Fresh Meat Read online

  Ken snorted. "Yeah, who the hell knows what they would have done if you'd taken out their alchemist. Might've made them run but seems way more likely to me that they have, or would have, hired others and we'd have an uglier mess on our hands."

  "Given that these are apparently the same, or related to, the goblins in Montréal, it certainly might have acerbated their hostility," Amr said. "Who knows how many more people might be dead right now."

  Something in Deacon uncoiled to hear their assessments. He was hardly new to his job, but that didn't make him infallible. The day he started thinking it did was the day he resigned. "Thank you. Doesn't really make me feel better about her death, but thank you. I've contacted Wyatt. He's going to look over the leg and wait for me at the office, and we'll go from there."

  Amr nodded, stroking Cameron' eye ridges. "Keep us apprised, Deacon. Above all, be careful. I'm sorry you have to deal with this again."

  "It comes with the job," Deacon replied, and touched his fingers to his temple in a casual salute. Once upon a time, Captain of the Guard had been precisely that—in charge of the guards that protected Clan land and went to battle as necessary. Deacon still did essentially that, but he also did a lot of police-like work.

  He bid them farewell and headed out, making his way quickly back across town.

  "That mouthy brat is waiting in your office," said one of his guards as he stepped inside the building. "Acts like he's been deputized or something."

  Deacon laughed. "Strictly speaking, he is Jackie's deputy. Hasn't caused too much trouble, has he?"

  "Not really." He smiled faintly and cast Deacon a sideways glance. "Had some opinions on our wards that the sorcerers didn't like, but they haven't tried to kill him. Yet."

  "I see." Deacon clapped him on the shoulder, then headed upstairs.

  Sure enough, Wyatt was in his office—poking around like it was his, not Deacon's, of course, instead of sitting and waiting. Deacon leaned against the doorjamb and watched him riffle through a filing cabinet, admiring despite himself how well the black jeans fit, how well the soft-looking blue, woolly cardigan hugged his arms and would probably make his eyes pop.

  "Are you supposed to be doing that?" he finally asked.

  Wyatt didn't even jump, sadly, just turned after idly closing the cabinet. "I was bored, and I wanted to see what information you had on that robbery problem in Hyde."

  Deacon was right: the cardigan made his eyes pop. He'd worn it over a long-sleeved white tee-shirt that hugged his lines. The sleeves of the cardigan were just a bit too long, somehow making him seem younger and slightly fragile. A sharp, sudden longing to reel him in, hold him close, and keep him safe punched Deacon in the chest.

  Wyatt was going to break what little brain Deacon had left.

  "Well, next time ask. Those files are private, and you're not cleared."

  Wyatt shrugged and leaned against Deacon's desk. "The leg didn't turn up much, sadly. Expertly butchered. Looks like they exsanguinated properly, had a def hand where they flayed most—"

  "Stop, please," Deacon said, eyes pinching shut. "I don't need to know her leg was properly prepared for being cut into steaks. I already knew that, much to my eternal regret."

  Shame filled Wyatt's face. "Sorry."

  "It's okay." It was also patently clear that one of them was way more used to this sort of thing than the other, and somehow that person wasn't Deacon. He thought about asking, then decided he didn't want to know the answer. Not now, possibly not ever. "Was there anything useful?"

  "Yeah, I was going to say, I think I'm right about what that spell circle was for. She was killed recently, likely within the last eight or so hours, but showed signs of being completely frozen and rapidly thawed. In a standard commercial freezer, it takes approximately twelve hours for a body to freeze, and just as long to defrost it. So they captured, froze, thawed, butchered, and delivered her all in a matter of hours, instead of the two to three days it should have taken. What's curious is that they bothered to freeze it at all, if they were just going to immediately thaw and butcher her to send a message. The only reason they would is if freezing the victims is part of the spell circle they didn't bother, or more like forgot, to strip out. So they had to immediately thaw her, instead of leaving her frozen as they probably would have if she'd just been an ordinary kill."

  "Why freeze them at all?" Deacon asked.

  "Export, I'd imagine. They're not just kidnapping for local use; they're exporting the meat—probably all over the country, or at least this corner of it."

  Deacon dropped into his seat, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. "Why Esther?" Deacon opened his laptop and pulled up the timesheet program, but that only showed she'd come and gone at her usual times. "If they're so pissed off with me, why not just come after me?"

  "They're pissed off with you?"

  "Yeah," Deacon replied, and explained as briefly as he could get away with his run in with the goblins back in Canada, and the note left with Esther's body.

  "I doubt they cared about Esther in particular, in that case," Wyatt said. "They cared about getting someone who worked for you, but that's as far as it went. She was a random snatch after that. They probably followed us, then stuck with you, and then found her walking home late or something. That's how these things usually go. There's rarely as much planning as people think."

  "One of the three of us should have noticed we were being followed."

  Wyatt shook his head, pulling a pen from the holder on the corner of the desk and deftly flipping and turning it in one hand. He really did possess the most elegant, dexterous hands Deacon had ever seen. If the conversation weren't so grim, he'd admire them more. "Goblins are predators, above all else, and significantly above humans and even dragons in that particular pecking order."

  "Dragons aren't predators; they're weapons. But I get your point." Deacon was going to be sick. How many more times was he going to screw up before this nightmare came to an end? Fear and dread had already led him right into the kind of screw ups that were going to cause the very problems he was dreading. Time to get his act together so there were no more Esthers.

  "Stop beating yourself up," Wyatt said. "You're a good man going up against cruel, murderous, bloodthirsty creeps. But I'm here, and I'm an old hand at dealing with this sort." He smiled then, dark and strange, his eyes full of shadows. Deacon shivered. "That being said, you should be careful, even more careful than usual."

  "Nobody is going to get me," Deacon snapped. "They want to take me to their slaughterhouse, fine. See what it gets them. I'll still manage to do my job."

  Wyatt slid off the desk, grabbed him up, and slammed him into the wall. Deacon was too shocked by the display of strength to do more than gasp. "No. That's the sort of cocky shit everyone is always yelling at me for. You aren't getting it. These goblins don't see you as people. They see you as meat. Possibly—probably—as entertainment. I know this type, better than I want. Take this threat seriously and don't let them get you. I don't want—" Wyatt swallowed, abruptly let him go and stepped back. "Sorry. I just. I don't want to see you wind up like—like Esther."

  Deacon would bet everything he owned that it wasn't Esther's name he'd intended to say. "What in the world have you been through?"

  "Too much," Wyatt said, looking away. "It doesn't matter. Just be careful. Now come on, I may have a starting point for us."

  Nodding, still not quite certain what to say about the outburst and manhandling, Deacon followed him out of the office.

  "Your file said that so far at twenty-seven people have definitely gone missing, but that you think it's probably higher."

  "Yeah," Deacon said. "The more I learn, the more I fear I'm right."

  "Given how long you think it's been going on and how careful these guys have been, I'd say the actual number is significantly higher—in the hundreds. It's possible—likely in fact—that they've been entrenched since before you guys took down the Rust Syndicate, in which case the number could be
in the thousands."

  "There's no way that many people can go missing in a single city without it being noticed."

  Wyatt gave him a pitying look. "Transients would make up the greatest numbers. Homeless, which the syndicate wouldn't have cared about, would be a close second. Also your list only contains adults; no one has looked into missing children. I bet orphanages around here have higher than usual numbers of runaways."

  Deacon pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to ward off the bile that rose up. Thank Allah he hadn't gotten around to eating breakfast yet.

  "There's also nursing homes, assisted living, things like that. Old people don't make the greatest steaks, but meat is meat. There's always a way to use it. Then there's psych wards and stuff. A lot of families are more than happy to not ask a lot of questions when their 'crazy' son or brother or mother suddenly goes missing. Let's not forget, either, that the syndicate had a sad excuse for law enforcement, so you can add criminals to the list. Plenty of meat to go around, and the herd so big nobody notices a few of the stragglers getting picked off."

  That was it. Deacon was never eating anything again, period. "How can you be so… so casual about all this? I thought my stomach was hardened by my last venture with goblins of this sort, but I'm about to vomit."

  Wyatt shrugged, but his eyes had filled with shadows again. "Everyone's got a past. Telling you mine won't help anything. Just know I'm the best possible help you could have right now."

  "Then I'm glad to have you aboard, thank you," Deacon replied. "I mean it. This is horrible. I'm glad to have someone who can handle it."

  That got him a shy, sweet smile that was like nothing he'd seen from Wyatt before. Deacon had never wanted to kiss him so badly, despite the grisly topic of conversation.

  Pentacle growled at his side, and Deacon shot him a warning look. Now was not the time to do something impulsive, stupid, and likely unwanted. That just got him a loud huff.

  "What's wrong with Pentacle?"

  "He's being a brat. I seem to be surrounded by those."

  Wyatt grinned. "Guess brats just have a thing for you." He jerked to a stop and went apple red, covering his mouth with his hands. From behind them, half-garbled but still comprehensible, he said, "I mean—sorry—"

  Deacon drew up short, staring in shock, while Pentacle rumbled smugly.

  Wyatt looked like he wanted to sink into the ground, hands slowly falling away. "Ignore me."

  "That is, in my albeit limited experience, impossible to do," Deacon said slowly. "You can't be serious. I'm boring as anything, at least twice your age, and apparently you've spent all this time thinking I hate you."

  Wyatt looked everywhere but at him, clearly desperate for some distraction or excuse to flee the conversation. Finally he looked at Deacon, flushed anew, and stared at the sidewalk. "Of course I'm serious," he muttered. "You're not boring. Age is stupid. Everybody hates me, I'm used to it. Doesn't keep me from noticing you're rock-steady, admired by everybody, and hot as hell."

  Deacon wasn't often left poleaxed, but heck if that didn't do it. Pentacle rumbled at his side, smug satisfaction filling the bond. All he could remember was Pentacle's words from the last night, how much he'd insisted that Wyatt belonged with them.

  Four decades of waiting and longing, years of struggling to accept that maybe there was no partner destined to enter his life, and now here was Wyatt, the kid who was not a kid, and drove him absolutely crazy, and clearly had a past that no doubt stress Deacon out.

  Looking utterly wretched, Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck and started to turn away. "I can go home if you want, but I promise I won't say anymore stupid shit or try anything. Believe me, that's not my style at all."

  Deacon's brows rose. "How in the world did you hook up with the likes of Roman, but you're about to bolt like a scared cat right now?"

  That finally got Wyatt to look at him, his usual cocky derision returning as he scoffed. "Roman? He just really wanted information, and I wanted the same. We were using each other. That's usually why I hook up with people—easiest way to get what I really want. You'd be surprised what people are willing to say, do, or let me do, all because I'm pretty and can, with very little effort, look sixteen instead of twenty-three."

  Deacon had a sudden, vicious, violent urge to hunt some people down and smash their faces in.

  Wyatt, of all things, laughed. "You don't have to worry about me, Captain. They all got what they deserved. I'm no pushover, for all I look it."

  Deacon hesitated a beat, then threw all sense and caution to the wind. Pentacle rumbled soft approval as he said, "What you are is a brat who needs to be reined in."

  Wyatt opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, cheeks going pink again.

  It was Deacon's turn to grin.

  That got him an adorable scowl-pout. "You set me up."

  "Maybe."

  Wyatt narrowed his eyes. "What are you playing at?"

  "It's called flirting, Wyatt, and hopefully it'll lead to kissing sometime soon." That got him a look of open, naked shock that Deacon would remember for years. He laughed in delight, grabbed Wyatt's wrist, and reeled him in close. He stroked one of those fine cheekbones with his thumb, loving the delicate shivers and hitched breath that resulted.

  What a strange world, to go his whole life waiting for the One (or more), and then get a dragon and a lover in the span of just a couple of years. His heart drummed in his ears, drowning out every thought but one. "So can I kiss you, brat?"

  "Please," Wyatt said, the word barely above a whisper.

  Deacon did so, finally and at last. Kissing Wyatt was nothing like kissing Pentacle, save that it was equally wonderful. Wyatt's lips were as soft as they'd always looked, warm and supple beneath his. As they parted, Deacon slipped his tongue past them, tasting Wyatt for the first time and nearly groaning from it. He tasted like his ridiculous coffee, but also like the metallic bite of magic and ever so faintly of blood. His hair was silky, clinging to the callouses of Deacon's fingers.

  Wyatt wrapped around him and matched the kiss with fervor, groaning into it and shuddering like all his tension was finally draining away. Deacon shifted to twine his arms around Wyatt's waist, lifting him up to bring them level. Wyatt moaned something that sounded like his name, arms tight around his neck, clinging like a drowning man to a life ring.

  It was humbling. Intoxicating. It also woke all of Deacon's possessive, protective instincts. Wyatt was only the second person he'd ever kissed, and he wanted fiercely for the counting to stop right there, forever.

  The honking of a car horn and several lewd suggestions finally tore him away from Wyatt's delectable mouth. "I can't believe you have me making out on a street corner like some teenager."

  Wyatt stared at him wide-eyed, touching his fingertips to his lips. "I can't believe you kissed me."

  "I'll do that and more when we get the chance," Deacon said, heart tripping at the idea, at his own brazen determination. "For now, though, we really need to focus on work."

  "Yeah, of course." But Wyatt gave him that shy smile again before he slipped fully back into work mode. "As many bodies as they must be moving, they'd need a large place to do it. The old syndicate warehouses are out because you guys have those locked down. There's a few other places that are of the right size, but they lack the refrigeration that would be necessary to keep the bodies preserved."

  "So we're looking for a large, isolated building that can handle a really messy job, sanitation nightmares, refrigeration, and… transport." Deacon frowned. "Maybe one of the old factories? But we have those pretty closely watched too. We're rezoning everything for commercial and residential use; Amr is hoping to start on the construction middle of next year. So what does that leave? Nothing comes to mind, let alone right in the middle of the city."

  Wyatt said nothing, only continued walking. A few minutes later, they turned a corner and all of a sudden Deacon got it. In retrospect, it should have occurred to him. Rust had never taken much care of t
he city, and a lot of businesses had up and left. One of the many victims of Rust's apathy was a small retail center inside an old skyscraper once owned by the city to house the mayor and other such offices. It had long ago turned into offices for lawyers, accountants, and the like, along with retail shops, and then shut down one business at a time, until only the rats were left. But amongst the shops and offices, there were restaurants. Lots and lots of restaurants, from cheap grab'n'go all the way up to high-end, formal dress only places.

  Amr had just ordered it shut down, with the guards to run a circuit of the perimeter on their patrols. The building was so rundown, he'd just added it to the bottom of his list of things to tackle.

  How long had the goblins been using it as their own private processing plant? "Come on, we should make sure I'm not about to waste time and endanger people before I call in a raid. I just can't believe it'd be this easy."

  "The best hiding place is in plain sight," Wyatt replied.

  Deacon cast him a look. "You don't have to come with me. I'm just going to take a quick look and then get the heck out of there."

  That got him the withering look he expected. "You're not going in alone."

  "Fine," Deacon said with a sigh. "But if you get hurt, Jackie is going to kill me, so don't get hurt."

  Wyatt grinned, a little shy but a lot bold. "Do I get prize for behaving?"

  "You'll have to find out," Deacon said, and drew his Glock. "Come on, let's get this over with." He unlocked the chain link fence that circled the building and slipped inside, Wyatt close behind but not so close they'd get in each other's way. Pentacle ventured further ahead, a long, deadly shadow.

  "I smell blood," Wyatt said as they slipped into the underground parking garage, the easy way into the building and the least likely to draw attention. "Old, likely from early days before they refined the process, or from some sort of altercation."

  Deacon grunted but didn't otherwise reply. He found the stairs and took them to the lobby, where thankfully there was a large map behind glass. "Seventh floor is almost entirely food. We'll look there."

  "I can smell it," Wyatt said, and Pentacle growled.