Obsidian Butterfly ab-9

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I heard Edward's running footsteps, but I couldn't seem to turn around. I was too busy relearning how to breathe.

  He knelt by me, gun in hand. "What happened?" He was looking out into the thick twilight, not at me, searching, searching for the danger. His sunglasses were gone, and his face was very serious as he searched for something to shoot.

  I gripped his arm, shaking my head, trying to talk. But when I finally had air enough, all I said was, "Shit, shit, shit!" It wasn't helpful, but I was scared. Most of the time when I get this scared, I get cold, shocky, but not when it's psychic shit. When something goes wrong with "magic," I never go shocky or get cold, I stay warm. If anything it's like tingling, warm, as if I'd stuck my finger in a light socket. Whatever "it" was, had sensed me and shut me down

  I pulled my shields around me like clutching a coat against a blizzard, but strangely it had backed off. Though if that one swat of power was any indication, it could slice me, dice me, and serve me on toast if it wanted to. It hadn't wanted to. I was glad, thrilled, but why hadn't it hurt me worse? How had I sensed it from so far away, and how had it sensed me? Usually, my greatest talent is with the dead. Did that mean whatever "it" was, was dead, or had something to do with the dead? Or was this one of the new psychic abilities that my teacher, Marianne, had warned me might crop up. God, I hoped not. I didn't need more strange shit in my life. I had plenty.

  I forced myself to stop the useless cursing, and said, "Put up the gun, Edward. I'm all right. Besides, there's nothing to shoot and nothing to see."

  He put a hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet before I was ready. I'd have been very happy to stay sitting for a while. I leaned on him, and he started moving us back towards the car. I stumbled and finally had to tell him, "Stop, please."

  He held me up, still searching the new dark, gun still in hand. I should have known he'd keep the gun out. It was his security blanket -- sometimes.

  I could breathe again, and if Edward stopped dragging me on, I might be able to walk. The fear had faded because it was useless. I'd tried a bit of "magic," and I hadn't been good enough. I was learning ritual magic, but I was a beginner. Power isn't enough. You've got to know what to do with it, like a gun with the safety on. It makes a fine paperweight, but that's about it unless you know what to do with it.

  I slid into the car, had my door closed and locked before Edward opened his door. "Tell me what happened, Anita."

  I looked at him. "It would serve you right if I just looked at you and smiled."

  Something crossed his face, a frown, a snarl, quickly lost to that perfect blankness he could manage. "You're right. I've been a secret-loving bastard, and it would serve me right. But you're the one who said we needed to stop the pissing contest and solve the crime. I'll stop if you will."

  I nodded. "Agreed."

  "So," he said.

  "Start the car and get us out of here." Somehow I didn't like sitting on the nearly deserted road in the freshly spilled darkness. I wanted to be moving. Sometimes movement gives you the illusion that you're doing something.

  Edward started the car, turned around in the weeds and drove back towards the highway. "Talk."

  "I've never been to this area before. For all I know what I sensed is always here, just some local bugaboo."

  "What did you sense?"

  "Something powerful. Something that's miles away towards Santa Fe. Something that may be connected to the dead in some way, which would explain why it called to me so strongly. I'm going to need to find a good local psychic to see if this thing is always around or not."

  "Donna will know some psychics. Whether they're good, I can't say, and I'm not sure she can either."

  "It's a place to start," I said. I snuggled into my seatbelt, hugging myself.

  "You got any local animators, necromancers, anyone who works with the dead? If it is something connected to my type of power, then an ordinary psychic might not sense it."

  "I don't know of any, but I'll ask around."

  "Good."

  We were back out on the highway. The night was very dark, as if thick clouds hid the sky. The headlights seemed very yellow against the blackness.

  "Do you think this whatever-it-is has anything to do with the mutilations?" he asked.

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know a hell of a lot," he said. He sounded grumpy.

  "That's the problem with psychic shit and magic. Sometimes it's not very helpful."

  "I've never seen you do anything like what you just did. You hate the mystical crap."

  "Yes, I do, but I've had to accept what I am, Edward. This mystical crap is a part of who and what I am. I can't run from it because it is me. You can't hide from yourself, not forever, and you can't ever outrun yourself. I raise the dead for a living, Edward. Why should it be a shock that I may have other abilities?"

  "It's not," he said.

  I glanced at him, but he was watching the road, and I couldn't read his face. "It's not," I said.

  "I called you in to be backup not just because you're a shooter, but because you know more about preternatural stuff than anyone else I know, that I trust. You hate the psychics and the mediums, because you are one, but you still deal in reality, and that makes you different from the rest of them."

  "You're wrong, Edward. I saw a soul today hovering in that room. It was real, just as real as the gun in your holster. Psychics, witches, mediums, they all deal in reality. It's just not the same reality that you deal with, but it is real, Edward, it is very, very real."

  He didn't say anything to that, just let the silence fill the car, and I was content with silence because I was tired, terribly, terribly tired. I'd found that doing psychic shit sometimes exhausted me a hell of a lot faster than physical labor. I ran four miles every other day, lifted weights, took Kenpo class, and Judo, and none of it made me as tired as having stood in that field and opened myself to that thing. I never sleep in a car because I don't trust the driver not to have a wreck and kill me. That is the truth about why I don't sleep in cars, no matter what I say out loud. My mother was killed in a car accident, and I've never really trusted cars since.

  I settled down in my seat, trying to find a comfortable place for my head.

  I was suddenly so tired, so tired my eyes burned. I closed my eyes just to rest them, and sleep dragged at me like a hand pulling me under. I could have fought it, but I didn't. I needed the rest, and I needed it now, or I wouldn't I be worth shit soon. And the thought crossed my mind as I let myself relax that I did trust Edward. I really did. I slept huddled in the seat and didn't wake until the car stopped.

  "We're here," Edward said.

  I struggled to sit up, feeling stiff, but rested. "Where?"

  "Ted's house."

  I sat up straighten Ted's house? Edward's house. I was finally going to get to see where Edward lived. I was going to snoop and strip some of his mystery away. If I didn't get killed, finding out Edward's secrets would make the entire trip worthwhile. If I did get killed, I'd come back and haunt Edward, see if I could make him see ghosts after all.

  17

  THE HOUSE WAS ADOBE and looked old or genuine, not that I was an expert, but there was a feel to the house of age. We unloaded my luggage from the back of the Hummer but I had eyes mostly for the house. Edward's house. I'd never really hoped to see where he lived. He was like Batman. He rode into town, saved your ass, then vanished, and you never really expected an invitation to see the Bat Cave. Now here I was standing in front of it. Cool.

  It wasn't what I'd pictured. I'd thought maybe a high-tech condo in the city. LA maybe. This modest appearing adobe house hugging the land was just not what I'd had in mind. It was part of his secret identity, his Tedness, but still, Edward lived here, and there had to be more reason than just Ted would have liked it. I was beginning to think I really didn't know Edward at all.

  The light over the front door switched on, and I had to turn away, shielding my night vision. I'd been staring right at
it when it glared to life. I had two thoughts: one, who had turned on the light; two, the door was blue. The door was painted a blue-violet, a rich, rich color. I could also see the window nearest the door. Its trim was painted the same vibrant blue.

  I'd seen it at the airport, though with more flowers and an addition of fuchsia. I asked, "What's with the blue door and trim?"

  "Maybe I like it," he said.

  "I've seen a lot of doors painted blue or turquoise on a lot of houses since I've been here. What gives?"

  "Very observant."

  "A failing of mine. Now explain."

  "They think witches can't cross a door painted blue or green."

  I widened my eyes. "You believe that?"

  "I doubt most of the people who paint their doors believe it anymore, but it's become part of the local style. My guess is that most people who do it, don't even remember the folklore behind it."

  "Like putting out a jack o' lantern at Halloween to frighten the goblins away," I said.

  "Exactly."

  "And because I am so observant, who turned on the porch light?"

  "Either Bernardo or Olaf."

  "Your other backups," I said.

  "Yes."

  "Can't wait to meet them."

  "In the spirit of cooperation, and no more surprises, Olaf doesn't like women much."

  "You mean he's gay?"

  "No, and implying that to him will probably mean a fight, so please don't. If I'd known I'd be calling you in, I wouldn't have called him in at all. The two of you in the same house on the same case is going to be ... a fucking disaster."

  "That's harsh. You think we can't play nice together."

  "I'd almost guarantee it," he said.

  The door opened, and our conversation cut off abruptly. I was wondering if it was the dreaded Olaf. The man in the doorway didn't look much like an Olaf, but then what does an Olaf look like?

  The man was six foot, give or take an inch. It was hard to tell his exact height because his lower body was completely covered by a white sheet that he had clutched in one hand at his waist. The sheet spilled around his feet like a formal dress, but from the waist up he was anything but formal. He was lean and muscular with a very nice set of abs. He was tanned a lovely even brown, though some of that was natural color because he was American Indian, oh, yes, he was. His hair was waist length falling over one shoulder and across the side of his face, heavy and solid black, tusseled from sleep, though it was early to be in bed. His face was a soft, full triangle, with a dimple in his chin, and a full mouth. Was it racist to say that his features were more white than Indian, or was it just true?

  "You can close your mouth now," Edward said near my ear.

  I closed my mouth. "Sorry," I mumbled. How embarrassing. I didn't usually notice men this much, at least men I didn't know. What was wrong with me today?

  The man folded the sheet over his free arm until his legs showed and he could come down the two steps without tripping. "Sorry, I was asleep, or I'd have come out to help sooner." He seemed perfectly at ease in his sheet, though he was going to a lot of effort to spill it over the same arm that was holding it in place, so he could grab a suitcase.

  "Bernardo Spotted-Horse, Anita Blake."

  He was holding the sheet with his right hand, and he looked mildly perplexed as he dropped the suitcase and started the process of switching everything to the other hand. The sheet slipped down in front, and I had to turn my head away, fast.

  I kept my head turned because I was blushing and wanted the darkness to hide it. I waved my hand vaguely behind me. "We'll shake hands later when you're wearing clothes."

  Edward's voice. "You flashed her."

  Great, everybody noticed.

  "I'm sorry," Bernardo said, "truly."

  "We can get the luggage," I said. "Go get a robe."

  I felt someone move up behind me, and I wasn't sure how I knew, but I knew it wasn't Edward. "You're modest. I expected a lot of things from Edward's descriptions but not modesty."

  I turned around slowly, and he was standing too close, invading the hell out of my personal space. I glared at him. "What were you expecting? The Whore of Babylon?" I was embarrassed and uncomfortable and that always made me angry. The anger showed in my voice.

  The half-smile on his face faded round the edges. "I didn't mean any offense." His hand came up as he said it, as if he'd touch my hair.

  I stepped back out of reach. "What's with the touchie-feelie routine?"

  "I saw the way you looked at me in the doorway," he said.

  I felt the heat ride up my face, but I didn't turn away this time. "If you want to come to the door looking like a Playgirl centerfold, don't blame me for staring. But don't make more of it than it is. You're nice eye candy, but the fact that you're coming on this strong isn't flattering to either of us. Either you're a whore, or you think I am. The first I'm willing to believe. The second I know isn't true." I walked up to him now, invading his space, the blush gone, leaving me pale and angry. "So back off."

  It was his turn to look uncertain. He stepped back, put the sheet into as much of a cover as it could be, and bowed. It was an old-fashioned, courtly movement, as if he'd done it before and meant it. It was a nice gesture with his hair spilling all around, but I'd seen better. Not for six months, but I had seen better.

  He raised up, and his face was solemn. He looked sincere. "There are two kinds of women that hang around with men like Edward, like me, that know what we are. The first are whores, no matter how many guns they own; the second is strictly business. I call them Madonnas because they never sleep with anyone. They try to be one of the guys." The smile played along his lips again. "Forgive me if I'm disappointed that you're one of the guys. I've been here for two weeks, and I'm getting lonely."

  I shook my head. "Two weeks, poor baby." I pushed past him and grabbed my overnight case. I looked at Edward. "Next time remind me about everybody's little foibles."

  He raised his hand in a Boy Scout oath. "I have never seen Bernardo do that with any woman at first meeting her, I swear it."

  My eyes narrowed, but I looked into his eyes, and believed him. "How did I get the honor?"

  He picked up my suitcase, and did smile. "You should have seen the look on your face when he came down the steps in the sheet." He laughed and it was very masculine. "I've never seen you that embarrassed."

  Bernardo came up next to us. "I really, honestly, didn't mean to flash you. I just don't wear anything to bed so I threw this on."

  "Where's Olaf?" Edward asked.

  "Pouting that you're bringing her in."

  "Great," I said. "One of you thinks he's a Lothario, and the other one won't talk to me. That's just perfect." I turned and followed Edward toward the house.

  Bernardo called from behind us. "Don't mistake Olaf, Anita. He likes women in his bed, and he's not nearly as particular as I am about how he gets them there. I'd be more careful of him than of me."

  "Edward," I said.

  He was just inside the door. He turned back and looked at me.

  "Is Bernardo right? Is Olaf dangerous to me?"

  "I can tell him about you what I told him about Donna."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  We were all still in the doorway, not quite in the house. "I told him if he touched her, I'd kill him."

  "If you come to my rescue, then he'll never work with me, never respect me," I said.

  Edward nodded. "That's true."

  I sighed. "I'll handle it on my own."

  Bernardo had moved up behind me, closer than I wanted him. I used the carry-on bag to accidentally move him back a step or two. "Olaf has been in prison for rape."

  I looked at Edward and let my disbelief show on my face. "Is he serious?"

  Edward just nodded. His face had gone to its usual blankness. "I told you in the car that I wouldn't have invited him if I'd known you were coming in on this."

  "But you didn't mention the rape conviction," I said.
/>   He shrugged. "I should have."

  "What else should I know about good ol' Olaf?"

  "That's it." He looked behind me to Bernardo. "Can you think of anything else she needs to know?"

  "Only that he brags about the rape and what he did to her."

  "All right," I said, "you've both made your point. I only have one question."

  Edward just looked at me expectantly, Bernardo said, "Shoot."

  "If I kill another one of your backups, do I owe you another favor?"

  "Not if he deserves it."

  I dumped the bag on the doorsill. "Shit, Edward, if you keep putting me together with fucking crazies and I keep having to defend myself, I'll be owing you favors until we're in our graves."

  Bernardo said, "You're serious. You really killed his last backup."

  I glanced at him. "Yeah, I'm serious. And I want permission to off Olaf if he gets out of hand, without having to owe Edward another pound of flesh."

  "Who'd you kill?" Bernardo asked.

  "Harley," Edward said.

  "Shit, really?"

  I walked up to Edward, invading his space, trying to read past the blank blue of his eyes. "I want permission to kill Olaf if he gets out of hand, without owing you another favor."

  "And if I don't give it?" he asked, voice low.

  "Drive me to a hotel because I'm not staying in a house with a bragging rapist if I can't kill him."

  Edward looked at me for a long slow moment, then gave a small nod. "Done, as long as he's in this house. Outside the house, play nice."

  I would have argued, but it was probably the best I was going to get. Edward was very protective of his backups, and since I was one of them, I could appreciate the attitude. I picked up my bag from the floor, and said, "Thank you. Now where's my room?"