“No wonder you wanted to pick me up from jail,” Aunt Kate puffed as she caught up. “He’s a fine thing to be sure.”
“Mom demanded I bail you out. Will you lay off the Irish accent?” I tugged her out of the path of a passerby more interested in his cell phone than petite wanna-be Irish women. “You’re not Irish.”
“You watch that tongue, young one. I am most certainly Irish.”
“You were born in the United States.”
“To Irish parents who came here through Ellis Island.” Her hands rose to her hips, and her normally round eyes deflated to narrow. “You’ve got plenty of Irish in you as well. That’s nothin’ there to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed, but your accent isn’t normally that strong,” I pointed out. “Mom doesn’t speak with an Irish lilt at all. Her accent is pure American.”
“Aye, and your mother’s got a stick up her posterior, too. Now don’t she?”
My arms were thrown up in defeat. “Where to? Did your car get impounded?”
“I don’t think so.” Aunt Kate looked in both directions of the sidewalk. She pointed left. “This way. It’s not too far from here.”
We walked in silence. The sidewalk was busy, and I dodged a lot of shoulders of passing people. A question nagged at me, but I refused to ask it.
“You might as well ask me what I was in for,” Aunt Kate said. “You’re thinkin’ it so loudly, I can hear it.”
“What were you in for?”
“Protesting.”
What else? I cut her a look.
“It’s every American citizen’s right to protest,” Aunt Kate said.
“So now you’re American? I thought you were Irish?”
“Well, I’m both. Okay, I’m legally American, but I’m Irish in spirit, and the Irish protest too.” Aunt Kate’s stubborn chin tilted up. “It’s in my blood to protest and take a stand for causes.”
I snorted. “You’re always protesting. What for this time?”
“The business over on Adams doesn’t recycle.”
“Are you saying I’m out of rent money because one business doesn’t recycle?”
“We’ve got to protect Mother Earth.” Aunt Kate huffed. “We’ve got to think of your future children. That is, if you’re still young enough to have them.”
“Wait, you’re calling me old?” I asked. Her chin of stubbornness turned even more stubborn. My pace picked up, determined to find her car before my evening was spent in the slammer on homicide charges. “I’m twenty-six and not too concerned about my love life.”
“Well, ye should be. You don’t want to end up like me, now do ya?”
Why Aunt Kate never married remained a family mystery. She’d once been engaged. Two weeks before the wedding, her fiancé disappeared and no one in the family had heard from him since. Aunt Kate never directly answered questions about him, or why their relationship fell apart. Since no one thought Aunt Kate had it in her to off a man, and since the police never knocked on the door asking questions, the family had eventually let it drop.
“If only you’d stop being as prissy as your mother and notice when a good lookin’ man like Detective Wilcox is watchin’ you,” Aunt Kate said.
I couldn’t hold her stare as my cheeks flushed. Sure, Wilcox was easy on the eye, but he was proving to be as annoying as hell. Aunt Kate never seemed to grasp that it took a heck of a lot more than looks to make a relationship, and that’s why the men she dated never lasted more than three weeks.
Five minutes later, Aunt Kate was navigating the city streets in her car heading toward my apartment building. Her car had, thankfully, been left where she parked it hours before. Now she had a hard time remembering this was a slow-moving city street and not the Indy 500. My squeeze on the door handle was tight. The desire felt to stay alive and in one piece wished I’d taken the bus. But wisely, my mouth remained zipped tight. Of the few times a year I needed a car, Aunt Kate was quick to toss me her keys. I may have been exhausted from my thirty-hour sleep deprivation, and I may have been irritated with my man-crazy aunt, but I wasn’t stupid enough to complain about her driving.
“Why do you say I’m gifted?” I asked, my thoughts careening back to the earlier conversation with Hadley.
Aunt Kate looked in my direction a second before she slammed the brakes. The vehicle in front of her almost became bumper friendly in a narrow miss. My seatbelt locked, catching me. Feeling the burn through my tank top, I sat back and bit down hard on my lip. The reminder was strong about that continued silence regarding her questionable driving skills.
“You are gifted,” Aunt Kate said. Her foot eased back on the gas, and the car jerked forward. “Are you going to keep lyin’ to me about those gifts?”
I pressed my lips together, wishing I’d never opened my mouth. The g-word, aka ghost, wasn’t allowed to be spoken in my home while growing up. After the age of five, my mother stopped giving me polite nods and smiles whenever I mentioned Addie’s name. She once told me it was best to pretend to not hear the voices inside my head. It was another ten years before I realized she was calling me crazy. Growing up, whenever I questioned her about the spirit world, without fail my questions were followed by her rubbing at her temples, moaning about a headache, and pleading for her medication. At least by the age of ten, she’d stopped grabbing for the bottle of Scotch each time I mentioned those friends of mine who referred to gravestones as front doors, but that may have been because my dad had drunk it all first.
Aunt Kate pulled to the curb about two blocks down from my apartment building. Traffic rushed by on her side of the vehicle. My hand grasped the door handle, but I made no move to exit as I studied her. Her hand reached out and smoothed back my hair, as she had done so many times when I was a child.
“You are a prophecy, Kiara. One made by the ancient Druids thousands of years ago. The demon blood in your veins is active in order to fulfill that prophecy.”
Druids, prophecies, and gifts. I shook my head to clear the turbulent thoughts. With the crazy day I’d had, it was almost too easy to believe in my aunt’s fantasies. “Thanks for the ride, Aunt Kate.”
“Any time, dear.”
My feet dragged the two blocks home, and my eyes didn’t want to stay open. Out of my peripheral, I noticed a huge black mass that seemed to be on fire standing about a block down the sidewalk. Turning my head, I saw nothing.
Lack of sleep must have caused the vision. Brain was officially fried. I took the stairs up to my fifth floor apartment, found my bed, and crashed.
Hard.
Chapter Five
A charred packet placed on my front doormat greeted me the next morning. Twice the size of the envelope from the prior day, it smoldered at me. Smoldered. As before, a wax seal imprinted with a dragon trapped the bulging documents inside the straining sleeve.
After five minutes of internal debate, two times of Mrs. Tidwell peeking out her front door, and three text messages from Maude, I opened it. Dang that curiosity. Obviously, the packet contained more than a photograph this time, and of course, I had to know what was inside of it.
A contract. Free from the flap, the pages slid partially out, allowing me a clear view of black text dotting white pages. Big block letters spelled out PRAEDATOR CONTRACT across the top of the first page. My knees buckled as the anxiety that had been clawing at me fizzled. My adamant declarations to Hadley the day before about not working for the devil had been pure bluster. Telling the King of Pitchforks no was a much bigger challenge than I ever planned to take, and that gutless quadrant of my heart relished in the fact that I wouldn’t have to try. Eyes skimmed until they found where X marked the spot at the bottom of page two, and there was no way in hell I was going to sign. Either figuratively or literally. I shoved the documents back into the envelope and set it inside my apartment. Hadley would probably want to see it since contracts were now her thing.
I’d been seated at my desk inside Fated Match for two hours when Miss Prim pranced in. Unf
ortunately, I’d just taken a sip of water, and I choked.
“Kiara,” Maude’s voice drifted from her office, “if you’re going to die, please do it somewhere else. I can’t handle any more scandals.”
The coughs continued as I pounded my chest, grateful to know that Maude wasn’t particularly concerned about my well-being. It was always a good thing to know who wouldn’t have your back in a time of crisis. The coughing subsided, and I managed to make eye contact with Miss Prim. It was hard because gone was the prim and proper white button-up blouse with every last one fastened up to her chin. In its place was a skin-tight red dress cut low — as in, there wasn’t much left of Miss Prim to leave to the imagination. And while the top went low, the bottom went high. My eyes prayed that she wouldn’t find a reason to bend over. With the new look, there’d have to be a new nickname. Miss Slut came to mind.
“What do you think?” She twirled. “Will Detective Wilcox like it?”
“First off, don’t twirl. Ever. Second, Wilcox can’t even see you.” Lucky him. Although, I’d pay money if Wilcox could, simply to see if that man contained more emotion inside him than scowls and arrogance. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Well, Detective Wilcox is a modern man, and I thought it best to dress like a modern woman.”
“So you dressed like a tramp?”
A hard blast of cold air told me exactly what Miss Prim thought of my comment. She paced the room while I printed off the write-ups for the day’s appointments with Maude.
“You aren’t very good at your job.” Miss Prim returned to my desk. “You never matched me, even though we’re friends. I had to find my own Mr. Right.”
I leaned forward and stared her in the eye. “We need to set a few rules here. One, we’re not friends, got it? I’m not friends with murderers.” She gasped in outrage, but I continued, “Two, I don’t match people. That’s Maude’s job. And three, you are not matched with Detective Wilcox. He’s a human being, not a dead spirit, and he doesn’t have a clue you even exist. So what, you can feel up his butt with cold energy? How does that make a relationship?”
“Are you finished?” Miss Prim’s hands plastered onto her hips.
“Could you change into something more appropriate?” I asked. “You’re about to spill out of that dress.”
Her hands flew up to her chest. “But twenty-first century women wear this stuff.”
“No, twenty-first century hookers wear that stuff. You know, those women who sell their bodies?”
“Like Gina Welch?” She plopped down onto a reception chair, letting off jiggles in places I didn’t need to see. “The hooker you signed on as Maude’s client?”
My vision once again turned red, and my inhaled deep breaths to cool my temper were meager at best. If Miss Prim planned to hang around much longer, I would need to take up meditation. And vodka. Lots of vodka.
“I wonder what his first name is,” Miss Prim said.
“Who?
“Detective Wilcox.”
My hands hovered over my keyboard. “I don’t know. His first name wasn’t mentioned yesterday.”
“I bet it’s something sexy like Richard or Charles or George.”
“Those are old-fashioned names.” I picked up the last of the paperwork and sorted it into the precise order in which Maude liked to read.
“To you, but it’s not to me.”
I set the folders down and looked at Miss Prim. “Who’s Johnny”
Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she fidgeted in her chair.
“The other night in the coffee shop,” I reminded her, “you were upset about Johnny.”
“A Praedator got him.”
“The woman in the red coat?”
Miss Prim shrugged. “I don’t know. She was a Praedator though so it could have been her.”
“Was Johnny your boyfriend?”
“No. I liked him, but it wasn’t like that.” She focused on my chest. “You don’t wear a pendant. You’re not a Praedator?”
“Nope.” I hadn’t signed any contract, and I wasn’t signing any contract. “Not my thing.”
“Cambion?”
“Nope, again.”
“Then how can you see me?” Miss Prim asked.
“That’s complicated.”
“Kiara?” Maude’s voice came from my left, and I turned to see her standing in her office doorway. “Who are you speaking to?”
“Uh…” My gaze dropped to my desk, not that it contained any useful answers. “I’m trying out for a Community Theater play and was practicing my lines.”
“Well, practice them elsewhere.” She took the client folders I handed to her. “What do we have on Natalie Bennett? Her appointment’s in the morning.”
“I was on my way out to see what I could find.”
“Hurry.” Maude turned back to her office, but paused. “And make certain any rehearsals don’t interfere with your job.”
My secret to getting dirt on people was simple, basic networking. All across the city, I had befriended everyone from busboys to retail store managers in order to know where I needed to be, and when. I was paparazzi without the camera—except for the occasional snap with my cell. But none of my photos were sold to the tabloids.
I sent out SOS calls and got lucky on my fourth. A top sales associate named Betty who worked at Rutherford’s department store informed me that Natalie Bennett, along with three friends, had walked in with credit card in hand.
Betty was a sweet elderly woman who had no problem with giving me a heads-up when anyone noteworthy entered the store. All for an Andrew Jackson, of course. I was just thankful that Natalie’s day wasn’t being spent out back by Daddy’s swimming pool, leaving her with a nice suntan and me minus any useful intel.
I had already nailed the basics on Natalie: twenty-four years old, daughter of the current city mayor who had aspirations of becoming the next state governor, moved to England at the age of six to live with an aunt, and attended Cambridge University. She’d recently returned to the United States, moving in with her parents while working on a graduate degree in finance. Since she’d signed up for matchmaking services with Maude, I assumed her intent to stay in the country was permanent.
“What are we doing?” Miss Prim whispered.
It really sucked stalking someone when you were being stalked yourself.
“Working, now hush.”
“How are we working? You’re hiding behind a rack of clothes.”
Don’t respond, I scolded myself. It wasn’t as if anyone else could hear Miss Prim. I peeked through the hangers and spotted my target stepping out of a dressing room. She wore a powder blue strapless gown. The designer? No idea, but I knew the dress was out of my meager price range. Even big box store clothing was out of my meager price range.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Miss Prim, if anything, was persistent. At least she’d had the decency of changing back into her button-up blouse and skirt.
“I have to collect information for Maude,” I whispered, leaning forward, trying to hear Natalie’s discussion with her friends. Which was damn hard since one oblivious ghost kept yapping her lips.
“Why?”
“Because Maude’s a fraud, and she needs information to pretend she’s not.”
Natalie was back in the dressing room trying on the next outfit. My fingers crossed that it was in a similar color, indicating a possible favorite. Maude was big on colors.
“Now what are you doing?” Miss Prim asked. Her ice cold body pushed into mine, keeping my cell phone from its goal of steady. Damn curse, I could always feel her even when her energy voltage wasn’t turned up to human attention.
“Getting a picture.” I shoved back. “Will you move? You’re blocking my shot.”
“Why are you taking a picture?”
“Because Maude wants pictures. She’ll create some vision out of Natalie’s shopping spree today and turn it into something having to do with her future soul mate. Like this dres
s Natalie has on.” I pointed through the hangers of clothes we stood behind. “This dress will probably be envisioned as Natalie’s future engagement party dress.”
“What if she doesn’t buy it?”
“Then she’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon to purchase it, right after Maude describes it in detail from her vision.”
“Maude’s such a fraud.”
I rolled my eyes and took in the details of Natalie’s friends. Now, which one was Natalie the closest to? Close friends often played roles in Maude’s visions. Heck, a lot of details played roles in Maude’s visions. The trick was determining which information Maude was in the mood to play and provide her with the data so my ass was covered.
“You don’t ever feel guilty for doing this?”
Yes. My back stiffened. “No. I need money, and it’s not as though I’m doing anything illegal. All information I collect occurs in public. I don’t break into people’s homes and go digging through their desk drawers.”
“You feel guilty.” Miss Prim shoved me over. “You know this isn’t right.”
“If it’s not right, why do you keep trying to look?”
“Good morning, Kiara,” said a voice behind me.
I turned and spotted a plump wrinkly face. “Good morning, Betty. I like this skirt. Did it just come in?” My swift grab of a black A-line skirt from the rack was graceful, but the brief glance at the price tag left me grasping at the fabric before it wound up in a heap on the floor. There were four numbers too many after the dollar sign for my liking.
“Arrived last week.” Betty took it from my hands and hung it back up. She leaned forward and her voice softened. “They’ve each had a glass of bubbly, there’s been talk of an Ed Sheeran concert next week, and Ms. Bennett has mentioned her dream beau as having dark hair and blue eyes. She’s excited about her appointment with Maude in the morning.”
And there was a reason as to why I loved this woman. She might be old, but she was sharp. I held out the twenty. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Reaping Havoc: Kiara Blake Book 1 Page 5