Siren Song

by A

  discoloration of the mark. His touch wasn‘t in the least erotic this time and I was grateful.

  Because if there was any chance we were going to be working together I did not need that kind

  of distraction.

  ―About the only thing that can create and hold that level of illusion for any period of time is

  demonic energy.‖

  Oh, crap. Demons. Again. I shuddered at the memory of facing off against a demon in the

  parking lot of Anaheim Stadium. It had been one of the most awe-inspiring and terrifying

  experiences of my life. I did not, ever, want to encounter the demonic again.

  ―I can feel a hint of it still. But that was just the masking. The curse itself isn‘t demonic at

  all. In fact, I can‘t really tell what kind of energy is behind it. But whoever or whatever cursed

  you was damned powerful and the curse feels old. ‖ He shook his head and gave me a wry grin.

  ―You do lead the most interesting life.‖

  ―Tell me about it.‖

  Juan, the oldest son of the owner, was waiting tables today. I‘ve known him since he was

  too young to carry a fully laden tray. Bright and handsome, he was wearing a starched white

  shirt and crisp black trousers. I smiled in greeting as he brought my third margarita to the table.

  Creede had excused himself to use the restroom, so Juan and I spent a couple of minutes

  chatting, catching up on family gossip.

  I hate having my back to the door. But I didn‘t have much choice when we‘d arrived. When

  I saw Juan stiffen and heard a commotion by the door I had to turn sharply in my seat and look

  over my shoulder to see what had drawn everyone‘s attention.

  Three imposing men in hand-tailored suits had come through the front door and were

  peering through the gloom, obviously looking for someone in particular. As soon as I got a

  good look I knew they wanted either me or Creede. The man in front was George Miller. How

  the hell did he know we were here? Sure, Creede‘s car is pretty unique, but La Cocina isn‘t in

  a common area of town and I don‘t think George had ever been here before the wake.

  Juan made a noise in the back of his throat, clearly unhappy. I couldn‘t blame him. You

  could tell from their body language that they were looking for trouble.

  Miller looked angry but also like death and not even warmed over. It was obvious even in

  the dim lighting of the restaurant. The last time I‘d seen him he‘d been strikingly handsome

  thanks to a combination of good genetics and better plastic surgery. He kept fit, dressed in the

  very best hand-tailored suits, and was more fussy about his appearance than any woman I

  knew. Not today. Today his wide face was gray and coated with a faint sheen of sweat and

  there was a fine tremor to his body. His left arm hung absolutely limp at his side. When one of

  the servers accidentally bumped it Miller‘s knees buckled beneath him. Only the lightning-

  quick reflexes of his men kept him from collapsing to the floor in a heap. From the corner of

  my eye I saw Barbara scurrying to assist, but he waved her away.

  ―What‘s the matter with him?‖ Juan had paled to a shade almost as white as the tablecloth.

  ―Binding oaths are a bitch.‖

  ―He broke a magic oath? Is he insane?‖

  ―Yes. And possibly.‖ I took a long pull of my drink. I‘d probably need it and I was glad for

  the restorative powers of Pablo‘s mexi-shake. But unless and until they came up to the table, I

  was going to pretend this was just a coincidence and assume that George brought his well-

  coutured ass down to this neck of the woods all the time. No doubt for the huevos.

  ―You know about this?‖ I looked up and realized that Juan didn‘t look like a kid anymore.

  He was all grown-up and ready to play bouncer if need be. I hoped he wouldn‘t have to. He‘s a

  tough kid, but I‘d feel guilty as hell if anything happened to him and the M&C boys are

  professionals.

  ―A little,‖ I admitted. ―John Creede, the man with me? Likely he‘s the one who cast the oath

  on Miller.‖

  Juan started to swear, softly, under his breath. I almost couldn‘t hear him and I was sitting

  right there, so the rest of the diners were spared. Kind of a shame. They might have learned

  something. He was doing a very thorough job of it. When he‘d gone through his repertoire he

  took a deep breath. Looking me straight in the eye, he said, ―I have your back. But you‘re

  paying for any damages.‖

  I nodded and shifted in my seat, unfastening my denim jacket. I‘d taken some of my usual

  armament from my car before we left the attorney‘s. I always feel naked without a few

  weapons.

  Juan stepped away from the table but didn‘t go far, just a few steps away, behind the bar. He

  stayed there, puttering around in the general vicinity of where I knew the shotgun was kept. I

  don‘t know what signal passed between them, but while he didn‘t say a word, I noticed that

  Lola, his sister, had stepped out from behind the maître d‘ stand and pulled on a server‘s apron.

  ―Ms. Graves.‖ George Miller had come up to my table. I‘d thought he looked bad from a

  distance—up close it was much, much worse. And the smell. Eww. Maybe it was my enhanced

  vampire senses, but he smelled like meat left in the sun to rot. My stomach roiled in protest

  even though I was holding my drink close to my nose to try to mask the stench. I moved the

  salsa bowl so that it sat on the table right in front of me. Pablo‘s homemade salsa is really

  spicy. I figured the pepper smell might help. It‘s strong and I don‘t like it much, but it was

  better than the alternative.

  ―Mr. Miller.‖ I gave him a pleasant expression, empty of any emotion. I was not going to

  gag. I wasn‘t. Mind over matter.

  There are a number of different binding oaths available. All of them are pretty hideous. My

  guess was that they‘d used the necrosis variation. If they had, then his arm was literally rotting

  off. And unless he (a) made complete recompense; (b) had the arm amputated before the rot

  spread; or (c) killed Creede, Miller might lose more than just an arm.

  ―I‘m sorry to intrude. But I wanted to take this opportunity to warn you about my former

  partner.‖

  I looked up but didn‘t say anything. If I opened my mouth, I would retch. I really would.

  ―You can smell what he did to me. Can‘t you?‖

  I fought down bile and managed to answer him through gritted teeth. ―The way he tells it,

  you did it to yourself.‖

  ―And you believe him?‖ Miller‘s tone made it clear he thought I was a fool.

  I set down my drink and picked up the salsa bowl; bringing it up to my face, I took a long

  whiff. It worked: peppers, onion, and spices drove off less palatable scents. After just a few

  seconds, I was able to talk almost normally. ―It‘s easy enough to check out. Written notice of

  any binding oaths would have to be filed with the state with your corporate documents. And

  you don‘t strike me as the type to skimp on the paperwork.‖

  His face flushed, bringing the first bit of color to his cheeks. Scowling fiercely, he told me,

  ―John used black magic to avoid the effects of my oath on him.‖

  I shook my head. ―Not possible. The magic used in binding oaths is a neutral force. It

  doesn‘t care who, or what, the oath takers are. In fact, the man‘s a mage. His own powe
r would

  probably turn on him if he broke the oath.‖

  ―You know that for a fact?‖ Miller was so bitter. The words dripped venom like acid. I felt

  as if my ears should actually be burning.

  ―I graduated with a degree in Paranormal Studies and was engaged to a powerful mage.‖ I

  met the heat of Miller‘s gaze without flinching. ―So, yeah, I do.‖

  He was visibly shaking now, but whether it was from rage or exhaustion I couldn‘t tell.

  Maybe both. Because he was furious. His eyes were dark, his square jaw set tight enough that I

  could hear his teeth grinding. Still, he mastered himself enough to speak civilly. ―If you partner

  with John Creede, Ms. Graves, you will regret it.‖

  ―Is that a threat?‖ I kept my voice sweet and utterly bland, but my eyes were on his hands,

  making sure he wasn‘t about to go for a weapon. It would be a crazy thing for him to do, but

  I‘d pretty much decided the man was nuts. However, I was curious. How did he know about

  mine and Creede‘s discussions? Had he been to the office, or was one or both of us bugged?

  ―A promise,‖ Miller growled. With his message delivered, he turned on his heel. At his curt

  nod, his companions fell in behind him. They were just leaving the restaurant when John

  stepped out of the restroom. The whole encounter had only taken a couple of minutes. But that

  didn‘t make it any less disturbing.

  John stopped, stared after them for a long moment, his features hard and distant as a granite

  cliff. Then he strode stiffly over to the table, not bothering to sit down.

  ―What were George, Bobby, and Ian doing here?‖ His voice was flat, inflectionless.

  ―Miller wanted to warn me not to go into business with you.‖ I gave him innocent eyes

  before grabbing my margarita glass and taking a long pull of lime-flavored frozen goodness.

  ―And?‖ Standing there, glowering, he reminded me a little of Miller, only without the BO.

  They were quite a lot alike: hard, dangerous men who could be equally charming and deadly.

  Good friends/bad enemies.

  ―He was trying to intimidate me if he could.‖ The drink was perfect. As always. And with

  the kick of a mule. With any luck it would help me relax. Unlikely under the circumstances,

  but certainly worth a try.

  ―Did he?‖

  Juan was coming up behind him with another margarita for me and a fresh basket of tortilla

  chips. He gave an expressive snort as he reached around the other man to set the fresh drink in

  front of me before waving a container of cinnamon incense around the area to get rid of the

  smell. ―This one is on me.‖

  I thanked Juan, then answered Creede. ―I‘m not easily intimidated. I‘m just glad they didn‘t

  cause trouble in the restaurant.‖ I paused for effect. ―Are you going to sit down, or are you

  planning on standing there all day?‖

  He glared. I didn‘t wilt. So, eventually, he sat. He even unbent enough to grab a chip. I

  passed him the bowl of salsa I‘d hijacked. We sat in silence as he munched and I drank. I

  would‘ve liked to join him. I miss munching. But the combination of salt, lime, and kick-ass

  tequila was taking the edge off my disappointment. In fact, it was taking the edge off of pretty

  much everything. I‘d probably better slow down a bit.

  ―So now what?‖ he finally asked.

  ―Well, first I think it would be a good idea to find out how Miller discovered we were here

  and how he knew you‘d offered to partner with me. I‘m still not sure about whether we‘d work

  as business partners. But I do not like being threatened and I really don‘t like being bugged.‖

  ―I can‘t believe he actually had the balls to threaten you—and in the middle of a public

  restaurant.‖ A slow flush was spreading up Creede‘s neck and his voice was low and growling.

  ―Has he lost his fucking mind?‖

  ―Ah, wait.‖ I raised a finger. ―It was not a threat. It was a promise. ‖ I rolled my eyes.

  ―Relax, John. I‘m a big girl. I don‘t terrify easily.‖ I watched as he forced himself to calm

  down. It took a few minutes. He was not taking this situation well. Then again, who would?

  ―Seriously, until you get your legal issues dealt with and I get my legal issues dealt with, we

  may not want to even try. Because if he can make trouble, he will. He has the connections to

  do it and apparently he has the technology. You‘ll want to do a full scan of your car for

  trackers and maybe even take it to a priest. Oh, and throw away your clothes.‖

  ―I know how to search for bugs, Celia. I‘ve been doing this longer than you.‖ His growl was

  growing, but I wasn‘t done. Because it needed to be said.

  ―And yet, they were here and overheard our conversation somehow. I‘m pretty sure you‘d

  be chiding me under the same circumstances. Because he‘s not going to stop. You know it. Not

  until he finds some way to get to you—assuming he lives that long.‖

  Creede‘s head jerked and his eyes widened with shock. I could tell he was jumping to

  conclusions from the look on his face, and it irritated the hell out of me.

  ―Oh, for heaven‘s sake,‖ I snapped, ―I‘m not going to do anything. But I don‘t need to. That

  must have been one powerful oath you set up, because he was barely able to walk on his own

  and I‘m pretty sure his arm is literally rotting meat.‖

  Creede looked from me to Juan, who nodded his agreement.

  He started drumming his fingers on the table, his eyes going distant. I could tell he was

  going over the oath in his mind, checking to see if it was more powerful than he‘d imagined.

  He shook his head. ―That doesn‘t make sense. It shouldn‘t be that bad. Don‘t get me wrong. If

  he‘s not careful, he‘ll lose the arm. But that should be the extent of it.‖

  ―You didn‘t smell him. The man is dying.‖

  Creede leaned back at an angle, his fingers drumming an irritable rhythm against the

  tablecloth. ―The only way it would be that bad is if the oath is still active. So long as he‘s still

  screwing me over, the oath is going to eat at him.‖

  Ah, I got it. It was a vicious cycle. ―He blames you and is bitter, so he keeps trying to get

  even. And every time he does, the oath gets worse.‖

  ―He can‘t be that stupid.‖ Creede shook his head. He was still angry but there was sadness

  mixed in with it. I wasn‘t surprised. They‘d been friends and business partners for a long time.

  I snorted. ―He‘s obsessed. Besides, you know as well as I do that people delude themselves

  all the time. Given enough time, he‘ll have the whole thing being your fault. Probably even sue

  your ass.‖ There was a little lisp at the end of that. I‘ve been having some trouble adapting to

  talking with the fangs. However, I will say it was harder than it should have been to put the

  glass down straight on the table.

  ―How many of those have you had?‖

  I sighed. ―Not that many. Don‘t worry. Vampire metabolism. I‘ll be dead sober in no time.‖

  I hadn‘t meant the pun but recognized it when I saw his lips twitch. He had good lips. Very

  kissable. Not that I was ever going to, even though I could feel the brush of magic, just at the

  edge of my skin. Bruno was moving back soon. Just the thought made me smile, but that didn‘t

  mean I was blind. I could look. I just wouldn‘t do anything about it.

  Right?
<
br />   Creede scolded me, ―You can‘t eat anything solid. Drinks are going to hit you harder and

  faster than they did when you were human. Even if they do wear off quicker.‖ Shaking his

  head, ―I‘ll drive you back to Birchwoods.‖

  ―Nope. I‘m not leaving my car in town.‖ I shook my head firmly. Well, sort of firmly.

  Maybe the margaritas had gotten to me a little more than I‘d thought. ―And besides, I‘ve got

  things to do.‖

  ―You‘re not driving like this.‖

  ―Of course not. I‘ll take a cab.‖ Actually, by the time we got back to the attorney‘s office I‘d

  be fine to drive. Definitely. Well, at least probably.

  ―Don‘t lie to me, Graves.‖

  ―Who‘s lying?‖ I batted my eyes at him in a deliberately exaggerated gesture and ran a

  fingernail down his hand. I wasn‘t using full siren magic on him, just flirting a little, but he

  pulled his hand away like it was burned. He was affected. I could tell. I could sense he wanted

  to help. Wanted to . . . but he fought it off with a shake of his head.

  ―Fine. You have things to do. I get that. But you nearly had your head blown off earlier

  today and you just got threatened because of me. So I‘m sticking with you until the alcohol

  wears off and you have a better chance of defending yourself.‖

  ―Whether I like it or not?‖

  ―Is being driven around by me really such a terrible fate?‖ He gave me that charming,

  handsome smile that he seemed to be able to turn on and off at will. It was nice, but I liked the

  real one better. Shame he didn‘t get much chance to use it.

  7

  I had John drive me to Isaac and Gilda Levy‘s shop. They‘d redone the place and I would‘ve

  loved to spend some serious shopping time there—as would Creede, judging by the way he

  was eyeing Gilda‘s new stock of magical artifacts—but the day was getting away from me. I

  still had a lot to do before I met with El Jefe at the university and I really needed a little time

  on my own, to think. So after only a couple of minutes of good-natured fussing from Gilda, I

  was able to leave with my new jacket—outfitted with receptacles for my favorite weapons—

  and a promise that she‘d have Isaac ―age‖ a replacement death stone for my Wadjeti. She

  swore they could have it to me within the hour, so I could wait, or they‘d deliver it to my