The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)
Craig Schaefer
Prologue
Fleiss cradled the folder to the chest of her gray wool blazer like it was a sleeping rattlesnake. The glass elevator chimed, its cage shuddering as it soared up to the penthouse floor. Her final destination.
The door opened onto a window-walled antechamber done up with burnt-orange trim and beech furniture. A young woman—her dress an identical shade of orange—rose from behind the reception desk.
“Welcome to Northlight, Ms. Fleiss,” she chirped. “Did you have a good flight?”
Fleiss ignored the pleasantries. She slipped off her mirrored sunglasses as she strode toward the tall double doors at the opposite end of the waiting room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
“May I see him?”
The receptionist waved her hand, still flashing a thousand-watt smile, and the doors swung open onto darkness.
No windows in the penthouse. The doors glided shut behind her, sealing her inside, plunging her into shadow.
That was fine. Fleiss could see in the dark.
Behind a curving desk, a figure sat silently in the gloom. A man built of shadow and fog, a living negative scratched onto the film of the world. He idly shuffled a worn-out pack of tarot cards. He’d flip a few cards onto the desk, study them for a moment, then shuffle them back in and try again.
His head lifted, tilting Fleiss’s way, and he flashed gleaming, perfectly white teeth.
“My darling,” the Smile said. “Now what was so important you had to come all the way here just to see me? I hope you’re bringing me happy news.”
“My lord.” She dropped into a nervous half bow. “We may have a problem. I just received the latest surveillance data from our seers.”
She set her folder on the desk between them.
“They believe—” She paused, swallowing hard. “They believe the Paladin was in Las Vegas. Recently.”
He didn’t reply at first. Ghostly fingers opened the folder, leafing through pages of hand-typed transcripts.
“Was,” he finally echoed, his voice gone cold.
“By the time they picked up the trace, it was too late. They only caught the faintest scent. They don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman this time around—”
“The Paladin is a woman,” the Smile spat. “It is always a woman. Do me a favor, love: go down to the laboratory, pick out the weakest seer, and put a bullet in his head. Then give the others a pay bonus. See if that encourages them to work more diligently.”
“There’s something else,” Fleiss said.
“Of course there is. Continue.”
“There was some sort of occult-underworld gathering in Chicago. A poker tournament. They think at least one of our enemies was there, but that’s not the problem. Daniel Faust was in Vegas at the same time as the Paladin. And we know he was at that tournament in Chicago, too. It could be a coincidence, but—”
“But there are no coincidences. First rule of magic, I’ve been told. You’re certain Faust is nothing but a penny-ante street mage?”
Fleiss nodded vigorously. “I’ve swapped him into the Play, making him take the Thief’s place. I couldn’t have done that if he was one of…one of your kind, my lord. It wouldn’t have worked. My concern is that he’s being manipulated by outside forces. A rogue pawn.”
The Smile shuffled his cards and tossed one down, letting it flutter to the desk. The Fool. Then another. The Wheel of Fortune.
“I would like, with your permission,” Fleiss said, “to hedge our bets.”
“I’m listening.”
Fleiss touched the desk with her fingertips. She eyed the cards as the Smile scooped them up again.
“All the Play actually requires is that the Thief—or in this case, Daniel Faust—be imprisoned, suffer, and die. We’ve already achieved the first condition just by snaring him in our trap. While I have no doubt that the ordeals ahead will get the rest of the job done to your satisfaction, I could arrange to send in a pair of contractors with concealed weapons. They’ll ensure we get the ending we need.”
“You mean to say,” the Smile asked, “that you want to guarantee the fulfillment of a sacred prophecy by cheating?”
She bowed her head.
“I meant no offense, my lord.”
He stood—flowed up from his desk, a serpentine coil of darkness mimicking a man’s shape. He glided against her, three hands stroking the small of her back, two cold mouths tasting the skin of her neck as she rolled her head back and gasped.
“I approve,” he murmured. “Do it.”
“Anything for you, my lord,” Fleiss whispered. “I worship your shadow. I revere the ground you walk upon.”
He chuckled, slowly pulling away. His smoky outline billowing.
“I know,” he said. “I created you that way. And soon I’ll be back to my old glory. I’ve been stretching my muscles a bit. Reminding myself what I’m capable of. Not much I can do beyond this paltry tower, but it keeps me entertained. Now go. Kill Faust for me. Fulfill what is written.”
Behind her, the penthouse doors swung open. Fleiss bowed and took her leave. She strode through the sapphire-blue lobby, her heels muffled on the thin gray carpeting. The receptionist, his suit the same shade of blue as the walls, rose from behind his desk.