The Goddess's Case (Part 1)

He looks younger than she expected, though it’s never easy to tell with demons. The champagne has brought colour to his cheeks and loosened his dark hair into flicks and waves, but he still has a factory-bought look – smooth skin, arched brows, ink eyes. Clearly unused to a suit, given the uneven tie, but pleased to be in one. He’s swamped by a ring of girls in Sehane fashions, who are all fluttering their dyed eyelashes and winding their fingers through their chiffon sleeves.

“Forgive the interruption, my dears,” Hester says, easing past two girls in blue. “Might I steal this gentleman, just for a minute or two?”

“Good gods, am I a gentleman now?” he says, smiling. He extends a hand, his grip light and cool around Hester’s. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Surely not,” Hester says, meeting his eyes. “I can’t move for talk of you.”

"And the talk calls me a gentleman?"

Hester folds her hands together. "Not in so many words. But people tell me you are an honoured guest. And that your footwork puts men to shame."

He laughs over the rim of his champagne glass, teeth bright and pearly. "The ladies, actually. I’m a champion at the girls’ steps."

"Should I be the one to request a dance, in that case?" she says, extending her hand. "If you'd care for it."

He looks down at her palm, then drains the last of his champagne. "You make a better gentleman than me."

With a quick bow to the clustered girls, whose eyes are cold against Hester's back, he slots his hand in hers and lets her lead him to the floor. Couples swirl with the music, pinwheels of drifting silk and jacket tails, veering around each other with occasionally jagged movements. The band sits at the head of the floor, spilling low and brassy tones.

"I should probably know your name, shouldn't I?" the demon says, over the swaying notes of a cello.

"No reason to. It's Hester."

"Hester of...? You seem like you'd have an 'of' somewhere in your title."

She links their hands together properly, drawing him into hold. "Is that a detective's instinct?"

He smiles. "If you want to flatter me, certainly. But you are wearing the most expensive dress in the room."

"What, this old thing?" she laughs, as they step into a basic waltz, moving with the tidal music. He's not turned his head away as he should, but that's clearly a matter of courtesy – his steps are neat, his hand light on her arm, and he swings his weight through each bar.

"You are putting the other ladies to shame," she says.

"Two months in the mind of a professional," he says. "A man picks things up."

"Is that so?" Hester says, steering them away from a stumbling couple in the middle of the floor. "You must have some stories to tell."

"Horror stories, lots of them. I spent a fortnight in the head of a man who liked to eat coffee granules straight from the jar with a spoon."

Hester laughs, the movement deepening the wrinkles around her narrow eyes. “That is a horror story. How did you bear it?"

He shrugs against her hold. "It was for a case. The man had a taste for two things, it turns out. Raw coffee and his son's wife."

The music crests like a wave, trembling brass pulling at the air. "Seems a rather voyeuristic line of work, if you ask me," Hester says.

"Told you I wasn't a gentleman."

A few more bars of bold, sonorous notes, and then the music melts into fading melodies. As they sway together, Hester's hand explores his, her fingertips brushing the warm ring around his finger.

"Married?" she asks, side-eyeing him.

He tilts his head. "Is that disappointment I hear?"

"It may well be," Hester says. "Is she here tonight?"

“No no, he’d rather eat glass than wear a suit,” he says. "If it's any consolation, you're a far better dance partner."

The music peels away, and the couples step apart to bow to each other, then to the band. Her eyes follow him as he straightens up.

“Bring him to my next ball,” she says. “Tell him I don’t mind if he doesn’t wear a suit.”

“Is that a formal invitation?”

“I’ll send a card with the details, naturally.” She draws her gossamer scarf around her arms. “I think we’re going to get on very well, Mr Dixon.”

And with that, and another dark-lipped smile, she disappears amongst the drifting bodies and heady perfume, leaving him alone.

*

It’s already gone midnight by the time Iza gets back, but there’s no quiet way to open the door to their flat. A poorly-oiled crunch of metal, a shoulder added to the shove, and it eventually judders open. He pads through into the living room, a little unsteady, and nudges the bedroom door open with his fingers. Through the darkness, he sees the glare of a phone, and a tired face dappled with shadow.

Sam’s eyes flit from the screen, just for a second. “How was it?”

“Delightfully bourgeois,” Iza says, slinging his suit jacket over the back of a heaped chair. He feels half-blindly to unbutton his cuffs, watching Sam’s weary face. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He swipes a finger across his phone screen. “No, I’m awake for the fun of it.”

“Is it the meds?”

Sam’s shrug says probably. He shuffles onto his side, eyes never leaving the phone. “Meet anyone interesting?”

Iza’s hands pause at his waistcoat. “A few. Fairly sure I danced with a demigoddess. Also fairly sure that she wanted to take me home with her.” He shrugs out of it, drawing closer by the bed. “Naturally, I had to say that my husband was busy-” he cranes his neck to see the phone screen “-playing solitaire, which is why he wasn’t hanging off my arm.”

“Been playing Tetris too.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Iza says, flopping down on the bed. He lets his head settle against Sam’s shoulder, catching the smell of warmth and coffee – welcome, after that cloying haze of perfume. “She’s invited us to her next ball. Even says you don’t have to wear a suit.”

Sam drags the four of hearts into its allocated pile at the bottom of the screen. “I don’t like rich people.”

“Sam. You grew up in a mansion.”

“Exactly,” he says. “You can go.”

“But that’s no fun,” Iza says. He rolls onto his front, leaning his chin against Sam’s chest. “Just come. For me. The light of your life. Brighter than all of the solitaire-bearing phone screens in the world.”

Sam rolls his eyes, cycling through the cards. “Possess me, if it matters that much.”

Iza tilts his head, tangling Sam’s free hand with his. “Who’ll be my dance partner?”

“She will.”

“Boring. I can’t grab her ass while she pivots,” Iza says. “Besides, she said to bring you. As in to meet her. Not to wear.”

“Why? Why’s she so interested?”

“Who knows? Perhaps she wants to challenge you in the middle of her ballroom to a bloody battle for my hand.”

Sam snorts. “She can have you for free.”

Iza’s mouth falls in mock-offense, and he untangles his fingers to prod at Sam’s face. “Callous. I’m at least worth a flock of goats.”

Sam fights a smile, trapping Iza’s hand against his cheek. “More like one goat, with a shitty leg.”

“Lies and slander-”

“Maybe even half a goat, actually.”

“I can’t believe-”

Iza’s response is lost against Sam’s mouth, words replaced by warmth. A second later, Sam pulls his face away, nose wrinkled.

“The fuck have you been eating?”

Iza laughs, planting a teasing kiss on his cheek. “Some say garlic is an aphrodisiac.”

“Fuck off. Brush your teeth.”

Iza drags himself off the bed, crossing to the box bathroom. He watches his reflection as he brushes, trying to unhook his earrings with one hand, his lobes sore with the cheap metal. Snatches of sirens and humming engines waft through the window. It still won’t shut properly.

In his pocket, his phone rumbles. He abandons the earring and lifts it out. A message. Unknown number.

Slipped away, detective? Just spent five minutes searching. May have need of your services a little sooner than expected. Meet me this week? x

Iza frowns down at it. He wanders back into the bedroom, where Sam has turned back to his solitaire.

“A message from the demigoddess,” Iza says indistinctly, through a mouthful of toothpaste. “Even put a kiss. Got yourself a rival.”

“You gave her your number?”

“Not me. The host, maybe,” Iza says, turning the phone towards him. “Looks like she has a case for us.”