Dagger to the Heart Page 7

  I gripped Magdalena’s hips hard—and I pushed her back.

  “Stop,” I said, my breath coming in gasps and my heart beating harder than it had after my post-lunch run. “I can’t. I just…can’t.”

  Magdalena’s eyes narrowed, her mouth hanging open slightly. “I don’t understand. I thought, given the way you were looking at me… I saw the hunger in your eyes. I felt it. The heat. That was us. I was sure you wanted me.”

  “I… I do. Gods, I do. But I can’t. I’m married.”

  “You’re…married?” She glanced at my left hand.

  I glanced down myself, noticing my bare ring finger. “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. I, uh…took it off earlier. Last night. It was…nothing.”

  My explanation only emboldened her. Magdalena leaned forward, running a hand over my chest as she tightened the grip of her legs. “But you do want me. I can tell. I can feel it.”

  Sweat soaked my armpits and wicked my shirt to my chest. My pants felt as though they might split down the middle under the force of my desire. “I do. I do want you. But I can’t. I won’t. Not to Nicole. Not like this…”

  Magdalena lifted a finger and trailed it across my cheek, undeterred. “No. I can see that now. You might be lustful, but that’s not what drives you. But you failed to put that ring on for a reason. Too much pride, perhaps?”

  Sweat dripped across my temples. My face was on fire. It couldn’t just be the half-naked beauty atop me, could it? “What are you talking about?”

  Magdalena’s voice deepened, becoming sultrier, sexier. “We all have our faults, Detective. Gluttony. Wrath. Greed. You’re no different. You drink too much. I can smell it on your breath, but I don’t need one of those. I already snared one. When I caught you staring at me, I felt your heat, and I was sure this was what drove you.”

  She reached down and stroked me through my pants. I moaned.

  She released me as quickly as she’d gripped me. “Apparently not, though. No matter. You’re a much tougher fish to hook. Tell me, detective, when you came home last night, ready to sleep, what did you do? Tell your wife you loved her? What about when she confronted you?”

  I blinked, befuddled. “What the— What do you know about that? Have you been spying on me?”

  Magdalena pricked my cheek as she fondled me, her fingernails longer and sharper than I remembered. “I don’t have to. It’s written all over you. The pain. The anguish. The internal struggle. Your faults? They’re never yours, are they? Always someone else’s? Yes. That’s how you see it, isn’t it?”

  She leaned back in, pressing her half-naked body against me. My head swirled, and desire coursed through me. Heat poured off her body, flowing into me, scorching me. It hurt.

  Gritting my teeth, I planted both hands against Magdalena’s ribs and pushed as hard as I could, sending her reeling into the table. I stumbled to my feet, nearly falling to my face as black spots filled my vision. Sweat poured off me, and the air seemed to ripple.

  “Who are you?” I said. “What are you?”

  Magdalena pushed herself off the table, her clothing smoldering, charring, and falling to the floor under my gaze. My knees weakened at the sight of her. I wanted to throw myself at her, to let my clothes catch fire and fall the floor, too. To do horrible, unspeakable things to her.

  She took a step toward me, her skin starting to brighten and glow. “Come, Jake. There’s no need to deny your pride. I can feel it, burning within you. It draws me. Give in. You might as well enjoy this.”

  Flames flickered at the edges of the room, but I couldn’t tell if they were real or not. My mind swam. My vision blurred. I could barely think.

  I lunged forward, grabbing the pitcher of water and tossing the contents over Magdalena. The water sizzled as it touched her, turning into mist.

  “Trust me, Jake,” she said. “I’ll enjoy this just as much the hard way, too.”

  With superhuman speed, she reached out and slammed a palm into my chest. I flew, crashing into the windows behind me. I heard them crack—either them, or my ribs. I fell, bouncing off the couch before crashing to the floor face first. The room crackled, Magdalena sizzled, and something tinkled and rang.

  My wedding ring. It rolled from my pocket, spinning and gyrating before coming to a rest inches from my nose.

  I felt Magdalena approach, the heat from her body turning the sweat that slicked me into a searing cloud of steam. I felt the edge of my pants catch fire, and I knew I was about to die.

  With my arm slippery and aching from the fall, I reached out and grabbed the ring. I tried to speak as I slipped it back on, but my throat failed me, resulting in a pathetic croak.

  I’m sorry, Nicole, I thought as Magdalena descended upon me. It’s all my fault. You and Tommy deserve better. I’m so, so sorry…

  Magdalena reached an arm of flame into me. Pain lanced through me, but so did something else. Magdalena’s screams.

  She screeched, as loud as an entire building aflame but high-pitched and angry. A scream of rage and fear.

  And then she exploded.

  13

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard a commotion. Footsteps. Thumps. Voices. Concerned voices. Several of them. Saying my name. Loud snaps. More commotion. Then a discussion. I could almost make out the words. Something about salts.

  A pungent scent lanced through me and snapped my eyes open. I gasped, glancing about wildly. Griggs, Rodgers, Quinto, and Fire Marshal Transom crouched over me, Quinto holding a small glass bottle near my nose.

  I coughed. “What… What the… Where…?”

  “It’s okay, Daggers,” said Rodgers. “How are you? Are you feeling alright?”

  “I’m…” I lifted a hand to my chest. A black scorch mark covered the center of my shirt, but both it and the muscles and bones underneath were otherwise intact. I felt like I’d sucked half a campfire into my lungs, though. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  I looked up, recognizing the vases and sofa chairs and desk from the lobby of Fletcher’s investment firm. From my vantage point on the floor, I could only see partway into the hallway to the conference room, but what I could see looked brutal. Blackened walls, broken glass, soot everywhere. Smoke hung in the air, but faint, like the scent of an old friend. I didn’t see any flames.

  “What the hell happened?” I croaked.

  “We were kind of hoping you could tell us,” said Transom.

  I felt like hell, like someone had stomped on me and turned me over a spit. I stretched my neck and tested my jaw. “Uh…you first.”

  Quinto corked the small bottle and put it to the side. “Griggs?”

  The old guy grunted. “Before I say anything, I’m going to need you to guarantee that you won’t pull another stupid stunt like that in the future.”

  “What stupid stunt?”

  “Running off like that,” he said. “Trying to be a gods damned hero. Mr. Johnny on the Spot.”

  “Are you serious, old man?” I said. “We had a lead to follow. I told you to come with me. You’re the one who was dragging his feet.”

  “Enough already,” said Transom. “Can we get to it already?”

  Griggs grunted again. “Fine. After I’d rested, I came after you, only to arrive at this place and have the third floor windows explode as I get here. I hauled my ass up the stairs as fast as I could. Found you inside that room down the hall, flat on your back and out cold, with the room smoldering around you. Heavy scorch marks all over the floor, except where you were. Hauled you out. Almost threw my back out in the process. And here we are. Everyone else arrived a couple minutes later.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You ventured into a burning room to save me, Griggs?”

  “Smoldering,” said Griggs. “Wasn’t really on fire.”

  I looked to Transom for help.

  “It’s the damnedest thing,” said the marshal. “One of my guys saw the smoke. By the time we got here though, it had mostly burned out—and that only took
a few minutes, mind you. That said, the furniture inside is burnt to a crisp. Nothing but embers left. And yet here you are. Griggs said you were in there, but…”

  “He was in there,” said Griggs.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I believe you.” Transom’s tone said he didn’t, though.

  I glanced back toward the conference room. A fireman exited the room and tramped across the lobby, looking no worse for wear. “What else did you find in there?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Transom.

  “You know,” I said. “Remains.”

  “Whose?” said Transom. “Was there someone in there with you? Seriously, what happened?”

  I blinked. “Yeah. There was someone else. Fletcher’s secretary.”

  This time, Rodgers and Quinto shared confused looks.

  “That’s impossible,” said Rodgers.

  “Why?”

  “Because Fletcher’s secretary was with us,” he said. “She showed up at his apartment after you’d left. Apparently, Fletcher dismissed her this morning. Was acting weird. She was concerned and came by to see him. Found us instead. She’s devastated. Probably still outside right now.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Is she tall, with dark hair, olive skin, and a great figure?”

  “No, she’s blond, pale, and on the plump side.” Quinto peered at me. “Are you feeling okay? I think you might’ve inhaled a lot of smoke.”

  “No. I mean, yes. It’s hard to say. I’m having a hard time remembering things.”

  “Detective Quinto is right,” said Transom. “We need to get you checked out by a physician. It’s a miracle you’re alive at all. We need to make sure there’s no internal damage we’re not seeing. Here. I’ll help you.”

  Transom put an arm around my shoulder and helped me to my feet. My legs wobbled as I stood, making me hold off on telling him to take a hike.

  “Quinto and I’ll try to make sense of the crime scene,” said Rodgers. “Daggers, you sure there was a woman here with you? Was she the arsonist? Did you see her set the fire?”

  “I…” I wet my lips with my tongue and swallowed. My throat felt ready to crack. “I don’t know. I’m questioning so much right now. If there aren’t any remains in the room, I guess not.”

  Rodgers and Quinto exchanged glances. Quinto shrugged, and they headed toward the burnt room.

  Griggs snorted. “You got him on the stairs?”

  Transom nodded. “Don’t worry yourself. We’ll be fine.”

  Griggs grunted that knowing grunt, the one that said he was secretly worried but had already put his life on the line dragging me to safety. Helping me down the stairs would have to be someone else’s job.

  Transom gave me a nudge. “Come on.”

  He helped me out the door and we started on the steps, taking them slow.

  “You got water below?” I asked.

  “You bet,” he said. “And the medic’s going to make you drink more than you ever wanted, so gird yourself.”

  I nodded. We made it to the second floor landing, and I motioned for Transom to take a break. I held myself against the railing and took a deep breath, which caused me to cough up a lung.

  “It was sprites, wasn’t it?

  “What?” I turned and looked at Transom. Fear lingered in his eyes.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “The way that fire spread, or rather didn’t? It’s as if something drew away all the heat, set everything ablaze and took its energy only to suck it back in, condense it into the embers at the middle of the room. I don’t understand how else it could’ve skirted you. It’s unnatural.”

  I paused a second, trying to collect my thoughts. I fingered my wedding ring. Ash flaked off it, but it was otherwise fine. “Yeah. It was fire sprites. What I saw? Must’ve been.”

  Transom nodded. “Going to be hell trying to explain this to my superior.”

  “Likewise.” And it would be, but the truth would be even harder to explain. As rare as they might be, at least fire sprites existed. Who in the world would believe a tale of a succubus looking to consume the sins of worldly men through flame? And not just any men’s sins. Mine.

  I gave Transom the go ahead. “Alright. I’m good. Let’s find that doctor.”

  14

  As it turned out, the medics who worked with the fire department were thorough. It was hours before they let me out of their clutches, and then a couple hours more before I could convince the Captain of my story and get him to call off the dogs in the department’s continued search for the arsonist. I’m not sure if he totally bought my story about the fire sprites, but given the lack of physical evidence at Fletcher’s place of business, he was willing to let it slide barring further fires popping up over the next few days.

  The barest glimmers of sunlight still hung in the sky as I made it back home. My apartment door creaked as I opened it, long shadows trailing from the living room window and crawling up the walls. A calmness hung over the apartment, the toys on the floor having been cleared and put away. Could Tommy be asleep already? It was possible. The little guy did seem to need about fourteen hours of rest a night, which was a much better situation than what he’d offered during his first four or five months of life. Still, I’d thought Nicole would be up, reading or tapping her foot impatiently, scowling and waiting for me to make amends. She’d probably retreated to our bedroom, shut herself in there, using the walls as a barrier, both physical and metaphorical.

  I headed to the kitchen, this time finding no dinner on the stove, cold or otherwise. Not that I wanted anything to eat, not after everything I’d gone through at Fletcher’s and later at the hands of the medics.

  I reached into a cabinet for a glass and dug in the back of another, higher one for a bottle of caramel-colored liquid. I pulled the stopper, poured myself a finger, and tossed it back. My throat burned as the whiskey passed across it. I took a sharp breath and exhaled in response.

  What the hell was I going to say to Nicole? That I was sorry? Of course. But I doubted that would be good enough. I needed something more. Something heartfelt, and gods, was I terrible at that. I knew I’d screwed up with Tommy’s birthday. That I’d screwed up by not apologizing sooner. I might’ve screwed up this afternoon with Magdalena, too, but I was willing to write that one off as outside my control. Besides, I was the only one who knew about it. Might as well keep it that way—forever.

  I started to pour myself another finger and stopped with the whiskey dangerously close to the lip of the bottle. Did I really need to be drunk to say I was sorry? Wouldn’t that blunt the impact of the apology? Gods, I couldn’t be that much of an alcoholic, could I?

  I put the bottle back and headed into the hallway, stopping at Tommy’s closed door as I had the night before. I cracked it open, stretching my ears to hear his breathing. I waited for a few seconds, then a few more.

  Nothing.

  I opened the door and walked in slowly, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking. The shades were still drawn. With the day’s light all but gone, shadows enveloped the room, but Tommy’s crib stood out plain as day.

  It was empty.

  I ran, my bedroom door bursting open under a blow from my shoulder. “Tommy! Nicole! Where are you?”

  I looked about wildly, my heart racing, my fingers numb. Where could they be? Oh, gods, what if something had happened to them? What if the succubus hadn’t died? What if she’d come back in search of revenge? Found a way to make me pay even though she hadn’t succeeded in dragging me to the abyss? What if…

  I froze. Something rested on Nicole’s nightstand. A letter.

  I snatched it and tore it open, ripping the paper from within and unfolding it with shaking hands. I had to hold it to the window to read it, the lettering sharp and precise.

  Jake,

  You know I love you. I will always love you, and nothing can change that. Your inability to prioritize us, your family. Your inability to remember your own
son’s birthday. The way you storm off after a fight instead of trying to make it right. I love you through all of those things. And that love is what makes everything you’ve done to me and Tommy so hurtful.

  But love isn’t enough, Jake. I’ve learned that. Effort matters. Desire matters. Actions matter. What you’ve done to me, what you’ve done to Tommy, and more importantly what you’ve done for us, isn’t enough. I’ve tried to convince myself it was, to see if from your point of view, but I can’t. I just can’t.

  I’m sorry, Jake, but the man you are today isn’t the man I married. I can’t do this anymore. Not with you. I want a divorce.

  Nicole

  A drop fell and splattered across the paper, spreading the ink. I reached up and tested my cheek, feeling the tears wet my fingers. The letter fell from my other hand, fluttering to the floor.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, for a moment feeling empty, but the solace of nothingness didn’t last. The tears started to flow, and heavy, suffocating pain smothered my chest. The anguish of loss. A dagger to the heart.

  Alone in the darkness, I cried.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hi. I’m Alex P. Berg, a mystery, fantasy, and science fiction writer and the author of Dagger to the Heart. If you enjoyed this Daggers & Steele prequel novella, be sure to check out the first full novel in the series, Red Hot Steele, in which Detective Daggers meets his new partner.

  Want more exciting adventures, head-scratching mysteries, and snarky dialogue? Check out two of my other series:

  *The Tau Ceti Transmutation (Rich Weed #1): Follow private detective Rich Weed and his trusty android sidekick Carl in this pulp-inspired science fiction mystery set in the year 3330.

  *The Black Mast Murder (Driftwood #1): Mystery and intrigue rule the high seas in this Pirates of the Caribbean-style adventure featuring constable John “Driftwood” Malarkey and his supernaturally-gifted wife, Gwen.