Under Wraps tudac-1

by Hannah Jayne

  Steve grinned again, tapping his chest. “That’s why Steve has an exclusive contract with UDA.” He made his hands into fists and rammed them onto his hips proudly.

  I swallowed. “A contract? With UDA?”

  “We’re furniture movers.”

  I looked skeptically at Steve, his half-bald head barely clearing the top of my thigh. “Furniture movers, huh?”

  Steve nodded, then inclined his head toward me. “So Steve can be close to Sophie all day long.”

  I stepped back, working to avoid the moldy scent that wafted each time Steve moved. “Wow. Well, Steve. Good luck with that.” I patted my shoulder bag. “I’ve got some important business to take care of, somewhere that’s … not here. But I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

  He raised one caterpillar eyebrow hopefully. “Perhaps for lunch?”

  “No.”

  His other eyebrow went up. “Perhaps for a little wink wink, nudge nudge in the supply closet?”

  “Good-bye, Steve.”

  “Steve will be waiting for you, Sophie! Steve will always be here waiting for Sophie.”

  I spun on my heel, trying my best to forget about Steve, standing three feet tall in the UDA hallway behind me, grinning salaciously, gray troll eyes staring me down.

  I kept my head down, shrugged my bag over my shoulder, and hopped into the elevator with a hobgoblin and two pixies. We rode up in silence, three sets of eyes all fixed on the digital readout going backward. When the doors opened at the police station we shuffled out, exchanging positions with two female cops on their way to the garage. The dark-haired woman jostled against one of the pixies. I sucked in my breath as the pink-haired pixie flushed angrily and narrowed her eyes, but she stepped out without making a scene. As the doors slid closed, I heard the cop murmur, “I never know what to call them. Midgets? Little people?”

  “I don’t know,” said the other. “Anyone under three feet tall gives me the creeps. My kids included. Do you want to get a latte?”

  Chapter Four

  The San Francisco Police Department was housed in a cavernous room with desks every ten feet and uniformed officers threading their way past the occasional plainclothed employee carrying stacks of manila file folders. There was always a phone ringing or a radio squawking, and whether or not there was an actual crime spree going on, the officers were always ready to move. I sucked my breath in as a uniformed officer shimmied by me, his head cocked as he listened to the radio cradled on his shoulder, the butt of his gun brushing up against my hip.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered, jumping out of the way. “Sorry.”

  My heart thumped as two officers pushed through the heavy glass doors and led a sullen-looking woman in, her hands in cuffs behind her back, her hair matted, eyes looking caged-animal wild and rimmed with smudged black liner.

  “I swear,” she was saying as the officers led her past me, “I’m telling you exactly what I saw. It was flying. It was a person and he just flew away.”

  “Just like last week,” one of the officers answered back, his boredom obvious. “What was it then? A dog the size of a couch, jumping over a car? You and Superman, lady.”

  The woman fought against the officer clutching her arm, and I heard her handcuffs rattle. She stopped in front of me, her eyes wide, intense, and terrified.

  “You believe me,” she said, sniffing, moving her flushed face just inches from my own. “I know you do.”

  I stepped back, my stomach souring as much from the overpowering smell of alcohol and urine wafting from the woman as the intensity of her eyes, the biting truth in her words: You believe me…. I know you do.

  The officers ushered the woman out of the way, and I beelined toward what seemed to be the front desk. I cleared my throat at the top of the officer’s bent head.

  “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Detective Hayes,” I said.

  The officer didn’t look up.

  “Excuse me,” I said again, a little louder. “I need to see Detective Hayes.”

  The cop looked up at me, and I blinked twice.

  He was twelve.

  Maybe not twelve, but certainly not old enough to be strapped into an officer’s uniform and running the front desk—even if he was just doing a Sudoku in yesterday’s Chronicle. His small hazel eyes were red-rimmed and set too far apart. His nose was thin and freckled and a few stray whiskers—a petty attempt at a beard?—grew in odd angles above his upper lip. With his close-cut cropped strawberry-blond hair and big ears, he looked like an odd cross between Opie and Butthead. Or maybe it was Beavis; I could never remember which one was which.

  “I’m sorry, miss, what was that?” Opie asked me.

  “Um, Detective Hayes,” I said for the third time, then patted my shoulder bag affectionately. “We’re working on something.” I straightened my shoulders and stood up taller. “A case. We’re working on a case together.”

  Opie raised one red-blond eyebrow, and I forced the polite smile I used for gargoyles—hard-headed, stubborn, immovable gargoyles—and nodded. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Opie jerked a thumb over one shoulder, his hazel eyes never leaving the top of the blouse I forgot to button. I pinched the fabric together over my breast and narrowed my eyes on the officer. “Officer?”

  “Down the hall, on the left. You’ll see the sign.”

  I turned to leave, but Opie stopped me. “Ma’am?”

  I bristled, and then reminded myself that to the police force under fifteen, I would be a ma’am.

  “You’ll need to fill this out first, please.” Opie slid a clipboard toward me, and I sighed, filling in the obligatory information, then clipped the little plastic badge he gave me to my jacket.

  After two wrong turns and several glares from angry-looking hooker types being led around by their cuffed arms, I found the correct hallway and Hayes’s office. There was a folded piece of paper Scotch-taped to the frosted-glass door, the name DETECTIVE HAYES scrawled on it in black Sharpie.

  “How very Barney Miller,” I muttered before knocking quickly.

  “‘S’open!” I heard Hayes bellow from inside.

  Okay, here’s the thing. Like I said before, I’m not man crazy. But the sound of Detective Hayes’s rich voice floating out did something to me, and every hair on the back of my neck stood up, every nerve ending pricked—especially the ones in the nether regions I cared not to mention. I wondered what that voice would sound like first thing in the morning, gruff with sleep, whispered in my ear.

  “Come in,” I heard again.

  I shook myself from my fantasy and pushed through the frosted-glass door.

  Hayes was leaning back in his ancient leather office chair, his feet resting on the corner of his desk, ankles crossed. His dark eyebrows were knitted and intense as he scanned the papers stacked in his lap, his perfect teeth chewing on his full bottom lip as he read.

  I steadied myself against the little flutter I felt when his crystal blue eyes glanced up from his work and settled on me; I gripped the strap of my shoulder bag even more tightly when his face broke out in a warm, genuine grin that made my knees go medically oozy.

  “You made it!”

  I slung my bag onto one visitor’s chair and slunk into the other.

  “How do you manage around here? The environment is so hostile!” I shuddered and pulled my jacket tighter across my chest, and edged my chair a little farther back when I noticed the outline of an ankle holster against Detective Hayes’s left pant leg.

  A half smile cracked across the detective’s face. “This from the woman whose coworkers are blood suckers.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “And clients are monsters.”

  “Demons,” I corrected, “and you shouldn’t judge until you know one.”

  Hayes crossed his arms. “I could tell you the same thing.”

  “I’m sure you have a very friendly bunch up here,” I said, doing a quick mental scan of the office: Cardboard file boxes. Super Bi
g Gulp cup. Deeply stained coffee mug. Obligatory framed motivational poster propped on the floor behind the desk. No grinning, happily-ever-after wedding picture. No glossy black-and-white of a supermodel girlfriend. No “Proud Parent Of” bumper stickers, no five-by-sevens of a fat Michelin baby with cute brown curls and Detective Hayes’s bright blue eyes. Not that I was interested. I let out the tiny breath I didn’t know I was holding, and Detective Hayes raised one concerned eyebrow.

  “Everything okay?”

  I licked my dry lips and avoided his ice-blue stare. “Of course. Just checking out your office.”

  Hayes grinned again, leaning back in his chair and opening his arms. “Well, it’s not exactly as posh as the UDA offices. I don’t know if you know this, but us humans aren’t always great decorators. I hear vampires really have a knack for that. Am I right?”

  I rolled my eyes and Hayes chuckled, settling a coffee mug on a stack of boxes. “Besides, I just moved into this office not too long ago. They had me in a utility closet before this.”

  I was at a loss for witty banter, so I began rifling through my bag and stacking the file folders I had brought onto his desk. I decided it was best to go all business, especially since every flash of Parker Hayes’s blue eyes or sexy smile seemed to make my heart thump painfully while putting my female parts on high alert.

  “Okay, so I went through our files and I figured we’d start with the most likely candidates—or—suspects. So, I brought you—”

  “No, not yet.” Hayes was holding his hand up, palm forward. His sat up straighter, pulling his legs from the desk and planting them firmly on the ground. “Lunch first, work later.”

  I didn’t move, and he chucked me softly on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll even buy.”

  “Such a gentleman,” I said, sliding the files back into my shoulder bag and standing up. “Shouldn’t we get to work right away? Isn’t this kind of pressing though? The case, I mean?”

  Hayes headed out the door, and I nearly had to run to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

  “The case is definitely pressing. And lunch is more pressing. Besides”—he patted his trim stomach—“I work best on a full stomach.”

  We walked outside into the moist San Francisco air and stood on the curb, waiting for traffic to pass. Hayes had his hands in his pockets, his lips and forehead puckered as he thought.

  “So explain to me again how the UDA operates. And what is it, exactly, that the Underworld Detection Agency detects?”

  I shrugged. “We detect paranormal activity to some extent. And more or less, we detect who and what is traveling through the Underworld or becoming active in the other world.”

  Hayes smiled. “The Overworld?”

  I looked both ways and then stepped into the street. “Frankly, this world is rather wrapped up in itself. It doesn’t really recognize the Underworld as actually existing, so it’s pretty much just ‘the world’ up here. As for how we operate …”

  Hayes reached out and grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh as he yanked me back and a rusted-out van zoomed past us.

  “Whoa,” I said, my heart pounding. “That was close.” I looked at Hayes’s fingers on my shoulders as his grip softened, but he didn’t move his hand. “Thanks,” I said.

  Hayes didn’t look at me, but he was smiling. He dropped his hand to his side, leaving a sudden cold spot on my shoulder where his palm had been. “So you were saying …”

  “Right. How we operate … well, it’s a little like the Social Security office, I guess. Demons register themselves with us. Once you’re on the UDA radar, you’re entitled to all the perks of the Underworld—unemployment, workers’ comp, protection from labor and personal disputes …”

  Hayes steered me toward the double doors of the Fog City Diner and paused. “Demons get workers’ comp? In case what? A vampire breaks a fang on a particularly stubborn artery?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. The UDA just works to keep a sense of order and harmony in the Underworld. We allow demonkind a little protection from a regular world that really disregards them.”

  “Until they scoop your eyeballs out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can we just get something to eat now?”

  We walked into the warm diner, and I inhaled the comforting scent of club sandwiches and too-crisp French fries, smiling. “Smells good,” I murmured.

  Hayes nodded and held up two fingers to the woman behind the counter. She grabbed two menus and a couple of place settings, then beckoned for us to follow, leading us to an empty table by the window.

  We slid into the booth and Hayes handed me a menu. He scanned his while I played with the laminated corner of mine, my stomach churning, my mind going a million miles a minute. Hayes looked up, eyebrows raised.

  “What’s wrong? Oh, don’t tell me. You’re vegan or something, right? Fruitarian? Only eat orange things?”

  I wagged my head. “No. Nothing like that. What’s a fruitarian?”

  “Girl I dated in college …”

  I looked up expectantly, but he just shook his head and went back to reading his menu.

  “I guess I’m just a little nervous,” I said.

  Hayes grinned at me—a wide, lady-killer grin. “Really? I couldn’t tell.” His cobalt eyes traveled to my hand, to the loop of red hair wound absently over one finger. I quickly dropped the lock of hair and sat on my hand.

  “Nervous tic,” I said. “I hate it.”

  “Actually, I think it’s kind of cute.”

  My heartbeat sped up, and I sat on my other hand.

  Hayes shrugged, scanning his menu again. “So what’s there to be nervous about? I’d tell you if you had spinach stuck in your teeth or something.”

  I blew out a long sigh. “There’s a killer out there. Doesn’t that bother you even a tiny little bit?”

  Hayes turned over his coffee cup, and the waitress came by, giving him a nod and sloppily sloshing coffee into his mug.

  “Honey, there’s murderers everywhere.” He lined up three sugar packets and dumped them into his cup, clinking his spoon against the mug as he stirred. “It’s just another day at the office.”

  “But these are different—and don’t call me honey,” I said, my voice a hissing whisper. “Eyeballs are missing. Blood is missing. People are being torn apart. You can eat when people are being torn apart?”

  I looked up to see that the waitress had returned and was working on a piece of Hubba Bubba, blowing large bubbles and then sucking them in.

  “Are you guys ready to order?” she wanted to know.

  I gulped. Either she didn’t hear my comment, or I was the only one in the entire city worried about a supernatural predator hunting the San Francisco streets.

  We placed our orders, and Hayes sipped his coffee, staring over the rim of his mug at me. “So what’s your story, Lawson?” he said finally. “How’d you end up a secretary at a place like the UDA?”

  I rested my arms on the table, lacing my fingers together. “Sophie. Lawson sounds way too Law & Order. And, I’m not a secretary. I’m an administrative assistant. An executive assistant if you really want to get technical.” I sipped my water, pleased.

  Hayes’s lip curled into another one of those delicious half smiles, and I reminded myself that this was business, and that when Parker Hayes wasn’t looking sexy and brash in his navy blues, he was kind of an anti-demon asshole.

  “Sorry, of course—executive assistant. So, how’d you decide on pushing papers in the demon underground?” he asked.

  “It’s amazing what you can find in the want ads,” I said, averting my eyes and tearing my napkin to shreds.

  Hayes continued to eye me, and I breathed a little harder, pinned under his steady gaze.

  “Well, first of all, I could get down there.”

  Hayes sipped his coffee and shrugged. “So what does that mean? Lots of people can use elevators.”

  “Nice. Theoretically, you can only get into the Underwor
ld if you’ve got”—I bit my lip and glanced out the window, trying to choose my words carefully—“some supernatural in you.”

  “What?” Hayes snorted. “You’re some kind of demon, too? I never would have thought….”

  “Keep your voice down!” I hissed,

  “Sorry. It’s just that you look so regular.”

  “Awesome,” I said dryly, “regular. That’s what every woman wants to hear about herself. And no, I’m not a demon. Well, yes, I guess I am—sort of. I think.”

  Our waitress came back, a large white plate balanced in each hand. She eyed me as she slid my salad in front of me, and I got a big whiff of grape-scented Hubba Bubba as she snapped a bubble.

  “Can I get y’all something else?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said, smiling politely.

  Hayes popped a French fry in his mouth with one hand and shook a bottle of ketchup with the other. “So what are you? A leprechaun?”

  Anger roiled in my stomach, and I could feel my usually creamy white skin turning red. I dropped my fork. “I am not a leprechaun.”

  “So? What are you then?” He cocked his head, looking me up and down.

  “My grandmother was a mystic—a seer. But then she lost it.”

  “Her power?”

  “Her mind.”

  Hayes chuckled, settling back into the booth. “How very Psychic Friends Network. You know, I’ve always thought that if those people really were psychic, they’d call me when I had a problem.” He grinned, enjoying his joke.

  “She would have called you.”

  Hayes pursed his lips.

  “The palm reading, fortune telling—that was kind of her day job. But she had real powers. She was pretty well known in the Underworld for it. She could really see things.”

  Hayes nodded but looked entirely unconvinced. “So, can you do it too, then? See the future and stuff?” He raised one eyebrow. “Can you read minds?”

  I glared back at him. “I think I might be able to read yours.”