High Stakes Trial

by Mindy Klasky

  “I’ll tell you again. It’s not safe for you to know more.”

  “Angelique Wilson hates me. She’s just waiting for me to make one more mistake so she can fire me. Deleting those files will guarantee I never work at the court again.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  “It’s not just Angelique. The Pride will pounce on me like I’m a wounded gazelle.”

  “The Pride threw you out of the Den. They don’t get a say in your good behavior anymore.”

  “But Chris does. What would he think?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that. He’d never had an answer for Chris.

  He shrugged. “You have to trust me.”

  That’s what it all came down to. For the first time in my life, James had asked me outright for assistance. He’d violated every tenet of his vampire life to become indebted to another person. He wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t, tell me why. All I knew was that his request would cost me—my job, the tattered remnants of my status as a sphinx, my sorely tested relationship with Chris.

  Trust him.

  I didn’t know if I could.

  I let myself out of the car and headed down the stairs to my basement apartment. I half hoped James would follow. I half feared he would.

  I entered my home alone.

  29

  In the end, it was the child who convinced me.

  Not the dark-haired girl in the last room of Richardson’s prison—she’d already lost her safety and security, along with any hope she’d had of a normal life.

  The child who haunted me was the girl who escaped. The one James spared.

  Because he wouldn’t be able to protect her the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that, forever and ever and ever.

  And he had a plan to end that threat. A plan he wouldn’t tell me, a plan that threatened me in ways I couldn’t understand. A plan that required me to act.

  In the middle of the afternoon, I helped myself to a boysenberry yogurt and an apple from the fridge. I took a shower, applying two coats of conditioner. I dressed in casual clothes, jeans and a green cashmere sweater I’d had since college.

  I took the subway to the office, the same way I would on a typical workday. I greeted the weekend security guard with the same patient smile I spared for Bubba and Earl, and I cleared Security Level Orange.

  In my office, I twitched everything into order, the way I would any evening. I straightened the pens, putting all the blue ones with blue and the black ones with black. I returned my stapler to its customary place beside my monitor. I untangled the telephone cord, which had looped around itself three times.

  It only took a minute for my computer to boot to life. At the login screen, I considered using the “Test” account I’d generated months earlier when I restructured the court’s database.

  It would only take a moment, though, for anyone to trace that login back to me. Besides, if I acted surreptitiously, I’d have zero chance of pleading my innocence.

  Instead, I logged in under my standard credentials. I ran a search, collecting all the Richardson files. I double-checked the results, making sure I wasn’t snagging extra files by mistake.

  I tapped the Delete key.

  A warning came up on my screen—black letters in a grey box, surrounded by a bright red border. Did I really want to delete those files? My action would be permanent.

  My finger hovered over the Delete key.

  I was a sphinx who created order. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t destroy records.

  But I wasn’t a sphinx. I was something else. Something different. Something older and wilder, something wrapped in serpents, living in shadow.

  I thought about the Impressed vampires, staring at the flickering computer screens on the ground floor of Richardson’s house. I remembered the pile of rags huddled on the mattress at the top of the stairs. I remembered the girl at the end of the hall.

  I pressed the Delete key, and I watched a progress bar measure out the destruction.

  I should have felt an ache at overturning the hard-won order I’d constructed at the court. I should have triggered my sphinx compulsions, the desperate need to turn something, to straighten something, to bring order into a life hopelessly out of balance.

  Instead, I felt a surge of energy, as powerful and purifying as a blast furnace.

  I ran a single search, confirming that the name Maurice Richardson was expunged from imperial records. And then I left the courthouse, walking through the cool May night until I reached an open restaurant, an Indian curry house that I’d never eaten in before.

  I ordered cauliflower vindaloo and phaal curry and Mumbai potatoes with chilies. And I finished every bite.

  30

  I knew I’d torpedoed the only job I’d ever loved.

  I just didn’t count on destroying the rest of my life.

  Monday evening, I dressed like I was going to a funeral. I wore a black skirt, and a plain white blouse. I added a black blazer and sensible shoes. I pulled my hair back into a neat twist. I kept my makeup to a minimum.

  I considered arriving early, as if I were atoning for my sins, but I discarded the idea almost immediately. Prompt appearance at the courthouse wasn’t going to make a dent in the debt I owed.

  Angelique met me at the security station, her lips pressed into a tight line. She marched me back to her office without saying a word. I didn’t bother making any protest. There was nothing left for me to say.

  The court bailiff, Eleanor Owens, stood beside James’s old leather couch, her feet spread, her hands linked behind her back. She’d donned amethyst jewelry for the night, with sparkly purple eyeshadow to match.

  Angelique didn’t bother closing her office door.

  “You’re fired,” she said, her eyes doing their best to burn a hole straight through my forehead.

  I didn’t respond. I’d been imagining those words since Angelique had put me on probation.

  “I want your ID card on my desk. Now.”

  I complied.

  Angelique turned to Eleanor and snapped, “Serve her.”

  The griffin produced a sheaf of papers that had been hidden behind her broad body. She brought them forward in a controlled sweep and touched the center of my chest. “Sarah Jane Anderson, you’ve been served.”

  I caught the document by reflex. It only took a moment to glance at the header on the front page. I was accused of trespass, destruction of property, aiding and abetting a known criminal in the evasion of legal process, and a dozen more counts.

  I knew the gig. I wasn’t going to get any Miranda warnings. If I wanted a lawyer, it was up to me to find one. I suspected that the only reason I wasn’t being hauled in front of Judge Finch for an immediate arraignment was the fact that I was already under indictment for a laundry list of other crimes.

  A crazed voice at the back of my head wondered who was going to log in the complaint, who was going to create a new file for the court.

  Angelique snapped at Eleanor. “Get her out of here.”

  I let Eleanor take my elbow, because that seemed the fastest way to escape my cat-shifter boss. Ex-boss.

  Eleanor speed-walked me to the imperial court’s secret stairs and our hidden underground exit. Five minutes after arriving at work, I was out on the street, unemployed and under indictment.

  I walked to Chris’s house. I needed the time to clear my head.

  My best possible scenario had included my being suspended temporarily, giving everyone a chance to calm down and letting James do whatever he planned on doing. Richardson would be destroyed, my misdeeds would blow over, and I could step back into my job when the coast was clear. Ideally, with Angelique Wilson banished and James back as the court’s actual Director of Security.

  Those had been my dreams, but I’d expected to be shown the door.

  I hadn’t expected the criminal counts, though.

  Chris hadn’t either.

  But the press had.

&nbs
p; It rapidly became clear that someone had managed to docket the criminal complaint against me. And the courthouse reporters had pounced on the fresh story like tabbies on catnip. They hadn’t wasted their time walking across town, the way I had. Instead, they’d arrived in force on Chris’s doorstep. Half a dozen microphones were shoved into my face before I got to the front door.

  For one long, horrible minute, I didn’t think he’d answer my knock. I kept my face perfectly straight, fully aware that video cameras were capturing my every move, that within the next ten minutes my image was going to be slapped on the website of every one of those publications.

  Just as I gave up hope, the door swung open. Chris kept himself hidden behind the door. He didn’t want to be in the frame as I crossed over the threshold.

  I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  At least he waited until the door was closed before he groaned, “What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”

  Numbly, I reached inside my purse and pulled out the papers Eleanor had served on me. The corners were bent and one page was ripped from the binder clip, but Chris would still be able to make out the pertinent information.

  “Here,” I said, shoving the papers toward him. “We have to answer this.”

  He barely glanced at the cover page. “We?”

  “You’re my lawyer,” I said, like that was the most basic truth in the world. Water was wet. Grass was green. Chris was my Sun Lion lawyer, the only one who’d dared to take my case when I was accused of murder. Who else was going to represent me with these new charges?

  “I was your lawyer,” he said.

  “You can’t—”

  “Now, I’ve got a conflict of interest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no way I can represent you when I’m on trial for the same charges.”

  “The same charges?” He wasn’t making any sense. “But you didn’t delete any files.”

  “Files? You think this is all about files?” Before I could answer, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He slashed at the screen to pull something up and then he shoved the phone at me, hard enough that I had to take a step back to keep my balance.

  The Paranormal Post was displayed across the top of the screen. Below it, in letters twice the size of the masthead, three shouted word: SEPARATED AT BIRTH? The rest of the page was filled with three photos. Chris’s formal headshot from his days as a Banner reporter sat next to my staff photo from the courthouse. Below them, filling the rest of the screen was a grainy black and white image. Clearly taken from the Natural History museum’s security tape, the image caught both our faces—disheveled wigs, prosthetic noses, fake teeth, and all.

  I scrolled down the screen. There was an image of the Sekhmet amulet, the very charm that was hidden in my sock drawer.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “How did they—”

  “The Banner has the same security footage,” Chris said. “They skip over the imperial angle, of course, but they’re asking readers to help identify two ‘persons of interest’ in the theft of the amulet.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” I skimmed the Post article. It stopped short of accusing Chris and me of stealing the amulet. Instead, it poked sly fun at the pair of us, speculating that we sphinxes might have liberated the artifact because we didn’t approve of the museum’s haphazard filing system. It ended, though, with ominous speculation that the Empire Bureau of Information would certainly want to question any imperials who were so unfortunate as to have their photos featured on the front page of any mundane newspaper.

  Chris grimaced as I finished the piece. “The Pride is furious. They’re holding a special session right now, to decide what to do.”

  “What can they do? They’ve already excommunicated me. And they’re not about to endanger the Sun Lion.”

  Chris glared at my snide tone. “Don’t be so sure. They have a remarkably low tolerance for being dragged through the mundane mud. Especially by someone they’ve taken action against once.”

  “Me?” I said, my voice shattering with incredulity. “You think I had anything to do with this?”

  “How else would the story get out there? It’s not like the museum takes inventory of every item, every night. Someone pointed them toward the missing amulet.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  Chris sighed. “I don’t know, Sarah. According to the Pride, you’d do it for revenge. You’d drag me down. You’d take out every sphinx in the Eastern Empire, if that meant you could get back at us for expelling you.”

  “That’s absurd, and you know it!”

  “Do I?”

  I couldn’t believe he doubted me. Chris. The man who had helped me understand what it meant to be a sphinx, what it meant to be Other in the heart of the nation’s capital. My voice cracked with accusation: “You were the one who suggested going to the museum in the first place! You wanted to find the Seal. You wanted to put a shiny bow on your glorious New Commission.”

  “You stole the amulet, Sarah. It isn’t the Seal. It doesn’t have anything to do with sphinx business. You could have planned this all along.”

  I gaped at him. “You think I’d do that to the Den? I’d do that to you?”

  “I don’t know what to think any more.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. We’d supported each other through so much. I’d killed Judge DuBois, and he’d stood by my side. He’d thrown me out of the Den, and I’d forgiven him. We’d fought together. We’d slept together. And he was drawing the line at this?

  I reached for the court papers he still held. “Give me those,” I said.

  He snatched them away, as if he were only seeing them for the first time. It only took a moment for him to skim the allegations on the first page. “Sweet Sekhmet,” he breathed. “What the hell were you thinking?” He flipped through the information, shaking his head faster at each allegation. “Were you even thinking? Did you stop for one single second to realize what would happen when you deleted those files?”

  “Of course I thought about it!” I snapped. “James has a plan. He’s—”

  “You did this for James.” Chris’s voice went deadly still.

  “He’s going to—”

  “James Morton,” Chris said. “The vampire who’s been missing for the past ten months. The vampire who’s repeatedly been seen in the company of Maurice Richardson. The vampire who has every reason to want you dead. Or worse.” He gestured to his phone, to the screen that held our photos. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have fed that story to The Post. To The Banner too, for that matter.”

  A tsunami of doubt washed over me.

  Maybe this had been James’s plan all along. Maybe he’d spent the past ten months cooking up this revenge plot. He’d dragged me to Richardson’s place to set the hook, but he didn’t have any second act. He’d let me destroy myself, and now he was lurking somewhere on the sidelines.

  No. He wouldn’t do that. I’d seen the revulsion on his face as we’d watched Richardson’s Impressed scions. I’d seen his pity and disgust at the imprisoned women.

  James wanted to destroy Richardson. Not me. Richardson.

  I stared at Chris. “This isn’t about James. This is about me, trying to do the right thing. Trying to bring down Maurice Richardson once and for all. I saw what he’s doing, Chris. I went to South East, and I saw his Impressed vampires, saw the women he’s using as some sort of perverted blood herd. James isn’t asking you for help. I am.”

  “I don’t think I can help you anymore.”

  “Chris—”

  He cut me off. “The Sarah Anderson I knew had a sphinx’s love of order. She’d never intentionally destroy court records. She’d never take any action to help Maurice Richardson win.”

  He handed me the court document. My fingers grasped the paper without my issuing a conscious command. The pages blurred before my eyes as I said, “I need you.”

  “You should have thought about that before you did J
ames Morton’s dirty work.”

  That was it. There wasn’t anything else I could say. There wasn’t any other argument, anything that would change his mind, no matter how long I stood there, clutching my pitiful sheaf of papers.

  “Can I leave through the back door?” I finally asked.

  “Go,” he said, dropping his head as if the single word cost more than running a marathon.

  I flagged a cab the next street over, not daring to wait for an Uber. I gave the driver my address, but I asked him to drive around the block once. He probably thought the request was odd, but that was nothing compared to what he’d think if he recognized the sylph, the centaur, and the faun waiting by my front door. The imperial press had found me too.

  My apartment didn’t have an alley entrance. I couldn’t sneak into my own home.

  For a single heartbeat, I thought of going to James’s sanctum. But I couldn’t swear that I hadn’t been followed from Chris’s house.

  I could always check rear-view mirrors for suspicious vehicles. I could change cabs a dozen times. I could wait in the darkness of Rock Creek Park, hoping the coast was clear.

  But if I was wrong, James’s sanctum would be disclosed. His life would be endangered. If I failed him, he would be vulnerable every second the sun was above the horizon.

  I couldn’t go to Allison either. She had a young daughter. She didn’t know that the imperial world even existed. And there was a chance—a non-negligible one—that if she saw me next to the photo from the museum, she’d turn me in. After all, the authorities only wanted to question me. In her mind, she wouldn’t be subjecting me to arrest.

  I had limited options, but I had to do something. So I told the cab to stop in front of my house. I fished my key out of my purse, so I wouldn’t have to dig for it on my doorstep. I paid off the driver, adding a generous tip. He hadn’t done anything wrong, except pick up a crazy lady for his fare.

  The reporters started baying like hounds the instant my foot touched the sidewalk. “No comment,” I said as I strode toward my door.