Siren Song

by A

  its own gray-green light. It startled him enough that he gasped and took a step back. That was

  what I‘d hoped for. I had just enough time to send a spinning kick into his temple. I heard bone

  breaking and knew he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Two down. But there was a luxury sedan racing toward us, black, with tinted windows. I

  didn‘t have time to do more than note it as a blur because the third man had me at a

  disadvantage and I‘d lost sight of the fourth entirely. I was betting he‘d slid underneath one of

  the cars. The Jimmy Choo pumps Vicki had given me for my birthday weren‘t intended for the

  slick surface of the waxed roof. They put me off-balance and my counterpart was armed and

  ready. He braced his semiauto on the frame of the car door that was shielding his body and

  began firing. He was coming alarmingly close despite my speed. I couldn‘t take him. But I

  might not have to. Because the driver of the sedan was aiming it straight at the shooter while

  the wail of police cars in the distance grew louder with each second.

  I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I jumped back down through the sunroof and

  hit the button for the door locks and roof, hoping to hide behind the nice, thick, bulletproof

  glass until help arrived. I nearly landed on Dr. Scott. He was slumped on the floor, eyes rolled

  back in his head and breathing shallow. I didn‘t know if it was a delayed reaction to the earlier

  attack or if they‘d gone after him again. All I could do was lift him onto the seat cushions and

  put cool, damp napkins on his forehead and the back of his neck while I waited for help to

  arrive.

  Jeff was in psychic shock. The cops—the real cops—took him away in an ambulance, along

  with the limo‘s real driver, who‘d been found drugged and unconscious in the trunk. They

  didn‘t take me. I asserted self-defense and asked for my attorney. So did Ivan.

  Ivan Stefanovich had been driving the sedan and had opened the rear door to find me

  hovering over Jeff. I was honestly shocked to see him. A couple of weeks ago, during the

  fallout from my last job as a bodyguard, he‘d been wounded badly enough that I hadn‘t

  expected him to make it. Then again, he was one tough bastard. Ivan served as the right-hand-

  man-cum-security-chief for King Dahlmar of Rusland. The same King Dahlmar whose son I‘d

  helped rescue from a major demon. Rusland is not be a big country, only maybe the size of

  Ohio. It‘s tucked in between the Ukraine and Poland and touches on the Czech Republic as

  well.

  Recently discovered reserves of natural gas made Rusland politically important. Ivan was an

  international headache for the cops—and he had diplomatic immunity. So we waited, with

  some seriously pissed-off cops. They wanted to hurt me. Hell, more than hurt me. I was a

  vampire and I‘d been caught red-handed at a kill scene. I was toast—right up until they found

  out that the bodies on the ground had no bite marks and that I left no blood on the swab they

  ran around inside my cheeks. It didn‘t make them any happier to discover the men in the

  uniforms around the real squad cars weren‘t actually police. That pissed them off a lot. But at

  least they weren‘t pissed at me after that. So I got to wait for my attorney inside a spelled

  circle, in handcuffs, as they processed the crime scene, instead of being staked on the spot.

  Ms. Graves, if you can hear me, nod your head. Ivan‘s voice came clearly inside my skull.

  He‘d told the cops he was a registered mage. I‘d forgotten he was a telepath. He‘d only used

  that talent in front of me once—at the World Series game when we‘d discovered one of King

  Dahlmar‘s sons was being kidnapped.

  I gave a tiny nod. Nothing noticeable.

  Good. I was afraid the spelled circle would interfere, as the barrier around the car did.

  Since until recently I had no psychic talent, I‘m not very good at talking mind-to-mind. I

  hoped my intense concentration wasn‘t showing on my face as I replied, Not that I’m

  complaining, but how did you know to come riding up like the cavalry?

  I could almost hear the puzzlement in his thoughts. Either I sucked at thinking at him or the

  reference was too American for his English.

  I was waiting outside the tribute to your deceased friend. I wished to speak with you. I saw

  them attack the driver. When the police guarding the doors did nothing, I decided to wait for a

  better opportunity.

  Shit. The police outside the party had seen the switch? And didn‘t stop it? That was wrong.

  Really wrong. Thank God Ivan had been there. But why had he? And why had he come riding

  to the rescue? My past experiences with him hadn‘t shown him to be the most altruistic guy on

  the planet. In fact, he‘d calmly left a man to die in order to follow his orders.

  He answered my questions as if I‘d voiced them aloud. I wasn‘t surprised he‘d been

  listening to my thoughts. Not everybody has Jeff‘s ethics.

  My king does not know I have come to you. But you may be our only hope.

  What in the world could I do that a nation‘s king and all the money and favor of a hundred

  countries desperately trying to gain a strategic ally couldn‘t? What do you want from me?

  ―All right. That‘s enough, you two. I said no talking.‖ Ivan‘s reply—if he had been going to

  make one—never came. The detective who‘d set up the magic circle I was standing in

  straightened from where he‘d been chatting with someone near the bodies. Whatever the guy

  had told him hadn‘t made him happy. He stalked over to where I stood, my hands securely

  cuffed behind my back. He bent down, pressed his finger to the edge of the circle, and began

  muttering a spell. Sound disappeared from the world and my vision sparkled like I‘d been

  slammed face-first into a brick wall. I gasped in pain as the increased power burned across my

  skin. I didn‘t say anything, but he must‘ve seen me flinch, because a look of satisfaction

  flickered across his face for just an instant. It was so quick, it could‘ve been a trick of my

  imagination. But I knew it wasn‘t.

  When they eventually released me to go to Birchwoods, Ivan was long gone. We never did get

  to talk. That worried me. Because once I got inside the facility, I probably wasn‘t going to be

  allowed calls or visitors for quite some time. There wasn‘t anything I could do about that, but

  it was a problem just the same. I pondered it on the long drive down Ocean View. This time I

  had a real police escort, and more. News crews had been minding their scanners and we wound

  up with lots of company. The more the merrier, as far as I was concerned. I wanted witnesses

  to this whole debacle. Something had gone horribly wrong within the police force to have this

  happen. There apparently hadn‘t been any sort of citywide all-points bulletin when I went

  missing, because that was one of the questions the nice reporters asked the incident

  commander. Keeping everything public and under the media microscope offered me the best

  possible protection. It‘d be a damned nuisance. But I could live with that. Emphasis on the

  ―live.‖

  We made the drive in broad daylight because it had taken hours to deal with the fallout from

  the kidnapping attempt. I was glad for the press and for Roberto Santos. My attorney had

  rightfully insisted that I be moved out of the confining
circle and behind tinted windows before

  the sun could crisp me.

  I stared out the window at Birchwoods, wondering what it was that Ivan needed and wishing

  for about the millionth time that the damned bat had just bitten me and been done with it rather

  than trying to bring me over. He‘d turned me into an abomination that was not vampire,

  human, or siren but some unholy mix of the three.

  In the eyes of most of the cops I was a monster, one step below a dangerous animal, and

  now I‘d publicly embarrassed the whole department. There were bodies on the ground and the

  police cars were real. Of course, the fourth suspect had gotten away. Maybe they‘d catch him.

  Maybe not.

  I had the sickening feeling this whole night was somehow going to wind up being my fault.

  3

  The covers went flying off the bed, but I grabbed an end and pulled the soft comforter back

  over me. Then the drapes opened abruptly to let in bright sunlight. I flipped the pillow so my

  head was underneath and returned to warm darkness.

  ―I don‘t want to go to therapy today. Go away.‖ I heard a familiar squeak, like fingernails on

  chalkboard, and lifted up just enough of the pillow to peek out from underneath.

  Have to.

  The words were written in beautiful script on the dresser mirror, etched into the frost Vicki

  had formed on the surface. Technically, I wasn‘t allowed to have a ―roommate,‖ but there

  wasn‘t much the staff could do about it since she was a ghost and a former resident. I let out a

  little growl and dropped the pillow back over my face. Yeah, I knew she was right. If I didn‘t

  play by the rules now, they‘d only get more restrictive and it would be a nurse or, worse, a

  mage attendant with compulsion magic who came to get me.

  Another squeak and this time I smelled flowers. I lifted the pillow again and there was a

  single yellow daisy lying next to my face. The frost had formed a new word.

  Please?

  Well, hell. I couldn‘t help but let out a little laugh. Vicki always could cajole me into doing

  stuff. ―Okay, okay. I‘ll get up.‖ I spun my legs off the bed and walked to the dresser. ―Let‘s

  see, let me choose from my expansive wardrobe.‖

  I opened the first drawer to reveal gray T-shirts and sweatshirts. The second drawer held

  gray sweat pants and the third? Yep, gray undies. Everything gray except the bras. They were

  white. Whoo. All newbies to the Birchwoods program have their past stripped away so the

  healing can begin. Or so say the ads. Gray is the great equalizer among the classes. No amount

  of fame, money, or family title can stand against it. It‘s only later, further into the program,

  that personalities and preferences are allowed to reemerge, under strictly controlled

  circumstances. I took a quick shower, pulled on my graywear, and slathered on enough

  sunscreen to get me through the first part of the day. A baseball cap with the facility‘s logo

  would protect my scalp.

  The windows were flung open and I got the day‘s first breath of salty sea air. The room was

  flooded with the sound of the ever-present gulls that were probably considered nuisances by

  the staff and other residents. What can I say? Gulls seem to be my thing lately. They‘ve been

  flocking around me ever since I fought against my vampire sire by pulling on my siren talents.

  I have no idea why, or what to do about it, which is as frustrating to me as it probably is to the

  birds.

  I looked out the window and tried to lighten my mood. It didn‘t take all that long.

  Birchwoods is a lovely compound, filled with flowers, stunning landscaping, and rolling,

  grassy hills. The view included the ever-present guards, who dress like tour guides but are

  actually tough and smart.

  Security is tight, but that‘s as much for the protection of the guests as for the public. I looked

  over the campus: hospital, administration building, youth facility, main residential building.

  It‘s a good thing I‘m not an autograph hound, because coming out of the youth facility at that

  moment was one of the biggest teen pop stars in the world. There were a lot more inside the

  building. The crème de la crème come here when they need to dry out or heal up and they

  don‘t want anyone to know about it, ever. The tabloids try desperately to get through security,

  knowing that if they did they‘d get the scoop of the century. Thus far, they‘d had no success.

  More squeaking and I turned my head. Hurry. Waffles today!

  It made me smile. It was so Vicki. We‘d learned in the interval between her death and the

  wake that she could carry on a full conversation with only minimal responses. Whole

  sentences tired her quickly, but a few carefully chosen words were enough to interact.

  For a moment I wondered how the investigation into her murder was going. Alex had

  specifically warned me to back off, to let the police do their job. God knew they were under

  enough pressure already with Vicki‘s parents in the mix.

  Vicki‘s parents were Cassandra Meadows and Jason Cooper, the Hollywood power couple

  and an industry unto themselves. Jason wasn‘t such a bad guy, but Cassandra could be absolute

  hell on wheels. Not just a bitch, a raging bitch. I knew this from personal experience. The

  woman hates me with an unholy passion.

  Another squeak underlined the Hurry. Vicki‘d loved waffles in life—thick Belgian ones

  with malt in the batter. Coat them with fresh butter and real Vermont maple syrup and she

  could probably tie the Guinness record holder for number eaten in a sitting.

  I let out a little chuckle as my shoes made a little hop across the floor toward me. ―Okay,

  okay. I‘m hurrying.‖

  I shoved my foot into a pair of (you guessed it) gray slippers. I didn‘t like them much, no

  arch support and they were too loose to be completely comfortable, but nobody was allowed

  shoes with laces at Birchwoods. A precaution against suicides, no doubt, but annoying as hell.

  You okay? screeched across the mirror in front of me and I smiled sadly.

  ―Think I‘ll ever make it out of here?‖ I paused as the frost began to form. ―Truthfully?‖

  There was a pause on her side, too. Vicki had been a patient at Birchwoods for a long time.

  There was a good chance she really had been mentally unstable, but certain traumatic events

  pushed her over the edge. She came to Birchwoods looking for peace and for the most part had

  found it. But we weren‘t the same sort of people . . . our friendship was based on the

  ―opposites attract‖ principle. While I like quiet, peace isn‘t really my thing. Otherwise, I

  wouldn‘t be a bodyguard for fun and profit.

  Dunno . . . , was the reply, followed by a :-(

  ―C‘mon,‖ I said after a long silence that threatened to ruin what small amount of good mood

  I had. ―Let‘s go do waffles.‖ Even though I really don‘t like waffles all that much.

  The frown was replaced by a :D

  Text messaging from the beyond. My life is so weird.

  Like most of Birchwoods, the cafeteria is bright, sunny, and clean. It looks more like the

  restaurant of a nice hotel than a cafeteria. Lots of plants and greenery, round wooden tables

  with matching chairs with a light oak finish. There are two separate sections, divided by a glass

  partition. Not smoking and non-smoking: suicidal and not. Those with any hint of suicida
l

  tendencies get foods that don‘t require cutting and there‘s a much higher supervisor-to-patient

  ratio.

  I have plenty of problems, but suicidal tendencies aren‘t among them. So I chose a corner

  table just outside the reach of the sunlight shining through the windows and sat at a place set

  with a real china plate and actual silverware. Not that I could use it. The changes to my body

  mean I don‘t get to eat actual solids. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Still, the waffles, even though in blended, liquid form, were actually good. Enough for

  seconds. My first gulp caused a surprised smile and Vicki showered me with flower petals

  right there in the cafeteria. Of course, having a four-star Michelin chef working the line

  probably helped. Money talks and what chef wouldn‘t love a truly captive audience to

  experiment with new textures and flavors? It was the ultimate test of his skill to make diners

  with weird-ass physical requirements happy.

  I had just started a second helping when I saw Heather walk into the cafeteria. Heather was

  Dr. Scott‘s personal assistant. According to hospital gossip, she‘d gotten the promotion thanks

  to her cool head in a crisis—helping Dr. Scott face down my bloodlust. She didn‘t like me

  much. No surprise there. But she was the only person here who might actually be able to tell

  me if Ivan had tried to reach me. Assuming Jeff let her. That was a coin toss.

  I waved to her and waited for her reaction. She was too polite to grimace and it was too late

  to ignore me, so I got to watch her steel herself and bring her tray over to my table.

  ―Can I help you?‖ She smiled, showing lots of straight white teeth, but her eyes were wary,

  her body language nervous. I wasn‘t the only one who noticed. A couple of the nice attendants

  began moving closer, more or less discreetly.

  I decided to cut to the chase. I figured she‘d appreciate it. ―The night I was picked up, a man

  from the Rusland Secret Service was there. He said it was urgent that he speak with me, but

  what with the kidnapping and all we didn‘t get to talk. Has he, by any chance, tried to get in

  touch? Left me a message or anything?‖

  She gave an unhappy sigh and looked put-upon, as if every patient in the facility was