Reggie blinked. “Don’t you have a Realtor?”
“For my Hollywood properties. This involves Malibu. I want to buy Dark Lagoon.”
“Dark Lagoon’s not for sale.”
“That’s about to change,” Declan said.
“Interesting.” Reggie sat forward, all ears now. “But why Dark Lagoon? It’s not even attractive. Have you walked around there?”
“Frequently. I’m obsessed with wetlands. The lagoon is a stopover for migrating birds along the Pacific Flyway.”
Reggie laughed shortly. “Sorry, not into birds. Too … flighty.”
Declan smiled. “Ever seen a golden eagle drag a goat off a cliff?”
Reggie eyed him speculatively. “You can’t do anything with the place, you know.”
“That’s the point. I want to save it from being developed. Save the coastal commission from having to spend their own money to buy it and protect it. I’ll pay a fair price, even a generous one, then donate it to them.”
“Happy to help, then,” Reggie said. “I’ll take a look at the property tomorrow. There’s a house just south of there that I rent out to film companies, and I’m meeting a location scout at noon.”
“That can’t be pleasant for you, hanging out on the beach.” Even Elven Keepers, Declan knew, disliked water. It wasn’t necessarily the full-blown phobia it was for the Elven themselves, but for some, it came close.
“In this economy, I’ll put up with some unpleasantness.” Reggie took a long sip of his drink, then said, “So what do you want to know about the celebrity deaths?”
“The night Charlotte’s body was found. Because it was your district, I assume someone notified you?”
“You’d think.” Reggie put down his glass and lowered his voice. “Elven Keepers operate a little differently. You shifters have some autonomy. We go through a chain of command, an executive committee.”
“With Charles Highsmith leading that committee?”
Reggie glanced at Declan. “Off the record, right?”
“Completely.”
“Yeah, Highsmith controls things. I mean, theoretically we could overturn his decisions, but it’s like herding cats to get a consensus on anything, especially if Highsmith’s against it. Anyhow, it was Highsmith who got the call from the sheriff’s department when they found Charlotte.”
“Who’s the contact in the sheriff’s department?”
“Guy named Riley. Werewolf.”
“But no one contacted you? Malibu’s your district.”
“Highsmith called me the next day to tell me it was under control,” Reggie said. “Meaning the flow of information was contained, the right cops were assigned to the case, the right medical examiner doing the autopsy.”
“But Elven women keep dying,” Declan said. “Doesn’t Highsmith consider that worth controlling?”
“As a matter of fact,” Reggie said, “he’s called a closed meeting for tomorrow. I got an encoded email ten minutes ago, telling me and the other Elven Keepers to stand by. Time and place to be announced.”
“Now what prompted that, I wonder?”
Reggie shrugged. “You understand, what gets said in closed meetings I can’t share with you, Declan, much as I’d like to. Closed meetings are a big deal. We haven’t had one since winter solstice.”
Over five months ago. “Was Rafe Gryffald at that one?”
Reggie nodded. “I think Rafe Gryffald was the only thing holding Highsmith in check the last ten years.”
Declan paused, then said, “Met his daughter yet? Sailor?”
“No. I’ve seen her around, but we haven’t met. Why?”
“She may be there tomorrow, but she’ll be in over her head and could use a friend.”
“Happy to help. Can I ask what’s your interest in this?”
“I have friends among the Elven,” Declan said. “Also, the other species are about to get involved, so we’ll need interspecies cooperation, which has to start with the Keepers.”
“I’m all for that. But to be honest, you should be talking to Highsmith, not wasting your time on the second string, which would be me.” Reggie gave Declan a wry smile. “Not that I’m not flattered. All I can tell you—and it’s not much—is that the cops are convinced these deaths are homicides, and they’ll be making that announcement anytime now.”
Declan nodded. The moment they’d found Charlotte on the beach, he’d known in his gut that her death was a murder. But now, it seemed, the whole world knew it, and that hardened his resolve.
Reggie was watching him closely, reading his thoughts to some degree. “And you have a personal stake in this, don’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to date Charlotte Messenger?”
“Yes.”
“Bad luck, her being found so close to your house.”
“Bad luck her being dead at all,” Declan said. “But worse luck for her killer.”
“Why is that?”
Declan smiled grimly. “Because I am going to send him to hell.”
The bouncer must have been given her name, Sailor thought, because he waved her through with no questions. Elven, she thought, and gave him wide berth, then entered the darkly atmospheric club.
She’d been a regular at the Snake Pit since turning legal. Back then it had been the heady thrill of drinking alongside celebrities. But some months ago she’d been part of a movie deal made right there at an A-list table, a role she’d been euphoric about playing—until the deal fell apart. The whole incident had left a bad taste in her mouth, and since then she’d avoided the chaotic main room, sticking instead to the quieter venue next door where Rhiannon could often be found singing and playing her beloved Fender. In the main room the music—and crowd—was rougher-edged.
Sailor made her way toward the stage through throngs of people, some dressed to the nines, some with the grunginess of migrant farmworkers. She took care to steer clear of any Elven. She was still in her waitress uniform, black polyester velvet, but theatrical, and with enough spandex to cling to her like an ace bandage. She’d traded her comfortable shoes for a pair of heels she kept in the trunk of her car, but she still longed for a shower and some real clothes. Her arms were bare and the concrete room cold, with a blue mist coming up from the floor, but she welcomed the sensation. She suspected she was running a fever.
Unless it was the thought of seeing Declan at any moment that was raising her temperature.
The band was tuning up, an unwashed quartet wearing chain mail, but Declan wasn’t anywhere nearby, so she climbed a spiral steel staircase to a cavernous green room furnished with cubist sofas, where one couple openly snorted cocaine and a trio of uncertain gender engaged in some act of sex. No Declan there, either.
But she noticed something. Her vision was sharper than usual, colors more vibrant and people more attractive. It had happened at work, too, now that she thought about it. Not all night, not consistently, but in waves. Similar to what she’d experienced when she’d awakened in Alessande’s house. Once she’d taken the síúlacht she couldn’t recall it happening anymore. Until now. So maybe it was a symptom that the síúlacht suppressed, and maybe now the síúlacht was wearing off.
She descended to the basement, a different scene altogether, with its own bar and two poker games in progress. She asked a cocktail