Read Online Strange Brew by Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, Jim Butcher, Karen Chance, P. N. Elrod, Rachel Caine, Faith Hunter, Caitlin Kittredge, Jenna Maclane, Jennifer van Dyck, Christian Rummel, Gayle Hendrix, Dina Pearlman, Marc Vietor, Therese Plummer, Karen Chapman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlaine Harris, Patricia Briggs, Jim Butcher, Karen Chance, P. N. Elrod, Rachel Caine, Faith Hunter, Caitlin Kittredge, Jenna Maclane, Jennifer van Dyck, Christian Rummel, Gayle Hendrix, Dina Pearlman, Marc Vietor, Therese Plummer, Karen Chapman
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Anthologies, Science Fiction/Fantasy
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than cheap tricks to get to his beer with him here, and I was betting that he had worked out more than one way to realize it if someone had intruded on his place when he was gone. So, if someone wanted to get to the beer, they’d need a distraction.
Like maybe Caine.
Caine made a deal with Bassarid, evidently—I assumed he gave her the bloodstone in exchange for being a pain to Mac. So, she ruins Mac’s day, gets the bloodstone in exchange, end of story. Nice and neat.
Except that it didn’t make a lot of sense. Bloodstone isn’t exactly impossible to come by. Why would someone with serious magical juice do a favor for Caine to get some?
Because maybe Caine was a stooge, a distraction for anyone trying to follow Bassarid’s trail. What if Bassarid had picked someone who had a history with Mac, so that I could chase after him while she… did whatever she planned to do with the rest of Mac’s beer?
Wherever the hell that was.
It took me an hour and half to find anything in Mac’s files—the first thing was a book. A really old book, bound in undyed leather. It was a journal, apparently, and written in some kind of cipher.
Also interesting, but probably not germane.
The second thing I found was a receipt, for a whole hell of a lot of money, along with an itemized list of what had been sold—beer, representing all of Mac’s various heavenly brews. Someone at Worldclass Limited had paid him an awful lot of money for his current stock.
I got on the phone and called Murphy.
“Who bought the evil beer?” Murphy asked.
“The beer isn’t evil. It’s a victim. And I don’t recognize the name of the company. Worldclass Limited.”
Keys clicked in the background as Murphy hit the Internet. “Caterers,” Murphy said a moment later. “High end.”
I thought of the havoc that might be about to ensue at some wedding or bar mitzvah and shuddered. “Hell’s bells,” I breathed. “We’ve got to find out where they went.”
“Egad, Holmes,” Murphy said in the same tone I would have said “duh.”
“Yeah. Sorry. What did you get on Bassarid?”
“Next to nothing,” Murphy said. “It’ll take me a few more hours to get the information behind her credit card.”
“No time,” I said. “She isn’t worried about the cops. Whoever she is, she planned this whole thing to keep her tracks covered from the likes of me.”
“Aren’t we full of ourselves?” Murphy grumped. “Call you right back.”
She did.
“The caterers aren’t available,” she said. “They’re working the private boxes at the Bulls game.”
I rushed to the United Center.
Murphy could have blown the whistle and called in the artillery, but she hadn’t. Uniformed cops already at the arena would have been the first to intervene, and if they did, they were likely to cross Bassarid. Whatever she was, she would be more than they could handle. She’d scamper or, worse, one of the cops could get killed. So Murphy and I both rushed to get there and find the bad guy before she could pull the trigger, so to speak, on the Chicago PD.
It was half an hour before the game, and the streets were packed. I parked in front of a hydrant and ran half a mile to the United Center, where thousands of people were packing themselves into the building for the game. I picked up a ticket from a scalper for a ridiculous amount of money on the way, emptying my pockets, and earned about a million glares from Bulls fans as I juked and ducked through the crowd to get through the entrances as quickly as I possibly could.
Once inside, I ran for the lowest level, the bottommost ring of concessions stands and restrooms circling entrances to the arena—the most crowded level, currently—where the entrances to the most expensive ring of private boxes were. I started at the first box I came to, knocking on the locked doors. No one answered at the first several, and at the next the door was opened by a blonde in an expensive business outfit showing a
Like maybe Caine.
Caine made a deal with Bassarid, evidently—I assumed he gave her the bloodstone in exchange for being a pain to Mac. So, she ruins Mac’s day, gets the bloodstone in exchange, end of story. Nice and neat.
Except that it didn’t make a lot of sense. Bloodstone isn’t exactly impossible to come by. Why would someone with serious magical juice do a favor for Caine to get some?
Because maybe Caine was a stooge, a distraction for anyone trying to follow Bassarid’s trail. What if Bassarid had picked someone who had a history with Mac, so that I could chase after him while she… did whatever she planned to do with the rest of Mac’s beer?
Wherever the hell that was.
It took me an hour and half to find anything in Mac’s files—the first thing was a book. A really old book, bound in undyed leather. It was a journal, apparently, and written in some kind of cipher.
Also interesting, but probably not germane.
The second thing I found was a receipt, for a whole hell of a lot of money, along with an itemized list of what had been sold—beer, representing all of Mac’s various heavenly brews. Someone at Worldclass Limited had paid him an awful lot of money for his current stock.
I got on the phone and called Murphy.
“Who bought the evil beer?” Murphy asked.
“The beer isn’t evil. It’s a victim. And I don’t recognize the name of the company. Worldclass Limited.”
Keys clicked in the background as Murphy hit the Internet. “Caterers,” Murphy said a moment later. “High end.”
I thought of the havoc that might be about to ensue at some wedding or bar mitzvah and shuddered. “Hell’s bells,” I breathed. “We’ve got to find out where they went.”
“Egad, Holmes,” Murphy said in the same tone I would have said “duh.”
“Yeah. Sorry. What did you get on Bassarid?”
“Next to nothing,” Murphy said. “It’ll take me a few more hours to get the information behind her credit card.”
“No time,” I said. “She isn’t worried about the cops. Whoever she is, she planned this whole thing to keep her tracks covered from the likes of me.”
“Aren’t we full of ourselves?” Murphy grumped. “Call you right back.”
She did.
“The caterers aren’t available,” she said. “They’re working the private boxes at the Bulls game.”
I rushed to the United Center.
Murphy could have blown the whistle and called in the artillery, but she hadn’t. Uniformed cops already at the arena would have been the first to intervene, and if they did, they were likely to cross Bassarid. Whatever she was, she would be more than they could handle. She’d scamper or, worse, one of the cops could get killed. So Murphy and I both rushed to get there and find the bad guy before she could pull the trigger, so to speak, on the Chicago PD.
It was half an hour before the game, and the streets were packed. I parked in front of a hydrant and ran half a mile to the United Center, where thousands of people were packing themselves into the building for the game. I picked up a ticket from a scalper for a ridiculous amount of money on the way, emptying my pockets, and earned about a million glares from Bulls fans as I juked and ducked through the crowd to get through the entrances as quickly as I possibly could.
Once inside, I ran for the lowest level, the bottommost ring of concessions stands and restrooms circling entrances to the arena—the most crowded level, currently—where the entrances to the most expensive ring of private boxes were. I started at the first box I came to, knocking on the locked doors. No one answered at the first several, and at the next the door was opened by a blonde in an expensive business outfit showing a
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