Kiss of Angels Read online

  "You stood me up, copper." Grace ghosted into step beside Tony Pulcella as he left work, taking a smirking pleasure in watching him startle half out of his skin.

  Color flushed his cheeks—nice gold skin, summer-warm even in winter, complemented by black hair and eyes almost that dark as well—before he straightened his shoulders and tried hard to look like he hadn't flinched. His tone was as genuinely apologetic as she'd ever heard, though, which counted for quite a lot. "I know. I'm sorry. Your note got buried." He slid a glance at her, hang-dog and hopeful. "Thanks for giving me a second chance. And…sorry for sending Margrit, like we were in high school."

  "She said junior high," Grace said, amused. "I went to neither, copper, so I wouldn't know."

  "I bet even in medieval Ireland kids sent their friends to sound out a crush, though." Tony winced as soon as he'd said it, earning a ringing laugh from Grace.

  "'Crush'? Am I your crush, Detective Pulcella?" She let him off the hook, though, matching him stride for stride and whistling as she slid her hands into her pockets. "That lawyer told me she got us a fancy dinner date. All Grace has got in her wardrobe is black leather, love."

  "Nobody," Tony said, his voice dropping half an octave, "is going to object to you in black leather, Ms O'Malley. I need to change, though. A suit's okay, but this one's a little… rumpled."

  Grace swung around in front of him, blocking him and the pedestrian traffic that had been moving behind him. People parted around them with mutters and dirty looks where they noticed at all, while Grace looked Tony up and down. Rumpled might be a fair enough word: her note might have gotten lost under stacks of paperwork, but the rest of his job took him out of the office for investigations that couldn't be solved through computer work, and his suit had the look of having been lived in for the day. She said, "Disheveled," anyway, flickering her fingers at hair that had probably been tidy in the morning, and at the scrub of a five o'clock shadow lining his jaw.

  Tony glanced down at himself and back at her with a small smile. "I'll take it. I don't know if The Polo Bar would, though. What are you doing here? I thought we would meet at the restaurant."

  "Well, sure and we might have, but a dinner date, copper. It's so…human." Grace lifted her eyebrows to match as his rose. "What would you say to something else tonight, Detective? Would you like to solve a mystery?"

  #

  "It's a tea shop, Grace."

  "So it is."

  Theatrical drama would have them lying on their bellies in the muck, squinting through binoculars at a scrub-hidden shack, but in fact they were comfortably seated in the window of a small Italian restaurant across the street from Grace's mysterious tea shop; Tony had insisted on some kind of dinner, if for no other reason than he was hungry. There were already garlic dough balls on the table, and the promise of pizza—not romantic, but fast—on the horizon. The tea shop catered to a wide variety of people—everyone from fashionistas to grubby college students had been through the door in the few minutes he and Grace had been watching—and what glimpses could be seen inside the shop suggested a cheerful ambiance within. "Where's the mystery?"

  Grace pointed a long finger toward the shop. "The mystery, copper, is that Old Races go into that shop and they don't come out."

  "What?" Tony stopped with a dough ball halfway to his mouth. "What?"

  "It's been going on for years," Grace said. "But here's the odd thing, copper: Grace can't get into the shop to check it out."

  "But you're a—" Tony swallowed the word ghost, but Grace's eyebrows lifted in agreement.

  "I am, and I've never met a room that could keep me out. Not until this one, at least. It raises an itch along my spine, it does. I want to know what's going on there. Could be witches."

  A chill ran over Tony's spine, raising hairs on his forearms and nape. "Witches?"

  "Hasn't anybody told you, love? How do you think Grace ended up a ghost?"

  "I don't know, I guess—" Tony broke off, staring at the blonde woman across from him. "I don't know. How did you?"

  "A witch cursed me, love. Cursed me to walk the earth until I received the kiss of angels."

  "What's that?"

  "If I knew, I'd have found it by now." Grace nodded toward the tea shop, redirecting Tony's attention again. "Want to pop over for a cuppa, love?"

  "What if it's a witch?!"

  "You're not an Old Race, copper. She'd have no reason to look at you twice. Get us some breakfast tea, why don't you? And see if there are any suspicious books or statuary lurking about."

  "What's breakfast tea?"

  She gave him a gimlet stare. "It's tea you drink at breakfast, love."

  Tony bared his teeth. Grace laughed, and, shaking his head, he got up and went across the street to duck into the tea shop. A cornucopia of scents hit him just inside the door, some of them sweet, many of them dry and musty, just like tea tasted. Coffee was bitter, but at least it smelled good. Tony wrinkled his nose, stepped out of someone's way, and slipped through the little shop, getting a feel for its layout.

  Narrow shelves were laden with teas he'd never heard of, presented by country of origin in some places and by ingredients—for herbal teas—in others. There was just enough room in the aisles to squeeze by other customers, with people exchanging rueful, apologetic smiles that seemed to accept that the tea was worth the claustrophobic conditions. At the back of the little shop a door, hidden by a dangling curtain of beads, led into a store room that, after a peek through its window, proved to have comfortable-looking furniture and some small plants in it as well. Tony edged up another aisle, looking for Irish teas, and was well on the way to giving up when a small woman appeared at his elbow to ask, "May I help you?"

  "I hope so. I'm looking for something for a friend who said 'Irish breakfast tea'. I don't drink tea, so…" He spread his hands helplessly.

  "Are they Irish?" At Tony's nod, the small woman—she didn't quite make it to five feet in height, had grey hair pulled back from a wizened brown face, and looked vaguely familiar—took a green and black tin of Bewley's tea off the shelf. "This should do for them. Anything else?"

  "I don't think so." Clutching the tin, Tony followed the proprietor back to the front counter, where she rang him up. A mirror behind the counter had a fanciful silver frame, leaves winding around it with tiny creatures peering from within them. Tony leaned closer, squinting at the frame. "Are those dragons?"

  The woman looked over her shoulder. "Dragons and djinn and gargoyles."

  Tony breathed, "Oh my," which earned him a smile, paid, and left the shop swiftly. A minute later he handed Grace the tin of tea and sat down just as their pizza arrived. He picked up a slice, burning his fingers, and said, "The woman running the place knows about the Old Races."

  Grace tipped the box of tea, examining it with pleasure, then lifted her eyebrows. "What'd you do, love, just come right out and ask? Oh," she said after he explained. "No, she wouldn't say that accidentally, would she. Was she a witch?"

  "How should I know? Do they have scarlet W's on their heads, or something? She was tiny and grey haired and…I don't know if she was Asian or not. She could have been Chinese, or…just old."

  Grace's mouth thinned as he spoke. "Chelsea."

  "Chelsea who?"

  "Exactly right, love." Grace smirked. "Chelsea Huo. She used to run Huo's On Fi—"

  "—On First. The book shop that burned down." Tony lowered his pizza without having taken a bite, and turned a blank expression toward the tea shop. "I thought she died. She did die. There was a murder investigation, it was—" He inhaled sharply. "Janx. Margrit had me—I thought she looked familiar. I'd never seen her alive, though. How can she be alive? Is she a witch?"

  "Grace doesn't know what Chelsea Huo is, except a busybody. She's always got her fingers in the Old Races' pies. They call her a helper," Grace said grudgingly. "One they can go to, if they need it. A bridge between their world and yours."

  "What about yours?" Tony picked his pizza up, fi
nally taking a bite, trying to give Grace room to answer. She tilted her head questioningly, and he had to get through a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni before he could say, "The way you said that. Their world and mine. Where does yours fit in? Where do you fit in?"

  "I'm not one of them, love, and I'm not one of you either. Your world is where the wealthy and the powerful rule. I belong in the secret places, far below the city streets. I've been there a long time, and I don't see much chance of leaving."

  "Why do you do it? You're a ghost. Not just a ghost. The ghost of a famous pirate queen." Grace flickered a salute, smiling faintly, as Tony went on. "Don't get me wrong, I'd rather you were being heroic than knocking over banks, but…wouldn't it be easier to just be a criminal?"

  "Would you ask anyone that, or only someone who had been called a pirate? The waters were mine, copper. I took tithes and taxes from those who sailed them, just as the English did. The only difference was I didn't have the power of a nation behind me, only a wee little kingdom of my own. Why aren't you a criminal?"

  "I'm a terrible liar." Tony grinned as Grace lifted an eyebrow. "No, really, I am. God forbid anybody should ask me directly about the Old Races. I'd fumble the reply. Lucky that nobody's likely to. I'm sorry," he added after a moment. "Pretty obnoxious, asking why you didn't just default to criminal."

  "To be fair," Grace drawled, "part of the reason I don't is it's harder than it looks, ghosting through vault walls with armloads of loot. Ghosts aren't much meant to carry things."

  "Or eat?" Tony nodded at her half of the pizza, cooling, untouched, on the platter.

  Grace lifted a piece, ate a bite, and shrugged. "I can. I don't have to." Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "It's easier than stealing, though. It's only affecting my own self, and that's easy enough. It's ghosting other things that's hard. Damn," she added, glumly, looking toward the tea shop. "If it's Chelsea Huo in there, she's helping those who go in, and if they don't come out again, it's of their own free will. There's no real mystery."

  "Except what she's doing alive. And why you can't enter the shop. And why Margrit doesn't know she's alive. Or that there's an—a what? An underground railroad for the Old Races running in New York? I'd think the Negotiator should know that kind of thing."

  "Are you trying to make a mystery out of a molehill, Detective?"

  Tony pointed his pizza at her. "You're the one who promised me mysteries instead of meals."

  "Well, you got a meal anyway, even if it's not much of a mystery." Grace finished her slice of pizza, watching Chelsea's tea shop idly. "Grace hates not being able to get in there, though. It doesn't matter that there's nothing I want. It's the principle of the thing."

  "We could pop over, knock on the door, and ask what's up, after we're done eating. And there is something you want." Tony nodded at the tea tin she'd set aside. "Irish breakfast tea."

  Her eyebrows drew down and she glanced at the tea, then back at Tony with a suppressed smile, like he'd surprised her. "So we'll go knock on the door."

  #

  Tony waited until a lull in customers before slipping into the tea shop again. Chelsea Huo looked up, eyes bright with interest. "The tea didn't meet with their approval?"

  "No, it was fine, thanks. But my friend wants to know why she can't come in." He gestured at the door, where Grace—appeared. Faded into view, rather than stepping into it. Nobody normal could do that, not without a host of special effects that didn't follow people around in real life.

  The genial pleasantry faded from Chelsea's eyes. "Oh. Grace O'Malley. I don't suppose she's ever been able to cross into my domains, Detective Pulcella. It's her nature."

  Tony snapped to attention. "You know me?"

  "I wouldn't be much of a helper if I didn't know who in this city could be trusted, would I? Of course I know you. Ah, hm, let's see." Chelsea pulled an electric kettle out from beneath the checkout desk and set water to boil as she rooted around for bags of tea. The door opened behind Tony and he swung around to see who was there: a slight Middle Eastern man, who gave him a tight smile and disappeared amongst the aisles. Grace stepped toward the open door and—stopped. She didn't quite bounce off; it was as though the doorway was stickier than that, preventing her from doing something as obvious as bouncing, but also not allowing her to move forward. Strain raced through her jaw and throat, then relaxed as she stopped pushing forward. Chelsea, without looking, clicked her tongue. "Patience, child."

  Grace, incredulously, said, "Child?"

  Tony bit back a laugh at her tone, and had to do it again at Chelsea's expression of long-suffering exasperation. Grace, seeing his stifled laughter, gave him a dirty look. He ducked his head, sheepish, and grinned at the floor. Tiles, old ones that shifted slightly underfoot, were bordered with leaves and berries, as if they'd always meant to be a tea shop's floor. The kettle boiled and Chelsea poured hot water over a mix that smelled earthy. A young woman, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, came in and went roving through the aisles; this time Grace didn't try to follow. Chelsea tottered out from behind the counter with a cup of steaming tea in hand, offered it to Grace, and returned to her perch behind the counter. She looked like a bird, sitting there. Like an owl, maybe, wise and purse-mouthed, except Tony had never heard of an owl faking injuries, and he would swear Chelsea's totter was an act. She seemed like the sort of fragile old lady who would turn out to be eighth dan in aikido and able to take down an entire gang of street punks.

  "This tastes like dirt," Grace announced from the doorway.

  "I expect it does," Chelsea replied airily. "But if you want to come in, you'll have to drink every last drop."

  Tony, as solemnly as he could, said, "Are you trying to ground her, Ms Huo?"

  Chelsea's expression went flat, save for a twinkle in the depths of her eyes. "That's precisely what I'm trying to do, Detective. As I said, her nature makes entry into my domain extremely difficult. Grounding is exactly what she requires."

  Grace, shuddering all over, edged a toe against the threshold. This time she was able to pass it, and a few steps later she plunked the cup onto Chelsea's counter. "I doubt it's worth it. What are those two skulking around the back for? What is she, a selkie?"

  "You're very astute, Miss O'Malley. I expect they're waiting for you two to take your leave so they can disappear without being observed."

  Tony twisted to look toward the back door. "She's a selkie? How could you tell?"

  "It's all in how they move," Grace muttered. "He's a djinn, too, if I don't miss my mark. I thought the lawyer had settled all this, Huo. What are they hiding from?"

  "He's to be an unhappy participant in an arranged marriage," Chelsea said. "The djinn are numerous enough that they've rejected, within themselves, the possibility of mating outside the tribes. Individually, however, there are many who disagree. Especially those like that young man, who has fallen in love with a selkie girl."

  "What will happen to their children?" Grace asked in fascinated horror. "They're anathema to one another, the selkies and the djinn."

  "Chimeras." Chelsea shrugged. "As are all of the half-blood children, no matter what their parentage."

  "Chimeras," Tony said, "what's that mean?"

  "That there's no predicting what they'll be," Grace said. "The minotaur was born of mixing Old Race parents."

  "Th—" Tony bit his tongue, eyes bugging, and swallowed. Both the woman looked amused. "I hope they live happily ever after," he managed after a moment. "Can I ask another question?"

  "You can," Chelsea said. "You may not get an answer."

  "How are you alive?"

  A smile lit up her old face. "I'm hard to kill."

  "Your body was on the scene—"

  Chelsea Huo looked down at herself, spread her hands, and looked up at Tony again with elevated eyebrows. "I'm loathe to quote Sam Clemens, Detective, but…"

  "Who are you?" Tony asked quietly. "One of them? Someone…magical?"

  "I'm a helper, Tony. I help, when and where I can. T
here's nothing magical in that."

  Grace made a disputing noise that earned an arch look from Chelsea, though they didn't exchange more than that as Chelsea's attention came back to Tony. "Surely you know by now that a great deal is not as it seems, when you're dealing with the Old Races."

  "Am I, though?"

  "You certainly were when my bookstore burned down, and that should be answer enough. If it's not, Detective…" Chelsea held up a hand, stopping his protest. "If it's not, you need to either get used to disappointment, or withdraw from their world entirely, because you will spend your life entangled in frustration and dismay. I believe you've already made your choice, but if I'm wrong, you'd better think about it before this," she said with a swirl of her hand at himself and Grace, "goes any farther."

  "'This'?" Grace asked, amused.

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Please, Miss O'Malley. I've been helping lovers run away together for a long time now. I can certainly see a bit of romance bubbling when it's right in front of me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have a pair of nervous young people back there who are looking to escape to new lives, and I need to do what I can to ease their way. Grace, if you wish to make a habit of visiting me here, you'll need a box of my tea to brew and drink before you drop by."

  "I can scrape a bit of dirt up and mix it with hot water anywhere, love."

  "You could, but it wouldn't let you cross my threshold." Chelsea offered Grace a box of the tea, and after a thoughtful moment, the ghost took it.

  "What are you," Tony blurted. "A witch?"

  Dismay flashed across Chelsea's face. "I certainly hope not. Most witches aren't helpful at all. Now, run along, you two. I have things to attend to. Oh, do tell Margrit hello, when you see her again, Detective. I'd like to think she'll be pleased to know I'm still around."

  "Maybe," Tony breathed as they left, "but she's like a dog with a bone when it comes to getting answers about the Old Races. I'm the detective, and I'm an amateur compared to her."

  Grace patted his shoulder cheerfully. "Not at all, copper. I'm sure if Alban had revealed himself to you, you'd have been just as ardent as the lawyer was on his behalf."