by Kim Harrison
I said nothing, my gaze riveted to the highly manicured ballpark. Though Nick wouldn’t admit it, a new ribbon of fear had slid between us. We’d had a painful discussion last week where I had apologized profusely for having pulled such a massive amount of ley line energy through him and told him it had been an accident. He insisted that it was all right, that he understood, that he was glad I had done it since it saved my life. His words were earnest and heartfelt, and I knew to the depths of my soul he believed them. But he would only rarely meet my eyes anymore, and he worked hard to keep from touching me.
As if to prove nothing had changed, he had insisted on our usual weekend sleepover last night. It had been a mistake. The dinner conversation was stilted at best: How was your day, dear? Fine, thank you; how was yours? We followed that with several hours of TV where I sat on the couch and he sat on the chair across the room. I had hoped for some improvement after retiring at an ungodly early one o’clock in the morning, but he pretended to fall asleep right away, setting me almost to tears when he moved away from the touch of my foot.
The night was brilliantly capped off at four in the morning when he woke from a sound sleep in a nightmare. He all but panicked when he found me in bed with him.
I had quietly excused myself and took the bus home, saying that as long as I was up, I should make sure Ivy got home all right and that I’d see him later. He hadn’t stopped me. He sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and hadn’t stopped me.
I squinted into the bright afternoon sun, sniffing back any hint of tears. It was the sun. That’s all. I took a bite of hot dog. It seemed to take a lot of effort to chew, and it sat heavy in my middle when I finally swallowed. Below, the Howlers called and threw the ball about.
Setting the hot dog down on the paper wrapping across my lap, I took up a baseball in my injured hand. My lips moved in unvoiced Latin as I quietly sketched a complex figure with my good left hand. The fingers about the ball tingled as I said the last word of the charm. A melancholy satisfaction stirred me as the pitcher’s throw went wild. The catcher stood to reach it, hesitating in question before he returned to his crouch.
Jenks rubbed his wings together to get my attention, giving me a merry thumbs-up for the bit of ley line magic. I returned his grin with a weak smile. The pixy was sitting on Captain Edden’s shoulder so he could see better. The two had mended their fences over a conversation about country western singers and a night out at a karaoke bar. I didn’t want to know. Really.
Edden followed Jenks’s attention to me, his eyes behind his round-framed glasses suddenly suspicious. Jenks distracted him by loudly extolling the features of a trio of women headed up the concrete steps. The squat man’s face reddened but the smile remained.
Grateful, I turned to Glenn, finding he had already finished his hot dog. I should have gotten him two. “How’s Piscary’s court case shaping up?” I asked.
The tall man shifted in his seat with a bound excitement as he wiped his fingers off on his jeans. Out of his suit and tie, he looked like another person, the sweatshirt emblazoned with the Howlers’ logo making him appear comfortable and safe. “With your demon’s testimony, I think it’s reasonably secure,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for a surge in violent crimes, but they’ve dropped.” He glanced at his dad. “I’m thinking the lesser houses are waiting until Piscary is officially incarcerated before they start vying for his territory.”
“They won’t.” My fingers and words sent another ball clean out of the park with a boost of ever-after energy. It was harder to gather the power from the nearby line. The park’s safeguards were kicking in. “Kisten is handling Piscary’s affairs,” I said sourly. “It’s business as usual.”
“Kisten?” He leaned closer. “He’s not a master vamp. Won’t that cause problems?”
Nodding, I sent a pop fly to bounce wrong. The players became slow with tension as it hit the wall and rolled in an odd direction. Glenn had no idea how much trouble it was going to be. Ivy was Piscary’s scion. By unwritten vamp law, she was in charge whether she wanted to be or not. It put the retired I.S. runner in a huge moral dilemma, caught between her vampire responsibilities and her need to be true to herself. She was ignoring Piscary’s summons to his jail cell, along with a lot of other things that were quietly building.
Hiding behind the excuse that everyone thought Kist was still Piscary’s scion, she did nothing, claiming that Kisten had the clout, if not the physical presence, to hold everything together. It didn’t look good, but I wasn’t about to advise her to start handling Piscary’s affairs. Not only had she devoted her life to bringing in those who broke the law, but she’d snap while trying to best the pull of blood and domination such a position would magnify.
Seeing no more comments forthcoming, Glenn crumbled his paper and dropped it into a coat pocket. “So, Rachel,” he said, glancing at the empty seat beside Nick. “How is your roommate? Better?”
I took another bite. “She’s handling it,” I said around my full mouth. “She would have come today but the sun really bothers her—lately.”
Lots of things bothered her since having glutted herself on Piscary’s blood: the sun, too much noise, not enough noise, the lack of speed of her computer, the pulp in her orange juice, the fish in her bathtub until Jenks took it out back and had a fish fry to boost his kids’ protein levels before fall hibernation. She had been violently ill after returning from midnight church services this morning, but she wouldn’t stop going. She told me it would help keep space between her and Piscary. Mental space, apparently. Time and distance were enough to break the bond a lesser vamp could put on another with a bite, but Piscary was a master vampire. The bond would last until Piscary wanted it ended.
Slowly Ivy and I were finding a new balance. When the sun was high and bright, she was Ivy, my friend and partner, cheerful with her dry, sarcastic humor as we thought up practical jokes to play on Jenks or discussed possible improvements to the church to make it more livable. After sunset, she left so I wouldn’t see what the night did to her now. She was strong in the sunlight, a cruel goddess after sunset, balanced on the edge of helplessness in the battle she fought against herself.
Uncomfortable with my thoughts, I pulled on the ley line and sent a pitched ball wild, to smack into the wall behind the catcher.
“Rachel?” Captain Edden said, his eyes behind his glasses taking on a hard look as he leaned past his son to see me. “Let me know if she wants to talk to Piscary. I’d be glad to look the other way if she wants to smack him around.”
He eased back as I gave him a wan smile. Piscary had been extradited to I.S. custody, safe and sound in a vamp jail cell. The preliminary hearing had gone well, the sensationalism of the situation prompting an unexpected opening in the court docket. Algaliarept showed up to prove he was a reliable witness. The demon made all the papers, morphing into all sorts of figures to scare the pants off everyone in the courtroom. What disturbed me most was that the judge was afraid of a little towheaded girl with a lisp and a limp. I think the demon enjoyed it.
I adjusted my red Howlers’ hat against the sun as a batter came to the mound to pop a few into the infield. Hot dog in my lap, I shifted my fingers and mouthed the incantation. The park’s safeguards had risen higher, and I had to punch a hole through them to reach the line. A sudden influx of everafter coursed through me, and Nick stiffened. Excusing himself, he slid past me, muttering about the bathroom. His lanky form hastened down the steps and vanished.
Unhappy, I sent the ever-after energy into the pitcher’s throw. There was a sharp crack as the bat broke. The batter dropped the shattered ash, swearing loud enough that I could hear him. He turned to look at the stands in accusation. The pitcher put his mitt on his hip. The catcher stood. My eyes narrowed in satisfaction as the coach whistled, pulling everyone in.
“Nice one, Rache,” Jenks said, and Captain Edden started, giving me a questioning look.
“That you?” he asked, and I shrugged. “You
’re going to get yourself banned.”
“Maybe they should have paid me.” I was being careful. No one was getting hurt. I could make their runners twist their ankles and the wild throws hit players if I wanted. I wasn’t. I was just messing with their warm-up. I poked about in the napkin the hot dog had been wrapped in. Where was my ketchup packet? This hot dog was utterly tasteless.
The FIB captain moved uneasily. “Ah, about your compensation, Morgan …”
“Forget it,” I offered quickly. “I figure I still owe you for paying off my I.S. contract.”
“No,” he said. “We had an agreement. It’s not your fault the class was canceled—”
“Glenn, can I have your ketchup?” I said brusquely, cutting Edden off. “I don’t know how you people can eat hot dogs without it. Why the Turn didn’t that guy give me any ketchup?”
Edden leaned back, a heavy sigh slipping from him. Glenn obediently shuffled about his wad of paper until he came up with a white plastic packet. Face drawn, he looked at my broken arm and hesitated. “I’ll—uh—open it for you,” he offered.
“Thanks,” I muttered, not liking being helpless. Trying not to scowl, I watched the detective carefully tear open the packet. He handed it to me, and with the hot dog balanced on my lap, I awkwardly squeezed the ketchup out. So intent was I on getting it on the right spot, I almost missed Glenn raising his hand and surreptitiously licking a red smear off his fingers.
Glenn? I thought. My face went slack as I remembered our missing ketchup and the pieces fell into place. “You …” I sputtered. Glenn had stolen our ketchup?
The man’s face went panicked, and he reached out, almost covering my mouth before he drew back. “No,” he pleaded, leaning close. “Don’t say anything.”
“You took our ketchup!” I breathed, shocked. Beyond Glenn I could see Jenks rocking in mirth on Edden’s shoulder, able to hear our whispers and keep up a running conversation to distract the FIB captain at the same time.
Glenn shot a guilty look at his dad. “I’ll pay you for it,” he begged. “Anything you want. Just don’t tell my dad. Oh God, Rachel. It would kill him.”
For a moment I could only stare. He had taken our ketchup. Right off our table. “I want your handcuffs,” I said suddenly. “I can’t find anything real without fake purple fur glued to it.”
His panicked look eased and he shifted back. “Monday.”
“Soon enough for me.” My words were calm, but inside I was singing. I was going to get my cuffs back! It was going to be a good day.
He darted a guilty look toward his dad. “Will you—get me a bottle of spicy?”
My eyes jerked to his.
“Maybe some barbecue sauce?”
I closed my mouth before a bug flew into it. “Sure.” I did not believe this. I was pimping ketchup to the son of the FIB’s captain.
I looked up to see a park official wearing a red polyester vest loping up the stairs toward us, scanning the faces. A smile curved over me as he met my eyes. He worked his way down the relatively empty aisle in front of us as I wrapped up what was left of my hot dog and set it on Nick’s seat, then dropped the baseball into my bag out of sight. It had been fun while it lasted. I wasn’t going to interfere with the game, but they didn’t know that.
Jenks flitted from Captain Edden to me. He was wearing all red and white in honor of the team, the brightness hurting my eyes. “Oooooh,” he mocked. “You’re in trouble now.” Edden gave me one last warning look before putting his attention on the field, clearly trying to divorce himself from me lest they kick him out, too.
“Ms. Rachel Morgan?” the young man in the red vest questioned as he reached us.
I stood with my bag. “Yes.”
“I’m Matt Ingle. Park ley line security? Could you come with me, please?”
Glenn got to his feet, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips. “Is there a problem?” he asked, turning the angry-young-black-man mien on high. I was too thrown by him liking ketchup to get angry at him wanting to protect me.
Matt shook his head, not cowed at all. “No sir. The Howlers’ owner heard about Ms. Morgan’s efforts to retrieve their mascot and would like to speak with her.”
“I’d be happy to talk to her,” I said as Jenks chortled, his wings turning a bright red. Despite Captain Edden keeping my name out of the paper, the entirety of Cincinnati and the Hollows knew who had solved the witch hunter murders, made the tag, and summoned the demon into the courtroom. My phone was ringing off the hook with requests for help. Overnight, I had gone from struggling entrepreneur to bad-ass runner. What did I have to fear from the owner of the Howlers?
“I’m coming with you,” Glenn said.
“I can handle this,” I said, mildly affronted.
“I know, but I want to talk to you, and I think they’re going to kick you out of the park.”
Edden chuckled, shifting his squat bulk deeper into the hard seat. Taking a key chain from his front pocket, he handed it to Glenn.
“You think?” I said, waving ’bye to Jenks and telling him with a finger motion and a nod that I’d see him back at the church. The pixy nodded, settling himself back on Captain Edden’s shoulder, hooting and hollering, having too much fun to leave.
Glenn and I followed the ley line security guy to a waiting golf cart, and he drove us deeper into the stadium. It grew cool and quiet, the thrum of the unseen thousands around us a low, almost subliminal thunder. Far into the authorized personnel areas and amid black suits and champagne, Matt stopped the cart. Glenn helped me out, and I took my cap off, handing it to him as I fluffed my hair. I was dressed nice in jeans and white sweater, but everyone I’d seen in the last two minutes was wearing a tie or diamond earrings. Some had both.
Matt looked nervous as he took us up an elevator and left us in a long plush room that overlooked the field. It was comfortably full of talk and nicely dressed people. The faint smell of musk tickled my nose. Glenn tried to give me my hat back, and I motioned for him to keep it.
“Ms. Morgan,” a small woman said, excusing herself from a group of men. “I am so glad to meet you. I’m Mrs. Sarong,” she said as she approached, her hands extended.
She was shorter than me, and clearly a Were. Her dark hair was graying in wispy streaks that looked good on her, and her hands were small and powerful. She moved with a predatory grace that drew attention, her eyes seeing everything. Were men had to work hard to hide their rough edges. Were women got more dangerous-looking.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said as she briefly touched my shoulder in greeting since my right arm was in a sling. “This is Detective Glenn, of the FIB.”
“Ma’am,” he said shortly, and the small woman smiled to show flat, even teeth.
“Delighted,” she said pleasantly. “If you would excuse us, Detective? Ms. Morgan and I have a need to chat before the game begins.”
Glenn bobbed his head. “Yes ma’am. I’ll get you both a drink if I might.”
“That would be lovely.”
I rolled my eyes at the political niceties, relieved when Mrs. Sarong put a light hand on my shoulder and led me away. She smelled like ferns and moss. Every man watched us as we moved together to stand by a window with an excellent view of the field. It was a long way down, making me slightly queasy.
“Ms. Morgan,” she said, her eyes not at all apologetic, “it has just come to my attention that you were contracted to retrieve our mascot. A mascot that was never missing.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, surprised how the title of respect just seemed to flow out of me. “When I was told, my time and energies were given no consideration.”
She exhaled slowly. “I detest digging out prey. Have you been magicking the field?”
Pleased at her frankness, I decided to be the same. “I spent three days planning how to break into Mr. Ray’s office when I could have been working on other cases,” I said. “And while I admit that isn’t your fault, someone should have called me.
”
“Perhaps, but it remains that the fish was not missing. I am not in the habit of paying out blackmail. You will stop.”
“And I’m not in the habit of offering it,” I said, having no trouble keeping my temper as her pack surrounded me. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t make you aware of my feelings in the matter. I give my word I won’t interfere with the game. I don’t need to. Until I get paid, every time a ball goes foul or a bat cracks, your players will wonder if it’s me.” I smiled without showing my teeth. “Five hundred dollars is a small price for your players’ peace of mind.” Lousy five hundred dollars. It should have been ten-times that. Why Ray’s henchmen wasted bullets on me for a lousy stinking fish was still beyond me.
Her lips parted and I swear I heard a small growl in her sigh. Athletes were notorious for being superstitious. She’d pay.
“It’s not the money, Mrs. Sarong,” I said, though at first it had been. “But if I let one pack treat me like a cur, then that’s what I’ll be. And I’m not a cur.”
She brought her gaze up from the field. “Not a cur,” she agreed. “You are a lone wolf.” With a graceful motion, she motioned to a nearby Were, one that looked oddly familiar, in fact. He hastened forward with a leather-bound checkbook the size of a Bible, which took two hands to handle. “It’s the lone wolf that is the most dangerous,” she said as she wrote. “They also have extremely short life spans. Get yourself a pack, Ms. Morgan.”
The rip of the check was loud. I wasn’t sure if she was giving me advice or a threat. “Thank you, I have one,” I said, not looking at the amount as I tucked it in my bag. The smooth shape of the baseball touched my knuckles and I pulled it out. I set it into her waiting hand. “I’ll leave before the game starts,” I said, knowing there was no way they would let me back in the stands. “How long am I banned for?”
“Life,” she said, smiling like the devil herself. “I, too, am not a cur.”
I smiled back, genuinely liking the older woman. Glenn drifted closer. I took the champagne he handed me and set it on the windowsill. “Good-bye, Mrs. Sarong.”