Song of Wishrock Harbor: The Invisible Entente, #2

By Krista Walsh

An unseasonal blizzard.
A series of murders.
A client who raises all the red flags.

Isolated by his Gorgon-fae heritage, Gabe Mulligan lives for his work as a private investigator. He has a one hundred per cent close rate and a nose for liars.

But six naked bodies have washed up on the shore of Wishrock Harbor during the worst storm in recorded history, and the deeper he digs, the murkier the truth becomes.

All evidence points to an old injustice linked to a vengeful shadow that lurks beneath the harbor waiting for its next meal. As his suspicions between victim and accuser grow wider, he's forced to question the gray line that exists between good and evil.

With the help of his best friend and some unlikely allies, Gabe must sift through the lies to determine who the true monsters are—even if one of those monsters is himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krista Walsh
• Release date: Apr 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386791553

Book preview

Song of Wishrock Harbor

An Invisible Entente Novel

Gabe2

By

Krista Walsh

All Rights Reserved

This edition published in 2017 by Raven’s Quill Press

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this work are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity is purely coincidental.

Cover art: Ravven (www.ravven.com)

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/ her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is for Kate, the inspiration behind

one of my favorite characters

1

Gabriel Mulligan’s skin tingled with anticipation the moment she strode into his candlelit office.

Not because she was a bombshell of a woman in a tight red dress whose sharp red heels firmed her calves and highlighted legs as long as a Greek epic.

Not because her shoulder-length curtain of vibrant copper curls failed to hide a pair of bloodshot tawny eyes that hinted at recent tears, while the faint wobble of her bottom lip threatened at more to come.

No, what made Gabe sit up in his worn, wooden chair behind his worn, wooden desk was that somehow this woman had made it across the city and through his front door despite the five-foot snowdrifts that blocked the roads and had kept New Haven under a state of emergency for the last week.

And that she had done so in a sleeveless dress, without even a jacket.

His wakened curiosity helped Gabe fight off a wave of fatigue as he rose to his feet. After weeks of running around town on a half-dozen cases, he’d been looking forward to heading home to his stash of beer, leaving the generator on and wasting gas by listening to some blues on his stereo. A new client had been the last thing on his mind, and he’d have been tempted to send her back into the blizzard if the circumstances weren’t so bizarre. As it was, he felt compelled to find out what she wanted.

He hadn’t even finished straightening up before she leaned toward him, placing both hands on his desk.

Are you the private detective, Gabriel Mulligan?

Her husky voice was tight with restrained anger, as though she were only two straws shy of snapping.

The warmth of her rage sent Gabe scanning through his mental database of faces to see if he recognized her. If she was about to set loose on him for something he’d done, he’d rather remember first and take the time to form a defense.

When nothing in the curve of her eyes or the delicateness of her cheekbones rang any bells, the muscles between his shoulders relaxed. Whatever reason she was here, it wasn’t personal.

Desperate or crazy, he guessed, but he’d never been the sort of man to run away from either.

That would be me, he said, and adjusted the reflective sunglasses perched on his nose to make sure they were in place. His fingers itched to run through the tangled mess of his dark brown hair, but he dropped his hands to his sides. There was no point cleaning up now that company was already here. He hadn’t expected anyone to walk through his door today, so he’d skipped over his basic hygiene routine of combing through his thick mane. He just hoped the whiskey on his breath wouldn’t be too off-putting.

He extended his hand, and the woman acknowledged it with a firm, cursory shake before dropping into the chair on the other side of the desk.

I knew I was taking a chance that you would be here on a night like this, but I couldn’t sit at home and wait. She crossed one long, bare leg over the other and folded her hands in her lap. I guess I got lucky for a change.

Gabe considered how lucky the woman had actually been. He’d planned to stay home that evening, but boredom had pushed him to change his mind. Walking to work had been out of the question, and he hadn’t spotted any cabs on the roads in four days, but transportation was never an issue for him. He’d just cut a rift through the Fae dimension and stepped through the doorway into the darkness of his frigid office. The temperature had been low enough that a person of human blood would have needed a parka and three scarves to keep warm. Thanks to the candles, it had warmed to a solid one-scarfer.

Not that the woman appeared to notice the chill in the air. Her skin remained smooth, without the smallest hint of a goosebump. Gabe made a note of it, but kept the thought to himself, waiting for her to explain her visit. For the moment, she stayed silent, her gaze sharp as she took in his office.

He politely ignored her examination of the room’s contents: the two taper candles flickering on his desk, the movie poster for The Maltese Falcon on the wall beside the door, the framed business license over the filing cabinet.

Her attention shifted to the storm outside, and his eyes were drawn to the window. The snow had started six days ago and hadn’t stopped for a full minute since. It was barely even the second week of October and already the town’s snow removal budget had been blown. Thick snowflakes beat against the windows, the remains freezing over and frosting the glass, preventing him from seeing much farther than the shadows of the buildings across the street.

The old oak tree in the yard swayed under the force of the wind. Its ice-caked branches creaked, threatening to snap. Another tree across the street had already succumbed to the weight of the snow. Clean-up once the storm passed was going to be murder.

The wind offered a high-pitched scream that sent chills chasing after each other up Gabe’s spine to the base of his neck. He shook off the sensation and turned back to the woman.

Quite the weather we’re having, isn’t it?

Hm? She turned her head toward him, and in the brief vacancy of her expression, he guessed her thoughts had been scattered between the snowflakes. The faint tremor in the energy around her told Gabe her anger hadn’t ebbed since she’d entered his office, but he hoped the silence following her initial outburst meant that she was working to explain her problem and wouldn’t subject him to a long, meaningless rant.

As long as she came to a clear point eventually, he was willing to wait.

The snow. It’s something else, isn’t it? Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it.

His profession had given him lots of practice polishing his small talk, but by the narrowing of her eyes, the woman wasn’t impressed with his efforts.

As though the sound of his voice reminded her of her reason for coming, she drew her shoulders back and raised her chin. I didn’t come here to chat about the weather, Mr. Mulligan. I’m looking to hire the best and was directed to you by a couple of trusted friends. Are you as good as they say?

Gabe flashed his teeth in a grin to cover his spark of irritation at her tone. He cast out his usual roguish charm, but when the woman showed no response, he reeled his smile in, not wanting to waste his energy. He settled back in his chair and tilted his head to better see her face in the dim light.

The orange glow of the candlelight lit the contours of her cheekbones, which contrasted sharply with the valley of her smooth forehead. Her light eyes, so unique, almost seemed to capture the fire, reflecting the same flicker as the candle flame. He stared into her eyes to see if he was imagining things and found himself slipping into their depths. He forced his gaze away and shifted in his chair with a surge of uneasiness.

I don’t know if I’m the best, he said, and rearranged the file folders on his desk as a brief excuse to keep his gaze averted. It wasn’t often he worked to avoid meeting someone else’s eyes. Usually it was his own gaze he worried about. The switch was unnerving. I don’t know if my methods of doing business would meet your standards. What I can tell you is that I’ve been in business for eight months and have closed every case for the forty-two people who have walked through those doors.

He inclined his head to the office door, where Gabriel Mulligan, Private Investigator was stamped on the glass in bold white letters.

He’d often stared at that door and wondered if he’d made the right call in opening his investigation business. It had never been his dream career. His background was in remote IT support — he’d made his living avoiding direct human contact and liked it just fine. But everything had changed after his run-in with the warlock, Jermaine Hershel. That man had destroyed countless numbers of supernatural beings for his own gain, and Gabe had wound up in the middle of it — first as a potential victim, and then as a possible suspect for Jermaine’s death. The experience of uncovering Jermaine’s real murderer had revealed a need, a public duty on behalf of the otherworld, to keep the mundane world safe. As soon as he’d escaped the warlock’s magical trap, he’d decided to do whatever he could to prevent another Jermaine from rising up in the city of New Haven.

From his new office desk, he could keep an eye on any growing threats in the city. Since he’d opened his business, no such problems had arisen, but he hoped he would be ready if one came knocking on his professionally white-lettered door.

The door design itself hadn’t been his idea. His original plan had been to get a bunch of black cards made with his address on them and build himself up as a myth in the otherworld. People liked the idea of a secret contact you could only stumble upon through references, and he’d figured it would cut down on the number of mundane cases people might expect him to take on. He didn’t want to deal with the neighbor’s yapping dog or unfaithful husbands.

But his friend Percy had pointed out that if he wanted to afford basic necessities, like food, he would have to widen his scope, and a friendly door with bright, easy-to-read lettering would help with that.

Gabe had then pointed out how ironic it was that someone who refused to step out of his own warehouse fortress should be counseling him on being accessible. Percy had offered a few choice words in reply, and Gabe had paid for the stupid door.

Although he did get the odd request to spy on a philandering spouse, his career had mostly taken the direction he wanted thanks to word-of-mouth recommendations. Last week he’d chased down a missing dog, sure, but it was a Shalon demon’s hellhound, so at least it had proved a challenge. He carried the scratches across his chest to prove it.

At the memory of those sharp claws tearing through his flesh, he rubbed his fingers across his sweatshirt, waiting for the woman to make up her mind as to whether she would confide in him.

She stared at him in silence, as though assessing every word of his answer. Her gaze scanned him from his messy hair down to his wrinkled blue sweatshirt and rough jeans. He suspected she intended for him to feel self-conscious under her evaluation, but just as his charm hadn’t melted her frosty exterior, neither would her coldness freeze him.

She realized it soon enough and settled her attention on his reflective sunglasses.

My name is Clare Davidson, Mr. Mulligan, as in the daughter-in-law of Kurt Davidson of Davidson Transport. I don’t waste my time on fools. No matter what I’ve heard about your reputation, I can’t say that sitting in a dimly lit room staring at a pair of sunglasses is very reassuring. Are you hung over?

His irritation washed over him again at her assumption.

I’ve got better things to do than explain myself to you, lady, he wanted to say, but bit his tongue.

While his curiosity was an asset for digging into people’s lives, his temper occasionally proved an inconvenience. He wasn’t an angry guy — at least, not the kind of guy people left off their invitation lists for fear he’d pick a fight or anything. His anger ran right down into his genes and simmered in his blood. No amount of meditation or pictures of kittens could get rid of it. Fortunately, he’d spent most of his life mastering his reactions and could trust himself to keep it bottled. Usually.

Tonight, his limited whiskey intake allowed him to remain in control, and he forced his expression into casual amusement.

Gabe, please, he said. And no, Mrs. Davidson, I am not hung over. I just like the aesthetic.

He left it at that. He preferred his clients didn’t find out that the real reason for his sunglasses was another genetic birth defect — one that had popped up sporadically in his family’s bloodline for centuries and gave him the unfortunate ability to turn people to stone at a glance. He found it made people skittish around him when they found out. Who would have guessed?

At his response, Clare narrowed her eyes a fraction and tapped her manicured thumb against the back of her other hand.

I hope you take your job more seriously than your clients, Mr. Mulligan.

Gabe, he repeated, relieved that his anger seemed to have settled into the back of his mind. And I assure you, Mrs. Davidson, I do. Each case is a priority until it’s done, no matter the challenge.

After another hesitation, another assessment, she dipped her head in a nod. Very well. I want you to find out who murdered my husband.

Gabe’s eyebrows twitched upward in spite of himself.

I guess the husband’s not cheating, he thought, and leaned forward over his desk. At least, not anymore.

When did this happen?

Three days ago.

That’s not much time to give the police a chance to catch whoever did it, he said. Has the weather been holding them up?

Clare frowned and, with what sounded like a touch of reluctance, said, No. They’ve actually done more than I might have expected, given the obstacles. But it’s not enough.

What are they saying? Gabe asked. He didn’t want to tread on the authorities’ toes if they were already getting the job done. They were likely doing everything he would do, but Clare clearly wasn’t happy with the answers they’d found.

She sniffled and cast her gaze toward the window. The whites around her tawny irises glistened, and at the sudden display of emotion, Gabe reached for the whiskey bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk. He might have been opposed to paying for his name on the door, but when Percy recommended the whiskey as a second necessary purchase for booting up his business, he hadn’t argued.

He poured two tumblers and slid one across the surface of his desk.

Clare didn’t spare a glance for him before grabbing the glass and pressing the rim against her red-stained lips to take a sip. As she swallowed, she closed her eyes and released a soft sigh. When she opened them, her gaze was steely once again.

The police have no idea what they’re dealing with. She smoothed out her fingers to stop the slight fidgeting in her hands and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Mulligan. There are private investigators all across this city who boast years’ more experience than you. There are investigators who work with more high-profile clients, clients closer to my own class. They understand how to be discreet, and they know cost is not an issue. The reason I chose you is because I was informed by certain members of my circle that you have a…particular skill set. That you’re familiar with a side of the world most people are too blind or ignorant to see. She paused and tilted her head, her sharp stare boring into his as though trying to meet his gaze through the mirrors over his eyes. What I mean is that you’re comfortable with the concept of the supernatural. Is that correct?

Gabe schooled his features to prevent any sign of his surprise from showing. Davidson Transport was one of the most successful companies operating out of New Haven, but for all the gossip he regularly picked up from both the mundane world and the arcane, he’d never heard their name connected with anything supernatural.

A moment’s concern shot through him that she might believe he was some sort of medium who could put her in touch with her dead husband. But then he realized his first instinct about her had been correct — this woman, who had crossed a snow-bound city with apparent ease and now sat in his chilly office without shivering, was someone more than human herself.

Drawing in a breath, he said, Yes, Mrs. Davidson, I believe it would be fair to say that I am familiar with the otherworldly.

Good, she said. Then you should be able to understand where I’m coming from. Three days ago, the police showed up at my door to tell me Sam had been murdered. I had to push hard to get any kind of details, but from what I gather, they found him at Wishrock Harbor. Naked. She pressed her lips together and her throat bobbed with a hard swallow. They think he was mugged. She fell silent, her throat working.

Gabe sipped his drink and waited for her to fill him in on the rest of the story. A woman as classy as Clare wouldn’t bring up the otherworldly just to have him ask about it.

If she hadn’t mentioned the supernatural slant, he wouldn’t have thought the scenario out of the ordinary. The harbor was deep in the warehouse district, only a few blocks down from his office building. By day, the roads were busy with trucks and boats coming up the river, but at night it transformed into a hub for prostitutes and drug dealers. Minor trouble, for the most part, but occasionally the wrong person walked in at the wrong time and found himself at the wrong end of a gun.

After a moment, the lines around Clare’s mouth hardened and her eyes flashed with fire. The effect came as less of a surprise the second time around, and Gabe watched warily as the flames crackled along her irises. A jolt of surprise cut through him that the light was coming from within her rather than as a reflection of the candlelight.

What is this woman?

It’s bullshit, she spat. She gripped her hands into fists in her lap, and when she uncurled her left hand, her neat nails had left grooves in her palm. He had no reason to be at the harbor. He was working late, then took himself out to dinner. He called me from outside the bar saying he would be home within the hour. Even if he did have to go to the docks for…some reason, he was more than capable of taking care of himself. They have no idea what they’re talking about.

She huffed and tossed back the rest of her drink. As soon as she set the glass on the desk, Gabe grabbed it and refilled it.

Clare sipped the next drink more slowly, while Gabe spun his own between his palms.

Why do they think it’s a mugging? he asked, wanting to break through the wall she’d formed around herself. Her gaze shifted from the dancing colors in her glass to his face.

Because Sam wasn’t the first one to go the way he did, she said. Her tone turned sarcastic, as though she was quoting someone else’s words. They think it’s a sign there’s a group of criminals preying on the defenseless as they pass through the harbor in this weather.

Gabe imagined a group of thieves trudging through waist-deep snow to get to the harbor, then hiding behind a snow dune and lying in wait in the frozen temperatures on the off chance some suitable victim walked by.

He doubted even the dumbest criminal would come up with an idea that weak.

Guess the lady has a point about the dim cops.

He had to give credit where it was due: New Haven’s crime rates were low, all things considered. But if Clare was right about the crime being otherworldly, the mundane cops didn’t stand a chance.

If the lady’s right, he thought.

I don’t know about the other victims, so maybe there is a group out there hunting people, Clare said, but there’s no way in all the heavens and hells a bunch of miscreant thugs could have taken down Sam.

Gabe took a sip of his drink as he mulled over her words. If we’re talking numbers, it might not matter how strong your husband was. They could have overwhelmed him.

I’d have liked to see them try, she said, and this time the blaze in her eyes was unmistakable. The skin at the back of Gabe’s neck crawled and he jerked his whiskey away from her as fire sparked along the edges of her eye sockets to lick her pale eyelashes. The light from her skin overwhelmed the candles on his desk, making his office as bright as if the power had returned. You see, Mr. Mulligan, Sam was a fire elemental, just as I am. I don’t care if they had a whole army of muggers at that harbor. He could have blasted them into ash with a wave of his hand.

Okay, so she is right, he thought, and took a gulp of his drink to compose himself. Not much surprised him anymore, but the sight of a beautiful woman shooting fire out of her eyes was enough to put him off-kilter.

It also gave him a deeper appreciation of the risk she’d taken to reach him. While fire elementals were resistant to cold, it took energy for them to stay heated, and the colder the temperature around them, the faster it drained them. She could stand all toasty warm in a blizzard for a stretch of time, but once the heat ran out, she would die in a heartbeat.

Apparently Clare’s dead husband was worth the danger for her.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then reached for her glass. Gradually, the fire in her eyes ebbed and the glow on her skin paled, but the set of her jawline remained stiff.

Please understand that, if I could, I would go down to the harbor myself and tear apart whatever did this to Sam with my own hands. I wouldn’t hesitate. But I’m a busy woman with, unfortunately, a tenuous reputation to uphold. With Sam gone, my father-in-law would be within his rights to pull my position and social status out from under me if I did anything to jeopardize the family name. I believe he would ask the police to cover up the whole tragedy, except that he wants to know what happened to his son. So that is why I came to you.

Gabe scratched the back of his neck and weighed his options.

The idea of taking on a new case right now exhausted him. He’d sat alone in this office for the last couple of days, watching as seemingly everyone else came together. He’d watched families preparing for the storm the weatherman warned was coming, watched lovers playing in the snowbanks before the weather got so bad they couldn’t leave their houses. All he wanted was to lose himself in the temporary mindlessness of alcohol until this ugly sense of loneliness left him.

A louder voice prodded his curiosity, his love of riddles and puzzles urging him on despite the dense, depressive fog around his brain. Here was a woman with enough heat to burn down the entire city if she wanted to, but she had come to him for help to solve a crime that, in a more mentally stable state, he would have jumped at.

This was the kind of case he had wanted when he’d opened his business. A string of murders by an unknown enemy that could take down a fire elemental? Yes, please.

Your bank account could also use the boost.

Gabe grimaced at the reminder of the electronic figures dwindling by the day with his increased pizza-and-alcohol consumption. The only silver lining he could see in this storm was that his metabolism would prevent his Snow Diet from sticking around his waistline.

He glanced outside into the swirling snow, the doused lights of the city giving the world a claustrophobic closeness.

What kind of creature would have set up camp in the elements just to attack an unwary straggler who happened to pass along the harbor?

As long as Gabe didn’t need to get too close to the water, he was determined to find out.

A smile teased his lips, and he returned his attention to Clare, who hadn’t moved since she’d fallen silent. Her bright eyes stared at him and her lips were molded into a firm line — ready to smile if he agreed or offer a tongue-lashing if he turned her down. He knew the type.

All right, Mrs. Davidson, you’ve got my interest. I’ll find out what happened to your husband.

2

The moment Gabe’s acceptance dropped from his lips, Clare’s stiff expression collapsed into relief before hardening again. It was a brief enough slip that Gabe’s brain registered the change only after she’d composed herself.

The stoic socialite sat before him once more, but that window into her heart had been enough to assure Gabe that her anger came from a place of grief, and that her devotion to her husband was more important to her than her desire to remain on her in-laws’ bank account.

While her motivation made no difference as to whether or not he pursued the case — money was money — he felt better knowing he wasn’t being sent out to perfume the family name and cover up any of her husband’s possible misdeeds.

In one smooth motion, Clare dipped into her handbag and pulled out her checkbook and a monogrammed pen. She scribbled a few numbers on the check and slid it across the desk for Gabe’s perusal.

He angled the writing into the flickering candlelight and a sharp breath lodged in his throat.

Is that a sufficient advance? she asked.

Should be, he said.

Sufficient enough to buy a small country.

Good. Then I want this solved quickly and, most importantly, Mr. Mulligan, discreetly. She rose to her feet, and Gabe stood with her. I’ll be in touch in three days for an update. Good evening.

She inclined her head and stepped lightly out of Gabe’s office. He followed her as far as the doorway and detected the faint glow radiating off her as she moved away from the candlelight. The glow brightened as she moved farther down the stairs, then disappeared when she stepped out into the storm.

Gabe suspected that if he went downstairs to see how she’d reached the office building, he would find a path of melted snow in her wake.

He shut his door, returned to his desk, and poured himself another finger of whiskey. The alcohol burned down his throat and warmed his belly, but his metabolism kicked in too quickly to allow such a small amount to offer any kind of buzz.

Alongside the whiskey, though, the heat of excitement burned through him, an emotion he hadn’t experienced in weeks. It crawled into his cheeks with a flush and left a smile on his face.

Clare’s case held an appeal that had been lacking from most of his previous cases. Whatever killed Sam had to have been strong and quick to avoid getting slammed with the fire elemental’s power. It also had been smart enough to leave no sign of what it was. If the police were saying a mugging, they probably had no better idea of had caused Sam’s death.

Or if they do, they’re not revealing it to the public.

Gabe wondered what the media was saying about the recent murders. Clare mentioned there had been more than one death. Even