Greg, Connecting the  ̶D̶o̶t̶s̶ Skin

Caught a bus east, down into Old City. I had one more errand to run.

Never thought Mrs. Cabroni would report her husband missing. Cry about it to her mother, sure. Send a few goons my way for an under the table questioning, that was to be expected. But to rope the Magistrate in? Woman must be worried as all hell. Her mother (and Pack alpha) sure didn't seem it.

I supposed, instead, if I really wanted to ensure both my PI license and skin was safe, I could do a little hunting. Return to that diner. Lurk there until the necromancer clumsily exposed herself for the sake of a caffeine craving. Snatch her. Throw her over my shoulder (warm and soft and wriggling). Drag her down into the tunneled labyrinth of the Magistrate headquarters and dust my hands of her magic.

Return her stockings in the process.

Nah, who was I kidding? I wasn't going to do that. Threat of my own eternal damnation incased in cement or no.

I feel like I'm falling love with you...

Had I really said that? Bit extreme. I wasn't actually... Yeah there was attraction between us, of course, but I barely knew the woman! Still, the look on Isla's face as I spilled my entrails hurt worse than a stake through the heart. Burned all my insides up to ashes.

Phone rang.

I answered.

"How's the errands going, Mr. Mopey Fangs? You haven't checked in all night. Been worried you got hung up," Phoebe snickered, "and asphyxiated yourself while having another sad tug into your new favorite pair of women's undergarments."

Hadn't even realized I'd been unconsciously twirling Isla's stockings between my fingers. I pushed the fabric back into my pocket. Ladies' underwear was not something I wanted to be caught fingering on a public bus. I mean—yeah, whatever, you knew what I mean.

"You spying on me again?"

"I'm observing you. As a friend. A worried friend."

"Has she called?" I bit my lip. Hadn't meant to ask Phoebe that. It was too soon. Sounded desperate, didn't it? Too needy. I cleared my throat. "You know, about paying us."

"Oh, uhhhhhhhhhhhh, welllllllll."

"That's a no."

"That's a not yet."

Fine. I'd manage without her money. It's fine. My business was probably about to be shut down by either Magistrates discovering I murdered a werewolf, or more werewolves discovering I murdered their bro.

"Hey," Phoebe's voice softened, and for a moment, I caught a chill tickling the shell of my ear through the phone line. "You want me to tell her off, when does call?"

"You like her."

"My boy says she's a lying hussy—"

"I didn't say hussy."

"Then she's boycotted customer numero uno. Blacklisted. I'll shuffle her phone lines and redirect her own customers our way. How 'bout that? I could do it. You'd be surprised what else I can hear through these wires. Nobody guts my guy and gets away with it. Soon as I find her social media, I will be leaving a series of scathing reviews. Ooo maybe I'll try my hand at cyberbullying! Seems effective."

The headache I'd been nursing for days had turned my brain to scrambled eggs during Phoebe's rant. "Have I gotten any other calls?"

"Oh. Um. No. Not much. Beyond the uszh."

Bus slowed to a halt. Someone behind me shouted back door up at the driver.

"Phoebe."

"Mrs. Cabroni! She called this morning. Again. Okay, this is not my usual advice, but, ah, maybe don't call her back right away."

"She found out I—" an elderly woman entering the bus at this stop shuffled by, searching for a seat. "I, uh, confronted her husband?"

"Ahhh I don't know if she knows all that. But she has requested we return her deposit. Or else you'll feel the wrath of the wolf pack, or something to the measure. Think they already egged your window."

Pinched my nose. Nearly broke the dang thing when the bus lurched back to life. "Thaaaat's not great."

Phoebe gulped down a deep breath. Bit of static whirred in my ear. "I'll just maybe sum up some of the other choice words she had to say. Unprofessional, blood sucker, stoonad, rotten hack of a rotting corpse, skinny homewrecking money grabber, brutto figlio di puttana bastard."

"What was that last part? Spanish?"

"Italian? No idea what it means."

"Isla speaks Italian," I mumbled. "I could've used my phone, but she insisted she could use it to translate Lily's Spanish letters to Dmitri..."

"Sure, they're both romance languages. Latin roots. Lots of phonetic parallels. Probably ain't too hard to understand one if you speak the other."

The scent of fried onions and oily meat flooded my nose. Bitter cold. Neon lights. The echoing taste of canned wine smattered over my lips. The night Isla and I had raided Lily's apartment and popped off for late night cheesesteaks afterward. She'd found letters amongst the barista's belongings.

"Phoebe, go in my desk drawer. The bottom one. There're letters in the Cabroni file. Handwritten."

"Mmmm," was all she said. Static followed. Then a tone, not dissimilar to dial up internet, of all things, ricocheted through my ear. Heard the rolodex on my desk spin. Papers shuffled. Sounded like the stapler thunked against the floor. I didn't need her to turn out the whole damn piece of furniture, just one drawer.

Something heavy slammed shut.

"Got 'em?"

"Yeah, yeah, found I them," Phoebe made a whining noise. "But just to be clear, I don't speak either Italian or Spanish, Greg. What's this about?"

"But those are in Spanish, aren't they?"

Phoebe huffed. "Yeah, as far as I can tell, the letters are in a language I can't read, sure, why not! Hey, if you need me to be your translator now, I have some demands. The first being you upgrade your HBO subscription. I want to watch the one with all the naked medieval people and the dragons. Consider it in lieu of a raise."

"Isla tried to speak to Lily in Spanish—or, some bastardized combo of that and Italian—at the Cabroni house."

"Okay, ah," Phoebe audibly sucked air through her teeth. "Ah, what's this got to—"

I glanced up. Independence Mall was just outside. Dang it, we'd already gone eleven blocks?

"Phoebe, this is my stop, got to go, call you later."

"Wait, Greg—!"

Hung up on her in my hurry to ditch the bus. Driver glowered at me, since I nearly caused her to stop dead in the middle of the intersection to drop me off. Oh well.

Night was cold. Less people, locals and tourists alike, milled about this part of town at this hour. Dmitri was only a few blocks over. His neighborhood mostly residential. Quick walk, even with the duffle bag over my shoulder.

Quick. But it still left me time to tread water in my swimming thoughts. Why hadn't Lily understood the Spanish? Isla mentioned it seemed like the girl was teaching Dmitri. Her voice though, the other night, had an odd lilt to it. Vaguely English sounding. She'd even called Isla a twat. Hard 'at.' Interesting.

My fingers fumbled into the zipper of the duffle bag. Rosemond's bones rattled around inside. They were chalky under the skin of my hand, as I patted around in there, searching for a different object.

Been trying not to think too hard about the case. Honest to death. Was too much of a headache. Isla was wrapped up in it too intricately. Seamlessly. There was no musing over Dmitri's stupid love affair without my head circling back to carnation petals and coffee breath.

Bit my tongue and heaved thoughts of the necromancer into the back of my mind.

I never asked about the altar. The strange set up of the dead bodies, the elder Mrs. Cabroni and Rosemond's remains, we found in that cursed house. Lily was trying something pretty darn spooky on them, what with the books and all the ambiance, of that I had no doubt. But I had no idea what.

But now the memory of those bodies, so artfully arranged, conjured those diagrams I'd found. Restoration they'd been labeled.

Somebody buzzed me through Dmitri's gate without bothering to use the intercom to ask why I was there. Tsk tsk. Bet you Julian would never have allowed that.

Strolling up the path, my hands finally found the object I was fishing for in the duffle.

Rosemond's needlepoint.

The little moth was delicate and detailed. Painstakingly so. Every thread carefully, perfectly stitched in grotesque accuracy. Sure, the exact thread differed, modern and old, vibrant and dull, but the pattern was consistent. Across both wings, the original as I'd seen it in Dmitri's home, and the newly added one.

Thinking about it itched. Like picking at a crusty scab in the back of my brain.

Dmitri's iron door knocker clanged loudly against wood. Dang thing was so cold it flayed off a layer of skin when I pulled my hand away. Left a piece of my palm raw and bleeding. Only for a moment, though. Isla's blood was evidently still potent in my veins. My flesh swirled and healed and threaded itself back together in a perfect replica of the skin that had been there only moments before.

The pattern on the needlepoint was so consistent. So minutely detailed. Like the skin on my palm. Perfectly replicated because it was the same, wasn't it? Was still just my hand. But with new skin.

Door was thrown open. Banged against the inner wall. Hadn't expected Dmitri to answer the knock himself. But the old bat was absolutely beaming, grinning with full fangs, Hawaiian shirt half tucked into leather pants.

"Ho! Gregor! My thanks to ye, oh valiant savior of the night! A true hero! A noble as thy designated drivers of fable! Come in! Come in!"

He threw his arms around me and hoisted me into a spine cracking hug. My vision went a little blurry, since the loon nearly flipped me totally upside down. This was not the welcome I expected, given how we parted last (oooph, it had been bad, hadn't it?).

"Ah, sorry, Dmitri, while I'm glad you're not killing me, uh, why?"

Dmitri kept me in a tight embrace. Swung me side to side. Over his shoulder, I spotted a figure sauntering up the hall and into the foyer.

"For reuniting my truest love to me!" he craned his neck over his shoulder and yelled into the house. "Bring forth a toast for Gregor!"

"Nah, pal, I'm working tonight. Just looking to return something I think belongs to you."

I tried shimming out of the old bat's grip and was rewarded with a tight hug and festering claws dug into my shoulder. Gave up and just tossed the bag containing Rosemond's first set of bones to the floor.

Nodded at the bag. "Your truest love's bones."

Those talons anchored themselves in the meat of my shoulder, but otherwise, Dmitri was uncharacteristically still. Statuesque. His face darkened, for a moment contorting into the snarl of the winged beast.

"So it is facts," he seethed. "Twas you who hath conspired against me, and so untight-like pillaged my beloved's grave."

"Oh, come on, Dmitri, drop this, you were just thanking me for bringing her back."

From the shadows of the house, another figure emerged. Feminine and lithe and rotting. Lily. Draped in a moth-eaten gown and jewels fit for a queen. She sauntered toward me with one hand behind her back. In the other, she swirled a wine glass. One decorated in golden thorns and roses.

I'd say she looked good. Better than when I saw her last. Except that smirk plastered on those lips didn't suit her. Made her look odd, all out of sorts. Like it didn't belong on her.

That needlepoint, though. That sure did. And I got it then. Why the pattern was so perfect. It was sewed by the same hands.

New skin. Same hands.

"I knew you'd deliver this for me," she said, she withdrew the hand from behind her back to reveal the wooden stake. "Just like I know she'll come for you."

Oh fangs.