Acsquidentally In Love Read online

  “Wow, yes, absolutely!” Sloane said, fishing out his wallet and offering one of his cards. “Here.”

  “Sloane Beaumont, private investigator,” Lochlain read out loud, smirking as he traced the symbol stamped in the corner. “You have the Sage’s Cross on your card?”

  “My mother said it would bring me luck,” Sloane said with a little shrug.

  The Sage’s Cross was an arrow tilted skyward, representing the Sagittarius constellation. The Sages believed those stars led to a hidden place called Zebulon, the home in the heavens where the gods were said to have descended from.

  “I agree, because I think a lucky someone is gonna get a phone call tomorrow,” Lochlain said. “You have yourself a good night, Sloane.”

  “Bye, Lochlain. Yeah. Good night!”

  “Night. And hey! Happy Dhankes.”

  “Happy Dhankes.” Sloane laughed, waving as he left, head held high.

  He hadn’t connected with someone in a long time, especially not someone so gorgeous, and yet who was also somehow as awkward as Sloane was with his flirting.

  As he cranked up his car, he knew he was a little too drunk to drive, closing his eyes and coughing into his hands. All of the alcohol in his system magically came up in a neat and tidy little ball of liquid, floating in his palms. It was a handy little spell he had learned when he was in college.

  Sloane rolled down his window and chucked it outside, not able to shake his happy smile the whole drive over to his office. He didn’t like going home to an empty apartment, and an offering to the gods could be anywhere personal. Right as he was about to pull in, however, he realized he had nothing to offer.

  Making a quick turn, he doubled back to an all-night grocery store and grabbed a blueberry pie. He hauled butt back onto the road, hurrying to make it to his office again before midnight. After letting himself in, he quickly searched his desk for a candle. He knew which direction west was and set the candle in one of his windows. It was supposed to be in a doorway, but his door was on the wrong side, so this would have to do.

  Sloane lit the candle with a snap of his fingers, reciting quietly, “Though souls stir in the slumber of stars, breathless but bright, surrender forgotten flesh and dream once more.”

  He stood back, watching the flame catch the wick and cast a somber glow around the room. He picked up the pie and left it out in the hallway with a mumbled, “Hope the old gods like blueberry.”

  His mother would have scolded him for using any baked good that wasn’t made from scratch, and his father probably would have told him that blueberries were totally offensive to the gods somehow. Thinking of his parents, having lit that candle more for them than for anyone else, made him suddenly miss them with a great aching sorrow.

  He made sure the door was locked and returned to his desk, pulling out a bottle of rum from the bottom drawer. He wished he didn’t have to start over after cleaning up for the drive, but he needed to drink again to cure his sober state of mind. This was going to be another holiday without them, one more Dhankes where he couldn’t pray to them and tell them he’d found their killer. Milo’s suggestion to let it go made his heart ache. He had already sacrificed so much, he couldn’t possibly give up now.

  It was miserable. It was hard. And by all the gods, it was lonely.

  Allowing himself to feel a flutter of interest when he glanced at his phone, Sloane wondered if Lochlain really would call him tomorrow. It had been so long since he’d gone out with anyone, maybe it was time to try and do something for himself.

  Immediately feeling guilty for even considering it, he once again wished his parents were with him, if only to tell him what to do, if he should finally give up and live his life. He watched the candle burn, tears glistening in his eyes. The flame flickered briefly, and he hoped it was somehow them telling him everything would be okay.

  The flame flickered again, but Sloane was certain he was reading too much into things.

  Smiling sadly, he drowned his sorrows in the rum until his head hit his desk and he passed out into a deep sleep. He slept there all night, waking to a curious chewing sound. Groggily lifting his head, he was startled to see Lochlain sitting in front of him, eating the blueberry pie.

  “What… what are you doing here?” Sloane asked, jerking up and rubbing his eyes. He swore he had locked his office door. “Did you think I wouldn’t answer if you called?” He laughed lightly.

  Lochlain kept munching, pulling out Sloane’s business card and laying it on the desk between them. He tapped the Sage’s Cross as if that was a sufficient answer and went back to eating.

  Sloane frowned, looking over Lochlain carefully. Something about him seemed different, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  He was also horribly hungover, wishing he had been in the right fraternity to learn some anti-hangover magic. His sobering spell was useless at this point since his body had already absorbed all of the alcohol. Ugh.

  Maybe he was imagining it, but there was a wicked shimmer in Lochlain’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. The way he sat in the chair with his legs kicked over the arm was full of youthful mischief and yet totally commanding at the same time.

  He exuded confidence, perched smugly as if he owned every inch of the office and everything in it, Sloane included, which wasn’t at all like the man in the devil costume Sloane met last night. He was dressed more casually now, normal, but the way he gazed hungrily at Sloane made him worry that Lochlain wanted to gobble him up like the pie.

  It was way too early for this shit.

  “Look, Lochlain,” Sloane said with a short groan, “it’s really cool of you to stop by, but I had a really long night—”

  “Not Lochlain,” he replied curtly between bites, wagging a finger at him.

  “Not Lochlain?” Sloane repeated dumbly.

  Not-Lochlain shook his head, working on the last slice of pie. He’d eaten the entire thing, licking his lips coyly at Sloane and making him shiver down his spine.

  Every bone in Sloane’s body was telling him that something was wrong. Brainwashed, cursed, possessed, the possibilities were endless. He casually traced a protection sigil on the edge of his desk, asking politely, “Then who are you?”

  Not-Lochlain snorted as if greatly amused by the question, tilting his head and winking. The top of the desk suddenly cracked right through the middle of the sigil.

  On his feet in a flash, Sloane gasped and stuttered, “Wh-what the freakin’ hell was that? How, how did you do that? Who the hell are you?”

  “Azaethoth,” he purred in reply, his tongue seductively licking every last crumb of pie from his long fingers. “Mmm. The Lesser. Named after my great-great-great grandfather.”

  Sloane was stupidly entranced by that tongue, asking hesitantly, “Azaethoth the Lesser? As in… an old god?”

  “Mmhm,” he hummed, lewdly sucking on his thumb. “If you’re more comfortable, you may address me by this vessel’s name.”

  “But you’re not… Lochlain?”

  “No.”

  Sloane stared back down at his desk and the fractured protection sigil. He didn’t know of any mortal magic that could possibly be powerful enough to break that spell. But there was no way this guy was actually a god.

  There were no gods, not anymore.

  “And why exactly are you here?” Sloane asked warily.

  “You’re a witch, yes?”

  “No,” Sloane replied. “I mean, I’m registered, but what does that—”

  “You follow the old ways?”

  “I guess? Look, what is going on—”

  “This vessel,” Azaethoth-Lochlain said, gesturing to his body, “was a very devout follower. Even while deep in dreaming, I heard his prayers. He was a fascinating human. He didn’t ask for glory or riches or any of the other mundane things most humans do.

  “He prayed for the thrill, the rush of adrenaline, to never leave him. He always wanted to be excited and intrigued, for his heart to pound, to find spectacular adventure e
verlasting.”

  “That… sounds interesting?”

  “Try listening to a few centuries of people pleading for money, sex, bigger cocks, and stronger orgasms—”

  “Okay, okay!” Sloane interrupted. He doubted the real Lochlain could have gotten out half of that without blushing.

  “I listened,” Azaethoth-Lochlain went on, idly tracing a finger inside the empty pie pan for errant crumbs. “I often answered his prayers. But last night, there was a problem. A very serious problem. When I went to him, the damage was already done. I found your card in his pocket.”

  “Damage, what damage?”

  “That’s what I need you to investigate,” he continued impatiently. “That’s what your card says you do. Investigations of a private nature, yes?”

  “Wait, wait,” Sloane snapped, getting frustrated. “If something really serious happened, you need to contact the police. And Lochlain, or… Loch-Thoth, whatever your name is! If this is some super weird way to get out of a date, I swear—”

  “No police,” Loch-Thoth said firmly. “They’ll only get in my way, and they won’t allow me to do what I want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Revenge,” he replied with a hungry smile, baring all of his teeth. “Now, I will gladly compensate you for your services however you wish. Money is customary?”

  “I don’t want anything,” Sloane protested. “Except maybe some kind of an explanation. What happened to you?”

  “You desired this one, yes?” Loch-Thoth turned his head. “Would you like me to pleasure you with his vessel?”

  “Wh-what?” Sloane sank down in his chair, scooting back against the wall. “No! Don’t do that! That’s… that’s not right! Whatever you are, you can’t just use Lochlain’s body like that! He can’t consent.”

  “Of course he can’t consent,” came the dry reply, eyes rolling dramatically. “He can’t consent to anything. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Sloane’s breath caught in his throat, his stomach dropping violently. “What do you mean, dead?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Loch-Thoth complained loudly. “Sloane Beaumont, I want to hire you. I want you to find out who murdered me.”

  Chapter 2.

  “AND BY me,” Loch-Thoth said with a dramatic roll of his fingers, “I mean this vessel, of course. Lochlain Fields.”

  “Lochlain is dead?” Sloane breathed, mourning a man he barely knew.

  “Yes,” Loch-Thoth griped impatiently, “my devout follower, my reason for waking, yes, he’s dead. Which is why I’m here. I took his mortal body—”

  “Took it?”

  “It was still fresh! Now listen! I took his body, and I found your card. That’s why I’m here. I want justice, I want balance, I want—”

  “Revenge,” Sloane said bitterly, regarding the being before him carefully. “If you’re really Azaethoth the Lesser, then you’re the god of thieves, tricksters, and divine retribution.”

  “I knew you were a follower,” the god replied with a happy purr. “Good. Now, let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Sloane demanded, rubbing his pounding forehead. It was definitely still too early for this.

  “To where I was murdered, obviously.”

  “Come on, Loch-Thoth, Aza-whatever,” Sloane groaned miserably, “I’m a little hungover, and I still think you might be crazy.”

  “Call me Loch. Addressing me by my true name may draw too much attention.”

  “Right,” Sloane said with a heavy sigh, “because you’re really Azaethoth. Got it.”

  “You still doubt me?”

  “Tiny bit.”

  Loch stood up gracefully, reaching his hand toward Sloane’s face. From within his sleeve, a bluish-gray tentacle slithered out.

  Sloane froze in place, staring dumbly at the writhing appendage.

  Most of the old gods had them. Urilith, the goddess of fertility, was said to be nothing but a giant mass of tentacles. He had seen their pictures in books, in paintings, and even on those tacky Halloween decorations at Milo’s party.

  Having one wiggling right in his face, however, was an experience Sloane was not prepared for.

  “How… how are you doing that?” Sloane gasped, scooting as far back as he could until his chair hit the wall. The tentacle stretched and followed him, the tip hovering just above his brow.

  “Look upon a piece of my immortal self and know my true name,” Loch intoned softly. “I am Azaethoth the Lesser, brother of Tollmathan, Gronoch, Xhorlas, and Galgareth. I am the son of Salgumel, he who was spawned by Baub, the child of Zunnerath and Halandrach, they who were born of Etheril and Xarapharos, descended directly from Great Azaethoth himself.”

  Sloane couldn’t tear his eyes away from the quivering appendage, panting hard. He had to touch it, the stupid desire bursting up from somewhere deep inside of him as he raised his hand to gently caress it.

  The tentacle stiffened and curled into his hand, and Sloane’s headache was suddenly gone. He wanted to cry, overwhelmed with warmth and joyous sensation. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced, realizing he truly was touching something holy and absolutely divine.

  Loch jerked away and snapped the tentacle right on the top of Sloane’s head, scoffing, “You believe me now?”

  Sloane grunted, waking up from the spiritual reverie. His headache was back instantly, and he grumbled, “Yes! Okay! You’re Azaethoth! I believe you!”

  “Good,” Loch said smugly, the tentacle retreating back up his sleeve. “Now, let’s go.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Sloane sputtered, standing up and raking his hands through his hair. “Slow down a second. Where was Lochlain murdered?”

  “At his apartment,” Loch replied shortly. “Before the festival where he met you, he had work to do. He completed the job, went to the festival, and then home.”

  “You can see his memories?”

  “Some, not all,” Loch explained. “Fragments. Not much is left behind after death.”

  “So, you can’t see who killed him?”

  “If I could see who killed him, why would I need your help?”

  “Fair enough.” Sloane’s phone began to ring, and he fumbled to answer it quickly. “Beaumont Investigations, how can I help you?”

  “Hey!” Milo’s sleepy voice greeted him. “Wanted to check on you. Lochlain said he wasn’t sure if you guys hit it off or not.”

  “Huh?”

  “Last night! He told me you kinda rushed out on him.”

  Sloane’s stomach twisted. “Oh! Well, you know, I had some stuff for Dhankes to do, and eh, I’m sure he was a super nice guy—is! I mean, he is a super nice guy and all, but I don’t know if it’s going to work out!”

  “Oh, damn. Thought you guys would. Are you okay?” Milo sounded concerned, though still quite groggy. “Look, I know I don’t always get it, all right? Your deal. Your beliefs. I don’t really think you even get it most of the time—”

  “Oh, I’m definitely getting it right now,” Sloane mumbled, his eyes locked with the immortal currently occupying his office.

  “Dude, I just… I want you to know I’m here for you. Even if I don’t get it totally, I can listen. I just want you to be happy, but I don’t wanna force you into a happy that doesn’t make you happy. Does that make sense?”

  “Makes perfect sense and I appreciate that so much, but I’m going to let you get back to nursing that lovely hangover,” Sloane replied urgently. He hated to cut Milo off so abruptly, but he was fairly certain that gods didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Milo’s frown was audible.

  “Fine! Very fine!” Sloane tried to keep his voice from hitting a higher pitch that betrayed his dishonesty. “Just, uh, big case came in this morning. Gotta go.”

  “Oh, okay! Talk to you later!”

  “Bye!” Sloane hung up quickly, his head throbbing as he glanced back at Loch. “Sorry about that. Friend of mine. Worries abou
t me a lot.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes, a friend. Gods have those, right?”

  Loch didn’t answer, studying Sloane’s lips with an intensity that made him shiver again.

  “Right….” Sloane sighed. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go.” Loch reached for Sloane’s hand, dragged him around the desk, and pulled him toward the door. Sloane struggled to grab his keys as they left, his heart pounding from Loch’s firm fingers tangling with his own.

  “We’ll go to Lochlain’s apartment,” Loch said confidently. “You’ll find clues there, yes?”

  “Uhm, maybe. You’re sure he was killed there?”

  “Yes. It’s where I found him.”

  “Okay,” Sloane said, wishing he wasn’t so damn hungover for this. He let Loch drag him down to his car, not even questioning how he knew which one was his.

  Loch took his place in the passenger seat as if he had been riding in cars all his life, snapping the seat belt into place and staring Sloane down expectantly.

  “What?” Sloane demanded.

  “You need to put your safety belt on as well,” Loch informed him sternly. “I fear for your fragile mortal body.” He tilted his head, slowly scanning Sloane from head to toe, which should not have made him feel as deeply probed as it did.

  “Fine.” Sloane fussed, clicking his seat belt into place. Fumbling with the center console, he then grabbed a pair of sunglasses to help with the early-morning glare before pulling out onto the street. “So, where am I going?”

  “Castlewoods Apartments,” Loch replied. “Uptown.”

  “Pretty swanky place,” Sloane noted.

  “Lochlain did very well for himself.” Loch chuckled.

  “Okay, that talking in third-person is weird,” Sloane complained, taking the proper turns to guide them toward the ritzier part of the city. “I mean, you’re still Lochlain. Aren’t you?”

  “No,” Loch replied curtly, “Lochlain is dead. Passed on. No more. All that remains in this body are some of his memories. Echoes of the soul that has since vacated. It’s rather noisy.”

  “Where is your real body?”

  “In here,” Loch snorted. “Where else would it be?”