Isla, Getting the Goss

Greg held the door open for me, and we entered the South Street Diner in silence.

Oh no, it wasn't awkward at all. Just like our Uber ride over. Wouldn't have been a far walk either, but Greg insisted on a car. The night was cold and I was underdressed. Honestly, I was thankful I didn't have to strut all the way home in my ruined pumps. They were soggy and cramped my toes.

But maybe walking and bemoaning my sore feet would have kept my mind from sinking into the hopeless necromantic spiral it had in the car. Greg sat stiffly against the window, as far from me as possible. He kept his gaze out at the passing buildings, but he had to have sensed my staring at him, heart hammering in my chest.

Should I tell him? I should tell him. Spilly my guts out. Come clean.

I couldn't possibly tell him. He could wipe his hands clean of me and turn me in.

But the Magistrate could accuse him of being my accomplice.

Heck with it, I'm going to tell, keeping secrets is clearly torturing the guy.

No, girlfriend, no. You're still a unicorn's crotch hair away from real trouble. He didn't deserve to be dragged even further down into your shit. It be real hard to continue whatever's happening between us if it's through letters from prison anyway.

Or worse, he wouldn't want to continue this at all. What if vamps thought of necromancy as some kind of gross imitation of vampirism itself? A Prada bag sneering at a curbside knock-off.

I spent all day in Greg's home, and I hadn't even worked up the courage to tell Phoebe what was really bothering me. She was heckin' sweet to keep me company till I dozed off on Greg's couch, but I was careful to guard myself. Anything I said to her would undoubtedly get back to the vamp at some point, wouldn't it?

Tits on a stick. This was confusing. I couldn't think straight. I needed a coffee to focus. Luckily, there happened to be one waiting for me on the coffee bar.

"Hold up," I said, as Greg trudged toward the stairwell entrance.

"Aren't you anxious to see your cat?"

Yeah. Duh. Of course. But it's not like Grumpkin could possibly starve to death.

Meanwhile, my usual order awaited me. Extra hot large black coffee. The addict I was, two coffees I'd drank at Greg's weren't totally scratching that caffeine itch. Was that what craving blood was like for vampires, just dialed all the way up to eleven? It seemed Greg also had a caffeine addiction on top of platelets. Wonder if compounding withdrawals were leading to all those obvious tension headaches.

"Thanks, Mason."

The bored looking barista glanced up from cleaning the milk steamer and furrowed his brows. "Oh, you're back. For what?"

"Whatever," I moseyed to the register. A pang of guilt for drinking Greg's fix hit me. "Can you get this guy an iced mocha too? Please."

Greg trailed behind, keeping a safe distance. Safe as in, I presumed, neither of us were in immediate danger of succumbing to our raging hormones and uncontrollably making out at the drop of a witch's needle. Still, as I ordered his drink, I thought a caught his eyes softening, and a small close-lipped smile.

"It's freezing out," said Mason.

Whether he was referring to Greg's choice of beverage or our clothes, well, I couldn't tell you.

Neither of us were stellarly dressed for the frigid weather. The hot pink, and still blood-soggy, heels of my pumps were poking holes into the hem of Greg's sweats. My nips were icicles too, under the thin fabric of my borrowed t-shirt. I'm not super certain Greggy didn't give me this particular shirt on purpose.

He had replaced those front flattering sweats with a pair of black, rear flattering skinny jeans. Fixed the mismatched buttons and tucked in his white shirt. With his leather jacket trashed, he simply opted for a fluffy gray cardigan identical to one I swear I've seen my grandfather wear. Paired with leather and not at all water-resistant shoes, the judgy side-eye Mason was throwing wasn't entirely unexpected.

"He can take it."

I popped open my clutch. Shit. Rocco had pinched all my money.

Before I could turn to Greg and give him by best pwetty pwease eyelash flutter, he was already dropping money on the counter. His elbow brushed against my arm. Slowly. Deliberately slowly. You could hear the gentle swish of fabric rubbing together.

Mason scooped ice into a cup. "Small Matcha Latte with Extra Protein Powder was in here looking for you, by the way."

Greg raised a brow.

"Uh, who?" I asked.

"The bald guy. With the beard," Mason rolled his eyes. "One you said worked for the landlord."

Ah.

"Yeah, I caught up with Rocco. Thanks."

"He's an asshole. Broke the skim milk pitcher. Guess I didn't refill it fast enough. Don't know what Lily saw in that douche-hole."

Everything seemed to slow. Ice hung in midair as Mason jangled the cup. The whir of the espresso machine melted into a muted hum. Even the steady wash of traffic outside faded away.

But my pulse thumped, hard and slow, in my ears.

I looked up at Greg. Who stared down at me, his jaw hanging wide open as he slow-motion mouthed 'douche-hole?'

"Wait a sec," Mason frowned and narrowed his eyes at Greg. "Aren't you that cop for hire guy?"

The what?

"Hush now," Greg leaned forward, onto his elbows over the coffee bar. His voice took on a low, soothing tone that liquified my spine. "No need to think about where you may, or may not, have seen me before. Just relax."

A comforting warmth spread through my limbs. Gave me the tingles right down to the tips of fingers. I grabbed Greg by the elbow. Just to, you know, keep myself upright as my knees morphed into jelly. He stiffened.

When Mason got caught in the vamp's glowing gaze, his own went glassy. Lips parted as his mouth relaxed into a little sigh. Tension poured from his muscles as he let the lidless mocha drop onto the counter. He splashed himself right out of his stupor.

"Shit," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry that, um, keeps happening. I'll get another cup. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

I could practically feel Greg grinding his teeth together beside me.

Unsure if I'd survive another one of his vampy hypnosis attempts, I gasped. Loud and dramatically.

"Matcha man was her secret boyfriend? Mason, you've been holding out on me!"

Mason cracked open a fresh milk carton. "Isn't that, like, why she got a reading from you last week?"

Oops. You're supposed to be psychic, remember, girlfriend?

"She told me about the old man, of course," I swirled a hand in the air, laying Madame Margherita on as thick as foamed milk. "But I could sense, in the, uh, stars, or whatever, she had another secret paramour. The veil kept him clouded in mystery and, you know, all that jazz."

Mason snorted. "Matcha Latte was not the secret one of her paramours. Least not around here. He comes—came in at least once a week to flirt with her. Or fight. Coin toss as to which, to be honest."

Eyelashes fluttering and nodding agreeably, I sipped my coffee patiently. Greg—who I was realizing had severely stunted literacy comprehension from his complete inability to read a fucking room—opened his fanged mouth to comment. I elbowed him on the ribs. Hard.

Luckily, Mason didn't seem to pay any attention to the tiny wheeze that escaped the vamp.

"It was her sugar daddy she kept under wraps," Mason added two pumps of mocha syrup to the cup. "Did the stars or whatever tell you if Lily really skipped town with that creep? Ashe and Maddy have a bet going."

"Ooh, is it too late to buy in?"

This time Greg elbowed me. Gently, though. A tickling nudge against my arm. The cheek-peck of elbowing.

"Ashe says Lily ghosted us to run off with the old guy. Maddy thinks Matcha Latte finally took his anger out on her," Mason winced. "I hope neither. For her sake."

Yeah, me neither. I shook the memory of her puffer coat bloated with her own blood out my head.

As Mason poured ice into the new cup, Greg elbowed me again. Still soft, but a bit more incessantly this time. He paired it with a not so inconspicuous throat clearing. And then, for good measure, he tapped the counter.

Sighing, I glanced down. His little notebook was open. Like a dang cue card.

"What they fight about?" I read aloud.

Mason shrugged.

"Lots of stuff. I think Matcha was married, so, you know, that. But also the old man. They both brought her flowers in the same night, once. Guess it was her birthday or something," He slid the fresh cup across the counter, ignoring Greg's other outstretched hand. "Matcha got so pissed he broke a mug."

"Matcha got pissed she was cheating on him with the old man when he was stepping out on his wife? What a loser."

"Hypocrite," Greg grumbled—mostly to feel included, I suspected.

Mason shot him a side-eye so deadly it might have been lined with silver. "It wasn't news. She gave Matcha stuff sometimes. After the creep left, and when she thought I wasn't looking. Gifts or money or whatever. From the old man."

Greg straightened. His eyes lit up like a flash of lightning. "Cabroni knew about Dmitri. Which means—"

Wait, no! I knew this! I knew this one!

I pressed both index fingers against the tips of mine and Greg's noses, respectively, as the realization sucker punched me right in the skull (and Greggy went a little cross eyed).

"They weren't just smashing they were scamming. Together."

"Uh," said Mason, "Is there anything I can get for you guys?"

Greg snatched his iced latte off the counter and immediately crunched into the straw. He flashed a dazzling, sharp, fang filled smile. "No, thank you, Mason. You've been very helpful this evening."

"Try not to drop that this time. Pig."

"You know how to treat girl to the goss, Mason," I said, tossing him a wink.

Mason snorted and busied himself with wiping chocolate syrup off the counter.

Greg swept his arm around me to usher us both away from the counter. His hand was cool and heavy and welcoming against the small of my back. I shivered. The shakes reverberated down to my knees, and I stumbled a little, as my joints clearly hadn't fully stabilized from that little enthralling. Just a little bit. As a treat.

"Did you melt Mason's brain?"

"I can only drop so many cups before I get banned."

"Did you melt my kneecaps?"

"What? No. I—hold on a moment."

We slid into the nearest booth and Greg began furiously emptying his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone, that little notebook of his. Something was happening in that vamp's brain. His brow was scrunched, eyes frantically flit from item to item dumped onto the sticky surface. A little fang poked out over his bottom lip as he bit down in concentration.

"Hey, come to think of it. Prior to last night, Rocco hasn't exactly been diligent in collecting my rent as of late," I said, trying to feel useful and contribute to whatever brain blast Greg was experiencing. It worked, a tad. He looked up, a borderline manic glint in his gaze, that notebook pressed between his long fingers.

I continued. "He was supposed to collect on the first of the month but was late. He seemed, I don't know, distracted."

Rocco was clipping toenails in my favorite chair and totally flippant when I questioned him as to why he was late (wow, that was a dumb thing to ask of a homicidal werewolf. Third eye hindsight is twenty-twenty-twenty, am I right?). Been busy, I think he said.

Greg nodded. It was quick and short. Like he understood what I was trying to say but didn't quite know how to apply it yet. Heck, I barely knew what I was saying.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

Just, you know, trying to prod the frustratingly quiet smarty pants in the room to shed some more light on me.

He flicked open that notebook. A sliver of chain that had been pressed between the pages tumbled out. Rocco had that chain wrapped around Greg's neck, ready to pop his head off like a cork.

The bruise around my own neck throbbed.

"Sloane was stabbed with a similar necklace," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Bella," Greg continued, kind of losing me as he thumbed through pages. He pressed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Cabroni. Dang it, I should've written it down sooner, I can't remember it clearly. Only saw when he wound up for a punch. But he had a tattoo on his wrist."

"He's got lots of tattoos. Did you know notice his knuckles say long hots?"

"This one was a name. Isabella? Annabelle?"

"The Arabella tattoo?" I burned my tongue on my coffee. "I think that's his kid's name."

Greg half chuckled. "Of course it is. I suspected—knew the culprit who stole Rosemond's bones was a werewolf. We grappled but he escaped. Managed to sniff out a whiff of tattoo on that mutt's wrist before he got away. It read 'bella.'"

"Did you just say sniff and whiff on purpose?"

"There was a broken glass in Lily's apartment, you said? Just one?"

I massaged my neck to combat the whiplash. My memory of Lily's tiny apartment was already fuzzy at best. She had a dead fish. DVD boxsets. Pictures of beaches. Big old dog plushy. Lots of pink. Nipple tassels and a dead woman's pilfered jewelry (as evidenced by that portrait in Dmitri and Sloane's home). Nail clippings, that was gross.

Wait... Rocco sure did have a habit of clipping his toenails where they didn't belong, didn't he? Like, in my fucking parlor, for example.

Lily also had dried flower bouquets – one roses and one lilies and ooooooooh I get it now, those were gifts from both Dmitri and Rocco.

"It was one of those rose chalices," I said. "Smashed like it been thrown."

An adorable smirk touched the corner of Greg's lip. "You noticed it matched the set in Dmitri's home?"

"Yeah, when Sloane had Jules pour me wine. Dmitri was obviously gifting them to his floosies."

The smirk widened. "So you can pay attention."

"When the occasion calls for it," I squeezed my thighs together as a hot flush rushed through me. "Greg where the heck are you going with this you scatter brained weirdo?"

"I'm thinking that the same, quick tempered somebody may have broken both that chalice and your barista's milk pitcher," he twisted a finger round and round beside his temple. "And that's why I write everything down, woman."

"She was planning a supposed vacation, right?" she had so many photos of beaches on her walls. Ripped from magazines and travel brochures. Pink sunsets and white sand. Even Dmitri knew she loved the seaside. "With a boyfriend? Didn't Britney say that?"

Tapping his foot, Greg flipped through his notebook pages again. That sweet, delightful, sexy mmmm purred in his chest again. "A grand vacation. More like an escape plan. She was going to jet off with some mystery lover, but she had a change of heart, according to her friend. Even Julian suspected she had other lovers. Plus, the night that snake went to her apartment, a neighbor heard screaming and—"

"The glass breaking? And the blood. Lily looked—" dead "—worse for wear in my parlor that night."

"Probably because she and her werewolf lover were having a row over the Dmitri scam. The fight turned violent, one of them gets hurt, cut on the broken glass perhaps? Cabroni would've been mighty sore at her—"

"Oh, oh! Because Lily changed her mind! Like Britney said! Despite Sloane's warning about Count Crypt Keeper's other lovers, she was starting to believe his batshit!"

She was so scared. And tired. And desperate. She didn't care how much it cost. She just needed, begged for me to help her talk to someone.

While I vibrated with excitement, Greg'd gone worryingly still. Those usual fidgets and nervous ticks retreated. His body quieted that energy, bound it up tight in his muscles, readying for the pounce. That lopsided razor-sharp grin widened, eyes alit with cold satisfaction.

"She stole the fingerbone for you. She accepted Julian's bribe money for you. Because Sloane advised her to find a way to verify Rosemond's ghost was still on this plane and hiring you for a séance was how she planned to do it."

Last night, Rocco had Rocky-punched Greg as if he was meat on a hook. Beaten the vamp beyond the limits of his own ability to heal. The back of his damned skull had crumbled like a Bundt cake stuck to the pan. Shredding open his girlfriend's torso cause he got mad at her for feeling bad about not wanting to rip off a Loony Toons vampire tracked.

I swallowed at the thought of what his wife must've endured before hiring Greg. And after.

"Seems these two kissed and made up, though. How much, you want to bet, Dmitri has a ransom note waiting for him at home from his sugar baby and her werewolf boyfriend for his precious Rosemond's remains, huh?"

The idea of Lily and Rocco reconciling after he murdered her felt farfetched to me, but Greg didn't know that bit of the story.

"Where would they even be hiding a severely decomposed skeleton?"

"Julian said he once drove Lily out to Gray's Ferry," said Greg.

"Gray's Ferry? What—How're you remembering all this?"

He tapped his notebook. "Told you."

"Okay but when did you have time to write all—what are you doing?"

Greg had already whipped out his phone. He typed and scrolled furiously, those fingers moving at vampire speed. "A real estate scandal? You dummy. She was right under my fangs this whole damn time," he muttered, ignoring my question. Oh, this was aggravating. I was supposed to be the distraction he couldn't keep his eyes off.

He spun his phone around to face me: "is this Lily?"

The video he queued up was grainy and dark. It was difficult to make out anything beyond shapes. A house. A big, bald guy with a gym bag. A small woman opened the door and welcomed him in with open arms.

"I don't know. It's dark."

"But could it be her?"

Greg replayed the video. She was thin. So much so it looked like the wind would knock her right over. Her hair appeared to be dark, and it was definitely curly. She seemed to sport a shag cut. If I tugged on his wrist to pull the phone closer and squinted, maybe I could make out the missing acrylic nails on Lily's fingers.

My stomach knotted. That was—yeah—that could be her. He found her. But... she went back to Rocco? After he tore her open like that? I peeked around the phone at Greg's fangs protruding over his bottom lip, that predatory instinct settling over him, tightening his shoulders, putting that sharp look in his eye.

I guess good dick leads to bad decisions.

"Why do you care now?"

"I'm not asking this for Dmitri or myself, I'm asking this for you." Greg stared at me with those big blues, frowning. "Do you want to find this gal or not? Now or never, here's your chance. Your case closed."

"And we never have to see each other again, right?" I choked. "For all the trouble I've caused you, losing clients, getting you beat to heck."

Please don't agree with me. Please don't agree with me.

"You mean for lying to me and very obviously seducing me into accompanying you to check on your cat and pry me for whatever more information I know about your criminal record while drinking my coffee?"

My blush stretched out from my cheeks to tingle my neck and ears. "Was I that easy to read?"

"Like a vampire drinking iced coffee in January. And it worked spectacularly."

Greg crunched on his straw as he took a long sip from his drink, draining half the cup in a single gulp, eyes studying me intently as he did. Goosebumps broke out across my chest and I pulled my coat tighter.

After several long scrutinizing seconds, Greg solemnly spoke.

"I want to close your case because whatever this is," he gestured between us with his cup. "I can't close it."

His voice broke on a flicker of hope. It fluttered in my entrails like an angry moth. Yeah, yeah, I got it. I understood. The boy wanted me. Bad enough to break his damned professionalism rules. Which was fantastic, wasn't it? Because I wanted him too. So, so badly. But it hurt like heck to feel the words to describe this desirous agony clawing its way up my inflamed throat because—

"Just tell me," Greg said softly. "Why her?"

Because these kind of declarations always came with a but.

I clutched my coffee tight. Witchy's titties, why did he have to have eyes that sparkled like a stormy sea when they were wide and vulnerable and pleading like that? My will puddled at his feet when he looked at me like that and he wasn't even forcing me to answer. He could. He could melt my brain to goo and comb through the mess of mind as easily as running his fingers through my hair. But he didn't. Wouldn't. What a gentleman.

"I put her in trouble... I... she's a Tourist, if she gets picked up by the Magistrate..." an oily, wicked sensation pooled in my belly. Don't tell him. "She'd be in trouble."

"Darling, if this is about the license, we can pretend that never happened, alright? Don't give me that face, you don't think I don't know how to make a good cover up? I was bootlegger for Dmitri, remember? And before that—" He bit his own cheek. "We'll fix this. If the Magistrate is on her tail, don't fuss, it's not like you revealed magic to her. Without any donor consent forms, Dmitri and Sloane will be on the hook for Breach of Conspiracy. She may've seen a ghost in your office but it's not like you put a curse on her."

Didn't I, though? Is to be resurrected really any better than a curse, when I already knew the consequences? A curse I planned to remove from her. The heat of shame burned and prickled my eyes and nose.

"It's personal, okay. Can you just respect that?"

Greg sagged. He seemed like a sad balloon for a moment, after somebody had let all the air out of him.

Hating that pitying, judging, angry, shocked, disappointed stare, I grabbed his phone. Pressed the screen nearly up to my nose.

"Yes. I think that's her."

"Okay," he nodded a fraction, gently taking back his phone and returning his focus to this puzzle he needed to solve. "Okay, we'll have to formulate a plan to confront her."

"Where did you record that?"

"Cabroni's mother's house. We won't rope Dmitri into this, but if you need a discreet conversation, and I mean discreet, Isla, we'll come up with some—"

I pressed myself against the booth window. Damn. The sky was cloudy.

"Is it a full moon tonight?"

Greg checked his phone and groaned. "Yes."

"Perfect. Now's our opportunity."

Not like I could wait for a more discreet window anyway. I was on thin ice with Nazira. I needed to bury this, bury Lily, like, yesterday.

"Are you mad woman? You want to go to a werewolf's home during a full moon? The famously worst time to meet a werewolf?"

"Now's the best time! What kind of idiot allows themselves to get caught shifting in their mother's house? She's human. Rocco's got the scars from where he was scratched to be turned, I've seen them. He won't be home. Denise has everyone run out in the Wissahickon. Like, wolfpack mafia team building exercises or some shit."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "Are you certain about that?"

"One way to find out."

Speak Philadelphian: Wissahickon [Wiss-uh-hick-ken] Valley Park – Many a creature roam in this 2,042-acre wildlife park. On full moon nights, it's the werewolves' howls that echo through the woods. Spring mornings are when fae bath in the Devil's Pool. Trolls camp beneath the bridge trails in winter while the druids celebrate their harvest rituals amongst the Autumn leaves. Summer afternoons are generally reserved for mortal's dogs, however, barking their way up the hiking trails. Good doggos.