He left me standing with my mouth open. Son of a bitch. I’ve done nothing but fucking cope with tragedy, and look where it had gotten me. I needed something to throw. My face must have broadcast the thought because Ewan handed me his empty whiskey glass and flipped his hand at the fireplace. “Go ahead. Won’t be the first time.”
There was something about the sound of smashing glass that satisfied the inner rage monster.
“So you gonna tell your boyfriend you already have a date to the prom?” Ewan asked.
“What?” Oh. I eyed my glass on the table, and he waved his hands in front of his face. “You only get one throw.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, and fuck you,” was the only response I could muster before exiting the study.
His laughter followed me down the hallway. I needed to find a very large vase or two. Damn him and damn Malthus. Maybe that’s why Ewan had been in such a good mood. He knew he was going to play escort, and, for reasons that made my insides itch, he was deriving some sort of pleasure from it. Fine. Two could play at that game.
A few minutes later, I hopped down the lair’s front steps to the sidewalk and called Kara. We’d made plans to meet and discuss Olive, and the implications of her permanent disappearance. But mostly, we needed to commiserate, mourn her passing. Olive had been a good friend and the way she’d died, the lack of a proper burial and goodbye—Shit.
“Slight detour in plans,” I said when she answered. “I have an emergency.”
“You forgot about the ball, didn’t you?”
“Please. I need a dress.”
“Okay. Meet me at our coffee place on Union Street. The shop’s on the same block. I need to get away from the coven anyway. Things are not going well here.”
We agreed to meet in an hour. I’d originally planned on going home and digging a dress out of storage, but now, with Kara’s help, I’d ensure Ewan would pay dearly for that smirk.
Chapter Fifteen
THE SHOP SMELLED of rosewater and looked like a shop that would smell of rosewater. I couldn’t believe I let Kara talk me into coming to the chichi part of downtown where snotty, overdressed, anorexic sales girls peddled horrible outfits. A year ago, the expensive price tags would have kept me away, but I’d finally settled Cora’s estate and had lots of spare change and no more excuses.
Kara had explained that the owner of the boutique, Ivanka, was a witch, and for the first time I could remember, that knowledge put me at ease. I didn’t think I’d see the day when I’d feel more comfortable around supes than humans.
The fortyish Ivanka runway-walked from the back of the store and stopped in mid-sashay when she saw me at the entrance. She looked me up and down with an eyebrow arched in disapproval and tsked as if some dirty troll had invaded her shop. Lately, I considered myself lucky if I managed to brush my hair, much less gave any thought to the clothes I threw on. And even if I’d tried to think about it, my wardrobe contained nothing to rival the perfectly-tailored mauve suit squeezing her body to perfection. The door chimed, welcoming Kara, and I rolled my eyes at her penchant for looking as perfectly manicured as Ivanka, but more hipster in her red shirt and black skinny jeans tucked in black leather boots.
Ivanka sighed in relief at Kara’s arrival. “We have much work to do.” She retreated to the backroom.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. My outfit wasn’t that bad. I’d actually put effort into arranging my hair to flow just so out of my knit cap.
“It’s the Vans,” Kara said in a low voice next to my ear. “She thinks sneakers are a worse fashion plague than the whole Members Only jacket era.”
“This better be worth disparaging the Vans.”
“Ivanka has taken you on as her personal mission. I saw the gleam in her eye. Don’t worry.”
“Lots of people have taken me on as their personal mission these days, and I can’t say I’ve enjoyed any of the outcomes. Is she on your side?”
“You kidding? Would we have come here otherwise?”
Kara tugged me toward a red leather-padded bench where we sat. I reached into my purse for the small bag I’d purchased en route to the shop and popped a marshmallow into my mouth. “Want one?”
“Don’t let Ivanka see those. She’ll sputter into a fit of apoplexy just looking at them.”
“Marshmallows are a wonderful, gooey, otherworldly treat left by aliens.” I held one out to her. She shook her head, and I shrugged, then dropped another in my mouth.
“Oh, give me one, dammit,” she said, surrender in her tone.
Ivanka re-emerged suddenly, and I snapped my purse shut, banishing the marshmallows. I giggled at Kara, who’d stuffed hers in her mouth and gulped it down. Ivanka gave us a curious look then hung a mass of black, red, purple and green silk, chiffon and lace on a clothes rail built on the wall, and eyed me like a turkey she was preparing to dress and stuff. “Your grandmother had an impeccable style, as did your mother, even if she insisted on the punk phase.” Ivanka rolled her eyes. “You I can’t figure out.”
“If you do, let me know.” I smiled.
She returned the smile devoid of malice or ill intent, and I relaxed, letting her coax me into the dressing room. After trying on the first couple of dresses, I found myself enjoying having someone dress me. All I had to do was nod or crinkle my brow in disdain, which I was learning to do quite well under Ivanka’s tutelage. When I tried on a dress that I liked, she tsked in disapproval and made me take it off, saying it made my chest look flat. “This one, beautiful, it lifts your rear.”
Kara snickered, and I glared.
Ivanka threw her hands up and expelled air in an exasperated burst, saying, “You have a nice shape to your hips, beautiful hair color, and sexy shoulders. It’s time you accentuated those qualities.”
She stunned me into speechless submission.
“I think I know a dress you will like.” She escaped into the backroom once more and emerged seconds later with a strapless, beaded rose dress. It molded my breasts and hugged my curves, and damn, if it didn’t give me a partial Brazilian butt lift.
“You look great,” Kara said.
I ran my hand over the multitude of tiny, sparkling beads and had to agree. Watch out, Ewan.
While Ivanka carefully wrapped the dress in a carrying bag, Kara picked out a simple freshwater pearl necklace in shades of rose and light green. Ivanka complimented Kara on the choice, packaged it in a gauze bag, and waved goodbye to us, her eyes gleaming in triumph at having rehabilitated at least one hopeless fashion case.
Kara pulled me across the street to a bar in a funky boutique hotel. Various shades of purple lights bathed the bar in an otherworldly glow. We claimed a booth squished in the corner and ordered burgers and wine.
“So tell me what happened with Olive,” Kara asked.
Once again, I explained the ordeal with Delatte in the Columbarium. “Delatte was using some bad voodoo mojo to control her. By the time I’d broken his spell, she and Charlie had basically torn each other to pieces. That was some seriously fucked-up shit.” The image of the mummies and Delatte’s tools still jarred me awake at night and set my heart racing. Sometimes the supernatural life exposed us to a multitude of ultra-violence unheard of by normal folk. We joked about zombies and practically bathed in blood, waved off beheadings, or watched a person’s body stretch and break into a wolf. Even discussed dead friends over burgers and wine.
Kara raised her glass, meeting mine with a clink. “Here’s to Olive. May we remember her as she was, a person who appreciated life and cared about her friends,” Kara said.
“Let’s remember her intact and not a voracious undead creature, something I’d turned her into.” My eyes welled. I dropped my glass on the table suddenly.
“Hey, it’s not your fault.”
“I bring dead people back to life, turn them into these tw
isted versions of themselves and then kill them again. It’s fucked.”
She gave me a soft, reassuring smile. “Look, I don’t envy you, but you are the best person to contain such a power. You care, and you use it in the most ethical way possible. Not like Cael. He killed people to make his zombies and revenants.”
I wiped the moisture from my eyes and gave her a smile. Not happy. Not bitter. Not even annoyed. Just a calm smile of brutal acceptance.
“The coven has officially opened an investigation into Olive’s disappearance. They plan on talking to Malthus and probably you, too.”
I sipped on my wine. “I’ll give him and Xavier a heads up.”
She poked a fry at me. “You seem to be leaning on Xavier a lot these days.”
“Xavier doesn’t tiptoe around me. He’s the only one who really acts like he wants to help me understand my power.” Whose explanations complemented the yearnings that tugged at my soul. My power felt so righteous in his eyes and his words told me it wasn’t some seething, roiling stain.
“You beat Cael all on your own.”
“Not exactly. Xavier told me how to construct a power sphere.” I gave her an irritated look that she blew off with a hand wave. “And look where that got you. In hot water with the demons.”
“He doesn’t treat me like I’m going nuts or that I’ve already arrived there. Don’t deny you occasionally think I’m going to lose it,” I said, carefully modulating my tone. I didn’t want the conversation to escalate into another spat, which occasionally happened, although we’d usually apologize a day or two later.
“No denial here . . . you already have lost it,” she quipped back, and I stuck my tongue at her. She bit into her burger, and we shared a moment of chewing silence.
“You’re not like Cael. You’re a good person.” She twirled a fry in a glop of ketchup. “You’ve determined a demon is killing supes and pursuing you. It could be anyone. Why not Xavier?”
“I don’t know.” I thought about what he’d told me about Colette. “He seems as damaged as the rest of us.”
“Maybe he fulfills your need for acceptance. He accepts you, like family. Something you think you don’t have anymore.”
Or friends? Was that her angle? And was she right? I did feel alienated, and Xavier did somehow fill my emptiness. But Kara was my friend, so why couldn’t I reach out to her? We still spent time together, but she was right. Where I would have turned to her for help or advice, I was now depending more and more on Xavier. She too was going through a lot of crap right now, and I hadn’t been supporting her much, either.
And right on cue, she asked, “Why didn’t you call me to go with you to the Columbarium? Olive was my friend, after all, and so are you. You’re lucky you got out alive.”
I gave her a half-guilty look. “Well, I actually did try to call you, admittedly, maybe a little late for the party. Anyway, I had no cell service in the depths of hell.”
She inhaled deeply. “I know we’re in a delicate situation with the coven hating on the demons, but I’m your friend. If we can’t count on each other, then we have nothing.”
Moisture welled in the corner of my eyes. “Christ, why do I keep breaking into tears? I’m a fifty-cent romance novel heroine.”
“Crying is good. It means you’re still sane.”
“Am I? I know when compared to other supes, I’m Pollyanna, but I want to feel like I haven’t crossed a human line of decency.”
She snorted. “Are you joking? You bring people back from the dead. If you’re going to use human norms as your litmus test, you’ll come up with acid results every time.” She shook her head. “Don’t do that to yourself. You are decent. We all are. We just have extraordinary circumstances that demand extraordinary measures. We have different rules.”
“And that’s part of the problem.”
Kara put her comforting hand on my shoulder. “I told you about my father sending me to an institution. Well, when they released me, Matilda found me and took me into the coven. I’d thought something was wrong with me, like I brought all that shit on myself. I compared my actions to normal people. Matilda taught me I didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t go so far as to say we bear no responsibility for our actions, but she did help me understand we have a different level of acceptable behavior and that I was fine.”
I smiled. “I’m not so sure about that.”
This time, she stuck her tongue at me.
“You need to keep me honest, you know, if my brain turns to necromancer mush. Slap me before I degrade into something unrecognizable,” I said.
“With that awful eye shadow, you already have.” Her small, mirthless smile became grave. “If Sybil becomes Wiseacre, I’ll have to go into hiding. If I win, well, the coven’s not too happy with the demons right now or with you. I’ll have to toe the line for a while, bolster the levees until you guys get things under control. But the coven is more or less siding with Dominic right now.”
“And the wolves?”
“The wolves stick to themselves until something shakes up their dens. But if backed into a corner, they’ll side with the demons. They always have.”
“The wolves were pretty pissed when I made Brandon a revenant, especially Mark.”
“Mark is the Alpha. It’s his job to be pissed, but it’ll take outright Armageddon for him to fight Ewan. Those two are a bromance waiting to happen.”
“How is all of this affecting things with Jax?”
Her frown deepened. “Looks like neither of us are destined to hook up with a demon.” She leveled a suspicious look at me. “Maybe vampires? Any new developments?”
I gave her a wry smile and tugged my hand through my hair. “I don’t know. The blood exchange tends to confuse things.”
She gave me a not-buying-it look.
“What? You’re developing a black and white world view all of a sudden?”
“You know I’m the last person to judge anyone’s sex life. I just don’t want you to back yourself into a bad situation.”
“Ha. Too late for that.”
“Speaking of bad situations, have you thought of, you know, Cael?” She spoke without meeting my eyes. I knew exactly what she had in mind. I could raise Cael to find out who had orchestrated the killings.
“Yep. Thought of it, then threw up in my mouth.”
She grimaced, and we finished our burgers in silence. Necromancers should never reanimate a person they’ve killed—it was a check and balance on our ability. To do so would be an inversion of necromancer power, creating gangrene in the soul. It was what had turned Cael into a sociopath. I hadn’t become that desperate . . . yet.
Chapter Sixteen
I SLID OUT OF the taxi, compressing my thighs to keep the slit running up the side of my dress from offering a free peep show. Ewan had wanted to pick me up, but a ride alone with him in his car, with said slit, was more than I could bear in my apprehensive state over the ball. Supes from all over California and neighboring states attended the lavish affair, held in Xavier’s large gallery.
I stepped on the sidewalk and clutched my white gossamer wrap. Ivanka had packaged it with the dress, unbeknownst to me, and I silently sang her praises. I hadn’t adjusted to the cleavage produced by the dress’s built-in push-up bra and was grateful for the added cover. Before I reached the throng outside the entrance, Ewan appeared next to me out of nowhere—a disconcerting habit of his. In typical Ewan fashion, he wore a tux without a tie, giving him a suave rebelliousness that I found irresistible.
He brushed my shoulder with his chest, and my nerves tingled and body throbbed as it remembered making love with him. I raised my head. I already felt somewhat naked in my dress, but Ewan’s smoldering gaze stripped me bare and tossed me back on my bed where he’d fucked me last.
The corners of his lips lifted in a wicked
curl. He ran his index finger down my hip, grazing my skin where the slit exposed my leg. “You look stunning.”
I met the blaze of his eyes, my own cheeks flaming. Ewan’s hand slipped down my neck, pushed aside the wrap, and trailed over my shoulders, leaving my skin shivering. I’d been in his presence all but two minutes, and I was ready to either strip naked or collapse. How many hours to go? I needed a drink.
“You should put your hair up more often,” he said, his tone low and very seductive. My insides liquefied and boiled at my core, and I silently applauded my last minute trip to the salon to get my hair swooped up. He dropped his hand, cupped my elbow, and steered me past the crowd. He seemed relaxed, and I smiled up at him, knowing that for tonight at least, we’d stowed the combat weapons.
We crossed the foyer into the main gallery, and I drew in a breath at the immense space decked out with twinkling lights. The word “gallery” didn’t accurately describe the warehouse-sized building. Xavier and Fiona, his demon underling and paramour-of-the-hour, ran the gallery. The first time I’d met Xavier, Fiona had made no bones about lusting after Ewan. She’d slinked over him like an octopus. Between her and Portia, Ewan had built up quite the harem. I sighed. Nothing I could do about it.
The interior was divided into a loft living area sporting stunning views of the bay on one side, leaving the rest of the space to display everything from the artists du jour to more classic pieces. Tonight, dancing supes and the six-piece band playing Moondance by Van Morrison occupied the floor.
I stuttered in mid-stride. When I was younger, I hadn’t minded parties because I had Mom and Cora to rescue me from small talk, painfully wide smiles, and gropes. They’d conducted party crowds with the skill of maestros and had cultivated expertise on the right timbre for each conversation, careful interpretation of every glance, and artfully applied percussion to ward off unwanted advances. They’d flitted and fluttered about, leaving me free to find a comfortable nook where Kara had often pried me loose to scope out the hottest guys.
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