"Mr. Vaughn assured me that if anyone in this area could help me, it would be you."
"Did he really?"
She smiled, eyes glittering. "He seemed very sure you could help me."
"My boss promises a lot of things, Ms. Drew. Most of which he doesn't have to deliver." I stood. "If you could wait here for just a moment, I want to confer with Mr. Vaughn."
"I'll wait right here for you." Her smile was just as sweet, but something in her eyes let me know she knew exactly what kind of conferring I had in mind.
The outer office was done in pale greens, from the wallpaper, with its thin Oriental designs, to the foamy carpet. Plants flourished in every unoccupied niche. Bert thought the plants gave the office a homey touch. I thought it looked like a cheap jungle set.
Mary, our daytime secretary, glanced up from her computer keyboard with a smile. Mary was over fifty, with blond hair that was a little too yellow to be natural. "You need something, Anita?" Her smile was pleasant. I'd almost never seen her in a bad mood. It was a good personality trait for a receptionist.
"Yeah, to see the boss."
She cocked her head to one side, eyes suddenly wary. "Why?"
"I should have an appointment to see Bert today, anyway. I told Craig to schedule it."
She glanced through the appointment book. "Craig did, and Bert canceled it." The smile was gone. "He really is very busy today."
That was it. I went for Bert's door.
"He's with a client right now," Mary said.
"Peachy," I said. I knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for permission.
Bert's desk took up most of the pale blue office. It was the smallest of the three offices, but it was permanently his. The rest of us had to rotate. He'd played football in college and it still showed. Broad shoulders, strong hands, six feet four inches tall and aware of every inch. His boater's tan had washed away with the winter weather. His white crew cut seemed a little less dramatic against the paler skin.
His eyes are the color of dirty window glass, sort of grey. Those eyes glared at me now. "I'm with a client, Anita."
I spared a glance for the man sitting across from him. It was Kaspar Gunderson. He was dressed all in white today, and it emphasized everything. How I could have ever looked at him and thought him human was beyond me. He smiled. "Ms. Blake, I presume." He put out a hand.
I shook it. "If you could wait outside for just a few moments, Mr...."
"Gunderson," he said.
"Mr. Gunderson, I need to speak with Mr. Vaughn."
"I think it can wait, Anita," Bert said.
"No," I said, "it can't."
"Yes," he said, "it can."
"Do you want to have this particular talk in front of a client, Bert?"
He stared at me, his small grey eyes looking even smaller as he squinted at me. It was his mean look. It had never worked on me. He gave a tight smile. "Are you insisting?"
"You got it."
He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he were counting to ten. His flashed his best professional smile on Kaspar. "If you will excuse us for a few minutes, Mr. Gunderson. This won't take long."
Kaspar stood, nodded at me, and left. I closed the door behind him.
"What the hell are you doing coming in here while I'm talking to a client?" He stood up, and his broad shoulders nearly touched from wall to wall.
He should have known better than to try and intimidate me with size. I've been the smallest kid on the block for as long as I can remember. Size hadn't been impressive for a very long time.
"I told you no more clients that are outside my job description."
"Your job description is anything I say it is. I'm your boss, remember?" He leaned over his desk, palms flat.
I leaned into the desk on the other side. "You sent me a missing person's case last night. What the fuck do I know about missing persons?"
"His wife's a lycanthrope."
"And that means we should take his money?"
"If you can help him, yes."
"Well, I gave it to Ronnie."
Bert leaned back. "See, you did help him. He would never have found Ms. Sims without your help."
He was looking all reasonable again. I didn't want him reasonable. "I've got Elvira Drew in my office right now. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?"
"Do you know any wererats?" He had sat down, hands crossed over his slightly bulging middle.
"That's beside the point."
"You do, don't you?"
"And if I say yes?"
"Set up an interview. Surely one of them wants to be famous."
"Most lycanthropes go to a lot of trouble to hide what they are. Being outed endangers their jobs, marriages. There was that case in Indiana last year where a father lost his kids to his ex-wife after five years, because she found out he was a shapeshifter. No one wants to risk that kind of exposure."
"I've seen shifters interviewed on live television," he said.
"They're the exceptions, Bert, not the rule."
"So you won't help Ms. Drew?"
"No, I won't."
"I won't try and appeal to your sense of greed, though she has offered us a lot of money. But think what a positive book on lycanthropy would do to help your shapeshifting friends. Good press is always welcome. Before you turn her down, talk to your friends. See what they say."
"You don't give a damn about good exposure for the lycanthrope community. You're just excited about the money."
"True."
Bert was an unscrupulous bastard and didn't care who knew it. It was hard to win a fight when you couldn't insult someone. I sat down across from him. He looked pleased with himself, like he knew he'd won. He should have known better.
"I don't like sitting down across from clients and not knowing what the hell they want. No more surprises. You clear clients with me first."
"Anything you say."
"You're being reasonable. What's wrong?"
His smile widened, setting his little eyes sparkling. "Mr. Gunderson has offered us a lot of money for your services. Twice the normal fee."
"That's a lot of money. What does he want me to do?"
"Raise an ancestor from the dead. He's under a family curse. A witch told him if he could talk to the ancestor that the curse originated with, she might be able to lift it."
"Why double the fee?"
"The curse started with one of two brothers. He doesn't know which one."
"So I have to raise them both."
"If we're lucky, only one."
"But you keep the second fee anyway," I said.
Bert nodded vigorously, happy as a greedy clam. "It's even your job description, and besides, even you wouldn't let a fellow go through his life with feathers on his head if you could help him, now would you?"
"You smug bastard," I said, but my voice sounded tired even to me.
Bert just smiled. He knew he'd won.
"You'll clear clients with me that aren't zombie raisings or vampire slayings?" I said.
"If you have the time to read up on every client I see, then I certainly have time to write up a report."
"I don't need to read about every client, just the ones you're sending my way."
"But, Anita, you know it's just luck of the draw which of you is on duty on any given day."
"Damn you, Bert."
"You've kept Ms. Drew waiting long enough, don't you think?"
I stood up. It was no use. I was outmaneuvered. He knew it. I knew it. The only thing left was a graceful retreat.
"Your two o'clock canceled. I'll have Mary send Gunderson in."
"Is there anything you wouldn't schedule in as a client, Bert?"
He seemed to think about that for a minute, then shook his head. "If they could pay the fee, no."
"You are a greedy son of a bitch."
"I know."
It was no use. I wasn't winning this one. I went for the door.
"You're wearing a g
un." He sounded outraged.
"Yeah, what of it?"
"I think you can meet clients in broad daylight at our offices without being armed."
"I don't think so."
"Just put the gun in the desk drawer like you used to."
"Nope." I opened the door.
"I don't want you meeting clients armed, Anita."
"Your problem, not mine."
"I could make it yours," he said. His face was flushed, voice tight with anger. Maybe we were going to get to fight after all.
I closed the door. "You mean fire me?"
"I am your boss."
"We can argue about clients, but the gun is not negotiable."
"The gun frightens clients."
"Send the squeamish ones to Jamison," I said.
"Anita"--he stood up like an angry storm--"I don't want you wearing the gun in the office."
I smiled sweetly. "Fuck you, Bert." So much for a graceful exit.
16
I CLOSED THE door and realized I had accomplished nothing but pissing Bert off. Not a bad hour's work, but not a great accomplishment. I was going to tell Ms. Drew that I might be able to help her. Bert was right about good press. I nodded at Gunderson as I passed him. He smiled back. Somehow I didn't think he really wanted me to raise the dead. I'd find out soon enough.
Ms. Drew was sitting legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The picture of elegant patience.
"I may be able to help you, Ms. Drew. I'm not sure, but I may know someone who can help you."
She stood up, offering me a manicured hand. "That would be wonderful, Ms. Blake. I certainly appreciate your help."
"Does Mary have a number where I can reach you?"
"Yes." She smiled.
I smiled. I opened the door, and she walked past me in a cloud of expensive perfume. "Mr. Gunderson, I can see you now."
He stood, laying the magazine he'd been leafing through on the small table beside the Ficus benjium. He didn't move with that dancelike grace that the other shapeshifters had. But then swans weren't particularly graceful on land.
"Have a seat, Mr. Gunderson."
"Please, Kaspar."
I leaned on the edge of the desk, staring down at him. "What are you doing here, Kaspar?"
He smiled. "Marcus wants to apologize for last night."
"Then he should have come in person."
His smiled widened. "He thought that offering a sizable monetary reward might make up for our lack of hospitality last night."
"He was wrong."
"You aren't going to give an inch, are you?"
"Nope."
"Are you not going to help us?"
I sighed. "I'm working on it. But I'm not sure what I can do. What or who could take out eight shapeshifters without a struggle?"
"I have no idea. None of us do. That is why we have come to you."
Great. They knew less than I did. Not comforting. "Marcus gave me a list of people to question." I handed it to him. "Any thoughts, or additions?"
He frowned, eyebrows arching together. The white eyebrows were not hair. I blinked, trying to concentrate. The fact that he was feathery seemed to bother me a lot more than it should have.
"These are all rivals for Marcus's power. You met most of them at the cafe."
"Do you really think he suspects them, or is he just making trouble for his rivals?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Marcus said you could answer my questions. Do you actually know anything that I don't?"
"I would say that I know a great deal more about the shapeshifting community than you do," he said. He sounded a trifle offended.
"Sorry, I think it's just wishful thinking on Marcus's part that his rivals are the bad guys. Not your fault he's playing games."
"Marcus often tries to manage things. You saw that last night."
"His management skills haven't impressed me so far."
"He believes that if there were one ruler for all shapeshifters, we would be a force to rival the vampires."
He might be right on that. "He wants to be that ruler," I said.
"Of course."
The intercom buzzed. "Excuse me a minute." I hit the button. "What is it, Mary?"
"Richard Zeeman on line two. He says he's returning your message."
I hesitated, then said, "I'll take it." I picked up the phone, very aware that Kaspar was sitting there listening. I could have asked him to step outside, but I was getting tired of playing musical clients.
"Hi, Richard."
"I got your message on my answering machine," he said. His voice was very careful, as if he were balancing a glass of water filled to the very brim.
"I think we need to talk," I said.
"I agree."
My, weren't we being cautious this afternoon. "I'm supposed to be the one that's mad. Why does your voice sound so funny?"
"I heard about last night."
I waited for him to say more, but the silence just stretched to infinity. I filled it. "Look, I have a client with me right now. You want to meet and talk?"
"Very much." He said it as though he weren't really looking forward to it.
"I have a dinner break around six. You want to meet at the Chinese place on Olive?"
"Doesn't sound very private."
"What did you have in mind?"
"My place."
"I only get an hour, Richard. I don't have time to drive that far."
"Your place, then."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Just no."
"What we need to say to each other isn't going to go over well in public. You know that."
I did. Dammit. "All right, we'll meet at my place a little after six. Do you want me to pick up something?"
"You're at work. It'll be easier for me to pick up something. You want mooshu pork and crab ragoon?"
"Yeah." We'd dated enough that he could order food for me without asking. But he asked anyway. Brownie point for him.
"I'll see you at about six-fifteen then," he said.
"See you."
"Bye, Anita."
"Bye." We hung up. My stomach was one hard knot of dread. If we were going to have "the" fight, the breakup fight, I didn't want to have it at my apartment, but Richard was right. We didn't want to be screaming about lycanthropes and killing people in a public restaurant. Still, it was not going to be a good time.
"Is Richard angry about last night?" Kaspar asked.
"Yeah."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I need the complete stories about the disappearances: struggles, who last saw them, that sort of thing."
"Marcus said all questions directly about the disappearances should be answered only by him."
"You always do what he says?"
"Not always, but he's quite adamant about this, Anita. I am not a predator. I cannot defend myself against Marcus at his worst."
"Would he really kill you for going against his wishes?"
"Perhaps not kill me, but I would be hurting for a very, very long time."
I shook my head. "He doesn't sound any better than most master vampires I know."
"I don't personally know any master vampires. I am forced to take your word for that."
I had to smile. I knew more monsters than the monsters did. "Would Richard know?"
"Perhaps, and if not, he could help you find out."
I wanted to ask him if Richard was as bad as Marcus. I wanted to know if my sweetie was really a beast at heart. I didn't ask. If I wanted to know about Richard, I should ask Richard.
"Unless you have more information, Kaspar, I have work to do." It sounded grumpy even to me. I smiled to try to soften it but didn't take it back. I wanted this whole mess to go away, and he was a reminder of it.
He stood. "If you need any assistance, please call."
"You'll only be able to give me the assistance Marcus okays, right?"
A slight flush colored his pale skin, a pink
glow like colored sugar. "I am afraid so."
"I don't think I'll be calling," I said.
"You don't trust Marcus?"
I laughed, but it was harsh, not amused. "Do you?"
He smiled, and gave a slight nod of his head. "I suppose not." He moved for the door.
I had my hand on the doorknob when I turned and asked, "Is it really a family curse?"
"My affliction?"
"Yeah."
"Not a family one, but a curse, yes."
"Like in the fairy tale?" I said.
"Fairy tale sounds like such a gentle thing. The original stories are often quite gruesome."
"I've read some of them."
"Have you read The Swan Princess in its original Norse?"
"Can't say I have."
"It's even worse in the original language."
"Sorry to hear that," I said.
"So am I." He stepped closer to the door, and I had to open it to let him go. I dearly wanted to hear the story from his own lips, but there was a pain in his eyes that was raw enough to cut skin. I couldn't press against that much pain.
He stepped past me. I let him go. I was really going to have to find my textbook on fairy tales as truth from that comparative literature class. It had been a long time since I'd read The Swan Princess.
17
IT WAS MORE like six-thirty by the time I walked down the hallway to my apartment. I had half expected to see Richard sitting in the hall, but it was empty. The tightness in my stomach eased just a bit. A reprieve, even of a few minutes, was still a reprieve.
I had my keys in the door when the door behind me opened. I dropped the keys, leaving them dangling. My right hand went for the Browning. It was instinct, not something I thought about. My hand was on the butt, but I hadn't drawn it when Mrs. Pringle appeared in the door. I eased my hand away from the gun and smiled. I don't think she realized what I was doing because her smile never faltered.
She was tall and thin with age. Her white hair was wrapped in a bun at the nape of her neck. Mrs. Pringle never wore makeup and never apologized for being over sixty. She seemed to enjoy being old.
"Anita, you're running a little late tonight," she said. Custard, her Pomeranian, yapped in the background like a stuck record.
I frowned at her. Six-thirty was early for me to get home. Before I could say anything, Richard appeared behind her in the doorway. His hair fell around his face in a mass of rich brown waves. He was wearing one of my favorite sweaters. It was solid forest green and squishy soft to the touch. Custard was barking at him, inches away from his leg, as if working up courage for a quick nip.
"Custard, stop that," Mrs. Pringle said. She looked up at Richard. "I've never seen him behave like this around anyone. Anita can tell you that he likes almost everyone." She looked to me for support, embarrassed about her dog being rude to a guest.
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