledge me? Then I recognized him. Ronnie Purl.

“Ronnie? What are you—” I smacked my forehead. “I mean, obviously you’re working for the landscaper, but I thought you were working on Devin’s crew.”

He shrugged. “Got to do my community service, don’t I?” He wrinkled his nose, and with his narrow face and pointed chin, he looked more ferrety than ever. He shrugged one shoulder and snipped another faded rose. “But it’s not forever, right?”

“Right. Well.” I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Keep up the good work.”

I mentally rolled my eyes as I rang the bell. Keep up the good work? Jeez. Ronnie was probably rolling his eyes for real. Nothing like a little condescension from the human to really make his day.

The bell echoed inside as if the house was nothing more than an empty shell, but when the uniformed maid opened the door, it was immediately obvious that wasn’t the case. The place was packed with stuff: knickknacks on shelves and tables, art and—ugh—trophies on the walls, chinoiserie vases that came up to my waist, and at least two grandfather clocks. And that was just in the entryway.

“May I help you?” the maid asked, which was a perfectly reasonable question and made me stop gaping at what I could see of the house.

“Yeah, um…” I fumbled to get my Quest credentials out of my pocket. Why hadn’t I done that before I knocked on the door instead of giving Ronnie Purl a completely unnecessary and probably unwelcome virtual pat on the head? I held out the badge. “I’m Matthew Stein— That is, I’m Hugh from Quest Investigations. I’d like to have a few words with Wyn Ellis, if I may.”

To her credit, she didn’t blink. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“That’s all right, Eleri,” a voice boomed from an open door next to one of the clocks. “I’ll handle this.”

“Of course, Mr. Martinson.” Eleri didn’t curtsey, but I suspect it was a near thing. Heck, I almost curtsied, because that voice had authority to it.

The man who paced into the foyer—tall, lean, and silver-haired—clearly wasn’t Wyn’s new bloke, since by all accounts, Reid might just as well be human. This guy…wasn’t that. Nope. Not a chance. This had to be his father. As an elemental magician, Pierce Martinson wielded power on a whole different level than I was used to even though I worked with fae, demons, and shifters. He wore that power as if it were as well-fitting and tailored as his three-piece charcoal suit.

Pierce smoothed his scarlet tie and gestured toward the room he’d just exited. “If you would join me in my study?”

I nodded and shuffled across the polished wood floor. And before you think I was just being subservient, no. The floor was made of three different kinds of wood. I guessed the medium brown main planks were oak, every third one edged with a thinner strip of darker wood. Maybe walnut? But it was the lighter wood, the color of my high school gym floor, that got to me, because it was inlaid in a diagonal pattern that offset the oak and walnut, making it look like waves lapping on the shore. By the time I made it out of the entryway and into the study, I was almost seasick.

To keep from feeling like I was about to get swept away by hardwood undertow, I lifted my gaze to the walls, then wished I hadn’t.

“Nice, uh, harpoon,” I croaked.

Seriously, this place could give the Herman Melville room at the Sylvia Beach Hotel a run for its money. Although with the marlin above the fireplace, maybe he was going more for an Ernest Hemingway/Old Man and the Sea vibe, particularly given the collection of vintage firearms in the glass-fronted case next to the window.

Wait…wasn’t this guy supposed to be a fire mage? What was with all the water-themed tchotchkes? Could elemental mages master more than one element?

On the other hand, maybe this was his version of a dominance display, proclaiming that fire was more powerful than water by showing all the water-based things he’d conquered.

On the other hand—I’d end up with as many hands as a Zeke’s demon friend AJ who kept three extra pairs of arms in an alternate dimension at this rate—I knew even less about rich people than I did about elemental mages.

Pierce settled into a red velvet wingback chair next to the fireplace—which, yeah, was roaring away, even though it wasn’t all that cold outside. He didn’t offer me a seat, not that I’d have taken one anyway since the only available perch was a stool held up with what looked like three alligator legs. And given the pattern of its leather seat, the gator had donated more than its feet to the Martinson’s decor.

“Now then,” he said, in that deep, cultured voice that befit a tenured professor of philosophy rather than a dude who dabbled in one of the most dangerous magical disciplines. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I’m from Quest Investigations.” I held out my credentials again, but he waved them away. “We’re representing Lachlan Brodie on a matter of some, er, oceanic harassment and would like to speak to his husband. We understand he’s staying with you.”

Pierce’s bland expression didn’t change. “Please refer to Mr. Ellis by name rather than as though he were a possession of Mr. Brodie’s. Such courtesy would be appropriate even were sundering proceedings not already underway.”

Heat rushed up my neck and from the way my forehead burned, I probably looked like I’d just spent all day in a Sheol sauna. “My apologies. I was merely attempting to present the context of the case. I meant no disrespect.”

Pierce inclined his head. “Accepted. Now, what business do you have with my future son-in-law?”

I blinked. Future son-in-law? Wyn was planning to marry Reid Martinson before his fae divorce was final? Heck, from what Lachlan had said about the timing, the ink wasn’t dry on the magical paperwork yet. Had the jerk been cheating on Lachlan even longer than he suspected? “I won’t take much of his time. I’d just like to ask him a few questions about his whereabouts on several occasions, if you don’t mind.”

“He might not mind, but I do.” The angry bark from the doorway made me whip around. I whacked a wooden figurine with my elbow but managed to catch it before it toppled off the table. Only when I gingerly placed it upright again did I realize it was a rather gruesome depiction of a naked man being consumed head first by a shark—while flames danced around his bare feet.

“Reid, I can handle this.” Pierce’s voice held an edge of impatience. “You should remain with Wyn. No doubt he would appreciate your company and support.”

Reid Martinson didn’t resemble his father at all. While Pierce looked like he’d just stepped out of an Edwardian period drama with an otherworldly twist, Reid would be more at home in a Quentin Tarantino flick—or maybe at a tailgate party. He didn’t have the air of extra that most supes brought to the table one way or other. In fact, he looked more as though he could be related to me.

He was about my height, maybe a little broader across the chest. Same medium brown hair and beard. His clothes didn’t come off the rack, though, that much I could tell. His French-cuffed button-down had the sheen of silk, and his charcoal trousers hung without a wrinkle to brush the tops of his Italian leather loafers.

In other words, the value of what he was wearing probably exceeded my clothing budget for the year. Okay, let’s be real—for the entire decade. But other than that, other than being obviously rich, he could be anybody at the counter at Wanda’s diner. Guess Reid was overcompensating for his magic-null status with attitude as well as conspicuous consumption.

I tried to smile in a professional and non-confrontational manner. “Only a few questions. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Reid crossed his arms. “No.”

Pierce sighed heavily, the quintessential long-suffering parent. “Reid. There’s no harm in cooperating. After all”—he smiled benignly—“we have nothing to hide.”

I buried a snort. In my experience, people who claimed to have nothing to hide usually had a boatload of crap stuffed into their virtual closet.

“I don’t care,” Reid said. “We don’t need to talk to this…this human. He has no right to stick his nose into our affairs.”

I cleared my throat and brandished my credentials. “Actually, I do have the right. Duly authorized by the supe council.”

He eyed me with obvious disgust. “Not authorized by me.” He grabbed the laminated card out of my hand and squinted at it as if he were checking for signs it was counterfeit. A sly smile spread over his face. “Provisional, eh? Wonder what the council would say if they found out you were harassing one of the foremost magicians in the last three centuries?”

Reid’s attitude wasn’t new. I’d faced it more often than not over my probationary period. But for some reason, he got in my hair, maybe because, according to Mal’s intel, he was no more supernatural than I was. I smiled blandly. “You’re a magician? I wasn’t aware. I’ll be sure to update my notes.”

He glared at me, but before he could come up with a retort, a soft voice spoke from the doorway.

“It’s all right, Reid. I don’t mind answering the gentleman’s questions.”