Angel: Private Eye Book One

All characters
in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Angel: Private
Eye

Book One

Copyright ©
2016 Odette C Bell

Cover art stock
photos: Heart of an angel © blackmoon979, Studio portrait of blonde
woman © FlexDreams, Aerial View Of Chicago
© maxim, Drawn fantasy landscape with frame © greglith, Hathor
Temple © mountainpix, and flowing folded fabric © vitaliy_sokol.
Licensed from Depositphotos.

www.odettecbell.com

Angel:
Private Eye

Book One

I pushed open the door, a knot of nerves
twisting tight in my gut.

I glanced around the shop, shuffling
awkwardly towards the empty counter on the far side of the
room.

It was made of broken chip-wood with a
massive crack running right down the middle. It, like the rest of
the shop, was a mess. A quick glance around and I saw old
dust-filled cobwebs tangled against the walls and massed around the
mildew covered windows.

My old worn-out black ballet shoes suddenly
crunched against a pile of torn up candy wrappers and a few scraps
of abandoned newspapers.

By the time I made it to the front desk I
was chewing so hard on my lip I was sure I was ready to swallow
it.

There was nothing on that cracked wooden
counter aside from a single bell. Unlike everything else in this
jumble of an establishment, the counter bell was polished, pristine
– as if someone had taken it out of its packet only that
morning.

With a nervous twitch traveling from deep in
my gut and shooting hard across my shoulders, I locked my eyes on
the bell.

Ring that, and there’d be no going back.

Then again, who was I kidding? There was
already no going back. I was out of work, out of luck, and if I
didn’t find a way to scrounge some money by the end of the week,
I’d be out of my flat, too.

A month ago, I hadn’t imagined myself here,
picking through the dust and junk in desperation. Because a month
ago, they hadn’t passed those new, shock work regulations.

From 1 April – two weeks ago – the federal
government had voted unanimously to split work between the races.
With only a few exceptions, ordinary humans could work for ordinary
humans, and otherworlders – like myself – had to find employment
amongst their own kind.

On 31 March I’d been a librarian working for
the local university. On 1 April, I’d been summarily dismissed. No
redundancy. No package. Just a boot up the backside and a hastily
signed dismissal form.

I took a deep breath, locking it in my lungs
as I pressed my lips open and whispered to myself, “Come on, girl,
there’s no other way.”

Finally I reached forward, shoulder locked
with tension as I gathered the strength and determination to ring
the bell.

Its light tone barely competed with the wind
bustling through the streets outside.

Hell, my panting breath was louder.

But just when I thought I should try to
clear my throat or do something similar, I heard a set of hurried
footsteps fly forward from the back of the shop. Right behind the
counter was a door. Unlike the rest of the shop, it was clean,
freshly painted in fire-truck red and sanded smooth. It looked like
it belonged in a show room.

A second later, just as my nerves reached a
crescendo like an orchestra madly playing a death march, I saw the
polished brass door handle move.

The mechanism was so smooth, it didn’t even
creak.

The door shifted open.

And out walked a man. Middle aged with a
perfectly round bald patch that matched his perfectly round pot
belly, he looked like Mr Sheen off those cleaning ads. Well, apart
from his expression. That belonged on Jack Nicholson right before
he threw you out the back door and killed you in your yard.

The guy was about my height, and I was all
of 5’3. He had a starched white shirt rolled up at the cuffs,
suspenders that were slightly loose on the left, and pilled woolen
pants.

“What?” he demanded as he brought up his
unusually scrawny arms, considering his otherwise stocky build, and
wrapped them moodily around his middle.

I tried to smile. I also tried to shove a
shaking hand in my bag and remove my resume.

For an otherworlder, my flat mate always
accused me of being easily flustered. Otherworlders were meant to
be tough, powerful, and brimming with attitude. Me? I was anything
but. A spider had dropped on me the other day, and I’d freaked out
so badly, I’d tripped into the coffee table and broken it in
half.

“What do you want?” the guy growled as he
flashed his less-than-patient gaze to my hand.

I was still frantically searching for my
resume. “Ah, I… I was wondering if you had any work—”

“For the love of Belzox, another one, ha?
Didn’t you read the sign on your way in, lady?” He pointed a pudgy,
red finger at the door. “No help needed. Now get out of my shop.”
He ticked his lip up and shot me a disgusted look. “Plus, you
really think you’ve got what it takes to be a magical PI? Just look
at ya, you can’t even find your own CV.” He pointed to the floor by
my feet.

Flustered, cheeks turning as fire-truck red
as the door, I realized my resume had dropped by my feet. I stooped
to pick it up. By the time I was standing again, he’d turned his
back on me and marched back through his pristine red door,
muttering, “Get out before I throw you out.”

Heart sinking through my stomach, I brushed
the dust off my resume, crammed it in my bag, and walked out of the
shop.

Instantly a cold blast of wind shot into me,
tugging my scarf from around my neck and sending it tumbling down
the street.

“No,” I gasped, lurching after it. That
scarf was Buccano – a semi decent Italian brand, and one of the
most expensive things I owned. Spun blue-and-purple silk, it hid
the otherworlder tattoo on my neck while also making me look
respectable enough to score a job.

I ran after it, but the wind snatched it and
sent it spinning across the road.

Though I tried to dart into traffic, a car
almost hit me, and I threw myself back on the pavement just in
time.

A leering woman in a leather-jacket and a
red shift dress snarled at me through her window.

One look at her plush, almost luminescent
red lips and her pin-prick black eyes, and it was clear she was a
vampire.

I cast my gaze back to my scarf, but it was
gone.

With a truly sinking feeling pushing hard
through my gut, I yanked my collar up as high as it would go, and
fought against the chill escaping down my back.

It was nothing compared to the dread and
guilt churning through my gut.

I walked my way through the streets. I was
in the otherworlder section of town, and I had to keep darting down
into the gutter to avoid all the other colorful characters, from
vampires, to werewolves, to witches and warlocks.

They all had power, an undeniable
presence.

Me? I had nothing.

I wasn’t from a recognized race. I hadn’t
been schooled since birth on how this world worked.

No. I just had the gene. The one that proved
I wasn’t human. Until last year, I hadn’t even known I was an
otherworlder. But when the government had enforced mandatory DNA
tests for every citizen, I’d got the letter in the post. A few
weeks after that, I’d got the tattoo, too.

Glum didn't come close to what I was feeling
now. Completely and utterly, soul-crushingly defeated, did.

I’d been clutching at straws when I'd gone
to that detective agency to get a job.

But now – now there were no longer any
straws to clutch at. This was over. Done. There was nowhere left to
get a job.

I brought a hand up, crammed it over my
cold, clammy brow, and tried seriously hard not to cry.

A few seconds later, my phone rang. It
jolted me from my self-loathing, and I chucked a hand into my
pocket, answering the call with a swipe of my thumb. “Yes,” I said
in a truly pathetic tone.

There was a long pause. “Wow, you didn't get
a job then, did you? Oh, sweetie, you sound like you're about to
cry.”

Though it was very tempting to tell the
truth and admit that I wasn't just about to cry, but that I'd
likely crumple and start whingeing in the gutter, I made a brave
face. “No, I'm fine, Sarah,” I lied with the kind of false tone
that wouldn't be able to convince a slime mold.

Sarah paused again. Then I heard her take a
pointed hiss through her teeth. “Sweetie, tell me where you are.
I’ll come pick you up.”

“Sarah, aren’t you working a night shift at
the bar tonight? Don’t you need to go to sleep now? I'll be
fine.”

She snorted. “You most certainly won't be
fine. You'll be moping. Now come back to the apartment and we’ll
look through the classifieds together. There's got to be something
out there. Heck, I have friends at a few of the otherworld bars.
I'm sure they’ll pick a pretty girl like you for a barmaid.”

I gave a false smile, all crumpled and
tightlipped.

Sarah was a terrible liar. A) I wasn't a
pretty girl. I was plain as plain could be. I was the kind of
ordinary that spy forces would pick for espionage agents because
there is no way I would stand out in a crowd. Ever. It was almost
as if my parents had crammed together every feature on the planet
and every range of beauty and picked the one dead in the
center.

While average had been okay several years
ago, it was the new ugly now. Normal just couldn't compete with the
extraordinary, otherworldly beauty of the vampires and other
assorted magical creatures. While us poor ordinary folk had to
contend with Botox and plastic surgery, the magical world had much
more effective, much longer lasting, and much cheaper methods of
beautification.

Oh, and they could actually sparkle.

Plus, even if I wasn't average and mousy, no
bar owner in their right mind would employ me. I had exactly zero
personality. No charm, no pizzazz, and no ability to offer the
drunk and truly irritating a rakish smile as they slurred for
another whiskey on the rocks.

I didn't point this out to Sarah. Instead I
winced as I switched ears. “Like I said, I'll be fine. I promise,”
I said in what I hoped was my most convincing voice.

Sarah just sighed. “I'm serious, Lizzie. You
should look into bar work. It's not that hard. Nor is it
particularly daunting. You're smart. You're attractive. You can do
this.”

Sarah stopped just short of telling me I had
no option but to do this. That was her real point, though. There
was a finite amount of time I could crawl through the otherworld
section of town looking for a job before I caved.

“Okay, okay,” I said reluctantly through a
deep, groaning breath. “I'll look into it.”

“Really?” There was undeniable excitement
twisting high through her tone.

I didn't stop wincing. “Yeah. I’ll keep
trying to find a job today. If nothing comes up,” I had to grind my
teeth together as I gathered the gumption to finish my sentence,
“I'll… I'll grab those details off you and head to that bar
tonight.”

“I'm texting them to you now. And, Lizzie,
you won't regret this. Plus, it would be kind of fun. We'll both
have the same jobs.”

I didn't point out that we would not have
the same job. She’d work in a human bar with other humans. Human
clientele, and human regulations.

I'd been to otherworld bars once or twice,
and it had been goddamn harrowing, like getting stuck in a haunted
house at one of those funfairs. Except, in this place, no one had
been pretending to be terrifying and there was nowhere to run.

I walked around town for the rest of the
day, trying everything and going everywhere to find work, no matter
how badly it paid or how undignified it would be.