by Ким Харрисон
"Me? I don't think so." I fumbled for the door handle. Crap, I was tired. "I'm still sending you a bill," I said, checking the time on the dash's clock.
"Uh, Rachel," Glenn said before I got out, "I've another reason I came over."
My motion to leave hesitated, and, looking unhappy, he reached under the seat and handed me a thick folder held closed with a rubber band.
"What is it?" I questioned, and he gestured at me to open it. Setting it atop my lap, I rolled the rubber band off and leafed through the file. It was mostly photocopied newspaper clippings and reports from the FIB and I.S. concerning theft crimes spanning the entire North American continent and a few overseas in the UK and Germany: rare books, magical artifacts, jewelry with historical significance… I felt myself go cold despite the July heat as I realized that this was Nick's file.
"Call me if he contacts you," Glenn said, his voice with a curious tightness to it. He didn't like asking me, but he was.
I swallowed, unable to look at him. "He went off the Mackinac Bridge," I said, feeling unreal. "You think he survived that?" I knew he had. He had called me when he realized he'd swiped the fake Were artifact from me and I had the real one.
A band fixed around my chest and squeezed. Crap. That's what Newt was looking for. Shit, shit, shit—this was why Vanessa was murdered? The I.S. knew I'd possessed the focus once, but they and everyone else thought it had gone over the bridge with Nick Sparagmos. Did the someone know that it had survived and was now killing Weres to find out who had it? Oh, God. David.
"I want this one, Rachel," Glenn said, jerking me back to reality. "I know it's Nick."
I felt like I was wrapped in cotton, and I knew my eyes were too wide when I turned to him. "I guessed he was a thief. I didn't know until he left. I didn't want to believe it," I said.
Soft pity was in his eyes. "I know you didn't."
My pulse leapt, and I took a fast breath. Glenn touched my shoulder, probably thinking it was the shock of finding out for sure that Nick was a thief that had my hands shaking, not that I knew what Newt wanted and why Vanessa had been murdered. Damn it, she'd been drugged and then murdered because she hadn't known anything about it. Telling Glenn wouldn't do any good. This was an Inderland concern, and he would only get himself killed. I had to call David. Take it back before Newt tracked it to him. He couldn't fight a demon.
Like I can?
I reached for the door latch, my mind whirling. "Thanks for the ride, Glenn," I said, my manners on autopilot.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, putting a dark hand on my arm. "Are you going to be okay?"
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I'll be fine," I lied. "This threw me, is all."
His hand slipped away, and I slid the folder onto the seat between us and got out to stand unsteadily on the sidewalk. My eyes went to the house where Ceri lived. She was probably asleep, but as soon as she woke up, I was going to talk to her.
"Rachel…"
Maybe she knew a way to destroy the focus.
"Rachel?"
Sighing, I leaned to look back into the car. Glenn was extending the folder to me, shoulder muscles bunched from the weight of it. "Keep it," he said, and when I moved to protest, he added, "They're copies. You should know what he's done… in any case."
Hesitating, I took them, feeling its heavy bulk pulling me down into the sidewalk. "Thanks," I said, not caring. I shut the door and headed for the church.
"Rachel!" he called, and I jerked to a stop and turned. "The visitor tags?" he prompted.
Oh, yeah. I came back and set the file on the roof of the car while I removed the tags and handed them to him through the window.
"Promise me you won't drive until you finish your driver's ed," he said in parting.
"Sure thing," I muttered, walking away. It was out again. The world knew the focus hadn't been lost, and as soon as someone realized I still had it, I was going to be in seriously deep shit.
Five
The hot morning had turned to rain by the time I'd gotten up again, and it felt odd rising so close to sunset. I'd gone to bed in a bad mood, and I awoke with the same, having been startled into consciousness by Skimmer ringing the front bell at about four in the afternoon. I'm sure Ivy had answered it as fast as she could, but going back to sleep was too much an effort. Besides, Ceri was coming over tonight, and she wasn't going to find me in my underwear again.
My arm ached as I stood at the sink in my shorts and camisole and polished the copper teakettle; Ceri's silent disgust at my kettle this morning had galvanized me into cleaning it. She was going to help me sketch out another calling circle. Maybe in chalk this time, so it wasn't as gross. I was starting to look forward to Minias's visit. He might destroy the focus in exchange for my finding Newt for him, and after watching Ceri bargain with Al, I wanted her help with Minias. That woman was more devious with her turns of phrase than Trent.
I had called David before falling asleep, and after a heated discussion that had emptied the church of every last pixy, he flatly told me that if the murderer hadn't tracked the focus to him by now, whoever it was probably wouldn't, and moving it out of his freezer would only draw attention to it. I wasn't convinced, but if he wouldn't bring it to me, I'd have to go get it. Meaning I'd be bringing it home on the bus or the back of Ivy's cycle. Neither of which was a good idea.
Blowing a red curl out of the way, I rinsed the kettle, dried it, and set it on the back burner. It wasn't gleaming, but it was better. The cloying scent of polish was thick in the close air, and since the rain had stopped, I shoved the window open with two gritty fingers.
Cool damp drifted in, and I looked out onto the dark, soggy garden as I washed my hands. A frown settled as I saw my nails, the polish ruined and green in the cuticles. Crap. I just did them, too.
Sighing, I set the dish towel aside and turned to the pantry. I was starved, and if I didn't eat something before Ceri got here, I'd look like a pig when I ate the entire bag of cookies intended for the occasion. I stood in the walk-in pantry, staring at the cans of fruit, bottles of ketchup, and cake mixes in the tidy rows into which Ivy organized our groceries. She'd probably label them if I let her. I reached for the elbow macaroni and an envelope of powdered sauce—quick, fast, full of carbs. Just what the witch doctor ordered.
From the sanctuary came a thump and a light laugh, reminding me I wasn't alone. Ivy had galvanized her old high-school roommate, Skimmer, into moving the living-room furniture to the sanctuary, partly to make room for Three Guys and a Toolbox to put the paneling up, partly to put space between Skimmer and me. Though Skimmer was frustratingly nice, she was Piscary's lawyer—as if being a living vampire wasn't scary enough—and I wasn't keen on being nice back to her.
Dropping the saucepan on the stove, I dug around under the counter until I remembered that Jenks's kids were using the big pot as a fort in the garden. Bothered, I filled my largest spell pot with water and set it on the stove. Mixing food prep and spell prep wasn't a good idea, but I didn't use this one for spells anymore—now that it had a dent the size of Ivy's head in it.
I melted the butter for the sauce while the water warmed. There was a burst of noise from the sanctuary, and my shoulders eased at NIN's belligerent music. The volume dropped, and Skimmer's cheerful voice made a pleasant counterpoint to Ivy's soft response. It struck me that though a living vampire, Skimmer was a lot like me in that she was quick to laugh and didn't let bad things bother her on the outside—a quality Ivy seemed to need to balance herself out.
Skimmer had been in Cincinnati for a good six months, out from California and a sympathetic vampire camarilla to get Piscary out of prison. She and Ivy had met their last two years of high school on the West Coast, sharing blood and their bodies both, and that, not Piscary, was what had pulled Skimmer from her master vampire and family. I had met her last year, when she started our relationship off firmly on the wrong foot by mistaking me for Ivy's shadow and, as was polite, making a courteous bid for my blood.
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br /> My motions to push the pat of butter around the saucepan slowed, and I forced my hand from my neck, not liking that I'd tried to cover the scar hidden there under my perfect skin. The jolt of desire the woman had given me had been heady and shocking, surpassed only by the embarrassment that she had misunderstood the relationship Ivy and I had. Hell, I didn't understand it. Expecting Skimmer to in the first thirty seconds of meeting me was ridiculous.
I knew that Ivy and Skimmer had picked up where they'd left off, which I think was the reason Piscary agreed to take Skimmer into his own camarilla if the pretty vampire could win his case. And as I mixed the butter, milk, and sauce powder, I wondered if Piscary was starting to rue his leniency in letting Ivy maintain a friendship with me that was based not on blood but on respect. He probably expected Skimmer to lure Ivy back to a proper vampiric frame of mind.
Ivy, though, had been a lot easier to live with the last few months as she slaked her blood lust with someone she loved who could survive her attentions. She was happy. Guilty, but happy. I didn't think Ivy could be happy if she didn't slather it with guilt. And in the interim we could pretend that I wasn't feeling the first lure of blood ecstasy, not pushing the issue because Ivy was afraid. Our roles were reversed, and I didn't have as much practice as Ivy did at telling myself I couldn't have something I wanted.
The wooden spoon rattled against the pan as my hand trembled, the thrill of adrenaline zinging through me at the memory of her teeth sliding cleanly into me, fear and pleasure mixing in an unreal sensation, filling me with the rush of ecstasy.
As if the memory had called her, Ivy's lanky silhouette appeared in the hallway. Dressed in tight jeans and a shirt cut high to show her belly-button ring, She went to the fridge for a bottled water. Her motions to open it slowed as she scented the air, realizing I'd been thinking about her, or at least about something that would get my rush flowing and my pulse up. Pupils swelling, she eyed me from across the kitchen. "That perfume isn't working anymore," she said.
I hid my smile, thinking I should just stop wearing it, but pushing her into biting me again was a bad idea. "It's an old one," I said. "I didn't have anything else in the bathroom."
Much to my surprise, she shook her head and chuckled. She was in a good mood, and I wondered what she and Skimmer had been doing in there besides rearranging the furniture. Not my business, I thought, turning back to my sauce.
Ivy was silent as she took another swig, leaning against the counter with her ankles crossed. I felt her eyes rove the kitchen, landing on the kettle shining dully on a back burner. "Is Ceri coming over?" she asked.
Nodding, I looked into the damp garden, shadowed into an early dusk from the clouds. "She's going to help me with my calling glyph." I glanced at her, my spoon still circling. Clockwise, clockwise… never widdershins. "What's your schedule tonight?"
"I'm out and won't be back until almost sunup. I've got a run." In a motion of powerful grace, she used one hand to ease herself up to sit on the counter.
"You going to take Jenks?" I asked, wanting him here with me, but my scaredy-cat fears came in second after a real job.
"No." Ivy ran her fingers up through the downward spikes of her shorter hair in a show of nervousness, telling me she was doing something for Piscary, not her bank account. She was the master vampire's scion, and that came first—when it didn't involve me. "Do you think that ugly statue is what that demon was after?"
"The focus?" Running a finger over the spoon, I licked it and set it in the sink. "What else could it be? Ceri says if Newt knew that David had it, she would have shown up at his apartment, not here, but I'm going to bring it back anyway. Someone in Cincy knows it's surfaced again." My gaze went distant, and a nasty feeling of betrayal settled into my belly. Besides Ivy, Jenks, and Kisten, the only person who knew I still had the focus was Nick. I couldn't believe he would have betrayed me like that, but he had sold information about me to Big Al before. And now he was pissed at me.
The water was boiling, and I shook in enough macaroni for three.
Leaning, Ivy dragged the open box of pasta to her. "What did Glenn want?" she asked, crunching through a dry piece.
Breaking apart the clumps of macaroni, I turned the flame down. "My opinion of a Were murder. It was Mr. Ray's secretary. Whoever did it tried to make it look like a suicide."
Defined eyebrows high, Ivy's gaze went to the calendar pinned to the wall beside her computer. "A week from the full moon? No way was it a suicide, and the I.S. knows it."
I nodded. "I don't think they expected the FIB to take an interest. She had pressure marks from restraints and needle marks. Denon was covering it up."
Ivy's reach into the box for another piece of pasta hesitated. "You think it has something to do with the focus?"
"Why not?" I said, exasperated. Damn it. I'd only had the ugly statue for two months, and already word was out that it hadn't been lost going over the Mackinac Bridge. Tucking a strand of hair out of the way, I stirred my pasta and tried to remember if I'd gone to see or even called David in all that time. Apart from the night I gave it to him, I didn't think I had. He was my alpha, but it wasn't like we were married or anything. Crap, this wasn't safe. I needed to get it back from him, like today.
"I can ask around if you want," Ivy said, swinging her boots up onto the counter to sit cross-legged with the box of pasta.
My thoughts jerked back to her. "Absolutely not," I said. "The less I dig, the safer I'll be. Besides, we'll never get paid for it if you do find something."
She laughed, and my mood eased. Ivy didn't laugh often, and I loved the sound of it.
"Is that why you're thinking about Nick?" she asked, shocking me. "You never make pasta in Alfredo sauce unless you are."
My mouth dropped open in protest, then snapped shut. Crap. She's right. "Mmmm," I said, peeved as I stirred the pasta. "Glenn gave me his file today. It's four inches thick."
"Really?" she drawled, and I frowned. She hadn't liked Nick from day one.
"Yes, really." I hesitated, watching the steam rise. "He's been at this awhile."
"I'm sorry."
I forced my face into a bland expression. She hated Nick, but she was genuinely sorry he had cracked my heart. "I'm over it." And I was. Except for the part about feeling used. He'd been selling information to Al about me for favors before we broke up. Ass.
NIN's "Only" went soft, and I wasn't surprised when Skimmer came into the kitchen, probably wanting to know what we were up to. I felt more than saw Ivy's posture shift to a more closed mien when Skimmer's jeans-clad dancer's body breezed in.
Ivy was as open with me as she was with Skimmer, but she wasn't comfortable letting Skimmer know that. We three had an odd dynamic, one I wasn't keen on. Skimmer flatly loved Ivy, having moved here on the promise that if she got Piscary out of prison she'd be accepted into his camarilla and could stay. I was the one who had put him there, and the day he got out, I'd probably find my life not worth troll farts. Ivy was a large part of why I was still alive, which put her in a hard spot whose pressures slowly built with each court success.
Skimmer would do what she had to do to stay with Ivy. I would do what I had to do to keep my body and soul together. And Ivy was going to go quietly insane, wanting both of us to succeed. It would've helped if Skimmer weren't so darn nice.
The perceptive vampire clearly recognized that she'd interrupted something, and, tucking her long, blond, severely straight hair back behind an ear, she settled herself into Ivy's chair at the table. From the corner of my sight, I saw her features scrunch up for a moment when she and Ivy exchanged a look, but then she smoothed them, her small nose and chin easing into a pleasant expression. Beside Skimmer's delicate features, I thought my strong jaw and cheekbones looked Neanderthal. Though sharp as a cracked whip and at the top of her game, the woman looked innocent with her blue eyes and West Cost tan, a trait that probably stood her in good stead in her profession when the competition underestimated her.
"Lunch?
" she said brightly, her pleasant voice showing a calculated hint of distress.
"Just white pasta," I said, going to drain the macaroni. "I've got enough for three if you're interested." I turned from the sink, finding that her vivid blue eyes had a shrinking iris of blue to make them even more striking. Her eyelashes were thick and long, accentuating her delicate features. I wondered what they'd been doing in the sanctuary. There was more than one place to bite someone—and most of them were covered by clothes.
"Count me in," she said, glancing at her watch with its diamond-chip numbers. "I've got an hour before I need to be back in the office, and if I'm not there, they can damn well wait for me."
That was cool—seeing as she was the boss—but my blood pressure started clicking upward when she went to the fridge, reaching above it for one of Ivy's Brimstone cookies. God, I hated those things, and I lived in worry that one day the I.S. would have an excuse to search my kitchen and I'd be dragged off.
"Why don't we make it a real meal?" the vampire said, clearly aware I was upset but determined to forge ahead. "Ivy has a run tonight, and I've got to get back to work. It won't take much to make it a sit-down lunch right now."
If my pasta isn't enough for you, then why did you say yes? I thought nastily, but I stifled my first reaction since I knew that the offer had been made out of a genuine attempt at camaraderie. I glanced at the clock, deciding there was plenty of time before Ceri came over, and when Ivy shrugged, I nodded. "Sure," I said. "Why not?"
Skimmer smiled. It was obvious she wasn't used to having anyone dislike her, and it wasn't that I hated her, but every time she came over, she did something that rubbed me the wrong way through no fault of her own. "I'll make garlic bread," she said brightly, hair swinging as she tugged open the cupboard door to the spices.
"Rachel's allergic to garlic," Ivy prompted, and the living vampire hesitated. Her eyes went to mine, and I could almost hear her berate herself.