by A
also the woman who‘d drugged me and set me up for the murder of a minister. Compulsion
spells might make her tell the truth and nothing but the truth. But I wasn‘t sure the whole truth
was what I wanted the jury to hear.
Shit.
My stomach tightened into knots. If I were still able to eat solids I‘d probably have tossed
my cookies by now. As it was, I tasted bile in the back of my throat, despite the claim that
baby food is a low-acid concoction.
―Celia, you need to calm down.‖ Roberto murmured the words softly enough that they
barely carried to my ears. ―You‘re starting to glow.‖
I looked down and felt my stomach try to do a backflip. Oh, that was so not good. Glowing
is not human. It is not normal. It was not going to reassure the prosecutor, judge, and jury that
little ole me was no threat to anybody.
I closed my eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths, forcing myself to think about the rocky
stretch of beach where I go to be alone when the stress of life gets to me. I was starting to feel
better—until I heard somebody say ―Do you smell salt water?‖
But I wasn‘t glowing anymore and Roberto hustled me to the front of the courtroom without
further incident.
―In front of the bar‖ has real meaning in a courtroom and only those who are on the daily
docket can get through the magic barriers that separate the ―working‖ area from the main
gallery. Roberto went through first and I saw a flash of silver light as he passed through the
scanner and heavy-duty wards. Then it was my turn.
I stepped in, closed my eyes, and stood perfectly still so that the scanner could do its thing. I
saw a flash of red through my closed eyelids, felt the hot rush of magic across my skin, and it
was over. I was cleared.
I tried not to show how relieved I was. I tried to act normal, but I‘d left normal so far behind
at that point that I was definitely faking it. Still, I meekly followed my high-priced attorney to
the small table assigned to the defense and took my seat. I glanced around the courtroom,
hoping someone I knew was there to cheer me on. In the corner I saw my gran, sitting with El
Jefe and Emma. And toward the back on the right side I spotted Dr. Hubbard and Dr. Scott.
But no Bruno. I felt my heart sink. I‘d hoped . . .
I tried not to fidget as I watched Roberto pull folder after folder from his big, boxy trial
briefcase. The prosecutor came over to shake Roberto‘s hand. His name was Jose Rodriguez
and he looked to be about thirty-five, or maybe a young-looking forty. Tall and slender, he was
very handsome, with wavy black hair with just a touch of silver and eyes the color of dark
chocolate. He had a winning smile and his navy suit looked nice and expensive until I
compared it to Roberto‘s.
―Bob. Good to see you again.‖
―Joe.‖ They shook hands, ―Here to give me a last-minute offer?‖
Joe stepped back, his eyes widening. ―You don‘t know? Seriously?‖
―Know what?‖
The prosecutor looked at me and his expression darkened. There was a slight edge to his
voice when he replied, ―This hearing is just a formality. It isn‘t going to last five minutes. Your
client has some very powerful friends.‖
Roberto looked at me over his shoulder. I shrugged to let him know I didn‘t have a clue.
Rodriguez‘s eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared beneath his hair, his expression
conveying not just surprise but more than a bit of disbelief.
―Care to enlighten us?‖ Roberto‘s smile didn‘t quite reach his eyes. Until that moment,
they‘d seemed like friends who happened to be on opposite sides of a case. Now Roberto had
shifted gears and shown he was all business.
The prosecutor turned to his associate, who handed him a thin stack of papers. Turning back
to us, Rodriguez began laying the sheets on the table one at a time, like playing cards,
indicating what each was as he did.
―A certificate of dual citizenship with Rusland. The official letter and certificate announcing
Ms. Graves‘s appointment as Official Security Liaison, with full diplomatic status, signed by
King Dahlmar himself, including the royal seal. A letter of pardon signed by the governor to be
used in the event of your conviction. A letter of pardon signed by the president of the United
States, to be used in the event of your conviction. And we received a visit from some of the
boys over at the State Department, suggesting that, all things considered and since you were
acting in defense of others, we should save the state the money it would take to prosecute.‖
―You‘ve got a letter from the president? Seriously?‖ I just about choked on the words. ―The
president of the United States wrote a pardon for me? Holy crap. Ho‖—I took a breath
between syllables—―ly crap. ‖
Rodriguez smiled. It made him look younger, less cynical. ―Yes. And I‘ve got to tell you,
the politicos don‘t do that. Not in advance. It‘s too likely to blow up in their faces.‖
―I‘m not surprised.‖ Roberto smiled benignly, leaning back and folding his hands across his
waist. ―Ms. Graves‘s actions saved the lives of King Dahlmar and his son Prince Rezza and
unmasked a political plot that would‘ve destabilized their nation. She also assisted in the
banishment of a major demon who had been summoned to wreak havoc at one of the largest
public sporting events on the calendar. Who knows how many lives might have been lost if
Ms. Graves hadn‘t done as she did? King Dahlmar previously indicated to me his intent to do
everything he could to keep her from being imprisoned as a result of her actions.‖
―Well, he‘s a man of his word.‖ Joe gathered up the pages, stacking them neatly.
―So, are you going to prosecute?‖ I asked. I couldn‘t help myself.
Rodriguez shook his head. ―Why bother? It‘d be an open-and-shut case and a complete
waste of the taxpayers‘ money.‖
―And the other matter?‖ Roberto‘s voice was silken.
Rodriguez‘s expression darkened, all the humor draining out of it in a rush, his features
seeming to harden into stone. ―It was self-defense. She and the doctor were kidnapped.‖ He
turned to me, his eyes capturing mine, his gaze intense. ―But know this. If you ever again set
so much as a toe out of line, we will prosecute. We might not be able to put you away. But if
you show you are a threat to our citizens, we will find some way of getting rid of you, even if
we have to deport you to do it.‖
I didn‘t doubt that he meant it. I really hoped it never came to that. It bothered me deeply
that I wasn‘t considered one of ―our citizens‖ anymore and somehow I just knew it wasn‘t
because of my new diplomatic status.
We were spared further conversation as the bailiff came in and announced the judge. The
prosecutor stepped back behind his table as we all rose for the Honorable Sarah Jacobsen to
take the bench.
Once she took her seat, the prosecutor made his announcement about dropping the charges.
Judge Jacobsen immediately asked the attorneys to approach the bench, and it didn‘t take
vampire hearing to catch the gist of the conversation. She didn‘t like this. She didn‘t like it one
bit. Governor, president, king, or no, she wanted me locked up somewhere far, far away
from
vulnerable humans and she did not appreciate the fact that people higher up the food chain
were usurping her judicial authority.
She motioned the men back to their seats and stared at me for a long moment. Finally, she
spoke. ―Ms. Graves. The prosecutor has asked to dismiss the charges against you based on
what, in my opinion, are political threats from people who have no business interfering in this
case.‖
Shouts and swearing erupted from the gallery behind me and I was suddenly very glad no
weapons or magic was allowed in the room.
―While I might not have the power to change the prosecutor‘s mind and press this case
forward, I most certainly can take testimony from the experts already identified by both parties
to satisfy myself that you are not a danger to yourself or others.‖
Shit. This had taken a rather nasty turn. I might not go to jail, but there was suddenly the
very real possibility I could still be committed and I might not be in a position to choose to
return to Birchwoods.
―I will allow prosecution and defense ten minutes to confer with your experts. The question
is whether Ms. Graves, in her current condition, can be a productive member of society
without endangering the citizenry.‖ She banged a gavel on the bench while glaring daggers at
me. ―Court is recessed until ten thirty.‖
Roberto leaned over and whispered next to my ear as the rest of the room erupted in chaos,
―She‘s already prejudiced against you. It‘ll be easy to overturn it on appeal, no matter what she
rules.‖
My jaw dropped and my skin started glowing again. ―And what am I supposed to do until
then, Roberto? Sit in the cage like a good dog, hoping someone will spring me before they
bring in the needle?‖
He looked at me seriously, his eyes filled with pain. ―I‘ll do the best I can, Celia. You know
that. Can we count on Dr. Scott‘s testimony on your behalf? I know he isn‘t your treating
psychiatrist, but he has credentials Dr. Hubbard doesn‘t, and from what I saw during
depositions Ann Hubbard will make a terrible witness. You told me therapy has been going
well.‖
I bit at my lower lip, puncturing it with a fang and making myself wince. ―I think you should
call Dr. Hubbard anyway. Dr. Scott isn‘t . . . happy with me right now.‖
My apologetic look didn‘t help much. Roberto sighed. ―No. Never mind . We‘ll go with
Professor Sloan.‖
Ten minutes goes really fast when you‘re listening to people deciding your fate. Before I
knew it, the gavel was banging again. I let out a little yelp, but I don‘t think anyone other than
Roberto noticed. ―Mr. Rodriguez, you have ten minutes to make your case.‖
A slender woman, dressed in an electric blue skirt set, approached the bench. She was not
channeling Ms. Bush. Her heels were at least three inches high and the skirt length wouldn‘t
have been acceptable by my high school dress code. The witness bench hid most of the show,
so all she offered the audience was a tasteful electric blue jacket and white shirt, with pearls,
beneath shining auburn hair. Nifty.
Rodriguez apparently didn‘t like being timed, because his words came out less smooth and
polished than I expected. ―Could you state your name for the record?‖
―Jessica Marloe.‖
―And what is your occupation, Ms. Marloe?‖
―It‘s Dr. Marloe. I‘m a protective therapist at the California State Paranormal Treatment
Facility.‖
She was one of the guards at the state facility!
―Do you have any experience with vampires, Dr. Marloe?‖
―I have studied vampires extensively and in a previous position worked on research into
reversing the vampiric process.‖
―Could you please tell the Court what success you had with that?‖
―We had no success, unfortunately. Once a person is turned, the process always leads to loss
of higher brain function and increasing violence until we‘re forced to take measures to protect
our other patients.‖ Meaning, they‘re put down. I hadn‘t been kidding with my comment about
a cage and needle.
The testimony went no better for the remainder of the ten minutes and concluded with Dr.
Marloe‘s conviction that I was a ticking time bomb. I was sure I was done for. But I‘d
underestimated Roberto. He‘d been taking notes the whole time Marloe was talking and stood
smoothly when it was time for cross-examination.
―Dr. Marloe, have you ever treated a siren in your facility?‖
She looked at him like he was an annoying fly. ―No, of course not. There are very few sirens
in existence.‖
Now it was Roberto who raised his brows. ―But surely you‘ve read about other cases of
sirens in state treatment facilities? Yes?‖
She shook her head. ―No. There‘s never been a siren in a treatment facility.‖
He leaned on the edge of the box. ―Really? Never? Nowhere in the world? That seems odd,
even considering the small population of full- and partial-blooded sirens. Why do you suppose
that is?‖
She turned on the icy glare. ―I have no idea.‖
―Could it possibly be because sirens are unique in their mental stability? After all, in order
to manipulate a person‘s mind, wouldn‘t they have to have a great deal of mental strength and
intelligence?‖
―I . . .‖ She paused. ―I can‘t say one way or the other.‖
He nodded and looked expressively at the judge before turning his attention to the doctor
again. ―In the course of your education, you‘ve studied most manners of preternatural . . .
creatures?‖
―Of course.‖
―Then are you willing to certify to this court that you‘ve studied the physiology and
psychology of sirens, even if you‘ve never actually treated one or read about the treatment of
one?‖
Marloe made an odd face. ―Well, I know as much as can be known. They‘re a highly
secretive society and international law prohibits infringement on their territory.‖
―Because they can manipulate people‘s minds, right? That is, after all, what this case is
about.‖
I bit at my lip again and let out a muttered swear when I tasted blood. Damn fangs. Where
was he going with this?
―Yes, that‘s correct.‖
She was glaring at me as though daggers were going to shoot out of her eyes. Roberto
noticed. ―You don‘t like my client much, do you, Doctor?‖
Her chin went high and haughty. ―I don‘t even know her.‖
―But you think the world would be safer if she was behind bars. Yes?‖
Um . . . Roberto? You’re on my side, right? I struggled with everything I had not to move or
show my panic.
―I do.‖
He scratched the side of his nose lightly. ―Doctor, isn‘t it true that most fertile women who
meet sirens hate them? Want them put behind bars or sent away?‖
―Well, it‘s not the way you say it—‖
He pounced like a cat on a mouse, putting his face inches from hers in classic Perry Mason
style. ―Really? Because I could have sworn that my preternatural expert told me that sirens
can‘t influence postmenopausal women, or prepubescent children, or gay men, and that fertile
women find them to be a threat. It‘s an i
nvoluntary emotional reaction that causes the woman
to work against the siren. Is that correct?‘
Marloe looked at the prosecutor, the judge, the spectators, Roberto—everywhere but at me.
Roberto prompted her, ―Please remember you‘re under oath, Doctor.‖
She let out a frustrated breath. ―Well, of course, there are exceptions to a siren‘s influence.
The siren‘s psychic call primarily appeals to a certain demographic—‖
Roberto kept talking, right over her. ―Exceptions like men over sixty and men with
vasectomies and even ordinary men who wear magically created charms that prevent them
from being affected by that influence. Is that correct?‖
She shrugged and shifted in her chair. Her fingers were nibbling at her skirt now and she
was having trouble meeting his eyes. Her voice went soft. ―Yes, I suppose.‖
He stood up to his full height, turned toward the gallery, and spoke without looking at her.
He ticked his points off on his fingers as he went. Marloe couldn‘t see, but the judge could.
―So, what you‘re really saying is that Celia cannot affect all senior citizens, all young children,
all gay men, all sterilized men, and around half of the women in this great big world. The
remaining men might be affected by the Defendant, provided they don‘t have a charm to
prevent it, and the remaining women will actively work against her rather than do her bidding.
Is that what you‘re saying?‖
―Yes.‖ Her voice was a whisper now, her eyes firmly on the floor in front her. I stole a
glance at the prosecutor. His jaw muscle was bulging from clenching his teeth so tight.
The judge squirmed, clearly affected by Roberto‘s argument. ―The prosecution‘s ten
minutes are up. As are defense‘s.‖
―Your Honor . . . ,‖ Roberto began to protest. We hadn‘t had a chance to put on our witness
after all. But the judge cut him off with a glare. She stood up and picked up a thick file. ―The
witness will step down. Court will recess for thirty minutes while I consider the evidence.‖
For the next half hour, I sat on my uncomfortable wooden chair trying to look inoffensive
and harmless while conversations buzzed all around me. People were flat out calling one side
or the other idiots. To add to the confusion, a flock of gulls had lined the window ledges