by Cat Adams
me. I couldn’t drink it. I was too nauseous. Up close the scent of his decaying body was making me
gag. Only keeping the coffee directly under my nose made it bearable. I shifted uncomfortably on the
hard plastic seat and wished I were anywhere but here. My nose hadn’t been this sensitive earlier.
Would it get worse?
“I saw it in your eyes in the lobby.” His lips twisted in what was supposed to be a wry smile. “If
Alexander hadn’t told me you’d been bitten by a vampire, I’d have assumed you were a werewolf. So
far they’ve been the only ones who can tel .” His expression turned into a grimace. “They act like I’ve
got a real y bad case of BO. The reaction outted a few people I’d never even suspected.”
“Did you turn them in?”
His eyes met mine, his expression grave. “Technical y, it’s not against the law to be a werewolf—so
long as you don’t endanger the public.”
Technically, no. But that doesn’t stop the persecution. There are more than a few people who figure
werewolves endanger the public just by breathing. The prevailing attitude is “cage ’em or kil ’em.” In
fact, that exact motto had been used by one of the more popular politicians.
I’m perfectly capable of kil ing monsters if they endanger me or the people I’m protecting. But for al
but three days out of each lunar cycle werewolves were absolutely ordinary folks, with families and
jobs. If they took appropriate precautions, there was no need for them to be made prisoners.
Evidently Gibson agreed with me, and it made me think better of him.
“Does Alex know about your condition?” I asked him.
“No. I haven’t told anyone here at work. They’l find out soon enough. In the meantime, I don’t want
their pity.” He gave me a dark look. “And I do not want to leave a big case open.”
“And you think I can help?” I deliberately kept my voice neutral, my expression pleasant but
noncommittal. “What sort of case is it?”
He didn’t answer. “What do you remember from last night?”
“Not a damned thing. I’ve lost al of yesterday.” I sighed. “It was bats, so I’m assuming the attack took
place after dark. And I’m stil alive, so I figure it took place just a few minutes before my rescuers
showed up. But those are just guesses based on logic. I’m a complete blank from yesterday morning
until I woke up strapped to the zombie table in the university lab.”
He gave me a sharp look and I sighed. “I’m not lying. If only. I’ve been trying, struggling to find
anything, but nope. Pisses me off, too.” Because those few missing hours were some of the most
important of my life.
The stare he gave me seemed to dril into my brain. Final y he nodded. “Al right.” He reached into his
pocket and pul ed out a little black microcassette recorder. I wasn’t surprised he was using one.
Recent rulings had caused evidence to be thrown out because digital recording devices were too easy
to manipulate magical y. So the cops were back to using old-fashioned tape. Flipping the switch, he set
the recorder on the table between us before reaching for the remote and turning on the camera.
“Al right, we’l start at the beginning. With your permission, I’l use a spel to prompt you on things that
happened earlier in the day. We’l stop at sunset, so as not to risk triggering any traumatic memories.
But sometimes going through the mundane stuff first helps people remember more of the details of
what happened.”
I nodded my agreement.
“This is Detective Karl Gibson, Badge Number 45236, Santa Maria de Luna Police Department. It is
eleven A.M. on October 14.” I only half-listened as he droned on, giving al the details necessary to make
the statement official. I’d done this before. I knew the dril . In just a few seconds he’d ask me to state
my name, address, and whether I was giving this statement of my own free wil and volition and giving
him permission to use a spel to elicit memories.
I gave the appropriate answers. Slowly, patiently, he led me back through the previous day. I
remembered a lot of it with crystal clarity. It was Vicki’s birthday and I had worked real y hard to find her
a superspecial present.
Good afternoon, Ms. Graves. If you’l pul over to the guardhouse we’l complete the inspection
there.”
I recognized the voice coming through the speaker. It was Gerry, the supervisor of day shift
security at Birchwoods. It was an executive position, and I imagined the pay was impressive. It
should be. The people who checked into the facility were wil ing and able to pay exorbitant sums
to make damned sure that no one knew they were here or why. In al the years the place had
been in business, not once had word leaked about a celebrity patient—much to the frustration
of the press, who hovered at the required legal distance from a psychiatric facility.
I slid my visitor’s card into my wal et and tucked the whole thing back into my bag. I heard the
click of lock tumblers, fol owed by the buzzing of electronic equipment. A moment later the
heavy outer gate rol ed smoothly aside.
I stomped on the gas. The Miata positively leapt forward. I’d had it tuned up a couple of days
earlier, and I stil wasn’t quite used to the upswing in power. Stil , it was better to move fast. I had
forty-five seconds to get across the outer grid before the gate slammed shut. It took a manual
override with a supervisor’s key to get the gate back open. I knew this because I’d been caught
once behind a ditz who’d decided to rummage in her purse for something rather than drive on
in.
I pul ed the car into one of four spots in front of a smal white brick building with a red tile roof.
As I turned off the engine, Gerry stepped out the front door. I was surprised to see him on gate
duty. Since his promotion to management, it was way below his new pay grade to be checking
IDs. Stil , there he was, big as life and twice as ugly. He was wearing an electronic device
clipped to the waistband of his suit trousers, with a cord connecting it to the wand he carried in
his left hand. Behind him was a woman in the standard navy and white security uniform. She
wasn’t one of the regular crew. After al this time I know pretty much everyone who works at
Birchwood, whatever the shift. And “Lydia” (according to her little brass name badge) wasn’t
familiar.
She was a mage of some sort. I’d have bet on it. Their talents may not be as versatile or as
dangerous as some of the other “gifts” but are by far the most marketable and easy to control.
I took a good look at her. Probably in her mid-thirties, she had dark hair pul ed tightly back
from her face to reveal strong bone structure made even more harsh by the lack of makeup or
jewelry. It was the kind of face that would look better in photographs than in person.
The woman strode up to the passenger side, ignoring me completely. Her eyes were only for
the packages on the front seat. Yup. Definitely a mage. She’d sensed the power emanating
from them.
“I’ve cleared those with the management. They’re birthday gifts for Vicki. Since they’re glass,
the administrator required I have them put under at least a level-five charm to prevent
breakage.” She gave a slight nod but didn’t take my word for it. Instead, she withdrew a palmsized object from the pocket of her uniform
trousers and began running it over the outside of
the package as she murmured words I couldn’t quite catch. Gerry, meanwhile, had been busy
running the plates of my car and cross-checking them against the VIN number posted on the
dash just inside the windshield on the driver’s side. Next he’d run the wand over me to check
for traditional weapons and have me sign the visitor’s form with a silver pen—probably
charmed to make sure I couldn’t forge someone else’s signature. The computer would then
cross-check it not only against al of my other signatures but also against the file and the
signature on my driver’s license. Last, but not least, I’d be checked for il usion charms and
sprinkled with holy water to make sure I wasn’t a vampire playing mind tricks. This even though
it was broad daylight and any normal vamps were stil safely asnooze in their coffins, dead to
the world.
We went through it every time. Wel , most of it. Inspecting the presents was unusual but not
unexpected.
Since I visit three to four times a week I’ve gotten pretty used to the whole rigamarole. Usual y
I even joke around with the guards. I know most of them by name and a little bit about them
—from those times when I’ve been forced to wait on admission until after a group therapy
session ended, or for whatever other reason. Today, however, everybody was acting grim and
businesslike.
“What’s up, Gerry?” I asked softly, while the female guard went over the outside of my trunk. I
wasn’t sure he’d answer, even if she couldn’t hear, but he might.
“We’ve had an incident.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I mean, there are prisons and government instal ations that
don’t have the kind of personnel vetting programs they put people through to work here. And
I’ve never, once, seen any hint of anyone bending the rules, which is pretty impressive al things
considered.
“What kind of incident?”
Gerry’s baby face hardened into harsh lines, his eyes darkening almost to black. I could see
the sinews strain in his neck as he thought about it. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse to say,
but he shocked me again.
“One of our guards was found murdered. His right hand had been cut off at the wrist. The
body had been frozen, so we don’t know how long he’s been dead.”
My stomach clenched in reaction. I hated to ask, but I had to. There was a good chance it
was someone I knew. “Who?”
“Louis.”
Shit. Louis, who had four kids under the age of ten, whose pictures he pul ed out of his wal et
every chance you gave him, so that he could brag about their latest report card, dance recital,
or sporting event. Damn it.
“Julie had taken the kids to visit their grand-parents in Idaho for a week. She says they talked
on the phone every night until Thursday. That night she got an e-mail that he’d lost the cel
phone, so he’d be sending e-mails instead.”
“But I saw him …” I let the sentence drag off unfinished. It could’ve been him. Or not. He was
night crew. But there aren’t a lot of creatures that can use magic and il usion wel enough to get
by. The ones who can often do fingerprints. But they can’t manufacture the oil in a human hand.
Or DNA. Oh, shit. This was bad. And it certainly explained the extra searches and personnel
shifts.
“Any idea why?”
He shook his head. “It could be anything. We’re talking high-profile, high-money people here.
There’s plenty of folks who’d stop at nothing to get inside information.”
“And now somebody has.”
“Open the trunk please.” The mage’s voice cut across our conversation like a sharp knife. “I
need to see inside.”
I started to open the car door and Gerry stepped out of the way. Normal y, I’d stay sitting, but
something about her bugged me. I didn’t like having her literal y looking down on me. “I’m a
professional bodyguard. My weapons are in the trunk. I lock them in there when I come to visit.”
Also locked in the car was the special y cut black suit jacket I wear on duty. There’s magical y
charged Kevlar hidden beneath the silk lining. That jacket cost more than some of my guns, and
I take very good care of it. I’d bet it was setting off al sorts of radar with her.
I stepped out of the car, standing with deliberate ease, leaving just enough room for rapid
movement in any direction.
She noticed that, and she didn’t like it. She turned to me, cold blue eyes the color of a
December sky taking in every inch of me.
Her eyes lingered on the cut of my clothes, and the fitness of the body in them. Since I work
out hard, I’m pretty damned fit. Early bal et training may have given me grace and good posture,
but running, swimming, and exercise machines give me strength and muscle definition. It
shows, even under clothing. She was no slouch, either, in the muscle department.
Her expression stayed neutral, except for the eyes. Not for the first time I wished for just a bit
of psychic talent.
“How much did you wish for it?” Detective Gibson’s voice cut into the memory and I started. My eyes
blinked several times, trying to focus on the here and now. When I did, the implication came home.
He was trying to trip me up. It probably works wel when there’s some guilt. But I didn’t have any, so it
didn’t bother me. “Please. Get real. I’m not perfect, but I like who I am. A vamp turns you, you lose your
identity, lose everything. Besides, if I’d asked for this, don’t you think I would have stuck around to see
it finished?”
He didn’t rise to that bait. He just spun his finger in a circle. “Go on.”
I tried to remember where I was. Oh yeah. Arguing with the bitchy mage about the trunk.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t al ow weapons of any kind to pass through the second gate. I need to
see them. Then you can check them with Mr. Meyers here at the guard station and pick them
up on the way back.”
There was no hesitation in her voice and no sign of deference. He might be the one with the
title, but she was definitely the person in charge. I gave Gerry an inquiring look and he flushed
but didn’t say anything.
“I’d rather not do that.” I said it calmly. I wasn’t angry. But something about her set me off. I
didn’t want her going through my things. I didn’t have any reason not to trust her, not to believe
she was just doing her job. But I wasn’t letting her get into that trunk.
She looked at me, her expression completely impassive. “Either I go through the trunk or you’l
have to leave.”
“Actual y, there is a third option.” I smiled when I said it, a bright, shiny smile that she was
sensible enough not to trust.
“What?” Gerry’s voice held equal parts suspicion and wary amusement. He knew me. And
while he might respect Ms. Magicwielder, he didn’t like her. Not one itty bit. He wouldn’t help me
sidetrack her, but he wouldn’t mind watching while I did it.
“I don’t check the weapons. I check the car.”
She stared at me in stunned silence.
Gerry laughed and belatedly tried to cover it with a cough.
It was her turn to flush, but she held her temper admirably. Her voice was deceptively pleasant
when she spoke. “Those packages
appear quite heavy. Are you sure you want to carry them al
the way to the main building?”
“Not a problem.” I reached into my bag and flipped open my cel phone. I hit speed dial. The
receptionist picked up on the first ring.
“Mol y, it’s Celia. I’m leaving the car at the outer gate for security reasons, but I have birthday
presents for Vicki. Could you have the bel hop bring down one of the carts for me? I’d be very
grateful.”
“Of course, ma’am, he’l be right down.”
Gibson’s snort of laughter brought me out of the spel -induced reverie again. He was good, damned
good, to put me in and out of the memory spel like that. I hadn’t felt a thing when he’d worked his magic.
Oh, he didn’t have Bruno’s power, few do, but Gibson was smooth enough to make up for the
difference.
“Clever, very clever.” He grinned at me, and the impish expression on his face chased back the
death’s head for a moment.
“Thanks.” I grinned back at him. “I thought so.”
“Bet it pissed her off.”
“Oh yeah.” I didn’t even try to keep the satisfaction from my voice. It made him shake his head and
chuckle.
“So, you celebrated your friend’s birthday, then what?”
“Dinner at La Cocina.” The words popped out of my mouth of their own volition. I blinked in
startlement. I didn’t actual y remember it, couldn’t have told you what I’d ordered, but at the same time I
was absolutely certain it was the truth. Weird.
“Anything else?”
I tried to relax, just let the information flow, but there was nothing. I shook my head. With the spel
compel ing me, I couldn’t fake the lack of knowledge. Actual y, I’d hoped the spel might pul something
more out of my mind. No such luck.
“That’s it?” He sounded disappointed. I didn’t blame him. It was so damned frustrating.
Gibson stared at me for a long moment. I could see he was appraising me, judging me against some
inner scale. Maybe he was trying to see if I was lying, despite the magic. Most people do. Some
deliberately, because they want to misdirect the cops; some out of sheer habit, or from faulty memory.
But the way he’d primed me, the memory should be there. If the freaking bat hadn’t screwed with my