Working for Merlin Bloodstone is kind of like being owned by a cat. Actually, it's worse. With a cat you have a faint chance of doping things out. If a cat leaves a dead mouse on your desk, you pretty much have a fifty-fifty shot at figuring that the cat's generosity-neuron randomly fired, or the lord of the manor wants you take out his trash.
It's never that simple with Bloodstone. I come in to my desk and find all sorts of things left there for me. It can be a crumbling bit of papyrus with Sumerian writing on it, or some faded newspaper clipping about a rain of frogs in New West Podunk, Arkansas. And the bits of animals he leaves, well, a well-chewed mouse would be something I had a chance of recognizing.
And, yes, I can now identify eye of newt, but I don't recommend it after too much tequila or before enough caffeine.
Worst of all, though, have to be the tarot card spreads. That Thursday I came in to find one there, which surprised me, because we'd had a two week moratorium on them after the FBI blow-up. The problem with the tarot layouts is that figuring out what the cards mean isn't always clear cut. For example, if the artist added extra details to the card's image, do those add nuances that the same spread from another deck wouldn't have? And if I were to try figure it out while concentrating on such details, would I miss the more subtle message that harkened back to some obscure interpretation of a card's meaning as detailed in a book written by an insane, defrocked Hungarian priest in 1783?
The particular spread on my desk that morning had been laid out with a deck called The Black Tarot. It featured the art of Luis Royo, and was long on gorgeous women in fantasy settings - at least as far as the court cards and major arcana were concerned. Most of the art was stuff Royo had done for book covers or Heavy Metal, and the suit cards just picked up on an element from the Aces to be repeated throughout the minor arcana. In other words, there was minimal artistic correlation with traditional Tarot designs here. Being a fan of his work, I was left hoping that someday Royo might just sit down and paint all seventy-eight of the cards in a deck.
The spread, which seemed to be a truly random selection of cards, didn't mean anything to me. Of course, Bloodstone is the one who does all the interpretation of cards here, but I'd learned a bit in self-defense. In a larger sense, though, the spread meant nothing because it didn't represent one of the spreads we'd been asked to work on. The Black Tarot hadn't been used for one of the case spreads. More importantly, we were no longer working on the Deathdealer thing anyway.
Why those cards were sitting there I couldn't fathom. The idea that Bloodstone would dismiss my questions about them with a casual, "Just a feeling I had," sent a shiver through me. The feeling I had was not good, and I started mentally drafting my resignation letter.
Which is about when the doorbell rang. That surprised me because anyone coming to consult Bloodstone calls ahead for an appointment, then I talk to them over the intercom when they get to the gate and I open it for them. Very few folks have the code for the gate and, at eight on a Thursday morning, none of them were likely to be around. I had heard the gate open, but that was for a grocery delivery and the driver knew he had to take the food around to the back.
I left the office, cut through the round foyer to the front door and swung it open. The woman standing there wore her auburn hair long enough to just barely brush the shoulders of her black jacket. The top button on her white blouse stood open, displaying her long neck and a triangle of tanned flesh at her throat. Black slacks with a razor crease ended in a hint of a flare that all but hid some very practical shoes. Dark sunglasses concealed her eyes, but I knew, behind the aviators, they were an ice blue.
A smile had come to my face when I saw her, but it quickly died. "I'd love to say I'm happy to see you, Agent Jensen, but you have to nuts to be here."
"So far, seeing your face is about the highlight of my morning, Moran, so don't give me attitude." She slipped into the foyer and pressed the door closed behind her. "I need to talk to Dr. Bloodstone."
"See, wearing a jacket like that in Phoenix in the August heat has clearly got you delirious." I frowned, then had to look up at her, both because I was a step down on the foyer floor and she would have been easily two inches taller than I was on the level. "First, you know that I have no idea when Bloodstone will come down from his third floor sanctum. Second, if I send him a note to tell him you're here, he won't be coming down. Third, he's not got a lot of love lost on you or the Bureau right now. He doesn't nurse a grudge, he gets it a nanny and enrolls it in boarding school."
"I know, I know, but he's got to get over that." She stepped down to my level and onto the middle of the stone heart inlaid on the foyer floor. The grey stone had a sword driven through it and single drop of blood welled up around the wound. A Latin motto decorated a scrolled ribbon below the design. "Bloodstone can't be that petty, can he?"
"Indeed, I can, Agent Jensen, and I even rather enjoy it." Bloodstone's voice filled the cylindrical room from the second story landing, where the twin stairways spiraling up around the foyer meet. The chill threading through his words guaranteed the air conditioning wouldn't be cutting in any time soon.
His voice made him seem far bigger than he is - were the three of us lined up by height, he'd be in front and my view would be unobstructed. His head was a bit too large for his small body, and his violet eyes a bit too big for his delicate and sharply featured face, though the way he'd narrowed them kind of hid that. His black hair had been slicked back, emphasizing his widow's-peak.
To make matters worse - Bloodstone being in a snit being quite bad enough - my boss was looking very necropolitan. He had dressed the way a well-dressed Goth would dress, if Goths ever dressed well. He wore a long black coat over black slacks and shiny black shoes with silver buckles. His white shirt had no collar and the jacket revealed a silvery gorget resting against his chest. He had his fire opal and platinum ring on his right hand, but the fire in the gemstone couldn't melt the ice in his voice.
Jensen had turned and looked up at him, her sunglasses slipping down her slender nose an inch or two. She opened her hands and even started to look a bit penitent. "Doctor Bloodstone...."
Bloodstone gave her no chance to finish. "There is nothing on this Earth that could cause you to believe I would speak with anyone from your agency. You invited me to consult on the Deathdealer case. You prevailed upon me to consult despite my personal reluctance. You provided me some materials to work with, but not all I wanted and needed to work with. You agreed that my work on the case would be kept strictly confidential. And then, when a local paper published a history of the Deathdealer serial murders, using confidential information that had been hacked from a local police database, and the local Sheriff put the blame for the security breach on my shoulders and those of Mr. Moran here, you did nothing to defend us. You let us twist in the wind, evidently embarrassed at having it revealed that you hired an occultist to consult about a murderer who tags his victims with tarot card spreads."
"I know, Dr. Bloodstone, I know." Pure pain poured through Jensen's voice. A lot of sincerity came with it. "I tried to get permission to make a statement but my superiors...."
"I had a deal with you, Agent Jensen, not your superiors." Bloodstone's nostrils flared. "You gave me your word. You broke it. I told you never to appear here again. There is nothing you could say that would make me change my mind."
"I hope to God there is." She nodded once, solemnly. "The Deathdealer racked up another victim. Last night, right here in Phoenix. If you'd had a window open, you could have heard her scream."