His life had a certain order. Even if he’d been with women on and off over the last century, his primary focus had been on order and predictability. She was ruining all of that, leaving him simultaneously horrified and wanting more. He paused again, not letting himself forget the number 215. He finally broke his silence.
“Preying on a vampire’s innate OCD tendencies is extremely inappropriate,” Henry said evenly. “How did you even know?” He flicked his gaze over at her as she stood next to Rick.
The two of them were downright chummy.
“Nothing Google and a trip to the library couldn’t reveal,” she said. “I didn’t know if it would work for sure because the usual folk myth is that you have to put sand or seeds in the vampire’s coffin to distract him from leaving and terrorizing villagers. I thought about going with sand, but I didn’t want you to actually rip out my throat.”
“I still might,” he grumbled half-heartedly. “And then I’m going to burn down the internet and all of the libraries in the county.”
“Such vitriol for the woman who’s here to help us. That’s rude,” Rick said.
Emma snickered in response, and Henry pursed his lips in a thin, angry line to keep from smiling at her. She’d put him in this position. He shouldn’t be smiling at her.
Rick gave him a droll look and picked up a deck of cards from his desk. “Now, I would love to show you a card trick, Emma, but first we’re going to need an old copy of National Geographic, a water glass, and twenty-three paperclips.”
“Ooh, paperclips?”
“Hate you so much,” Henry said between gritted teeth and resumed counting when his brain wouldn’t let him rest any longer.
“I take it he says that fairly often?” Emma asked.
“Usually only when he threatens to fire me, so…yes.”
“I’m going to destroy all of the rice and paperclips and decks of cards in the world. Two forty, two forty-one…”
Rick snapped his fingers. “I probably could incorporate rice into this trick. That’s a good one.”
Henry refrained from groaning or snarling again. Letting himself react would only encourage them. They were definitely a dangerous pair together. Suddenly those long legs reentered his line of vision, and he had to swallow hard. No, it was just her. She was the dangerous one.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
A light coat of white dust covered his hands. He made the mistake of wiping them on his dark slacks. He glanced up at her and grimaced. Emma gave him a guilty smile and opened her purse. She pulled out a measuring cup and grabbed the glass jar. Kneeling beside him, she scooped up the grains of rice and poured them into the container. He watched, captivated, as the grains fell in a steady stream.
“What are you doing?” he asked warily.
“There are ten cups of white rice. In one teaspoon, there are approximately 269 grains of rice. There are 48 teaspoons in a cup. 269 multiplied by 48, multiplied by ten, equals 129,120. There are around 129,120 grains of rice here,” Emma explained calmly, continuing to shovel rice into the glass jar.
Henry stared at Emma open-mouthed. She glanced at him and winced. “Come on, I’m not that cruel. I did the math beforehand in case this worked. I got what I needed from you, and we’ve probably got clients coming in soon. Besides, you were doing it one by one, which is really inefficient, and then we would have been here for eons.”
He reached for a handful of the remaining rice on the ground and kept it safe in his fist. “But it’s not an exact number. That’s just an estimate—”
She took his hand in one of hers, gently forced his fist open, and let the rice fall into the container. Emma looked him in the eye. “It’ll have to do, Henry.”
They both stilled. Her hand was warm and soft on his. He shifted so that he clasped her fingers and squeezed her palm a little. Damn it, he was forgetting himself again. Henry tore his gaze from hers and let go of her hand. He slowly stood up, wiping his chalky hands on his slacks for a second time. They would need to be cleaned anyway.
When the rice was packed away, she slipped the jar back in the original gift bag, removing the contents from view. With the torment safely hidden away and the satisfying number of 129,120 bouncing around in his head, the anxious knot inside him relaxed. It was soon replaced with irritation. Soft hands or not, he didn’t appreciate the mental torture.
He gave her a dark look. “Thanks. I think.”
***
Emma stood up, wobbling on her heels a little. They stared at each other for another moment before Henry crossed the room to head back to his office. He stopped and frowned at something on Rick’s desk. He nabbed a small card and held it up to Rick.
“I thought you got rid of these.” His temper was flaring up again.
Guilt nagged at Emma. She was partially, if not entirely, to blame for his mood. But it had been necessary. She’d needed to ensure her safety before agreeing to come back. She hadn’t realized his reaction would be so intense, but she had to learn about this world one step at a time—and ensure she wouldn’t get killed in the process.
Rick shrugged. “Well, now that Emma’s here for sure, I thought maybe she should have a say in our marketing practices.”
Emma’s brows rose in question. Henry walked back over to her, and she felt her pulse quicken as he handed her a business card. He looked annoyed, but he seemed to recognize he wouldn’t do himself any favors by pissing off his only assistant.
“Rick printed up business cards that make me—us—look like sleazy personal injury lawyers,” Henry said.
“Is that so?” Emma said in her careful diplomat voice. Do not laugh, she thought sternly. She examined the card and couldn’t help but wince. “That’s unfortunate.”
She flipped the card over and smirked. The loud colors and exclamation marks held the charm of a discount furniture store advertisement, but the idea wasn’t completely without merit.
“Aside from the…exuberant…font and color choices, coupons might not be a bad idea since I’m new. Some of them seem to have the tendency to be stoned…or aggressively emotional. If they have something tactile to hold onto with an easy-to-remember deal, then they’ll be more likely to remember to call us. But hey,” she said with an easy smile, “it doesn’t make me look sleazy. Your name is the only one on the card.”
“Believe me, I’m not so old that I can’t figure out how to call the printer down the street and get them to make more with your name and photo on all of them. Besides, I hardly think we need more promotional material when they’re already coming here in droves.”
Emma walked over to Rick and handed the card back to him, resisting the desire to ask how old Henry was anyway. It was probably considered indiscreet, and she’d already been plenty rude today.
“Can you do me a favor and scale down the neon vibe a tinge and get these reprinted with my name and contact info?” she asked.
Rick agreed, so she turned back to Henry and shrugged. “Can’t hurt to let them know that I’m the better deal in this firm. After all, isn’t that what you want? To redirect supernatural traffic to me?”
“Whatever you want.” He shook his head and smiled. “Though speaking of supernat traffic, I’ve got files for you.”
Uh oh. He looked so jovial that she couldn’t help but be wary. He ducked into his office and returned shortly with a neat stack of folders.
“These are yours,” Henry said and handed them to her. “Rick will add appointment times to your calendar. Try not to stare too much at your clients. They’ll find it insulting. I’ve had enough hijinks this morning. Please handle these without a repeat of yesterday’s epic meltdown.”
That raised her hackles. “Hey—my reality expanded and mutated yesterday. You can’t fault me for freaking out at least a little, and don’t you think we should talk these over before I dive right in?”
His posture stiffened. Yet instead of snarling or making a cutting remark, he took a deep breath. His eyes looked weary.
/> “Look, we will talk later. I have my own clients to deal with. I’m frustrated and irritable after having my brain put in a vise, which I’m sure you can relate to. I have complete faith in your abilities. Please give me some space.”
Damn it. Now she really felt bad. He was right. Like he’d said, he hadn’t actually done anything to indicate that he would hurt her since they’d met. He’d voluntarily walked into the sun to check on her when she’d run out in a panic. Then he’d come to Daphne’s house to make sure she was okay and had nicely asked her to come back. Regardless of what had happened with Wendell, he had never threatened her. She knew her reactions were understandable, but he still deserved an apology. She opened her mouth, but he was already walking away. He disappeared into his office.
Emma frowned but knew it was time to get to work. She glanced down at the tabbed manila folders and made a beeline for her own office. Someone, presumably Rick, had assembled the desk that had been on the floor yesterday. It was a bit rinky-dink and swayed a little if she pressed too hard on it, but it was better than nothing. Nerves got the better of her when she sat down and flipped through the files. A phone number had been scrawled on a sticky note with the instruction: “Call ASAP to discuss charges and plea options.”
She had some criminal experience, but she didn’t feel comfortable starting a plea bargain with a prosecutor before she’d met with the client. Since Henry was apparently done with their conversation, she would have to see if the clients’ plea preferences were noted somewhere.
Taking a deep breath, she shored up her self-confidence. She could do this; she just had to focus and stop thinking about her boss’s fangs. Emma would get used to this new universe soon.
As soon as she understood it.
Chapter Seven
She understood nothing.
The files Henry had given her were a disaster. They weren’t a mess because there wasn’t enough content in the manila folders for there to be a mess. To add insult to injury, Henry had actually passed Wendell’s case on to her. Though he hadn’t scheduled an appointment yet, she was reluctant to be stuck in a room with a werewolf, though maybe Henry could join them given the circumstances. Or even better—maybe Wendell could be persuaded to get a different lawyer. As nice as he’d been when they first met, he had made it clear amid the chaos in Henry’s office that he didn’t want Emma to represent him.
Though given how little she knew about him, she didn’t even know if she could represent him. His file had a single loose page of Henry’s printed notes for the possession case. There wasn’t even an arrest report from the cop, so she’d faxed a request for discovery to the county attorney’s office. Relying on a brief public records search, she got confirmation of the laundry list of previous charges the judge had mentioned at his arraignment. Where the history of those other cases was, she had no clue. Wendell’s current case was his first marijuana possession charge, so she was somewhat optimistic she could get it rerouted to a drug diversion program.
Unfortunately, literally all she knew was that a cop had picked up Wendell near the Silk Moth and found weed on him. The Silk Moth was an “incense and smoke” shop not too far from Henry’s office. The store was on one of the trendy historic streets slightly north of downtown. But Emma had no idea if Wendell had been driving, walking, or even biking, though driving was the most likely scenario.
She’d tried flipping through the other client files next, hoping those cases would include more detail. Fortunately, they did…sort of. In-process cases like Wendell’s were sparse, but some of these people were repeat clients. She noticed they had a variety of charges from petty theft to DUIs, but one of the most popular charges was marijuana possession. On the first page of each of those closed cases, someone, presumably Henry or Rick, had written “CHARGES DROPPED” in thick black marker. It wasn’t totally unusual to drop charges without an attempt at prosecuting a case, but marijuana possession was a hot-button issue with the rise of medical marijuana dispensaries. On the other hand, maybe Henry had some good luck calling bullshit on weak cases, so it wasn’t exactly a red flag. Maybe a pastel pink.
Soon, however, that sweet baby pink did turn into a blinding red circus flag. As the cheerful green sticky note instructed, she called the mystery number to discuss plea bargains, though she wouldn’t agree to anything before she actually met her clients.
A woman answered and simply said, “Names.”
“Um, hello,” was how Emma brilliantly started.
“Who are you?” the woman said, her tone gruff. Grizzled, even.
“Emma Parker. I’m Henry de Daumier-Smith’s associate. Can I ask who I’m speaking with?” She figured it best to keep things general since she had no idea who this person was or what she was getting into.
“You can ask,” was all she said before falling silent.
As the pause extended into awkwardness, Emma took the hint but didn’t know how to respond.
“Names,” the woman repeated.
Emma hesitated but then read off the names of each client in the files. The line was silent for so long she wondered if the call had disconnected.
Abruptly, the woman said, “Charges dropped for all but Farwell. That one will have to move forward, but you can probably get a decent plea with the deputies.”
Emma wanted to ask her what the hell she was talking about but didn’t want the mystery woman to hang up on her before she asked about everyone on her list.
“Er, thank you. There’s also Wendell Davies. I don’t have the arrest report. Would you fax over a copy?” Couldn’t hurt to ask. It would certainly save some time if she had it.
An irritated grunt. “Not a secretary. Get your own.” Another long pause. Some typing. “Call back later about Davies. Need to think about that one. Warning you, though, getting tired of these felony possession cases.”
Click.
Emma stared at the phone for a full minute before returning the receiver to the cradle. Charges dropped, just like that. She may have only been an intern at a public defender’s office in law school, but she knew full well that prosecutors didn’t like dropping a deuce, much less that many criminal charges in a row.
It had been the furthest thing from any sort of plea bargaining she’d ever witnessed or participated in. That was when she’d decided it was time to pace her office, because hell if she knew what to make of the conversation.
Did Henry know someone at the county attorney’s office? She knew these supernat cases were a problem, but was he calling in favors, or worse? If so, what was she even doing here? More importantly, she had no idea how she was going to handle any of this. Delicately, she supposed. She slipped off her shoes and sighed as she sank her feet into the plush rug.
After her meetings were over, she would politely but firmly ask Henry what this pre-plea bargaining process entailed. Despite his assurances, she still didn’t know enough about the man to know if she could put her complete trust in him yet. For now, she would focus on building solid relationships with her clients until she got some answers from him. Things would get better.
***
Emma wanted to throw something expensive out of the conference room window. Because her life was a farce, things did not get better. All her clients wanted to speak with Henry, Henry, Henry.
Apparently Wendell wasn’t unique in his distaste for having Emma as a lawyer. As soon as each of her new clients had figured out she was a mortal, they’d all asked to see Henry instead. She’d tried to entice them with her discounted services, since she was the associate and not the name on the door. But to her chagrin, the past three supernatural clients she’d worked with hadn’t cared about cheap labor—the wizard even disdained it.
She’d seen this happen with clients at the Maricopa PD sometimes, but usually once they realized the public defenders really were on their side, the clients would open up. Yet if Henry had hired her, shouldn’t that have been an implicit indicator that she was worth trusting?
The supernats al
l wanted Henry, though, because he was “the best,” and more importantly, he was immortal. However, with his vehement request for space, the vampire in question had made it clear he didn’t want to get involved. She’d barely managed to keep all three of that morning’s clients from storming into Henry’s office. The fairy, who didn’t bother to hide her chartreuse wings, had a shoplifting charge from the Michael Kors at La Encantada. The wizard had a DUI, and another werewolf had a marijuana possession charge.
They were somewhat mollified by her results, but they had all insisted on a follow-up consult with Henry present—even though all their charges had been dropped. But hell, if they wanted to throw money at her and Henry for no good reason, she wasn’t going to fight it. As long as they didn’t try to poke the beast today. She was determined to show a modicum of autonomy while giving him the space he wanted.
It was unsettling how they all seemed to trust Henry implicitly while they looked down at her with unveiled skepticism because she was a mortal. The wizard had even referred to her as a “toddler walking around in her mommy’s high heels.” She’d dug half-moon marks into her palms with her nails to keep from throwing a pitcher of water at his smug face.
Sure, she’d only been on this planet for twenty-eight years, but how old could Henry be if they trusted him so much? A hundred? Seven hundred? Emma cringed. Talk about an age difference. She wondered if he saw her as a tadpole, fighting to stay alive and swimming frantically in a scummy primordial pond. If that was the case, she should at least try to think of him as an ancient, wart-ridden toad instead of mind-numbingly distracting and attractive.
Emma neatened the stack of files on the conference room table, and a wisp of doubt started to circle her head. There had certainly been lively debate, but thus far it had resulted from arguing with all of her clients about her ability to handle their cases. Especially since all that consisted of was calling a phone number instead of actually lawyering. She knew it was only her first day, but she was eager to get back to the courtroom.
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