The Outlaw Demon Wails th-6

by Ким Харрисон

  Breathless, I came to a stop before him. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were haunted with a horrible question. Pulse fast, I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and took my hand off my hip. "What did you give my dad?" I said, hearing my voice as if from outside my head. "What did he die from?"

  "Excuse me?"

  Anger burst from nowhere. I'd suffered last night, reliving my dad's death and helping Quen survive. "What did my dad die from!" I shouted, and the soft conversation at the stage hesitated. "My dad died from the same thing Quen suffered from, and don't you expect me to believe that they aren't connected. What did you give him?"

  Trent's eyes closed, his lashes fluttering against skin that was suddenly very white. He slowly leaned back in his chair, placing his hands carefully on his knees. The sun turned his hair translucent, and I could see the ambient heat making it float. I was so frustrated and full of conflicting emotions, I wanted to shake him.

  I took a step forward, and his eyes flashed open to take in my clenched jaw and disheveled appearance. His face was empty of emotion, almost scaring me. He gestured for me to take the seat across from him, but I folded my arms over my chest and waited.

  "Quen took an experimental genetic treatment to block the vampire virus," he said, his voice flat, its usual grace and subtle flavors lost in the tight grip he had on his emotions. "It makes it permanently dormant." His gaze met mine. "We've tried several ways to mask the virus's expression," he added tiredly, "and though they work, the body violently rejects them. It's the secondary treatment to trick the body into accepting the original modification that your father died from."

  I softly bit the scar inside my lip, feeling anew the fear of being bound. I had those same vampire compounds sunk deep into my tissue. Ivy protected me from casual predation. Quen's scar had been tuned to Piscary, and since poaching would lead to a nasty second death simply on principle, Quen had been safe from all but the master vampire. Piscary's death effectively turned Quen's bound scar into an unclaimed scar that any vampire, dead or undead, could play upon with impunity. The risk must have become intolerable for him. He could no longer protect Trent in anything but an administrative way. Quen took the eleven percent chance, preferring that to a desk job that would slowly kill him. And since Quen had been bitten while saving my butt, Trent blamed me.

  I sank to sit on the edge of the seat as the lack of food hit me. "You can get rid of the vampire virus?" I said, hope striking me, quickly followed by alarm. Ivy was looking for this. She might risk an eleven percent chance to be free of it. Not her. I can't do this with her. I know I couldn't survive it again. Not after watching Quen suffer.

  Trent's lips pressed together. It was the first show of emotion he'd let slip through. "I never said it got rid of the virus. I said it masks its expression. Makes it dormant. And it works only in still-living tissue. Once you're dead, it doesn't work anymore."

  So even if Ivy took it, it wouldn't eliminate the virus and she would become an undead upon dying. It wasn't a cure for Ivy, and a knot of worry eased. But still…Why had my dad risked it?

  The leather chair was cold, and I couldn't seem to think, my brain fuzzy from the early hour and too little sleep. My dad had been bitten by Piscary. Was that it?

  My head came back up to find Trent staring at nothing, his hands clenched with a white-knuckled strength. "Piscary bound him? My dad?"

  "The records don't say," he said softly, not paying attention.

  "You don't know?" I exclaimed, and his focus sharpened on me, almost as if he was irritated. "You were there!"

  "It wasn't an issue at the time," he said, angry.

  Why the blue blazes wouldn't it be an issue?

  Pursing my lips, I felt my own anger tighten until I thought I would scream. "Then why did he do it?" I said from between clenched teeth. "Why did he risk it? Even if he had been bound to Piscary, he could have just quit the I.S.," I said, gesturing at nothing. "Or been transferred to another part of the country." People were occasionally bound by accident, and when the cover-up failed, there were ways to avoid being sued. It happened to I.S. employees just like everyone else, and there were options involving large sums of money and generous moving packages.

  Trent wasn't saying anything. This was like playing twenty questions with a dog. "He knew the risk, and he took it anyway?" I prompted, and Trent sighed.

  His hands unclenched, and he flexed them, gazing at the stark white pressure points standing in contrast to the red. "My father risked immediate treatment because being bound to Piscary compromised his position as…" He hesitated, his angular face twisting in an old anger. "It compromised his political power. Your father begged me to let him do the same, not for power but for you, your brother, and your mother."

  I stared at Trent as his words and face became harsh.

  "My father risked his life to maintain power," he said bitterly. "Your dad did it for love."

  It still didn't explain why, though. The jealousy in Trent's gaze gave me pause, and I watched him stare into the garden his parents had created, lost in memory. "At least your father waited until he knew there was no other option," he said. "Waited until he was sure."

  His voice was breathy, trailing off into nothing. Tense, I asked, "Sure of what?"

  In a soft rustling of silk and linen, Trent turned. His youthful face was hard with hatred. Both our dads had died, but he was clearly jealous that mine had risked death for love. His jaw clenched, and apparently intending to hurt me, he said, "He waited until he was sure that Piscary had infected him with enough virus to turn him."

  I took a breath and held it. Confusion blanked my thoughts. "But witches can't be turned," I said, nauseated. "Just like elves."

  Trent sneered at me, acting for once as he wanted instead of hiding behind the facade he comforted himself with. "No," he said nastily. "They can't."

  "But…" My knees went watery, and I couldn't seem to get enough air. My mind shot back to my mother's old complaint of no more children between her and my dad. I had thought she had meant because of my discovered genetic blood disease, but now…And her free-thinking advice about marrying for love and having children with the right man. Had she meant marrying whom you loved and having children with someone else? The age-old practice of witches borrowing their best friend's brother or husband for a night to engender a child when they married outside their species? And what of the lovingly retold story of her invoking all my dad's charms for him in college in exchange for him working all her circles. Witches couldn't be turned. That meant…

  I reached for the arm of the chair, my head spinning as I forgot to breathe. My dad wasn't a witch? Just who had my mother been sleeping with?

  My head came up, and I saw Trent's bitter satisfaction that my world was going to be rearranged—and I probably wasn't going to like it.

  "He wasn't my dad?" I squeaked, not needing to see his nod. "But he worked at the I.S.!" I exclaimed, scrambling for a way out. He was lying. Trent had to be lying. Jerking me around to see how screwed up he could make me.

  "The I.S. was fairly new when your father joined," he said, clearly getting a lot of satisfaction out of this. "They didn't have good records. Your mother?" he said mockingly. "She's an excellent earth witch. She could have taught at the university—gone on to be one of the leading spell developers for the nation—if she hadn't been saddled with children so soon."

  My mouth was dry, and I flushed when I remembered her slipping Minias a charm to hide his demon scent. And catching her this week reeking of heavy spell casting, only to have it muted a few hours later. Hell, it had even fooled Jenks.

  "You get your earth magic from your mother," Trent said, his words seeming to echo in my head, "your ley line skill from your real father, and your blood disease from them both."

  I couldn't move, shaking inside. "The man who raised me was my real dad," I said in a surge of loyalty. "Who…," I began, having to know. "You know who my birth father is. You have to. It's in your records somewhere.
Who is he?"

  Smiling nastily, Trent eased back into his chair, crossing his knees and setting his hands gracefully in his lap.

  Son of a bitch…

  "Who is my father, you freaking bastard!" I shouted, and the roadies at the far end of the room stopped what they were doing to watch.

  "I don't want you to endanger the poor man," he said caustically. "You put everyone around you in jeopardy. And how vain of you to assume he wants you to come looking for him. Some things are forgotten for good reason. Shame, guilt…embarrassment."

  Infuriated, I stood, not believing this. This was a power play for him. A damned power play and nothing more. He knew I wanted to know, so he wouldn't tell me.

  My fingertips were tingling, and unable to stop myself, I reached for him.

  Trent moved, scrambling up and behind his chair so fast I almost didn't see. "Touch me," he said grimly, the chair between us, "and I'll have you in an I.S. cell before your head stops spinning."

  "Rachel," came a raspy voice from the upper level, and both Trent and I turned.

  It was Quen, wrapped in a blanket as if it was a death shroud, the black-haired intern at his side, supporting him. His hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and I could see him wavering as he stood there. "Don't touch Trenton," he said, his gravelly voice clear in the hush, "or I'm going to have to come down there…and smack you around." He was smiling at me, but his face lost its pleasure and gratitude as he turned to Trent. "This is petty of you, Sa'han. Far…beneath your dignity…and standing," he finished breathily.

  I reached out as his knees buckled and the intern sagged under the sudden deadweight.

  "My God, Quen," Trent whispered. Shock on his face, he looked at me. "You let me think he was dead!"

  My mouth dropped open, and I took a step back. "I, uh…I'm sorry," I finally managed, chagrin warming my face. "I never said he was dead. I forgot to tell you he was alive is all. You assumed he was dead."

  Trent turned his back on me and started for the stairs. "Jon!" he shouted, taking them two at a time. "He made it! Jon, get out here!"

  I stood alone in the middle of the floor; Trent's voice echoed against the silent walls with hope and joy, making me feel like an outsider. A door down the hall thumped open and Jon ran down the open walkway to where the intern was lowering Quen—out cold again—to the floor. Trent had already reached him, and the excitement and caring flowing from them hit me deep.

  Not even aware I was there, they carried him back to his room and the comfort they shared. I was alone.

  I had to get out of here.

  My pulse quickened, and I scanned the room, the dregs of the party seeming to soak into me like a stain. I had to leave. I had to talk to my mom.

  With single-minded intent, I headed for the kitchen. My car was in the garage, and though my shoulder bag and wallet were upstairs, my keys were likely in the ignition where I'd left them. There was no way I was going up into that room where they were suffused with joy. Not now. Not when I was like this: numb, confused, and mentally slapped by Trent, scorned for not having realized the truth before now. I felt stupid. It had been in front of me all the time, and I hadn't realized it.

  The kitchen was a blur, the lights dim and the ovens cold. I hit the heavy service entrance at a run, and the metal door crashed into the wall. Two big guys in tuxes jumped up from the curb at my sudden appearance. Ignoring them, I jogged into the underground lot in search of my car. The cold pavement soaked into me through my socks.

  "Miss!" one shouted. "Miss, hold up a moment. I need to talk to you."

  "Like hell you do," I muttered, then spotted Trent's car. Mine was nowhere I could see. I didn't have time for this. I'd take his. Angling to it, I broke into a run.

  "Ma'am!" he tried again, his voice dropping in pitch. "I need to know who you are and your clearance. Turn around!"

  Clearance? I didn't need no lousy clearance. I jerked the handle up, and the cheerful dinging told me the keys were in the ignition.

  "Ma'am!" came an aggressive shout. "I can't let you leave without knowing who you are!"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out!" I shouted, cursing myself when I realized I was crying. Damn it, what was wrong with me? Distressed beyond all belief, I slid into the supple leather seat. The engine turned over with a low rumble that spoke of a slumbering power: gas and pistons, a perfect machine. Slamming the door, I put it into drive and floored it. The tires squealed as I jerked forward and took the turn too fast. A square of light beckoned. If they wanted to know who I was, they could ask Trent.

  Sniffing, I looked behind me. The big guy had his gun out, but it was aimed at the pavement as the second officer on the two-way relayed orders to him. Either Trent had told them to let me go, or they were going to stop me at the front gate.

  I hit the ramp fast, and the undercarriage scraped as I bounced out into the sun. My breath caught in a sob as I wiped my cheeks. I didn't make the next turn properly, and I felt a moment of panic when I drove off the pavement and blasted the DO NOT ENTER sign.

  But I was out. I had to talk to my mom, and it was going to take more than two security guards in tuxes to stop me. Why hadn't she told me? I thought, my palms sweating and my stomach clenched. Why hadn't my crazy, loony mother told me?

  The tires squealed as I took the turns, and once on the three-mile drive out of here, I started to get scared. Was the reason she hadn't told me because she was a little nuts, or was she a little nuts because she was too afraid to tell me?

  Twenty-two

  The thump of Trent's car door shutting broke the autumn stillness, and the human kids waiting for the bus on the corner turned briefly before going back to their conversations. Someone had smeared a tomato on the street sign and they were giving it a wide berth. My arms wrapped around me against the cold, I tossed the hair from my eyes and headed for my mother's front walk.

  The chill from the rough pavement went right through my socks and into me. Driving over without shoes had felt odd, like the pedal was too small. The time spent getting here had cooled me down, too, Trent's comments about shame, guilt, and embarrassment reminding me that I wasn't the only one whose life this touched upon. Actually, I was sort of coming in on the tail end of this drama—an afterthought, an also-ran. I was either the accidental shame of someone's mistake or the result of a planned action whose beginning was covered up.

  Neither option left me feeling very good. Especially since my dad had been dead for a long time, leaving plenty of opportunity for the man who'd gotten my mom pregnant to come forward if he wanted. Or maybe it was a one-night fling and he didn't care. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe Mom just wanted to forget.

  The kids at the stop had noticed I was in my socks, and I ignored their hoots as I tiptoed up the walk with a hunched posture. The memory of standing at the bus stop rose through my thoughts, of me going in on the same bus that dropped the human kids off. I never understood why my mom had wanted to live in a mostly human community. Maybe it was because my dad had been human, and no one would be as likely to notice he wasn't a witch?

  My toes were cold from the melting frost as I reached the porch. Starting to shiver, I rang the bell and heard it chime faintly. Waiting, I looked around, then rang it again. She had to be home; the car was in the drive and it was freaking seven in the morning.

  All the kids at the stop were watching me now. "Hey, there's crazy Mrs. Morgan's crazy daughter," I muttered, sliding back the loose piece of siding to get the spare key. "Look, she don't have no shoes! What a skipped track."

  But the door wasn't locked, and with a growing sense of unease, I pocketed the key and went in. "Mom?" I called, the warmth of the house obvious on my cheeks.

  There was no answer, and I wrinkled my nose. It smelled funny, like burnt metal.

  "Mom? It's me," I said, raising my voice and shutting the door hard. "I'm sorry for waking you up again so early. I have to talk to you." I glanced into the empty living room. God, it was quiet in here. "Mom?"
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br />   My tension eased when I heard from the kitchen the familiar sound of a plastic photo album page being unstuck. "Oh, Mom," I said softly, and pushed into motion. "Have you been looking at pictures all night again?"

  Worried, I strode into the kitchen with my damp socks squeaking against the linoleum. My mom was sitting at the table in a pair of faded jeans and a blue sweater, her hand around an empty coffee cup. Her hair was a comfortable disarray, and the photo album was open to one of our family vacations of sunburned noses and exhausted smiles. She didn't look up as I came in, and seeing one of the stove's burners was roaring full tilt, I quickly went to shut it off, jerking when my foot found an amulet sitting on the floor in the middle of the room.

  "Jeez, Mom," I said as I clicked the burner off and felt the heat radiating from the metal rack. "How long have you had this on?" Damn, it was glowing. That's where the hot metal smell was coming from.

  She didn't answer, and my brow pinched in concern when I saw the never-used percolator on the counter beside the sink. It was one of those old ones you set atop the stove, and it was the only thing my dad had drunk coffee from. There was an open bag of grounds waiting to be scooped out, and the filters were scattered across the counter.

  Double damn, she'd been reminiscing again.

  My shoulders slumped, and I picked up the amulet and set it on the table. "Mom," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder to bring her back to reality. "Mom, look at me."

  She smiled at me with her green eyes bloodshot and her face blotchy from crying. "Good morning, Rachel," she said lightly, chilling me with how at odds her voice was with her appearance. "You're up early for school. Why don't you go back to bed for a while?"

  Shit. This is bad. I'd better call her doctor, I thought, then took a deeper sniff, scenting what the hot metal smell had been covering. My face went cold and I searched her empty expression. It smelled like burnt amber in here.