Dead Witch Walking

Dead Witch Walking Kim Harrison From New York Times best-selling author, Kim Harrison, comes the first book in her brilliant series, The Hollows; packed with vampires, werewolves and witches - don’t miss out on the sexiest urban fantasy you’ll read this year.Rachel Morgan lives in a world where a bioengineered virus wiped out most of the world's human population – exposing the existence of supernatural communities that had long lived alongside humanity. It’s her job as a white witch working for Inderland Security to protect the humans from things that go bump in the night.For the last five years Rachel has been tracking down lawbreaking Inderlanders in modern-day Cincinnati, but now she wants to leave and start her own agency. Her only problem: no one quits the I.S.Marked for death, Rachel will have to fend off fairy assassins and homicidal werewolves armed to the teeth with deadly curses.Unless she can appease her former employers by exposing the city's most prominent citizen as a drug lord, she might just be a dead witch walking. DEAD WITCH WALKING KIM HARRISON Copyright (#ulink_9b6062ad-9fd8-51b1-983f-dc59ea1d8b91) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by Voyager 2006 Copyright © Kim Harrison 2004 Kim Harrison asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780007236091 Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007236916 Version: 2017-01-31 Dedication (#ulink_ed344fe9-c2c6-50ea-acb8-5bf7b0cfccb4) To the man who said he liked my hat. Contents Title Page (#ua5f874b7-be57-5832-a41a-5e22d23c1a32) Copyright (#u50c922c9-444a-57de-8276-f207f2927613) Dedication (#ue14b012d-65bd-54a8-b47e-0e8a825013d3) Chapter One (#ua8ebcf60-d68b-5a67-a1c9-6a7ce1abe4d4) Chapter Two (#uf596bca1-d0f6-52f9-ab57-3b974e597583) Chapter Three (#ua62e53e6-5ba1-506e-93fd-39eb3d2714e5) Chapter Four (#u05c9e72c-14e2-5078-9a32-8fe8f7c1d8b3) Chapter Five (#u2d0e3401-8cb3-531f-ae54-633e7930594d) Chapter Six (#u2fcba39f-1571-5057-b563-c20bdd26d638) Chapter Seven (#u926cc0d0-8146-56e5-9a69-47676562feef) Chapter Eight (#u9efcf8ba-e172-54ac-8d73-2227201a5cf8) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) DEAD WITCH WALKING One (#ulink_f4b9d4a5-b7a4-506e-b868-c71056b6db7b) I stood in the shadows of a deserted shop front across from The Blood and Brew Pub, trying not to be obvious as I tugged my black leather pants back up where they belonged. This is pathetic, I thought, eyeing the rain-emptied street. I was way too good for this. Apprehending unlicensed and black-art witches was my usual line of work, as it takes a witch to catch a witch. But the streets were quieter than usual this week. Everyone who could make it was at the West Coast for our yearly convention, leaving me with this gem of a run. A simple snag and drag. It was just the luck of the Turn that had put me here in the dark and rain. “Who am I kidding?” I whispered, pulling the strap of my bag farther up my shoulder. I hadn’t been sent to tag a witch in a month: unlicensed, white, dark, or otherwise. Bringing the mayor’s son in for Wereing outside of a full moon probably hadn’t been the best idea. A sleek car turned the corner, looking black in the buzz of the mercury street lamp. This was its third time around the block. A grimace tightened my face as it approached, slowing. “Damn it,” I whispered. “I need a darker door front.” “He thinks you’re a hooker, Rachel,” my backup snickered into my ear. “I told you the red halter was slutty.” “Anyone ever tell you that you smell like a drunk bat, Jenks?” I muttered, my lips barely moving. Backup was unsettlingly close tonight, having perched himself on my earring. Big dangling thing—the earring, not the pixy. I’d found Jenks to be a pretentious snot with a bad attitude and a temper to match. But he knew what side of the garden his nectar came from. And apparently pixies were the best they’d let me take out since the frog incident. I would have sworn fairies were too big to fit into a frog’s mouth. I eased forward to the curb as the car squished to a wet-asphalt halt. There was the whine of an automatic window as the tinted glass dropped. I leaned down, smiling my prettiest as I flashed my work ID. Mr. One Eyebrow’s leer vanished and his face went ashen. The car lurched into motion with a tiny squeak of tires. “Day-tripper,” I said in disdain. No, I thought in a flash of chastisement. He was a norm, a human. Even if they were accurate, the terms day-tripper, domestic, squish, off-the-rack, and my personal favorite, snack, were politically frowned upon. But if he was picking strays up off the sidewalk in the Hollows, one might call him dead. The car never slowed as it went through a red light, and I turned at the catcalls from the hookers I had displaced about sunset. They weren’t happy, standing brazenly on the corner across from me. I gave them a little wave, and the tallest flipped me off before spinning to show me her tiny, spell-enhanced rear. The hooker and her distinctly husky-looking “friend” talked loudly as they tried to hide the cigarette they were passing between each other. It didn’t smell like your usual tobacco. Not my problem, tonight, I thought, moving back into my shadow. I leaned against the cold stone of the building, my gaze lingering on the red taillights of the car as it braked. Brow furrowed, I glanced at myself. I was tall for a woman—about five-eight—but not nearly as leggy as the hooker in the next puddle of light over. I wasn’t wearing as much makeup as she was, either. Narrow hips and a chest that was almost flat didn’t exactly make me streetwalker material. Before I found the leprechaun outlets, I had shopped in the “your first bra” aisle. It’s hard finding something without hearts and unicorns on it there. My ancestors had immigrated to the good old U.S. of A. in the 1800s. Somehow through the generations, the women all managed to retain the distinct red hair and green eyes of our Irish homeland. My freckles, though, are hidden under a spell my dad bought me for my thirteenth birthday. He had the tiny amulet put into a pinky ring. I never leave home without it. A sigh slipped from me as I tugged my bag back up onto my shoulder. The leather pants, red ankle boots, and the spaghetti strap halter weren’t too far from what I usually wore on casual Fridays to tick off my boss, but put them on a street corner at night … “Crap,” I muttered to Jenks. “I look like a hooker.” His only response was a snort. I forced myself not to react as I turned back to the bar. It was too rainy for the early crowd, and apart from my backup and the “ladies” down the way, the street was empty. I’d been standing out here nearly an hour with no sign of my mark. I might as well go in and wait. Besides, if I were inside, I might look like a solicitee rather than a solicitor. Taking a resolute breath, I pulled a few strands of my shoulder-length curls from my topknot, took a moment to arrange it artfully to fall about my face, and finally spit out my gum. The click of my boots made a snappy counterpoint to the jangling of the handcuffs pinned to my hip as I strode across the wet street and into the bar. The steel rings looked like a tawdry prop, but they were real and very well-used. I winced. No wonder Mr. One Eyebrow had stopped. Used for work, thank you, and not the kind you’re thinking of. Still, I’d been sent to the Hollows in the rain to collar a leprechaun for tax evasion. How much lower, I wondered, could I sink? It must have been from tagging that Seeing Eye dog last week. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t a werewolf? It matched the description I’d been given. As I stood in the narrow foyer shaking off the damp, I ran my gaze over the typical Irish bar crap: long-stemmed pipes stuck to the walls, green-beer signs, black vinyl seats, and a tiny stage where a wannabe-star was setting up his dulcimers and bagpipes amid a tower of amps. There was a whiff of contraband Brimstone. My predatory instincts stirred. It smelled three days old, not strong enough to track. If I could nail the supplier, I’d be off my boss’s hit list. He might even give me something worth my talents. “Hey,” grunted a low voice. “You Tobby’s replacement?” Brimstone dismissed, I batted my eyes and turned, coming eye-to-chest with a bright green T-shirt. My eyes traveled up a huge bear of a man. Bouncer material. The name on the shirt said CLIFF. It fit. “Who?” I purred, blotting the rain from what I generously call my cleavage with the hem of his shirt. He was completely unaffected; it was depressing. “Tobby. State-assigned hooker? She ever gonna show up again?” From my earring came a tiny singsong voice. “I told you so.” My smile grew forced. “I don’t know,” I said through my teeth. “I’m not a hooker.” He grunted again, eyeing my outfit. I pawed through my bag and handed him my work ID. Anyone watching would assume he was carding me. With readily available age-disguising spells, it was mandatory—as was the spell-check amulet he had around his neck. It glowed a faint red in response to my pinky ring. He wouldn’t do a full check on me for that, which was why all the charms in my bag were currently uninvoked. Not that I’d need them tonight. “Inderland Security,” I said as he took the card. “I’m on a run to find someone, not harass your regular clientele. That’s why the—uh—disguise.” “Rachel Morgan,” he read aloud, his thick fingers almost enveloping the laminated card. “Inderland Security runner. You’re an I.S. runner?” He looked from my card to me and back, his fat lips splitting in a grin. “What happened to your hair? Run into a blowtorch?” My lips pressed together. The picture was three years old. It hadn’t been a blowtorch, it had been a practical joke, an informal initiation into my full runner status. Real funny. The pixy darted from my earring, setting it swinging with his momentum. “I’d watch your mouth,” he said, tilting his head as he looked at my ID. “The last lunker who laughed at her picture spent the night in the emergency room with a drink umbrella jammed up his nose.” I warmed. “You know about that?” I said, snatching my card and shoving it away. “Everybody in appropriations knows about that.” The pixy laughed merrily. “And trying to tag that Were with an itch spell and losing him in the john.” “You try bringing in a Were that close to a full moon without getting bit,” I said defensively. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. I had to use a potion. Those things are expensive.” “And then Nairing an entire bus of people?” His dragonfly wings turned red as he laughed and his circulation increased. Dressed in black silk with a red bandanna, he looked like a miniature Peter Pan posing as an inner city gang member. Four inches of blond bothersome annoyance and quick temper. “That wasn’t my fault,” I said. “The driver hit a bump.” I frowned. Someone had switched my spells, too. I had been trying to tangle his feet, and ended up removing the hair from the driver and everyone in the first three rows. At least I had gotten my mark, though I wasted an entire paycheck on cabs the next three weeks, until the bus would pick me up again. “And the frog?” Jenks darted away and back as the bouncer flicked a finger at him. “I’m the only one who’d go out with you tonight. I’m getting hazard pay.” The pixy rose several inches, in what had to be pride. Cliff seemed unimpressed. I was appalled. “Look,” I said. “All I want is to sit over there and have a drink, nice and quietlike.” I nodded to the stage where the postadolescent was tangling the lines from his amps. “When does that start?” The bouncer shrugged. “He’s new. Looks like about an hour.” There was a crash followed by cheers as an amp fell off the stage. “Maybe two.” “Thanks.” Ignoring Jenks’s chiming laughter, I wove my way through the empty tables to a bank of darker booths. I chose the one under a moose head, sinking three inches more than I should have in the flaccid cushion. Soon as I found the little perp, I was out of there. This was insulting. I had been with the I.S. for three years—seven if you counted my four years of clinicals—and here I was, doing intern work. It was the interns that did the nitty-gritty day-to-day policing of Cincinnati and its largest suburb across the river, affectionately known as the Hollows. We picked up the supernatural stuff that the human-run FIB—short for the Federal Inderland Bureau—couldn’t handle. Minor spell disturbances and rescuing familiars out of trees were in the realm of an I.S. intern. But I was a full runner, damn it. I was better than this. I had done better than this. It had been I who single-handedly tracked down and apprehended the circle of dark witches who were circumventing the Cincinnati Zoo’s security spells to steal the monkeys, selling them to an underground biolab. But did I get any recognition for that? No. It had been I who realized that the loon digging up bodies in one of the churchyards was linked to the spate of deaths in the organ replacement wing in one of the human-run hospitals. Everyone assumed he was gathering materials to make illegal spells, not charming the organs into temporary health, then selling them on the black market. And the ATM thefts that plagued the city last Christmas? It had taken me six simultaneous charms to look like a man, but I nailed the witch. She had been using a love charm/forget spell combo to rob naive humans. That had been an especially satisfying tag. I’d chased her for three streets, and there had been no time for spell casting when she turned to hit me with what could have been a lethal charm, so I was completely justified in knocking her out cold with a roundhouse kick. Even better, the FIB had been after her for three months, and tagging her took me two days. I made them look like fools, but did I get a “Good job, Rachel?” Did I even get a ride back to the I.S. tower with my swollen foot? No. And lately I was getting even less: sorority kids using charms to steal cable, familiar theft, prank spells, and I couldn’t forget my favorite—chasing trolls out from under bridges and culverts before they ate all the mortar. A sigh shifted me as I glanced over the bar. Pathetic. Jenks dodged my apathetic attempts to swat him as he resettled himself on my earring. That they had to pay him triple to go out with me did not bode well. A green-clad waitress bounced over, frighteningly perky for this early. “Hi!” she said, showing teeth and dimples. “My name is Dottie. I’ll be your server tonight.” All smiles, she set three drinks before me: a Bloody Mary, an old-fashioned, and a Shirley Temple. How sweet. “Thanks, hon,” I said with a jaded sigh. “Who they from?” She rolled her eyes toward the bar, trying to portray bored sophistication but coming off like a high schooler at the big dance. Peering around her thin, apron-tied waist, I glanced over the three stiffs, lust in their eyes, horses in their pockets. It was an old tradition. Accepting a drink meant I accepted the invitation behind it. One more thing for Ms. Rachel to take care of. They looked like norms, but one never knew. Sensing no more conversation forthcoming, Dottie skipped away to do barmaid things. “Check them out, Jenks,” I whispered, and the pixy flitted away, his wings pale pink in his excitement. No one saw him go. Pixy surveillance at its finest. The pub was quiet, but as there were two tenders behind the bar, an old man and a young woman, I guessed it would pick up soon. The Blood and Brew was a known hot spot where norms went to mix with Inderlanders before driving back across the river with their doors locked and the windows up tight, titillated and thinking they were hot stuff. And though a lone human sticks out among Inderlanders like a zit on a prom queen’s face, an Inderlander can easily blend into humanity. It’s a survival trait honed since before Pasteur. That’s why the pixy. Fairies and pixies can literally sniff an Inderlander out quicker than I can say “Spit.” I halfheartedly scanned the nearly empty bar, my sour mood evaporating into a smile when I found a familiar face from the office. Ivy. Ivy was a vamp, the star of the I.S. runner lineup. We had met several years ago during my last year of internship, paired up for a year of semi-independent runs. She had just hired on as a full runner, having taken six years of university credit instead of opting for the two years of college and four years of internship that I had. I think assigning us to each other had been someone’s idea of a joke. Working with a vampire—living or not—had scared the peas out of me until I found out she wasn’t a practicing vamp and had sworn off blood. We were as unalike as two people could be, but her strengths were my weakness. I wish I could say her weaknesses were my strengths, but Ivy didn’t have any weaknesses—other than the tendency to plan the joy out of everything. We hadn’t worked together for years, and despite my grudgingly given promotion, Ivy still outranked me. She knew all the right things to say to all the right people at all the right times. It helped that she belonged to the Tamwood family, a name as old as Cincinnati itself. She was its last living member, in possession of a soul and as alive as me, having been infected with the vamp virus through her then still-living mother. The virus had molded Ivy even as she grew in her mother’s womb, giving Ivy a little of both worlds, the living and the dead. At my nod, she sauntered over. The men at the bar jostled elbows, all three turning to watch her in appreciation. She flicked them a dismissing glance, and I swear I heard one sigh. “How’s it going, Ivy?” I said as she eased onto the bench opposite me. Vinyl seat squeaking, she reclined in the booth with her back against the wall, the heels of her tall boots on the long bench, and her knees showing over the edge of the table. She stood half a head over me, but where I just looked tall, she pulled off a svelte elegance. Her slightly Oriental cast gave her an enigmatic look, upholding my belief that most models had to be vamps. She dressed like a model, too: modest leather skirt and silk blouse, top-of-the-line, all-vamp construction; black, of course. Her hair was a smooth dark wave, accenting her pale skin and oval-shaped face. No matter what she did with her hair, it made her look exotic. I could spend hours with mine and it always came out red and frizzy. Mr. One Eyebrow wouldn’t have stopped for her; she was too classy. “Hey, Rachel,” Ivy said. “Whatcha doing down in the Hollows?” Her voice was melodious and low, flowing with all the subtleties of gray silk. “I thought you’d be catching some skin cancer on the coast this week,” she added. “Is Denon still ticked about the dog?” I shrugged sheepishly. “Nah.” Actually, the boss nearly blew a vein. I had been a step away from being promoted to office broom pusher. “It was an honest mistake.” Ivy let her head fall back in a languorous motion to expose the long length of her neck. There wasn’t a scar on it. “Anyone could have made it.” Anyone but you, I thought sourly. “Yeah?” I said aloud, pushing the Bloody Mary toward her. “Well, let me know if you spot my take.” I jingled the charms on my cuffs, touching the clover carved from olive wood. Her thin fingers curved around the glass as if they were caressing it. Those same fingers could break my wrist if she put some effort into it. She’d have to wait until she was dead before she had enough strength to snap it without a thought, but she was still stronger than me. Half the red drink disappeared down her throat. “Since when is the I.S. interested in leprechauns?” she asked, eyeing the rest of the charms. “Since the boss’s last rainy day.” She shrugged, pulling her crucifix out from behind her shirt to run the metal loop through her teeth provocatively. Her canines were sharp, like a cat’s, but no bigger than mine. She’d get the extended versions after she died. I forced my eyes from them, watching the metal cross instead. It was as long as my hand and made of a beautifully tooled silver. She had begun wearing it lately to irritate her mother. They weren’t on the best of terms. I fingered the tiny cross on my cuffs, thinking it must be difficult having your mother be undead. I had met only a handful of dead vampires. The really old ones kept to themselves, and the new ones tended to get staked unless they learned to keep to themselves. Dead vamps were utterly without conscience, ruthless instinct incarnate. The only reason they followed society’s rules was because it was a game to them. And dead vampires knew about rules. Their continued existence depended upon rules which, if challenged, meant death or pain, the biggest rule of course being no sun. They needed blood daily to keep sane. Anyone’s would do, and taking it from the living was the only joy they found. And they were powerful, having incredible strength and endurance, and the ability to heal with an unearthly quickness. It was hard to destroy them except for the traditional beheading and staking through the heart. In exchange for their soul, they had the chance for immortality. It came with a loss of conscience. The oldest vampires claimed that was the best part: the ability to fulfill every carnal need without guilt when someone died to give you pleasure and keep you sane one more day. Ivy possessed both the vamp virus and a soul, caught in the middle ground until she died and became a true undead. Though not as powerful or dangerous as a dead vamp, the ability to walk under the sun and worship without pain made her envied by her dead brethren. The metal rings of Ivy’s necklace clicked rhythmically against her pearly whites, and I ignored her sensuality with a practiced restraint. I liked her better when the sun was up and she had more control over her mien of sexual predator. My pixy returned to land on the fake flowers in their vase full of cigarette butts. “Good God,” Ivy said, dropping her cross. “A pixy? Denon must be pissed.” Jenks’s wings froze for an instant before returning to a blur of motion. “Go Turn yourself, Tamwood!” he said shrilly. “You think fairies are the only ones who have a nose?” I winced as Jenks landed heavily upon my earring. “Nothing but the best for Ms. Rachel,” I said dryly. Ivy laughed, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. I missed the prestige of working with Ivy, but she still set me on edge. “I can come back if you think I’ll mess up your take,” I added. “No,” she said. “You’re stat. I’ve got a pair of needles cornered in the bathroom. I caught them soliciting out-of-season game.” Drink in hand, she slid to the end of the bench and stood with a sensual stretch, an almost unheard moan slipping from her. “They look too cheap to have a shift spell,” she said when she finished. “But I’ve got my big owl outside just in case. If they try to bat their way out a broken window, they’re bird chow. I’m just waiting them out.” She took a sip, her brown eyes watching me over the rim of her glass. “If you make your tag early enough, maybe we can share a cab uptown?” The soft hint of danger in her voice made me nod noncommittally as she left. Fingers nervously playing with a drooping curl of my red hair, I decided I’d see what she looked like before getting in a cab with her this late at night. Ivy might not need blood to survive, but it was obvious she still craved it, her public vow to abstain aside. Condolences were made at the bar as only two drinks remained at my elbow. Jenks was still fussing in a high-pitched tantrum. “Relax, Jenks,” I said, trying to keep him from ripping my earring out. “I like having a pixy backup. Fairies don’t do squat unless their union clears it.” “You’ve noticed?” he all but snarled, tickling my ear with the wind from his fitfully moving wings. “Just because of some maggoty-jack, pre-Turn poem written by a drunk lard-butt, they think they’re better than us. Publicity, Rachel. That’s all it is. Good old-fashioned greasy palms. Did you know fairies get paid more than pixies for the same work?” “Jenks?” I interrupted, fluffing my hair from my shoulder. “What’s going on at the bar?” “And that picture!” he continued, my earring quivering. “You’ve seen it? The one of that human brat crashing the frat party? Those fairies were so drunk, they didn’t even know they were dancing with a human. And they’re still getting the royalties.” “Hose yourself off, Jenks,” I said tightly. “What’s up at the bar?” There was a tiny huff, and my earring twisted. “Contestant number one is a personal athletic trainer,” he grumbled. “Contestant number two fixes air conditioners, and contestant number three is a newspaper reporter. Day-trippers. All of them.” “What about the guy on stage?” I whispered, making sure I didn’t look that way. “The I.S. gave me only a sketch description, since our take is probably under a disguise spell.” “Our take?” Jenks said. The wind from his wings ceased, and his voice lost its anger. I fastened on that. Maybe all he needed was to be included. “Why not check him out?” I asked instead of demanding. “He doesn’t seem to know which end of his bagpipes to blow into.” Jenks made a short bark of laughter and buzzed off in a better mood. Fraternization between runner and backup was discouraged, but what the heck. Jenks felt better, and perhaps my ear would still be in one piece when the sun came up. The bar jocks jostled elbows as I ran an index finger around the rim of the old-fashioned to make it sing while I waited. I was bored, and a little flirtation was good for the soul. A group came in, their loud chatter telling me the rain had picked up. They clustered at the far end of the bar, all talking at once, their arms stretching for their drinks as they demanded attention. I looked them over, a faint tightening of my gut telling me that at least one in their party was a dead vamp. It was hard to tell whom under the goth paraphernalia. My guess was the quiet young man in the back. He was the most normal looking in the tattooed, body-pierced group, wearing jeans and a button shirt instead of rain-spotted leather. He must have been doing well to have such a bevy of humans with him, their necks scarred and their bodies thin and anemic. But they seemed happy enough, content in their close-knit, almost familylike group. They were being especially nice to a pretty blonde, supporting her and working together to coax her to eat some peanuts. She looked tired as she smiled. Must have been his breakfast. As if pulled by my thoughts, the attractive man turned. He shifted his sunglasses down, and my face went slack as he met my eyes over them. I took a breath, seeing from across the room the rain on his eyelashes. A sudden need to brush them free filled me. I could almost feel the dampness of the rain on my fingers, how soft it would feel. His lips moved as he whispered, and it seemed I could hear but not understand his words swirling behind me to push me forward. Heart pounding, I gave him a knowing look and shook my head. A faint, charming smile tugged the corners of his mouth, and he looked away. My held breath slipped from me as I forced my eyes away. Yeah. He was a dead vamp. A living vamp couldn’t have bespelled me even that little bit. If he had been really trying, I wouldn’t have had a chance. But that’s what the laws were for, right? Dead vamps were only supposed to take willing initiates, and only after release papers were signed, but who was to say if the papers were signed before or after? Witches, Weres, and other Inderlanders were immune to turning vampire. Small comfort if the vamp lost control and you died from having your throat torn out. ’Course, there were laws against that, too. Still uneasy, I looked up to find the musician making a beeline for me, his eyes alight with a fevered itch. Stupid pixy. He had gotten himself caught. “Come to hear me play, beautiful?” the kid said as he stopped at my table, clearly struggling to make his voice low. “My name is Sue, not Beautiful,” I lied, staring past him toward Ivy. She was laughing at me. Swell. This was going to look just fantastic in our office newsletter. “You sent your fairy friend to check—me—out,” he said, half singing the words. “He’s a pixy not a fairy,” I said. The guy was either a stupid norm or a smart Inderlander pretending to be a stupid norm. I was betting on the former. He opened his fist and Jenks flew a wobbly trail to my earring. One of his wings was bent, and pixy dust sifted from him to make brief sunbeams on the table and my shoulder. My eyes closed in a strength-gathering blink. I was going to get blamed for this. I knew it. Jenks’s irate snarling filled my ear, and I frowned in thought. I didn’t think any of his suggestions were anatomically possible—but at least I knew the kid was a norm. “Come and see my big pipe in the van,” the kid said. “Bet you could make it sing-g-g-g.” I looked up at him, the dead vamp’s proposition making me jittery. “Go away.” “I’m gonna make it big, Suzy-Q,” he boasted, taking my hostile stare as an invitation to sit. “I’m going to the coast, soon as I get enough money. Got a friend in the music biz. He knows this guy who knows this guy who cleans Janice Joplin’s pool.” “Go away,” I repeated, but he only leaned back and screwed his face up, singing “Sue-sue-sussudio” in a high falsetto, pounding on the table in a broken rhythm. This was embarrassing. Surely I would be forgiven for nacking him? But no, I was a good little soldier in the fight for crimes against norms, even if no one but I thought so. Smiling, I leaned forward until my cleavage showed. That always gets their attention, even if there isn’t much of it. Reaching across the table, I grabbed the short hairs on his chest and twisted. That gets their attention, too, and it’s far more satisfying. The yelp as his singing cut off was like icing, it was so sweet. “Leave,” I whispered. I pushed the old-fashioned into his hand and curled his slack fingers around it. “And get rid of this for me.” His eyes grew wider as I gave a little tug. My fingers reluctantly loosened, and he beat a tactful retreat, sloshing half the drink as he went. There was a cheer from the bar. I looked to see the old bartender grinning. He touched the side of his nose, and I inclined my head. “Dumb kid,” I muttered. He had no business being in the Hollows. Someone ought to sling his butt back across the river before he got hurt. One glass remained before me, and bets were probably being made as to whether I would drink or not. “You all right, Jenks?” I asked, already guessing the answer. “The sawed-off lunker nearly pulps me, and you ask if I’m all right?” he snarled. His tiny voice was hilarious, and my eyebrows rose. “Nearly cracked my ribs. Slime stink all over me. Great God almighty, I reek of it. And look what he did to my clothes. Do you know how hard it is to get stink out of silk! My wife is gonna make me sleep in the flower boxes if I come home smelling like this. You can shove the triple pay, Rache. You aren’t worth it!” Jenks never noticed when I quit listening. He hadn’t said a thing about his wing, so I knew he’d be okay. I slumped into the back of the booth and stewed, dead in the water with Jenks leaking dust as he was. I was royally Turned. If I came in empty-handed, I’d get nothing but full moon disturbances and bad charm complaints until next spring. It wasn’t my fault. With Jenks unable to fly unnoticed, I knew I might as well go home. If I bought him some Maitake mushrooms, he might not tell the guy in appropriations how his wing got bent. What the heck, I thought. Why not make a party of it? Sort of a last fling before the boss nailed my broom to a tree, so to speak. I could stop at the mall for some bubble bath and a new disc of slow jazz. My career was taking a nosedive, but there was no reason I couldn’t enjoy the ride. With a perverse glow of anticipation, I took my bag and the Shirley Temple, rising to make my way to the bar. Not my style to leave things hanging. Contestant number three stood with a grin and a shake of his leg to adjust himself. God, help me. Men can be so disgusting. I was tired, ticked-off, and grossly unappreciated. Knowing he would take anything I said as playing hard to get and follow me out, I tipped the ginger pop down his front and kept walking. I smirked at his cry of outrage, then frowned at his heavy hand on my shoulder. Turning into a crouch, I sent my leg in a stiff half spin to trip him onto the floor. He hit the wood planking with a loud thump. The bar went silent after a momentary gasp. I was sitting on him, straddling his chest, before he even realized he had gone down. My bloodred manicure stood out sharply as I gripped his neck, flicking the bristles under his chin. His eyes were wide. Cliff stood at the door with his arms crossed, content to watch. “Damn, Rache,” Jenks said, swinging wildly from my earring. “Who taught you that?” “My dad,” I answered, then leaned until I was in his face. “So sorry,” I breathed in a thick Hollows accent. “You want to play, cookie?” His eyes went frightened as he realized I was an Inderlander and not a bit of fluff out looking for a wild night of pretend. He was a cookie, all right. A little treat to be enjoyed and forgotten. I wouldn’t hurt him, but he didn’t know that. “Sweet mother of Tinker Bell!” Jenks exclaimed, jerking my attention from the sniveling human. “Smell that? Clover.” My fingers loosened, and the man scrabbled out from under me. He awkwardly gained his feet, dragging his two cohorts to the shadows with a whispered muttering of face-saving insults. “One of the bartenders?” I breathed as I rose. “It’s the woman,” he said, sending a wash of excitement through me. My eyes rose, taking her in. She filled out her tight, high-contrast uniform of black and green admirably, giving the impression of bored competence as she moved confidently behind the counter. “You flaking out, Jenks?” I murmured as I tried to surreptitiously pull my leather pants out from where they had ridden up. “It can’t be her.” “Right!” he snapped. “Like you could tell. Ignore the pixy. I could be home right now in front of my TV. But no-o-o-o-o. I’m stuck spending the night with some beanpole of backward feminine intuition who thinks she can do my job better than me. I’m cold, hungry, and my wing is bent nearly in two. If that main vein snaps, I’ll have to regrow the entire wing. Do you have any idea how long that takes?” I glanced over the bar, relieved to see that everyone had returned to their conversations. Ivy was gone and had probably missed the entire thing. Just as well. “Shut up, Jenks,” I muttered. “Pretend you’re a decoration.” I sidled to the old man. He grinned a gap-toothed smile as I leaned forward. Wrinkles creased his leathered face in appreciation as his eyes rove everywhere but my face. “Gimme something,” I breathed. “Something sweet. Something that will make me feel good. Something rich and creamy and oh-so-bad for me.” “I’ll be needing to see yer ID, lassie,” the old man said in a thick Irish accent. “Ye dunna look old enough to be out from under yer mum’s shadow.” His accent was faked, but my smile at his compliment wasn’t. “Why, sure thing, hon.” I dug in my bag for my driver’s license, willing to play the game, since we both obviously enjoyed it. “Oops!” I giggled as the card slipped to fall behind the counter. “Silly little me!” With the help of the bar stool, I leaned halfway across the counter to get a good peek behind it. Having my rear in the air not only distracted the menfolk admirably but afforded me an excellent look. Yes, it was degrading if you thought about it too long, but it worked. I looked up to find the old man grinning, thinking I was checking him out, but it was the woman I was interested in now. She was standing on a box. She was nearly the right height, in the right place, and Jenks had marked her. She looked younger than I would have expected, but if you’re a hundred fifty years old, you’re bound to pick up a few beauty secrets. Jenks snorted in my ear, sounding like a smug mosquito. “Told you.” I settled back on the stool, and the bartender handed me my license along with a dead man’s float and a spoon: a dollop of ice cream in a short glass of Bailey’s. Yum. Tucking the card away, I gave him a saucy wink. I left the glass where it was, turning as if scoping out the patrons that had just come in. My pulse increased and my fingertips tingled. Time to go to work. A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, and I tipped my glass. I gasped as it spilled, and my distress wasn’t entirely faked as I lurched to catch it, trying to save at least the ice cream. The kick of adrenaline shook me as the woman bartender met my apologetic smile with her patronizing one. The jolt was worth more to me than the check I found shoved into my desk every week. But I knew the feeling would wane as fast as it had come. My talents were being wasted. I didn’t even need a spell for this one. If this was all the I.S. would give me, I thought, maybe Ishould blow off the steady pay and go out on my own. Not many left the I.S., but there was precedence. Leon Bairn was a living legend before he went independent—then promptly got wasted by a misaligned spell. Rumor had it the I.S. had been the one to put the price on his head for breaking his thirty-year contract. But that was over a decade ago. Runners went missing all the time, taken out by prey more clever or luckier than them. Blaming it on the I.S.’s own assassin corps was just spiteful. No one left the I.S. because the money was good and the hours were easy, that’s all. Yeah, I thought, ignoring the whisper of warning that took me. Leon Bairn’s death was exaggerated. Nothing was ever proven. And the only reason I still had a job was because they couldn’t legally fire me. Maybe I should go out on my own. It couldn’t be any worse than what I was doing now. They would be glad to see me leave. Sure, I thought, smiling. Rachel Morgan, private runner for hire. All rights earnestly upheld. All wrongs sincerely avenged. I knew my smile was misty as the woman obligingly swiped her towel between my elbows to mop up the spill. My breath came in a quick sound. Left hand dropping, I snatched the cloth, tangling her in it. My right swung back, then forward with my cuffs, clicking them about her wrists. In an instant it was done. She blinked, shocked. Damn, I’m good. The woman’s eyes widened as she realized what had happened. “Blazes and condemnation!” she cried, sounding elegant with her Irish accent. Hers wasn’t faked. “What the ’ell do you think you’re doin’?” The jolt flared to ash, and a sigh slipped from me as I eyed the lone scoop of ice cream that was left of my drink. “Inderland Security,” I said, slapping my I.S. identification down. The rush was gone already. “You stand accused of fabricating a rainbow for the purpose of misrepresenting the income generated from said rainbow, failure to file the appropriate requisition forms for said rainbow, failure to notify Rainbow Authority of said rainbow’s end—” “It’s a lie!” the woman shouted, contorting in the cuffs. Her eyes darted wildly about the bar as all attention focused on her. “All a lie! I found that pot legally.” “You retain the right to keep your mouth shut,” I ad-libbed, digging out a spoonful of ice cream. It was cold in my mouth, and the hint of alcohol was a poor replacement for the waning warmth of adrenaline. “If you forego your right to keep your mouth shut, I will shut it for you.” The bartender slammed the flat of his hand on the counter. “Cliff!” he bellowed, his Irish accent gone. “Put the Help Wanted sign in the window. Then get back here and help me.” “Yeah, boss,” came Cliff’s distant, I-couldn’t-care-less shout. Setting my spoon aside, I reached across the bar and yanked the leprechaun over the counter and onto the floor before she got much smaller. She was shrinking as the charms on my cuffs slowly overpowered her weaker size spell. “You have a right to a lawyer,” I said, tucking my ID away. “If you can’t afford one, you’re toast.” “You canna catch me!” the leprechaun threatened, struggling as the crowd’s shouts became enthusiastic. “Rings of steel alone canna hold me. I’ve escaped from kings, and sultans, and nasty little children with nets!” I tried to finger-curl my rain-damp hair as she fought and wrestled, slowly coming to grips that she was caught. The cuffs shrank with her, keeping her confined. “I’ll be out of this—in—just a moment,” she panted, slowing enough to look at her wrists. “Aw, for the love of St. Pete.” She slumped, sending her eyes over the yellow moon, green clover, pink heart, and orange star that decorated my cuffs. “May the devil’s own dog hump your leg. Who squealed about the charms?” Then she looked closer. “You caught me with four? Four? I didn’t think the old ones still worked.” “Call me old-fashioned,” I said to my glass, “but when something works, I stick with it.” Ivy walked past, her two black-cloaked vamps before her, elegant in their dark misery. One had a bruise developing under his eye; the other was limping. Ivy wasn’t gentle with vamps preying on the underage. Remembering the pull from the dead vamp at the end of the bar, I understood why. A sixteen-year-old couldn’t fight that. Wouldn’t want to fight that. “Hey, Rachel,” Ivy said brightly, looking almost human now that she wasn’t actively working. “I’m heading uptown. Want to split the fare?” My thoughts went back to the I.S. as I weighed the risk of being a starving entrepreneur to a lifetime of running for shoplifters and illegal-charm sellers. It wasn’t as if the I.S. would put a price on my head. No, Denon would be thrilled to tear up my contract. I couldn’t afford an office in Cincinnati, but maybe in the Hollows. Ivy spent a lot of time down here. She’d know where I could find something cheap. “Yeah,” I said, noting her eyes were a nice, steady brown. “I want to ask you something.” She nodded and pushed her two takes forward. The crowd pressed back, the sea of black clothing seeming to soak up the light. The dead vamp at the outskirts gave me a respectful nod, as if to say “Good tag,” and with a pulse of emotion giving me a false high, I nodded back. “Way to go, Rachel,” Jenks chimed up, and I smiled. It had been a long time since I’d heard that. “Thanks,” I said, catching sight of him on my earring in the bar’s mirror. Pushing my glass aside, I reached for my bag, my smile widening when the bartender gestured it was on the house. Feeling warm from more than the alcohol, I slipped from my stool and pulled the leprechaun stumbling to her feet. Thoughts of a door with my name painted on it in gold letters swirled through me. It was freedom. “No! Wait!” the leprechaun shouted as I grabbed my bag and hauled her butt to the door. “Wishes! Three wishes. Right? You let me go, and you get three wishes.” I pushed her into the warm rain ahead of me. Ivy had a cab already, her catch stashed in the trunk so there would be more room for the rest of us. Accepting wishes from a felon was a sure way to find yourself on the wrong end of a broomstick, but only if you got caught. “Wishes?” I said, helping the leprechaun into the backseat. “Let’s talk.” Two (#ulink_fd39906a-97b6-5dcd-9e01-5c8fe4794e65) “What did you say?” I asked as I half turned in the front seat to see Ivy. She gestured helplessly from the back. The rhythm of bad wipers and good music fought to outdo each other in a bizarre mix of whining guitars and hiccuping plastic against glass. “Rebel Yell” screamed from the speakers. I couldn’t compete. Jenks’s credible imitation of Billy Idol gyrating with the Hawaiian dancer stuck to the dash didn’t help. “Can I turn it down?” I asked the cabbie. “No touch! No touch!” he cried in an odd accent. The forests of Europe, maybe? His faint musky scent put him as a Were. I reached for the volume knob, and he took his fur-backed hand from the wheel and slapped at me. The cab swerved into the next lane. His charms, all gone bad by the look of them, slid across the dash to spill onto my lap and the floor. The chain of garlic swinging from the rearview mirror hit me square in the eye. I gagged as the stench fought with the odor of the tree-shaped cardboard, also swinging from the mirror. “Bad girl,” he accused, veering back into his lane and throwing me into him. “If I good girl,” I snarled as I slid back into my seat, “you let me turn music down?” The driver grinned. He was missing a tooth. He would be missing another one if I had my way. “Yah,” he said. “They talking now.” The music fell to nothing, replaced by a fast-talking announcer shouting louder than the music had been. “Good Lord,” I muttered, turning the radio down. My lips curled at the smear of grease on the knob. I stared at my fingers, then wiped them off on the amulets still in my lap. They weren’t good for anything else. The salt from the driver’s too-frequent handlings had ruined them. Giving him a pained look, I dumped the charms into the chipped cup holder. I turned to Ivy, sprawled in the back. One hand was up to keep her owl from falling out of the rear window as we bounced along, the other was propped behind her neck. Passing cars and the occasional functioning streetlight briefly illuminated her black silhouette. Dark and unblinking, her eyes met mine, then returned to the window and the night. My skin prickled at the air of ancient tragedy about her. She wasn’t pulling an aura—she was just Ivy—but it gave me the willies. Didn’t the woman ever smile? My take had pressed herself into the other corner, as far from Ivy as she could get. The leprechaun’s green boots just reached the end of the seat, and she looked like one of those dolls they sell on TV. Three easy payments of $49.95 for thishighly detailed rendition of Becky the Barmaid. Similar dolls have tripled, even quadrupled, in value! This doll, though, had a sneaky glint in her eye. I gave her a sly nod, and Ivy’s gaze flicked suspiciously to mine. The owl gave a pained hoot as we hit a nasty bump, opening its wings to keep its balance. But it was the last. We had crossed the river and were back in Ohio. The ride now was smooth as glass, and the cabbie’s pace slowed as he seemed to remember what traffic signs were for. Ivy removed her hand from her owl and ran her fingers through her long hair. “I said, ‘You never took me up on a ride before.’ What’s up?” “Oh, yeah.” I draped an arm over the seat. “Do you know where I can rent a cheap flat? In the Hollows, maybe?” Ivy faced me squarely, the perfect oval of her face looking pale in the streetlights. There were lights now at every corner, making it nearly bright as day. Paranoid norms. Not that I blamed them. “You moving into the Hollows?” she asked, her expression quizzical. I couldn’t help my smile at that. “No. I’m quitting the I.S.” That got her attention. I could tell by the way she blinked. Jenks stopped trying to dance with the tiny figure on the dash and stared at me. “You can’t break your I.S. contract,” Ivy said. She glanced at the leprechaun, who beamed at her. “You’re not thinking of …” “Me? Break the law?” I said lightly. “I’m too good to have to break the law. I can’t help it if she’s the wrong leprechaun, though,” I added, not feeling a bit guilty. The I.S. had made it abundantly clear they didn’t want my services anymore. What was I supposed to do? Roll on my back with my belly in the air and lick someone’s, er, muzzle? “Paperwork,” the cabbie interjected, his accent abruptly as smooth as the road as he switched to the voice and manners needed to get and keep fares on this side of the river. “Lose the paperwork. Happens all the time. I think I’ve Rynn Cormel’s confession in here somewhere from when my father shuttled lawyers from quarantine to the courts during the Turn.” “Yeah.” I gave him a nod and smile. “Wrong name on the wrong paper. Q.E.D.” Ivy’s eyes were unblinking. “Leon Bairn didn’t just spontaneously explode, Rachel.” My breath puffed out. I wouldn’t believe the stories. They were just that, stories to keep the I.S.’s flock of runners from wanting to break their contracts once they learned all the I.S. had to teach them. “That was over ten years ago,” I said. “And the I.S. had nothing to do with it. They aren’t going to kill me for breaking my contract; they want me to leave.” I frowned. “Besides, being turned inside out would be more fun than what I’m doing now.” Ivy leaned forward, and I refused to back away. “They say it took three days to find enough of him to fit in a shoe box,” she said. “Scraped the last off the ceiling of his porch.” “What am I supposed to do?” I said, pulling my arm back. “I haven’t had a decent run in months. Look at this.” I gestured to my take. “A tax-evading leprechaun. It’s an insult.” The little woman stiffened. “Well, excu-u-u-u-use me.” Jenks abandoned his new girlfriend to sit on the back rim of the cabbie’s hat. “Yeah,” he said. “Rachel’s gonna be pushing a broom if I have to take time off for workman’s comp.” He fitfully moved his damaged wing, and I gave him a pained smile. “Maitake?” I said. “Quarter pound,” he countered, and I mentally upped it to a half. He was okay, for a pixy. Ivy frowned, fingering her crucifix chain. “There’s a reason no one breaks their contract. The last person to try was sucked through a turbine.” Jaw clenched, I turned to look out the front window. I remembered. It was almost a year ago. It would have killed him if he hadn’t been dead already. The vamp was due back in the office any day now. “I’m not asking for your permission,” I said. “I’m asking you if you know anyone with a cheap place to rent.” Ivy was silent, and I shifted to see her. “I have a little something tucked away. I can put up a shingle, help people that need it—” “Oh, for the love of blood,” Ivy interrupted. “Leaving to open up a charm shop, maybe. But your own agency?” She shook her head, her black hair swinging. “I’m not your mother, but if you do this, you’re dead. Jenks? Tell her she’s dead.” Jenks nodded solemnly, and I flopped around to stare out the window. I felt stupid for having asked for her help. The cabbie was nodding. “Dead,” he said. “Dead, dead, dead.” This was better and better. Between Jenks and the cab driver, the entire city would know I quit before I gave notice. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I muttered. Ivy draped an arm over the seat. “Did it occur to you someone may be setting you up? Everyone knows leprechauns try to buy their way out. If you get caught, your butt is buttered.” “Yeah,” I said. “I thought of that.” I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell her. “My first wish will be to not get caught.” “Always is,” the leprechaun said slyly. “That your first wish?” In a flash of anger, I nodded, and the leprechaun grinned, dimples showing. She was halfway home. “Look,” I said to Ivy. “I don’t need your help. Thanks for nothing.” I shuffled in my bag for my wallet. “Drop me here,” I said to the cabbie. “I want a coffee. Jenks? Ivy will get you back to the I.S. Can you do that for me, Ivy? For old times’ sake?” “Rachel,” she protested, “you’re not listening to me.” The cabbie carefully signaled, then pulled over. “Watch your back, Hot Stuff.” I got out, yanked open the rear door, and grabbed my leprechaun by her uniform. My cuffs had completely masked her size spell. She was about the size of a chunky two-year-old. “Here,” I said, tossing a twenty onto the seat. “That should cover my share.” “It’s still raining!” the leprechaun wailed. “Shut up.” Drops pattered against me, ruining my topknot and sticking the trailing strands to my neck. I slammed the door as Ivy leaned to say something. I had nothing left to lose. My life was a pile of magic manure, and I couldn’t even make compost out of it. “But I’m getting wet,” the leprechaun complained. “You want back in the car?” I asked. My voice was calm, but inside I was seething. “We can forget the whole thing if you want. I’m sure Ivy will take care of your paperwork. Two jobs in one night. She’ll get a bonus.” “No,” came her meek, tiny voice. Ticked, I looked across the street to the Starbucks catering to uptown snits who needed sixty different ways to brew a bean in order to not be happy with any of them. Being on this side of the river, the coffeehouse would likely be empty at this hour. It was the perfect place to sulk and regroup. I half dragged the leprechaun to the door, trying to guess the cost of a cup of coffee by the number of pre-Turn doodads in the front window. “Rachel, wait.” Ivy had rolled down her window, and I could hear the cabbie’s music cranked again. Sting’s “A Thousand Years.” I could almost get back in the car. I yanked the door of the caf? open, sneering at the chimes’ merry jingle. “Coffee. Black. And a booster seat,” I shouted to the kid behind the counter as I strode to the darkest corner, my leprechaun in tow. Tear it all. The kid was a vision of upright character in his red-and-white-striped apron and perfect hair. Probably a university student. I could have gone to the university instead of the community college. At least for a semester or two. I’d been accepted and everything. The booth, though, was cushy and soft. There was a real tablecloth. And my feet didn’t stick to the floor, a definite plus. The kid was eyeing me with a superior look, so I pulled off my boots and sat cross-legged to harass him. I was still dressed like a hooker. I think he was trying to decide whether he should call the I.S. or its human counterpart, the FIB. That’d be a laugh. My ticket out of the I.S. stood on the seat across from me and fidgeted. “Can I have a latte?” she whined. “No.” The door chimed, and I looked to see Ivy stride in with her owl on her arm, its talons pinching the thick armband she had. Jenks was perched on her shoulder, as far from the owl as he could get. I stiffened, turning to the picture above the table of babies dressed up as a fruit salad. I think it was supposed to be cute, but it only made me hungry. “Rachel. I have to talk to you.” This was apparently too much for Junior. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in his perfect voice. “No pets allowed. The owl must remain outside.” Ma’am? I thought, trying to keep the hysterical laughter from bubbling up. He went pale as Ivy glanced at him. Staggering, he almost fell as he sightlessly backed up. She was pulling an aura on him. Not good. Ivy turned her gaze to me. My air whooshed out as I hit the back of the booth. Black, predator eyes nailed me to the vinyl seat. Raw hunger clutched at my stomach. My fingers convulsed. Her bound tension was intoxicating. I couldn’t look away. It was nothing like the gentle question the dead vamp had poised to me in The Blood and Brew. This was anger, domination. Thank God she wasn’t angry with me, but at Junior behind the counter. Sure enough, as soon as she saw the look on my face, the anger in her eyes flickered and went out. Her pupils contracted, setting her eyes back to their usual brown. In a clock-tick the shroud of power had slipped from her, easing back into the depths of hell that it came from. It had to be hell. Such raw domination couldn’t come from an enchantment. My anger flowed back. If I was angry, I couldn’t be afraid, right? It had been years since Ivy pulled an aura on me. The last time, we had been arguing over how to tag a low-blood vamp under suspicion of enticing underage girls with some asinine, role-playing card game. I had dropped her with a sleep charm, then painted the word “idiot” on her fingernails in red nail polish before tying her in a chair and waking her up. She had been the model friend since then, if a bit cool at times. I think she appreciated that I hadn’t told anyone. Junior cleared his throat. “You—ah—can’t stay unless you order something, ma’am?” he offered weakly. Gutsy, I thought. Must be an Inderlander. “Orange juice,” Ivy said loudly, standing before me. “No pulp.” Surprise made me look up. “Orange juice?” Then I frowned. “Look,” I said, unclenching my hands and roughly pulling my bag of charms onto my lap. “I don’t care if Leon Bairn did end up as a film on the sidewalk. I’m quitting. And nothing you say is going to change my mind.” Ivy shifted from foot to foot. It was her disquiet that cooled the last of my anger. Ivy was worried? I’d never seen that. “I want to go with you,” she finally said. For a moment, I could only stare. “What?” I finally managed. She sat down across from me with an affected air of nonchalance, putting her owl to watch the leprechaun. The tearing sound as she undid the fasteners of her armband sounded loud, and she set it on the bench beside her. Jenks half hopped to the table, his eyes wide and his mouth shut for a change. Junior showed up with the booster chair and our drinks. We silently waited as he placed everything with shaking hands and went to hide in the back room. My mug was chipped and only half full. I toyed with the idea of coming back to stick a charm under the table that would sour any cream that got within four feet of it, but decided I had more important things to contend with. Like why Ivy was going to flush her illustrious career down the proverbial toilet. “Why?” I asked, floored. “The boss loves you. You get to pick your assignments. You got a paid vacation last year.” Ivy was studying the picture, avoiding me. “So?” “It was for four weeks! You went to Alaska for the midnight sun!” Her thin black eyebrows bunched, and she reached to arrange her owl’s feathers. “Half the rent, half the utilities, half of everything is my responsibility, half is yours. I bring in and do my business, you bring in and handle yours. If need be, we work together. Like before.” I settled back, my huff not as obvious as I wanted it to be, since there was only the cushy upholstery to fall into. “Why?” I asked again. Her fingers dropped from her owl. “I’m very good at what I do,” she said, not answering me. A hint of vulnerability had crept into her voice. “I won’t drag you down, Rachel. No vamp will dare move against me. I can extend that to you. I’ll keep the vamp assassins off of you until you come up with the money to pay off your contract. With my connections and your spells, we can stay alive long enough to get the I.S. to drop the price on our heads. But I want a wish.” “There’s no price on our heads,” I said quickly. “Rachel …” she cajoled. Her brown eyes were soft in worry, alarming me. “Rachel, there will be.” She leaned forward until I fought not to retreat. I took a shallow breath to look for the smell of blood on her, smelling only the tang of juice. She was wrong. The I.S. wouldn’t put a price on my head. They wanted me to leave. She was the one who should be worried. “Me, too,” Jenks said suddenly. He vaulted to the rim of my mug. Iridescent dust sifted from his bent wing to make an oily film on my coffee. “I want in. I want a wish. I’ll ditch the I.S. and be both your backups. You’re gonna need one. Rache, you get the four hours before midnight, Ivy the four after, or whatever schedule you want. I get every fourth day off, seven paid holidays, and a wish. You let me and my family live in the office, real quietlike in the walls. Pay me what I’m making now, biweekly.” Ivy nodded and took a sip of her juice. “Sounds good to me. What do you think?” My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I can’t give you my wishes.” The leprechaun bobbed her head. “Yes, you can.” “No,” I said impatiently. “I mean, I need them.” A pang of worry had settled into my gut at the thought that maybe Ivy was right. “I already used one to not get caught letting her go,” I said. “I have to wish to get out of my contract, for starters.” “Uh,” the leprechaun stammered. “I can’t do anything about that if it’s in writing.” Jenks gave a snort of derision. “Not that good, eh?” “Shut your mouth—bug!” she snapped, color showing on her cheeks. “Shut your own, moss wipe!” he snarled back. This can’t be happening, I thought. All I wanted was out, not to lead a revolt. “You’re not serious,” I said. “Ivy, tell me this is your twisted sense of humor finally showing itself.” She met my gaze squarely. I never could tell what was going on behind a vamp’s eyes. “For the first time in my career,” she said, “I’m going back empty-handed. I let my take go.” She waved a hand in the air. “Opened the trunk and let them run. I broke regulations.” A closed-lipped smile flickered over her and was gone. “Is that serious enough for you?” “Go find your own leprechaun,” I said, catching myself as I reached for my cup. Jenks was still sitting on the handle. She laughed. It was cold, and this time I did shiver. “I pick my runs,” she said. “What do you think would happen if I went after a leprechaun, muffed it, then tried to leave the I.S.?” Across from me, the leprechaun sighed. “No amount of wishing could make that look good,” she piped up. “It’s going to be hard enough making this look like a coincidence.” “And you, Jenks?” I said, my voice cracking. Jenks shrugged. “I want a wish. It can give me something the I.S. can’t. I want sterility so my wife won’t leave me.” He flew a ragged path to the leprechaun. “Or is that too hard for you, greenie weenie?” he mocked, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips. “Bug,” she muttered, my charms jingling as she threatened to squish him. Jenks’s wings went red in anger, and I wondered if the dust sifting from him could catch fire. “Sterility?” I questioned, struggling to keep to the topic at hand. He flipped the leprechaun off and strutted across the table to me. “Yeah. You know how many brats I’ve got?” Even Ivy looked surprised. “You’d risk your life over that?” she asked. Jenks made a tinkling laugh. “Who said I’m risking my life? The I.S. couldn’t care less if I leave. Pixies don’t sign contracts. They go through us too fast. I’m a free agent. I always have been.” He grinned, looking far too sly for so small a person. “I always will be. I figure my life span will be marginally longer with only you two lunkers to watch out for.” I turned to Ivy. “I know you signed a contract. They love you. If anyone should be worried about a death threat, it’s you, not me. Why would you risk that for—for—” I hesitated. “For nothing? What wish could be worth that?” Ivy’s face went still. A hint of black shadow drifted over her. “I don’t have to tell you.” “I’m not stupid,” I said, trying to hide my disquiet. “How do I know you aren’t going to start practicing again?” Clearly insulted, Ivy stared at me until I dropped my gaze, chilled to the bone. This, I thought, is definitely not a good idea. “I’m not a practicing vamp,” she finally said. “Not anymore. Not ever again.” I forced my hand down, realizing I was playing with my damp hair. Her words were only slightly reassuring. Her glass was half empty, and I only remembered her taking the one sip. “Partners?” Ivy said, extending her hand across the table. Partners with Ivy? With Jenks? Ivy was the best runner the I.S. had. It was more than a little flattering that she wanted to work with me on a permanent basis, if also a bit worrisome. But it wasn’t as if I had to live with her. Slowly I stretched my hand to meet hers. My perfectly shaped red nails looked garish next to her unpolished ones. All my wishes—gone. But I would’ve probably wasted them anyway. “Partners,” I said, shivering at the coldness of Ivy’s hand as I took it. “All right!” Jenks crowed, flitting to land on top of our handshake. The dust sifting from him seemed to warm Ivy’s touch. “Partners!” Three (#ulink_e0bd2006-f955-593b-8226-29320d15391c) “Dear God,” I moaned under my breath. “Don’t let me be sick. Not here.” I shut my eyes in a long blink, hoping the light wouldn’t hurt so much when I opened them. I was in my cubicle, twenty-fifth floor of the I.S. tower. The afternoon sun slanted in, but it would never reach me, my desk being toward the middle of the maze. Someone had brought in doughnuts, and the smell of the frosting made my stomach roil. All I wanted was to go back home and sleep. Tugging open my top drawer, I fumbled for a pain amulet, groaning when I found I’d used them all. My forehead hit the edge of the metal desk, and I stared past my frizzy length of hair to my ankle boots peeping past the hem of my jeans. I had worn something conservative in deference to my quitting: a tuck-in red linen shirt and pants. No more tight leather for a while. Last night had been a mistake. It had taken far too many drinks for me to get stupid enough to officially give my remaining wishes to Ivy and Jenks. I had really been counting on the last two. Anyone who knows anything about wishes knows you can’t wish for more. The same goes for wishing for wealth. Money doesn’t just appear. It has to come from somewhere, and unless you wish not to get caught, they always get you for theft. Wishes are tricky things, which was why most Inderlanders had lobbied to get a minimum of three-per-go. In hindsight, I hadn’t done too badly. Having wished to not get caught letting the leprechaun go would at least allow me to leave the I.S. with a clear record. If Ivy was right and they were going to nack me for breaking my contract, they would have to make it look like an accident. But why would they bother? Death threats were expensive, and they wanted me gone. Ivy had gotten a marker to call her wish in later. It looked like an old coin with a hole in it, and she had laced it on a purple cord and hung it about her neck. Jenks, though, spent his wish right in the bar, buzzing off to give the news to his wife. I should have left when Jenks had, but Ivy didn’t seem to want to leave. It had been a long time since I’d had a girls’ night out, and I thought I might find the courage at the bottom of a glass to tell the boss I was leaving. I hadn’t. Five seconds into my rehearsed speech, Denon flipped open an manila envelope, pulled out my contract, and tore it up, telling me to be out of the building in half an hour. My badge and I.S.-issue cuffs were in his desk; the charms that had decorated them were in my pocket. My seven years with the I.S. had left me with an accumulated clutter of knickknacks and outdated memos. Fingers trembling, I reached for a cheap, thick-walled vase that hadn’t seen a flower for months. It went into the trash, just like the cretin who had given it to me. My dissolution bowl went into the box at my feet. The salt-encrusted blue ceramic grated harshly on the cardboard. It had gone dry last week, and the rime of salt left from evaporation was dusty. A wooden dowel of redwood clattered in next to it. It was too thick to make a wand out of, but I wasn’t good enough to make a wand anyway. I had bought the dowel to make a set of lie-detecting amulets and never got around to it. It was easier to buy them. Stretching, I grabbed my phone list of past contacts. A quick look to be sure no one was watching, and I shoved it out of sight next to my dissolution bowl, sliding my disc player and headphones to cover it. I had a few reference books to go back to Joyce across the aisle, but the container of salt propping them up had been my dad’s. I set it in the box, wondering what Dad would think of me leaving. “He would be pleased as punch,” I whispered, gritting my teeth against my hangover. I glanced up, sending my gaze over the ugly yellow partitions. My eyes narrowed as my coworkers looked the other way. They were standing in huddled groups as they gossiped, pretending to be busy. Their hushed whispers grated on me. Taking a slow breath, I reached for my black-and-white picture of Watson, Crick, and the woman behind it all, Rosalind Franklin. They were standing before their model of DNA, and Rosalind’s smile had the same hidden humor of Mona Lisa. One might think she knew what was going to happen. I wondered if she had been an Inderlander. Lots of people did. I kept the picture to remind myself how the world turns on details others miss. It had been almost forty years since a quarter of humanity died from a mutated virus, the T4 Angel. And despite the frequent TV evangelists’ claim otherwise, it wasn’t our fault. It started and ended with good old-fashioned human paranoia. Back in the fifties, Watson, Crick, and Franklin had put their heads together and solved the DNA riddle in six months. Things might have stopped there, but the then-Soviets grabbed the technology. Spurred by a fear of war, money flowed into the developing science. By the early sixties we had bacteria-produced insulin. A wealth of bioengineered drugs followed, flooding the market with offshoots of the U.S.’s darker search for bioengineered weapons. We never made it to the moon, turning science inward instead of outward to kill ourselves. And then, toward the end of the decade, someone made a mistake. The debate as to whether it was the U.S. or the Soviets is moot. Somewhere up in the cold Arctic labs, a lethal chain of DNA escaped. It left a modest trail of death to Rio that was identified and dealt with, the majority of the public unaware and ignorant. But even as the scientists wrote their conclusionary notes in their lab books and shelved them, the virus mutated. It attached itself to a bioengineered tomato through a weak spot in its modified DNA that the researchers thought too minuscule to worry about. The tomato was officially known as the T4 Angel tomato—its lab identification—and from there came the virus’s name, Angel. Unaware that the virus was using the Angel tomato as an intermediate host, it was transported by the airlines. Sixteen hours later it was too late. The third world countries were decimated in a frightening three weeks, and the U.S. shut down in four. Borders were militarized, and a governmental policy of “Sorry, we can’t help you” was instituted. The U.S. suffered and people died, but compared to the charnel pit the rest of the world became, it was a cakewalk. But the largest reason civilization remained intact was that most Inderland species were resistant to the Angel virus. Witches, the undead, and the smaller species like trolls, pixies, and fairies were completely unaffected. Weres, living vamps, and leprechauns got the flu. The elves, though, died out completely. It was believed their practice of hybridizing with humans to bolster their numbers backfired, making them susceptible to the Angel virus. When the dust settled and the Angel virus was eradicated, the combined numbers of our various species had neared that of humanity. It was a chance we quickly seized. The Turn, as it came to be called, began at noon with a single pixy. It ended at midnight with humanity huddling under the table, trying to come to grips with the fact that they’d been living beside witches, vampires, and Weres since before the pyramids. Humanity’s first gut reaction to wipe us off the face of the earth petered out pretty fast when it was shoved under their noses that we had kept the structure of civilization up and running while the world fell apart. If not for us, the death rate would have been far higher. Even so, the first years after the Turn were a madhouse. Afraid to strike out at us, humanity outlawed medical research as the demon behind their woes. Biolabs were leveled, and the bioengineers who escaped the plague stood trial and died in little more than legalized murder. There was a second, subtler wave of death when the source of the new medicines were inadvertently destroyed along with the biotechnology. It was only a matter of time before humanity insisted on a purely human institution to monitor Inderlander activities. The Federal Inderland Bureau arose, dissolving and replacing local law enforcement throughout the U.S. The out-of-work Inderlander police and federal agents formed their own police force, the I.S. Rivalry between the two remains high even today, serving to keep a tight lid on the more aggressive Inderlanders. Four floors of Cincinnati’s main FIB building are devoted to finding the remaining illegal biolabs where, for a price, one can still get clean insulin and something to stave off leukemia. The human-run FIB is as obsessed in finding banned technology as the I.S. is with getting the mind-altering drug Brimstone off the streets. And it all started when Rosalind Franklin noticed her pencil had been moved, and someone was where they oughtnot be, I thought, rubbing my fingertips into my aching head. Small clues. Little hints. That’s what makes the world turn. That’s what made me such a good runner. Smiling back at Rosalind, I wiped the fingerprints off the frame and put it in my keep box. There was a burst of nervous laughter behind me, and I yanked open the next drawer, shuffling through the dirty self-stick notes and paper clips. My brush was right where I always left it, and a knot of worry loosened as I tossed it into the box. Hair could be used to make spells target specific. If Denon was going to slap a death threat on me, he would have taken it. My fingers found the heavy smoothness of my dad’s pocket watch. Nothing else was mine, and I slammed the drawer shut, stiffening as my head seemed to nearly explode. The watch’s hands were frozen at seven to midnight. He used to tease me that it had stopped the night I was conceived. Slouching in my chair, I wedged it into my front pocket. I could almost see him standing in the doorframe of the kitchen, looking from his watch to the clock over the sink, a smile curving over his long face as he pondered where the missing moments had gone. I set Mr. Fish—the Beta-in-bowl I had gotten at last year’s office Christmas party—into my dissolution basin, trusting chance would keep both the water and the fish from sloshing out. I tossed the canister of fish flakes after him. A muffled thump from the far end of the room pulled my attention beyond the partitions and to Denon’s closed door. “You won’t get three feet out that door, Tamwood,” came his muffled shout, silencing the buzz of conversations. Apparently, Ivy had just resigned. “I’ve got a contract. You work for me, not the other way around! You leave and—” There was a clatter behind the closed door. “Holy shit …” he continued softly. “How much is that?” “Enough to pay off my contract,” Ivy said, her voice cold. “Enough for you and the stiffs in the basement. Do we have an understanding?” “Yeah,” he said in what sounded like greedy awe. “Yeah. You’re fired.” My head felt as if it was stuffed with tissue, and I rested it in my cupped hands. Ivy had money? Why hadn’t she said anything last night? “Go Turn yourself, Denon,” Ivy said, clear in the absolute hush. “I quit. You didn’t fire me. You may have my money, but you can’t buy into high-blood. You’re second-rate, and no amount of money can change that. If I have to live in the gutters off rats, I’ll still be better than you, and it’s killing you I won’t have to take your orders anymore.” “Don’t think this makes you safe,” the boss raved. I could almost see that vein popping on his neck. “Accidents happen around her. Get too close, and you might wake up dead.” Denon’s door swung open and Ivy stormed out, slamming his door so hard the lights flickered. Her face was tight, and I don’t think she even saw me as she whipped past my cubicle. Somewhere between having left me and now, she had donned a calf-length silk duster. I was secure enough in my own gender preference to admit she made it look very good. The hem billowed as she crossed the floor with murderous strides. Spots of anger showed on her pale face. Tension flowed from her, almost visible it was so strong. She wasn’t going vampy; she was just mad as all get-out. Even so, she left a cold wake behind her that the sunlight streaming in couldn’t touch. An empty canvas bag hung over her shoulder, and her wish was still about her neck. Smartgirl, I thought. Save it for a rainy day. Ivy took the stairs, and I closed my eyes in misery as the metal fire door slammed into the wall. Jenks zipped into my cubicle, buzzing about my head like a deranged moth as he showed off the patch job on his wing. “Hi, Rache,” he said, obnoxiously cheerful. “What’s cooking?” “Not so loud,” I whispered. I would have given anything for a cup of coffee but wasn’t sure it was worth the twenty steps to the coffeepot. Jenks was dressed in his civvies, the colors loud and clashing. Purple doesn’t go well with yellow. It never has; it never will. God help me, his wing tape was purple, too. “Don’t you get hung over?” I breathed. He grinned, settling himself on my pencil cup. “Nope. Pixy metabolisms are too high. The alcohol turns to sugar too fast. Ain’t that fine!” “Swell.” I carefully wrapped a picture of Mom and me up in a wad of tissue and set it next to Rosalind. I briefly entertained the idea of telling my mom I didn’t have a job, deciding not to for obvious reasons. I’d wait until I found a new one. “Is Ivy okay?” I asked. “Yeah. She’ll be all right.” Jenks flitted to the top of my pot of laurel. “She’s just ticked it took everything she had to buy her way out of her contract and cover her butt.” I nodded, glad they wanted me gone. Things would be a lot easier if neither of us had a price on our head. “Did you know she had money?” Jenks dusted off a leaf and sat down. He adopted a superior look, which is hard to manage when you’re only four inches tall and dressed like a rabid butterfly. “Well, duh … She’s the last living blood-member of her house. I’d give her some space for a few days. She’s as mad as a wet wasp. Lost her house in the country, the land, stocks, everything. All that’s left is the city manor on the river, and her mother has that.” I eased back into my chair, unwrapped my last piece of cinnamon gum, and stuck it in my mouth. There was a clatter as Jenks landed in my cardboard box and began poking about. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Ivy said she has a spot rented already. I’ve got the address.” “Get out of my stuff.” I flicked a finger at him, and he flew back to the laurel, standing atop the highest branch to watch everyone gossip. My temple pounded as I bent to clean out my bottom drawer. Why had Ivy given Denon everything shehad? Why not use her wish? “Heads up,” Jenks said, slithering down the plant to hide in the leaves. “Here he comes.” I straightened to find Denon halfway to my desk. Francis, the bootlicking, butt-kissing office snitch, pulled away from a cluster of people, following. My ex-boss’s eyes fastened on me over the walls of my cubicle. Choking, I accidentally swallowed my gum. Put simply, the boss looked like a pro wrestler with a doctorate in suave: big man, hard muscles, perfect mahogany skin. I think he was a boulder in a previous life. Like Ivy, Denon was a living vamp. Unlike Ivy, he had been born human and turned. It made him low-blood, a distant second-class in the vamp world. Even so, Denon was a force to reckon with, having worked hard to overcome his ignoble start. His overabundance of muscles were more than just pretty; they kept him alive while with his stronger, adopted kin. He possessed that ageless look of someone who fed regularly on a true undead. Only the undead could turn humans into a vampire, and by his healthy appearance, Denon was a clearly a favorite. Half the floor wanted to be his sex toy. The other half he scared the crap out of. I was proud to be a card-carrying member of the latter. My hands shook as I took up my coffee cup from the day before and pretended to take a sip. His arms swung like pistons as he moved, his yellow polo shirt contrasting with his black pants. They were neatly creased, showing off his muscular legs and trim waist. People were getting out of his way. A few left the floor. God help me if I’d muffed my only wish and was going to get caught. There was a creak of plastic as he leaned against the top of my four-foot walls. I didn’t look, concentrating instead upon the holes my thumbtacks had made in the burlap-textured partitions. The skin on my arms tingled as if Denon were touching me. His presence seemed to swirl and eddy around me, backwashing against the partitions of my cubicle and rising until it seemed he was behind me, too. My pulse quickened, and I focused on Francis. The snot had settled himself on Joyce’s desk and was unfastening the button on his blue polyester jacket. He was grinning to show his perfect, clearly capped teeth. As I watched, he pushed the sleeves of his jacket back up to show his skinny arms. His triangular face was framed by ear-length hair, which he was constantly flipping out of his eyes. He thought it made him look boyishly charming. I thought it made him look like he had just woken up. Though it was only three in the afternoon, a thick stubble shadowed his face. The collar of his Hawaiian shirt was intentionally flipped up around his neck. The joke around the office was he was trying to look like Sonny Crockett, but his narrow eyes squinted and his nose was too long and thin to pull it off. Pathetic. “I know what’s going on, Morgan,” Denon said, jerking my attention to him. He had that throaty low voice only black men and vampires were allowed to have. It’s a rule somewhere. Low and sweet. Coaxing. The promise in it pulled my skin tight, and fear washed through me. “Beg pardon?” I said, pleased my voice didn’t crack. Emboldened, I met his eyes. My breath came quick, and I tensed. He was trying to pull an aura at three in the afternoon. Damn. Denon leaned over the partition to rest his arms on the top. His biceps bunched, making the veins swell. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I fought the urge to look behind me. “Everyone thinks you’re leaving because of the piss-poor assignments I’ve been giving you,” he said, his soothing voice caressing the words as they passed his lips. “They’d be right.” He straightened, and I jerked as the plastic creaked. The brown of his eyes had entirely vanished behind his widening pupils. Double damn. “I’ve been trying to get rid of you for the last two years,” he said. “You don’t have bad luck.” He smiled, showing me his human teeth. “You have me. Shoddy backup, garbled messages, leaks to your takes. But when I finally get you to leave, you take my best runner with you.” His eyes grew intense. I forced my hands to unclench, and his attention flicked to them. “Not good, Morgan.” It hadn’t been me, I thought, my alarm hesitating in the sudden realization. It wasn’t me. All those mistakes weren’t me. But then Denon moved to the gap in the walls that was my door. In a sliding rattle of metal and plastic, I found myself on my feet and pressed up against my desk. Papers scrunched and the mouse fell off the desk, swinging. Denon’s eyes were pupil-black. My pulse hammered. “I don’t like you, Morgan,” he said, his breath washing over me with a clammy feel. “I never have. Your methods are loose and sloppy, just like your father’s. Unable to tag that leprechaun is beyond belief.” His gaze went distant, and I found I was holding my breath as they glazed over and understanding seemed to dance just out of reach. Please work, I thought desperately. Could my wish please work? Denon leaned close, and I stabbed my nails into my palm to keep from shirking. I forced myself to breathe. “Beyond belief,” he said again, as if trying to figure it out. But then he shook his head in mock dismay. My breath slipped out as he drew back. He broke eye contact, putting his gaze on my neck, where I knew my pulse hammered. My hand crept up to cover it, and he smiled like a lover to his one and only. He had only one scar on his beautiful neck. I wondered where the rest were. “When you hit the street,” he whispered, “you’re fair game.” Shock mixed with my alarm in a nauseating mix. He was going to put a price on my head. “You can’t …” I stammered. “You wanted me to leave.” He never moved, but just his stillness made my fear tighten. My eyes went wide at his slow intake of breath and his lips going full and red. “Someone’s going to die for this, Rachel,” he whispered, the way he said my name making my face go cold. “I can’t kill Tamwood. So you’re going to be her whipping girl.” He eyed me from under his brow. “Congratulations.” My hand dropped from my neck as he eased out of my office. He wasn’t as smooth as Ivy. It was the difference between high-and low-blood; those born a vamp and those born human and turned. Once in the aisle, the heavy threat in his eyes dissipated. Denon pulled an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it to my desk. “Enjoy your last paycheck, Morgan,” he said loudly, more to everyone else than me. He turned and walked away. “But you wanted me to quit. …” I whispered as he disappeared into the elevator. The doors closed; the little red arrow pointing down turned bright. He had his own boss to tell. Denon had to be joking. He wouldn’t put a price on my head for something as stupid as Ivy leaving with me. Would he? “Good going, Rachel.” My head jerked up at the nasal voice. I had forgotten Francis. He slid from Joyce’s desk and leaned up against my wall. After seeing Denon do the same thing, the effect was laughable. Slowly, I slipped back into my swivel chair. “I’ve been waiting six months for you to get steamed up enough to leave,” Francis said. “I should’ve known all you needed was to get drunk.” A surge of anger burned away the last of my fear, and I returned to my packing. My fingers were cold, and I tried to rub some warmth back into them. Jenks came out of hiding and silently flitted to the top of my plant. Francis pushed the sleeves of his jacket back to his elbows. Nudging my check out of the way with a single finger, he sat on my desk with one foot on the floor. “It took a lot longer than I thought,” he mocked. “Either you’re really stubborn or really stupid. Either way, you’re really dead.” He sniffed, making a rasping noise through his thin nose. I slammed a desk drawer shut, nearly catching his fingers. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, Francis?” “It’s Frank,” he said, trying to look superior but coming off as if he had a cold. “Don’t bother dumping your computer files. There’re mine, along with your desk.” I glanced at my monitor with its screen saver of a big, bug-eyed frog. Every so often it ate a fly with Francis’s face on it. “Since when are the stiffs downstairs letting a warlock run a case?” I asked, hammering at his classification. Francis wasn’t good enough to rank witch. He could invoke a spell, but didn’t have the know-how to stir one. I did, though I usually bought my amulets. It was easier, and probably safer for me and my mark. It wasn’t my fault thousands of years of stereotyping had put females as witches and males as warlocks. Apparently it was just what he wanted me to ask. “You’re not the only one who can cook, Rachel-me-gal. I got my license last week.” Leaning, he picked a pen out of my box and set it back in the pencil cup. “I’d have made witch a long time ago. I just didn’t want to dirty my hands learning how to stir a spell. I shouldn’t have waited so long. It’s too easy.” I plucked the pen back out and tucked it in my back pocket. “Well, goody for you.” Francis made the jump to witch? I thought. They must have lowered the standards. “Yup,” Francis said, cleaning under his fingernails with one of my silver daggers. “Got your desk, your caseload, even your company car.” Snatching my knife out of his hand, I tossed it in the box. “I don’t have a company car.” “I do.” He flicked the collar of his shirt covered with palm trees as if very pleased with himself. I made a vow to keep my mouth shut lest I give him another chance to brag. “Yeah,” he said with an overdone sigh. “I’ll be needing it. Denon has me going out to interview Councilman Trenton Kalamack on Monday.” Francis snickered. “While you were out flubbing your measly snag and drag, I led the run that landed two kilos of Brimstone.” “Big freaking deal,” I said, ready to strangle him. “It’s not the amount.” He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “It was who was carrying it.” That got my interest. Trent’s name in connection with Brimstone? “Who?” I said. Francis slid off my desk. He stumbled over my fuzzy pink office slippers, nearly falling. Catching himself, he sighted down his finger as if it were a pistol. “Watch your back, Morgan.” That was my limit. Face twisting, I lashed my foot out, tucking it neatly under his. He went down with a gratifying yelp. I had my knee on the back of his nasty polyester coat as he hit the floor. My hand slapped my hip for my missing cuffs. Jenks cheered, flitting overhead. The office went quiet after a gasp of alarm. No one would interfere. They wouldn’t even look at me. “I’ve got nothing to lose, cookie,” I snarled, leaning down until I could smell his sweat. “Like you said, I’m already dead, so the only thing keeping me from ripping your eyelids off right now is simple curiosity. I’m going to ask you again. Who did you tag with Brimstone?” “Rachel,” he cried, able to knock me on my butt but afraid to try. “You’re in deep—Ow! Ow!” he exclaimed as my nails dug into the top of his right eyelid. “Yolin. Yolin Bates!” “Trent Kalamack’s secretary?” Jenks said, hovering over my shoulder. “Yeah,” Francis said, his face scraping the carpeting as he turned his head to see me. “Or rather, his late secretary. Damn it, Rachel. Get off me!” “He’s dead?” I dusted off my jeans as I got to my feet. Francis was sullen as he stood, but he was getting some joy out of telling me this or he would have already walked. “She, not he,” he said as he adjusted his collar to stand upright. “They found her stone-dead in I.S. lockup yesterday. Literally. She was a warlock.” He said the last with a condescending tone, and I gave him a sour smile. How easy it is to find contempt for something you were only a week ago. Trent, I thought, feeling my gaze go distant. If I could prove Trent dealt in Brimstone and give him to the I.S. on a silver platter, Denon would be forced to get off my back. The I.S. had been after him for years as the Brimstone web continued to grow. No one even knew if he was human or Inderlander. “Jeez, Rachel,” Francis whined, dabbing at his face. “You gave me a bloody nose.” My thoughts cleared, and I turned a mocking eye on him. “You’re a witch. Go stir a spell.” I knew he couldn’t be that good yet. He would have to borrow one like the warlock he used to be, and I could tell it irritated him. I beamed as he opened his mouth to say something. Thinking better of it, he pinched his nose shut and spun away. There was a tug as Jenks landed on my earring. Francis was making his hurried way down the aisle, his head tilted at an awkward angle. The hem of his sport coat swayed with his stilted gate, and I couldn’t help my snicker as Jenks hummed the theme for Miami Vice. “What a moss wipe,” the pixy said as I turned back to my desk. My frown returned as I wedged my pot of laurel into my box of stuff. My head hurt, and I wanted to go home and take a nap. A last look at my desk, and I scooped up my slippers, dropping them in the box. Joyce’s books went on her chair with a note saying I’d call her later. Take my computer, eh? I thought, pausing to open a file. Three clicks and I made it all but impossible to change the screen saver without trashing the entire system. “I’m going home, Jenks,” I whispered, glancing at the wall clock. It was three-thirty. I’d been at work only half an hour. It felt like ages. A last look about the floor showed only downward-turned heads and backs. It was as if I didn’t exist. “Who needs them,” I muttered, snatching up my jacket from the back of my chair and reaching for my check. “Hey!” I yelped as Jenks pinched my ear. “Cripes, Jenks. Knock it off!” “It’s the check,” he exclaimed. “Damn it, woman. He’s cursed the check!” I froze. Dropping my jacket into the box, I leaned over the innocent-seeming envelope. Eyes closed, I breathed deeply, looking for the scent of redwood. Then I tasted against the back of my throat for the scent of sulfur that lingered over black magic. “I can’t smell anything.” Jenks gave a short bark of laughter. “I can. It’s got to be the check. It’s the only thing Denon gave you. And watch it, Rachel. It’s black.” A sick feeling drifted through me. Denon couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t. I glanced over the room, finding no help. Worried, I pulled my vase out of the trash. Some of Mr. Fish’s water went into it. I leveled a portion of salt into the vase, dipped my finger to taste it, then added a bit more. Satisfied the salinity was equal to that of the ocean, I upended the mix over the check. If it had been spelled, the salt would break it. A whisper of yellow smoke hovered over the envelope. “Aw shhhhoot,” I whispered, suddenly frightened. “Watch your nose, Jenks,” I said, ducking below my desk. With an abrupt fizz, the black spell dissolutioned. Yellow, sulfuric smoke billowed up to be sucked into the vents. Cries of dismay and disgust rose with it. There was a small stampede as everyone surged for the doors. Even prepared, the stench of rotten eggs stung at my eyes. The spell had been a nasty one, tailored to me since both Denon and Francis had touched the envelope. It hadn’t come cheap. Shaken, I came out from under my desk and glanced over the deserted floor. “Is it okay now?” I said around a cough. My earring shifted as Jenks nodded. “Thanks, Jenks.” Stomach churning, I tossed my dripping check into the box and stalked past the empty cubicles. It looked like Denon was serious about his death threat. Absolutely swell. Four (#ulink_fc23b94f-5bc4-5fa3-baba-bb8335ef0a9a) “Ra-a-a-achel-l-l-l,” sang a tiny, irritating voice. It cut clearly through the shifting gears and choking gurgle of the bus’s diesel engine. Jenks’s voice grated on my inner ear worse than chalk on a blackboard, and my hand trembled in the effort to not make a grab for him. I’d never touch him. The little twit was too fast. “I’m not asleep,” I said before he could do it again. “I’m resting my eyes.” “You’re going to rest your eyes right past your stop—Hot Stuff.” He nailed the nickname last night’s cabbie had given me hard, and I slit an eyelid. “Don’t call me that.” The bus went around a corner, and my grip tightened on the box balanced on my lap. “I’ve got two more blocks,” I said through gritted teeth. I’d kicked the nausea, but the headache lingered. And I knew it was two blocks because of the sound of Little League practice in the park just down from my apartment. There’d be another after the sun went down for the nightwalkers. There was a thrum of wings as Jenks dropped from my earring and into the box. “Sweet mother of Tink! Is that all they pay you?” he exclaimed. My eyes flashed open. “Get out of my stuff!” I snatched my damp check and crammed it into a jacket pocket. Jenks made a mocking face, and I rubbed my thumb and finger together as if squishing something. He got the idea and moved his purple and yellow silk pantaloons out of my reach, settling on the top of the seat in front of me. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I asked. “Like helping your family move?” Jenks gave a yelp of laughter. “Help them move? No freaking way.” His wings quivered. “Besides, I should sniff around your place and make sure everything is okay before you blow yourself up when you try to use the john.” He laughed hysterically, and several people looked at me. I shrugged as if to say, “Pixies.” “Thanks,” I said sourly. A pixy bodyguard. Denon would laugh himself to death. I was indebted to Jenks for finding the spell on my check, but the I.S. hadn’t time to rig anything else. I figured I had a few days if he was really serious about this. More likely it was a “don’t let the spell kill you on the way out” kind of a thing. I stood as the bus came to a halt. Struggling down the steps, I landed in the late afternoon sun. Jenks made more annoying circles around me. He was worse than a mosquito. “Nice place,” he said sarcastically as I waited for traffic to clear before crossing the street to my apartment house. I silently agreed. I lived uptown in Cincinnati in what was a good neighborhood twenty years ago. The building was a four-story brick, originally built for university upperclassmen. It had seen its last finals party years ago and was now reduced to this. The black letterboxes attached to the porch were dented and ugly, some having obviously been broken into. I got my mail from the landlady. I had a suspicion she was the one who broke the boxes so she could sort through her tenants’ mail at her leisure. There was a thin strip of lawn and two bedraggled shrubs to either side of the wide steps. Last year, I had planted the yarrow seeds I had gotten in a Spell Weekly mail promotion, but Mr. Dinky, the landlady’s Chihuahua, had dug them up—along with most of the yard. Little divots were everywhere, making it look like a fairy battlefield. “And I thought my place was bad,” Jenks whispered as I skipped the step with dry rot. My keys jingled as I balanced the box and unlocked the door at the same time. A little voice in my head had been saying the same thing for years. The odor of fried food assaulted me as I entered the foyer, and my nose wrinkled. Green indoor/outdoor carpet ran up the stairs, threadbare and fraying. Mrs. Baker had unscrewed the lightbulb in the stairway again, but the sun spilling in the landing window to fall on the rosebud wallpaper was enough to find my way. “Hey,” Jenks said as I went upstairs. “That stain on the ceiling is in the shape of a pizza.” I glanced up. He was right. Funny, I never noticed it before. “And that dent in the wall?” he said as we reached the first floor. “It’s just the right size for someone’s head. Man … if these walls could talk …” I found I could still smile. Wait until he got to my apartment. There was a dip in the living room floor where someone had burned out a hearth. My smile faded as I rounded the second landing. All my things were in the hall. “What the devil?” I whispered. Shocked, I set my box on the floor and looked down the hall to Mrs. Talbu’s door. “I paid my rent!” “Hey, Rache?” Jenks said from the ceiling. “Where’s your cat?” Anger growing, I stared at my furniture. It seemed to take up a lot more space when it was jammed into a hallway on her lousy plastic carpeting. “Where does she get off—” “Rachel!” Jenks shouted. “Where’s your cat?” “I don’t have a cat,” I all but snarled. It was a sore spot with me. “I thought all witches had a cat.” Lips pursed, I strode down the hall. “Cats make Mr. Dinky sneeze.” Jenks flew alongside my ear. “Who is Mr. Dinky?” “Him,” I said, pointing to the framed, oversized picture of a white Chihuahua hanging across from my landlady’s door. The butt-ugly, bug-eyed dog wore one of those bows parents put on a baby so you know it’s a girl. I pounded on the door. “Mrs. Talbu? Mrs. Talbu!” There were the muffled yaps of Mr. Dinky and the sound of nails on the backside of the door, shortly followed by my landlady screeching to try and get the thing to shut up. Mr. Dinky redoubled his noise, scrabbling at the floor to dig his way to me. “Mrs. Talbu!” I shouted. “Why is my stuff in the hall?” “Word’s out on you, Hot Stuff,” Jenks said from the ceiling. “You’re damaged goods.” “I told you not to call me that!” I shouted, hitting her door with my last word. I heard the slamming of a door from inside, and Mr. Dinky’s barking grew muffled and more frenzied. “Go away,” came a thin, reedy voice. “You can’t live here anymore.” The flat of my hand hurt, and I massaged it. “You think I can’t pay my rent?” I said, not caring that the entire floor could hear me. “I’ve got money, Mrs. Talbu. You can’t kick me out. I’ve got next month’s rent right here.” I pulled out my soggy check and waved it at the door. “I changed your lock,” Mrs. Talbu quavered. “Go away before you get killed.” I stared at the door in disbelief. She had found out about the I.S.’s threat? And the old lady act was a sham. She shouted clear enough through my wall when she thought I played my music too loud. “You can’t evict me!” I said desperately. “I’ve got rights.” “Dead witches have no rights,” Jenks said from the light fixture. “Damn it, Mrs. Talbu!” I shouted at the door. “I’m not dead yet!” There was no answer. I stood there, thinking. I didn’t have much recourse, and she knew it. I supposed I could stay at my new office until I found something. Moving back in with my mother was not an option, and I hadn’t talked to my brother since I joined the I.S. “What about my security deposit?” I asked, and the door remained silent. My temper shifted to a slow, steady burn, one that could last for days. “Mrs. Talbu,” I said quietly. “If you don’t give me the balance of this month’s rent and my security deposit, I’m going to sit right in front of your door.” I paused, listening. “I’m going to sit here until they spell me. I’ll probably explode right here. Make a big bloody stain on your carpet that won’t come out. And you’re going to have to look at that big bloody stain everyday. Hear me, Mrs. Talbu?” I quietly threatened. “Pieces of me will be on your hall ceiling.” There was a gasp. “Oh my, Dinky,” Mrs. Talbu quavered. “Where’s my checkbook?” I looked at Jenks and smiled bitterly. He gave me a thumbs-up. There was a rustle, followed by a moment of silence and the distinctive sound of paper tearing. I wondered why she bothered with the old lady act. Everyone knew she was tougher than petrified dinosaur dung and would probably outlive us all. Even Death didn’t want her. “I’m putting the word out on you, hussy,” Mrs. Talbu shouted through the door. “You won’t find a place to rent in the entire city.” Jenks darted down as a slip of white was shoved under the door. After hovering over it for a moment, he nodded it was okay. I picked it up and read the amount. “What about my security deposit?” I asked. “You want to come with me to my apartment and look it over? Make sure there’re no nail holes in the walls or runes under the carpet?” There was a muffled curse, shortly followed by more scratching, and another white slip appeared. “Get out of my building,” Mrs. Talbu yelled, “before I set Mr. Dinky on you!” “I love you, too, old bat.” I took my key from my key ring and dropped it. Angry but satisfied, I snatched up the second check. I went back to my things, slowing at the telltale scent of sulfur emanating from them. My shoulders tightened in worry as I stared at my life heaped against the walls. Everything was spelled. I could touch nothing. God help me. I was under an I.S. death threat. “I can’t douse everything in salt,” I said as there was a click of a closing door. “I know this guy who has storage.” Jenks sounded unusually sympathetic, and I looked up as I gripped my elbows. “If I ask him, he’ll come get it, put everything away for you. You can dissolution the spells later.” He hesitated, looking over my music discs carelessly dumped into my largest copper spell bowl. I nodded, slumping against the wall and sliding down until my rear hit the floor. My clothes, my shoes, my music, my books … my life? “Oh no,” Jenks said softly. “They spelled your disc of The Best of Takata.” “It’s autographed,” I whispered, and the hum from his wings dropped in pitch. The plastic would survive a dip in saltwater, but the paper folder would be ruined. I wondered if I wrote to Takata if he would send me another. He might remember me. We did spend a wild night chasing shadows over the ruins of Cincinnati’s old biolabs. I think he made a song about it. “New moon rising, sight unseen, / Shadows of faith make a risky vaccine.” It hit the top twenty for sixteen weeks straight. My brow furrowed. “Is there anything they didn’t spell?” I asked. Jenks landed on the phone book and shrugged. It had been left open to coroners. “Swell.” Stomach knotting, I got to my feet. My thoughts swung to what Ivy had said last night about Leon Bairn. Little bits of witch splattered all over his porch. I swallowed hard. I couldn’t go home. How the hell was I going to pay Denon off? My head started hurting again. Jenks alighted on my earring, keeping his big mouth shut as I picked up my cardboard box and went downstairs. First things first. “What’s the name of that guy you know?” I asked when I reached the foyer. “The one with storage? If I give him something extra, will he dissolution my things?” “If you tell him how. He’s not a witch.” I thought, struggling to regroup. My cell phone was in my bag, but the battery was dead. The charger was somewhere in my spelled stuff. “I can call him from the office,” I said. “He doesn’t have a phone.” Jenks slipped off my earring, flying backward at eye level. His wing tape had frayed, and I wondered if I should offer to fix it. “He lives in the Hollows,” Jenks added. “I’ll ask him for you. He’s shy.” I reached for the doorknob, then hesitated. Putting my back to the wall, I pushed aside the sun-faded, yellow curtain to peek out the window. The tatty yard lay quiet in the afternoon sun, empty and still. The drone of a lawn mower and the whoosh from passing cars was muffled through the glass. Lips pressed tight, I decided I’d wait there until I heard the bus coming. “He likes cash,” Jenks said, dropping down to stand on the sill. “I’ll bring him by the office after he’s locked up your stuff.” “You mean everything that hasn’t walked off by itself in the meantime,” I said, but knew everything was reasonably safe. Spells, especially black ones, were supposed to be target specific, but you never know. No one would risk extinction for my cheap stuff. “Thanks, Jenks.” That was twice now he had saved my butt. It made me uneasy. And a little bit guilty. “Hey, that’s what partners do,” he said, not helping at all. Smiling thinly at his enthusiasm, I set my box down to wait. Five (#ulink_a52155dd-346f-50a2-9881-271fada28d73) The bus was quiet, as most traffic was coming out of the Hollows this time of day. Jenks had left via the window shortly after we crossed the river into Kentucky. It was his opinion the I.S. wouldn’t tag me on a bus with witnesses. I wasn’t ready to believe it, but I wasn’t going to ask him to stay with me, either. I had told the driver the address, and he agreed to tell me when we were there. The human was skinny, his faded blue uniform hanging loose on him despite the vanilla wafers he was cramming into his mouth like jelly beans. Most of Cincinnati’s mass-transit drivers were comfortable with Inderlanders, but not all. Humanity’s reactions to us varied widely. Some were afraid, some weren’t. Some wanted to be us, some wanted to kill us. A few took advantage of the lower tax rate and lived in the Hollows, but most didn’t. Shortly after the Turn, an unexpected migration occurred when almost every human who could afford it moved deep into the cities. The psychologists of the day had called it a “nesting syndrome,” and in hindsight the countrywide phenomenon was understandable. Inderlanders were more than eager to snap up the properties on the outskirts, lured by the prospect of a little more earth to call their own, not to mention the drastically falling home prices. The population demographics have only recently started to even out, as well-to-do Inderlanders move back into the city and the less fortunate, more informed humans decide they would rather live in a nice Inderland neighborhood than a trashy human one. Generally, though, apart from a small section around the university, humans lived in Cincinnati and Inderlanders lived across the river in the Hollows. We don’t care that most humans shun our neighborhoods like pre-Turn ghettoes. The Hollows have become a bastion of Inderland life, comfortable and casual on the surface, with its potential problems carefully hidden. Most humans are surprised at how normal the Hollows appear, which, when you stop to think about it, makes sense. Our history is that of humanity’s. We didn’t just drop out of the sky in ’66; we emigrated in through Ellis Island. We fought in the Civil War, World War One, and World War Two—some of us in all three. We suffered in the Depression, and we waited like everyone else to find out who shot JR. But dangerous differences exist, and any Inderlander over the age of fifty spent the earliest part of his or her life disguising them, a tradition that holds true even to this day. The homes are modest, painted white, yellow, and occasionally pink. There are no haunted houses except for Loveland Castle in October, when they turn it into the baddest haunted house on either side of the river. There are swing sets, aboveground pools, bikes on the lawns, and cars parked on the curb. It takes a sharp eye to notice that the flowers are arranged in antiblack magic hexes and the basement windows are often cemented over. The savage, dangerous reality blooms only in the depths of the city, where people gather and emotions run rampant: amusement parks, dance clubs, bars, churches. Never our homes. And it’s quiet—even at night when all its denizens are up. It was always the stillness that a human noticed first, setting them on edge and sending their instincts into full swing. I found my tension easing as I stared out the window and counted the black, light-proof blinds. The quiet of the neighborhood seemed to soak into the bus. Even the few people riding had grown still. There was just something about the Hollows that said “Home.” My hair swung forward as the bus stopped. On edge, I jerked when the guy behind me bumped my shoulder as he got up. Boots clattering, he hastened down the steps and into the sun. The driver told me my stop was next, and I stood as the nice man trundled down a side street to give me curb service. I stepped down into the patchy shade, standing with my arms wrapped around the box and trying not to breathe the fumes as the bus drove away. It disappeared around a corner, taking its noise and the last vestiges of humanity with it. Slowly it grew quiet. The sound of birds drifted into existence. Somewhere close there were kids calling—no, kids screaming—and the barking of a dog. Multicolored chalk runes decorated the cracked sidewalk, and a forgotten doll with fangs painted on it smiled blankly at me. There was a small stone church across the street, its steeple rising far above the trees. I turned on a heel, eyeing what Ivy had rented for us: a one-story house that could easily be converted to an office. The roof looked new, but the chimney mortar was crumbling. There was grass out front, looking like it should have been cut last week. It even had a garage, the door gaping open to show a rusting mower. It will do, I thought as I opened the gate to the chain-link fence enclosing the yard. An old black man sat on the porch, rocking the afternoon away. Landlord? I mused, smiling. I wondered if he was a vamp, since he wore dark glasses against the late afternoon sun. He was scruffy looking despite being clean-shaven, his tightly curled hair going gray around the temples. There was mud on his shoes and a hint of it on the knees of his blue jeans. He looked worn-out and tired—put away like an unwanted plow horse who was still eager for one more season. He set a tall glass on the porch railing as I came up the walk. “Don’t want it,” he said as he took off his glasses and tucked them in a shirt pocket. His voice was raspy. Hesitating, I peered up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Beg pardon?” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Whatever you’re selling out of that box. Don’t want it. I’ve got enough curse candles, candy, and magazines. And I don’t have the money for new siding, water purifier, or a sunroom.” “I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m your new tenant.” He sat up straighter, somehow making himself look even more unkempt. “Tenant? Oh, you mean across the street.” Confused, I shifted my box to my other hip. “This isn’t 1597 Oakstaff, is it?” He chuckled. “That’s across the street.” “Sorry to have bothered you.” I turned to leave, hoisting the box higher. “Yep,” the man said, and I paused, not wanting to be rude. “The numbers are backward on this street. Odd numbers on the wrong side of the road.” He smiled, creasing the wrinkles around his eyes. “But they didn’t ask me when they put the numbers up.” He extended his hand. “I’m Keasley,” he said, waiting for me to climb the stairs and take his hand. Neighbors, I thought, rolling my eyes as I went up the stairs. Best to be nice. “Rachel Morgan,” I said, pumping his arm once. He beamed, patting my shoulder in a fatherly fashion. The strength of his grip was surprising, as was the scent of redwood coming from him. He was a witch, or at the very least a warlock. Not comfortable with his show of familiarity, I took a step back as he released me. It was cooler on his porch, and I felt tall under the low ceiling. “Are you friends with the vamp?” he said, gesturing across the street with his chin. “Ivy? Yeah.” He nodded slowly, as if it were important. “Both of you quit together?” I blinked. “News travels fast.” He laughed. “Yup. It does at that.” “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to get spelled on your front porch and take you with me?” “No.” He leaned back in his rocker and picked up his glass. “I took that one off you.” He held up a tiny self-stick amulet between his finger and thumb. As my lips parted, he dropped it into his glass. What I thought had been lemonade foamed as the spell dissolutioned. Yellow smoke billowed, and he waved his hand dramatically. “Oooh doggies, that’s a nasty one.” Saltwater? He grinned at my obvious shock. “That guy on the bus …” I stammered as I backed off the porch. The yellow sulfur eddied down the stairs as if trying to find me. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Morgan,” the man said I stumbled onto the walk and into the sun. “A vamp and pixy might keep you alive a few days, but not if you aren’t more careful.” My eyes turned to look down the street at the long gone bus. “The guy on the bus …” Keasley nodded. “You’re right in that they won’t try anything when there’s a witness, leastwise, not at first, but you have to watch for the amulets that won’t trigger till you’re alone.” I had forgotten about delayed spells. And were was Denon getting the money? My face scrunched up as I figured it out; Ivy’s bribe money was paying for my death threat. Swell. “I’m home all day,” Keasley was saying. “Come on over if you want to talk. I don’t get out much anymore. Arthritis.” He slapped his knee. “Thanks,” I said. “For—finding that charm.” “My pleasure,” he said, his gaze on the ceiling of the porch and the lazily spinning fan. My stomach was knotting as I made my way back to the sidewalk. Was the entire city aware I had quit? Maybe Ivy had talked to him. I felt vulnerable in the empty street. Edgy, I crossed the road looking for house numbers. “Fifteen ninety-three,” I muttered, glancing at the small yellow house with two bikes tangled on the lawn. “Sixteen hundred and one,” I said, looking the other way to the well-kept brick home. My lips pursed. The only thing between them was that stone church. I froze. A church? A harsh buzzing zipped past my ears, and I instinctively ducked. “Hi, Rache!” Jenks came to a hovering halt just out of my reach. “Damn it, Jenks!” I shouted, warming as I heard the old man laugh. “Don’t do that!” “Got your stuff set,” Jenks said. “I made him put everything up on blocks.” “It’s a church,” I said. “No shit, Sherlock. Wait until you see the garden.” I stood unmoving. “It’s a church.” Jenks hovered, waiting for me. “There’s a huge yard in back. Great for parties.” “Jenks,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s a church. The backyard is a graveyard.” “Not all of it.” He began weaving impatiently. “And it’s not a church anymore. It’s been a day care for the last two years. No one’s been buried there since the Turn.” I stood, staring at him. “Did they move the bodies out?” His darting ceased and he hung motionless. “ ’Course they moved the bodies out. You think I’m stupid? You think I’d live where there were dead humans? God help me. The bugs coming off ’em, diseases, viruses, and crap soaking into the soil and getting into everything!” I adjusted my grip on my stuff, striding across the shady street and up the wide steps of the church. Jenks didn’t have a clue as to whether the bodies had been moved out. The gray stone steps were bowed in the middle from decades of use, and they were slippery. There were twin doors taller than I, made of a reddish wood and bound with metal. One had a plaque screwed into it. “Donna’s Daycare,” I muttered, reading the inscription. I tugged a door open, surprised at the strength needed to shift it. There wasn’t even a lock on it, just a sliding bolt on the inside. “Of course they moved the bodies out,” Jenks said, then flitted over the church. I’d put a hundred on it that he was going out to the backyard to investigate. “Ivy?” I shouted, trying to slam the door behind me. “Ivy, are you here?” The echo of my voice came back from the yet unseen sanctuary, a thick, stained-glassed quiet hush of sound. The closest I’d been to a church since my dad died was reading the cutesy catch phrases off those backlit signs they all put on their front lawns. The foyer was dark, having no windows and black wooden panels. It was warm and still, thick with the presence of past liturgy. I set the box on the wooden floor and listened to the green and amber hush slipping in from the sanctuary. “Be right down!” came Ivy’s distant shout. She sounded almost cheerful, but where on earth was she? Her voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere at all. There was the soft click of a latch, and Ivy slipped from behind a panel. A narrow spiral stairway went up behind her. “I’ve got my owls up in the belfry,” she said. Her brown eyes were more alive than I’d ever seen them. “It’s perfect for storage. Lots of shelves and drying racks. Someone left their stuff up there, though. Want to go through it with me later?” “It’s a church, Ivy.” Ivy stopped. Her arms crossed and she looked at me, her face abruptly empty. “There are dead people in the backyard,” I added, and she levered herself up and went into the sanctuary. “You can see the tombstones from the road,” I continued as I followed her in. The pews were gone, as was the altar, leaving only an empty room and a slightly raised stage. That same black wood made a wainscot that ran below the tall stained-glassed windows that wouldn’t open. A faded shadow on the wall remained where an enormous cross once hung over the altar. The ceiling was three stories up, and I sent my gaze to the open woodwork, thinking it would be hard to keep this room warm in winter. It was nothing but a stripped down open space … but the stark emptiness seemed to add to the feeling of peace. “How much is this going to cost?” I asked, remembering I was supposed to be angry. “Seven hundred a month, utilities—ah—included,” Ivy said quietly. “Seven hundred?” I hesitated, surprised. That would be three fifty for my share. I was paying four fifty uptown for my one-room castle. That wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Especially if it had a yard. No, I thought, my bad mood returning. It was a graveyard. “Where are you going?” I said as Ivy walked away. “I’m talking to you.” “To get a cup of coffee. You want one?” She disappeared through the door at the back of the raised stage. “Okay, so the rent is cheap,” I said. “That’s what I said I wanted, but it’s a church! You can’t run a business from a church!” Fuming, I followed her past the opposing his-and-her bathrooms. Farther down was a door on the right. I peeked past it to find a nice-sized empty room, the floor and smooth walls giving back an echo of my breathing. A stained-glass window of saints was propped open with a stick to air the place out, and I could hear the sparrows arguing outside. The room looked as if it had once been an office, having since been modified for toddlers’ nap cots. The floor was dusty, but the wood was sound under the light scratches. Satisfied, I peeked around the door across the hall. There was a made-up bed and open boxes. Before I could see more, Ivy reached in front of me and pulled the door shut. “That’s your stuff,” I said, staring at her. Ivy’s face was empty, chilling me more than if she had been pulling an aura. “I’m going to have to stay here until I can rent a room somewhere.” She hesitated, tucking her black hair behind an ear. “Got a problem with that?” “No,” I said softly, closing my eyes in a long blink. For the love of St. Philomena. I was going to have to live at the office until I got myself set. My eyes opened, and I was startled by the odd look Ivy had, a mix of fear and—anticipation? “I’m going to have to crash here, too,” I said, not liking this at all but seeing no other option. “My landlady evicted me. The box by the front door is all I’ve got until I can get my stuff despelled. The I.S. black-charmed everything in my apartment, almost nailed me on the bus. And thanks to my landlady, no one within the city limits will rent to me. Denon put a contract out on me, just like you said.” I tried to keep the whine out of my voice, but it was there. That odd light was still in Ivy’s eyes, and I wondered if she had told me the truth about being a nonpracticing vamp. “You can have the empty room,” she said, her voice carefully flat. I gave her a terse nod. Okay, I thought, taking a deep breath. I was living in a church—with bodies in the backyard—an I.S. death threat on me—and a vamp across the hall. I wondered if she would notice if I put a lock on the inside of my door. I wondered if it would matter. “The kitchen’s back here,” she said, and I followed her and the smell of coffee. My mouth fell open as I rounded the open archway, and I forgot to be angry again. The kitchen was half the size of the sanctuary, as fully equipped and modern as the sanctuary was barren and medieval. There was gleaming metal, shiny chrome, and bright, fluorescent lights. The refrigerator was enormous. A gas stove and oven sat at one end of the room; an electric range and stovetop took up the other. Centered in the middle of it all was a stainless steel island with empty shelves beneath. The rack above it was festooned with metal utensils, pans, and bowls. It was a witch’s dream kitchen; I wouldn’t have to stir my spells and dinner on the same stove. Apart from the beat-up wooden table and chairs in the corner, the kitchen looked like one you might see on a cooking show. One end of the table was set up like a computer desk, the wide-screen monitor blinking furiously to itself as it cycled through the open lines to find and claim the best continuous link to the net. It was an expensive program, and my eyebrows rose. Ivy cleared her throat as she opened a cupboard beside the sink. There were three mismatched mugs on the bottom shelf; other than that, it was empty. “They put in the new kitchen five years ago for the health department,” she said, jerking my attention back to her. “The congregation wasn’t very big, so when all was said and done, they couldn’t afford it. That’s why they’re renting it out. To try and pay off the bank.” The sound of coffee being poured filled the room as I ran my finger over the unblemished metal on the island counter. It had never seen a single apple pie or Sunday school cookie. “They want their church back,” Ivy said, looking thin as she leaned against the counter with her mug cradled in her pale hands. “But they’re dying. The church, I mean,” she added as I met her eyes. “No new members. It’s sad, really. The living room is back here.” I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut and followed her into the hallway and through a narrow doorway at the end of the hall. The living room was cozy, and furnished so tastefully that I had no doubt these were all Ivy’s things. It was the first softness and warmth I had seen in the entire place—even if everything was in shades of gray—and the windows were just plain glass. Heavenly. I felt my tension loosen. Ivy snatched up a remote, and midnight jazz drifted into existence. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. “You almost got tagged?” Ivy tossed the remote onto the coffee table and settled herself in one of the voluptuous gray suede chairs beside the empty fireplace. “Are you all right?” “Yeah,” I admitted sourly, seeming to sink nearly to my ankles in the expansive throw rug. “Is all this your stuff? A guy bumped into me, slipped me a charm that wouldn’t invoke until there were no witnesses or causalities—other than me. I can’t believe Denon is serious about this. You were right.” I worked hard to keep my voice casual so Ivy wouldn’t know how shaken I was. Hell, I didn’t want to know how shaken I was. I’d get the money to pay off my contract somehow. “It was lucky as toast the old guy across the street took it off me.” I picked up a picture of Ivy and a golden retriever. She was smiling to show her teeth; I stifled a shiver. “What old guy?” Ivy said quickly. “Across the street. He’s been watching you.” I set the metal frame down and adjusted the pillow in the chair opposite hers before I sat. Matching furniture; how nice. An old mantel clock ticked, soft and soothing. There was a wide-screen TV with a built-in CD player in one corner. The disc player under it had all the right buttons. Ivy knew her electronics. “I’ll bring my things over once I get them dissolutioned,” I said, then winced, thinking how cheap my stuff would look next to hers. “What will survive the dip,” I added. Survive the dip? I thought suddenly, closing my eyes and scrubbing my forehead. “Oh no,” I said softly. “I can’t dissolution my charms.” Ivy balanced her mug on a knee as she leafed through a magazine. “Hmm?” “Charms,” I half moaned. “The I.S. overlaid black spells on my stash of charms. Dunking them in saltwater to break the spell will ruin them. And I can’t buy more.” I grimaced at her blank look. “If the I.S. got my apartment, I’m sure they’ve been to the store, too. I should have brought a bunch yesterday before I quit, but I didn’t think they’d care if I left.” I listlessly adjusted the shade of the table lamp. They hadn’t cared until Ivy had left with me. Depressed, I tossed my head back and looked at the ceiling. “I thought you already knew how to make spells,” Ivy said warily. “I do, but it’s a pain in the butt. And where am I going to get the raw materials?” I closed my eyes in misery. I was going to have to make all my charms. There was a rustle of paper, and I lifted my head to see Ivy perusing her magazine. There was an apple and Snow White on the cover. Snow White’s leather corset was cut to show her belly button. A drop of blood glittered like a jewel at the corner of her mouth. It put a whole new twist on the enchanted sleep thing. Mr. Disney would be appalled. Unless, of course, he had been an Inderlander. That would explain a lot. “You can’t just buy what you need?” Ivy asked. I stiffened at the touch of sarcasm in her voice. “Yeah, but everything will have to be dunked in saltwater to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. It’ll be nearly impossible to get rid of all the salt, and that will make the mix wrong.” Jenks buzzed out of the fireplace with a cloud of soot and an irritating whine. I wondered how long he had been listening in the flue. He landed on a box of tissue and cleaned a spot off his wing, looking like a cross between a dragonfly and a miniature cat. “My, aren’t we obsessed,” he said, answering my question as to whether he had been eavesdropping. “You have the I.S. trying to nack you with black magic and see if you aren’t a little paranoid.” Anxious, I thwacked the box he was sitting on until he took to the air. He hovered between me and Ivy. “Haven’t seen the garden yet, have you, Sherlock?” I threw the pillow at him, which he easily dodged. It knocked the lamp beside Ivy, and she casually reached out and caught it before it hit the floor. She never looked up from her magazine, never spilled a drop of her coffee perched on her knee. The hair on my neck prickled. “Don’t call me that, either,” I said to cover my unease. He looked positively smug as he hovered before me. “What?” I said snidely. “The garden has more than weeds and dead people?” “Maybe.” “Really?” This would be the first good thing to happen to me today, and I got up to look out the back door. “Coming?” I asked Ivy as I reached for the handle. Her head was bent over a page of leather curtains. “No,” she said, clearly uninterested. So it was Jenks who accompanied me out the back door and into the garden. The lowering sun was heady and strong, making the scents clear as it pulled moisture from the damp ground. There was a rowan somewhere. I sniffed deeply. And a birch and oak. What had to be Jenks’s kids were darting noisily about, chasing a yellow butterfly over the rising mounds of vegetation. Banks of plants lined the walls of the church and surrounding stone fence. The man-high wall went completely around the property, to tactfully isolate the church from the neighbors. Another wall low enough to step over separated the garden from the small graveyard. I squinted, seeing a few plants out among the tall grass and headstones, but only those that became more potent growing among the dead. The closer I looked, the more awestruck I became. The garden was complete. Even the rarities were there. “It’s perfect,” I whispered, running my fingers through a patch of lemongrass. “Everything I could ever need. How did it all get here?” Ivy’s voice came from right behind me. “According to the old lady—” “Ivy!” I said, spinning around to see her standing still and quiet on the path in a shaft of late amber sun. “Don’t do that!” Creepy vamp, I thought. I ought to put a bell on her. She squinted from under her hand, raised against the fading light. “She said their last minister was a witch. He put in the garden. I can get fifty taken off the rent if one of us keeps it up the way it is.” I looked over the treasure trove. “I’ll do it.” Jenks flew up from a patch of violets. His purple trousers had pollen stains on them matching his yellow shirt. “Manual labor?” he questioned. “With those nails of yours?” I glanced at the perfect red ovals my nails made. “This isn’t work, this is—therapy.” “Whatever.” His attention went to his kids, and he zoomed across the garden to rescue the butterfly they were fighting over. “Do you think everything you need is here?” Ivy asked as she turned to go inside. “Just about. You can’t spell salt, so my stash is probably okay, but I’ll need my good spell pot and all my books.” Ivy paused on the path. “I thought you had to know how to stir a brew by heart to get your witch license.” Now I was embarrassed, and I bent to tug a weed free from beside a rosemary plant. Nobody made their own charms if they could afford to buy them. “Yeah,” I said as I dropped the weed, flicking the dirt from under my nails. “But I’m out of practice.” I sighed. This was going to be harder than it looked. Ivy shrugged. “Can you get them off the net? The recipes, I mean.” I looked askance at her. “Trust anything off the net? Oh, there’s a good idea.” “There’re some books in the attic.” “Sure,” I said sarcastically. “One hundred spells for the beginner. Every church has a copy of that.” Ivy stiffened. “Don’t get snotty,” she said, the brown of her eyes disappearing behind her dilating pupils. “I just thought if one of the clergy was a witch, and the right plants were here, he might have left his books. The old lady said he ran off with one of the younger parishioners. That’s probably his stuff in the attic in case he had the guts to come back.” The last thing I wanted was an angry vamp sleeping across the hall. “Sorry,” I apologized. “I’ll go look. And if I’m lucky, when I go out to the shed to find a saw to cut my amulets, there’ll be a bag of salt for when the front steps get icy.” Ivy gave a little start, turning to look at the closet-sized shed. I passed her, pausing on the sill. “Coming? I said, determined not to let her think popping in and out of vamp mode was shaking me. “Or will your owls leave me alone?” “No, I mean yes.” Ivy bit her lip. It was decidedly a human gesture, and my eyebrows rose. “They’ll let you up there, just don’t go making a lot of noise. I’ll—I’ll be right there.” “Whatever …” I muttered, turning to find my way up to the belfry. As Ivy had promised, the owls left me alone. It turned out the attic had a copy of everything I had lost in my apartment, and then some. Several of the books were so old they were falling apart. The kitchen had a nest of copper pots, probably used, Ivy had claimed, for chili cook-offs. They were perfect for spell casting, since they hadn’t been sealed to reduce tarnish. Finding everything I needed was eerie, so much so that when I went out to look for a saw in the shed, I was relieved to not find any salt. No, that was on the floor of the pantry. Everything was going too well. Something had to be wrong. Six (#ulink_d953f635-ae65-5cb5-bca6-a68447c2e2b7) Ankles crossed, I sat atop Ivy’s antique kitchen table and swung my feet in their fuzzy pink slippers. The sliced vegetables were cooked to perfection, still crisp and crunchy, and I pushed them around in the little white cardboard box with my chopsticks, looking for more chicken. “This is fantastic,” I mumbled around my full mouth. Red tangy spice burned my tongue. My eyes watered. Grabbing the waiting glass of milk, I downed a third of it. “Hot,” I said as Ivy glanced up from the box cradled in her long hands. “Cripes, it’s really hot.” Ivy arched her thin black eyebrows. “Glad you approve.” She was sitting at the table at the spot she had cleared before her computer. Looking into her own take-out box, her wave of black hair fell to make a curtain over her face. She tucked it behind an ear, and I watched the line of her jaw slowly move as she ate. I had just enough experience with chopsticks to not look like an idiot, but Ivy moved the twin sticks with a slow precision, placing bits of food into her mouth with a rhythmic, somehow erotic, pace. I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “What’s it called?” I asked, digging into my paper box. “Chicken in red curry.” “That’s it?” I questioned, and she nodded. I made a small noise. I could remember that. I found another piece of meat. Curry exploded in my mouth, and I washed it down with a gulp of milk. “Where did you get it?” “Piscary’s.” My eyes widened. Piscary’s was a combination pizza den and vamp hangout. Very good food in a rather unique atmosphere. “This came from Piscary’s?” I said as I crunched through a bamboo shoot. “I didn’t know they delivered anything but pizza.” “They don’t—generally.” The throaty pitch of her voice pulled my attention up, to find that she was absorbed in her food. She raised her head at my lack of movement and blinked her almond-shaped eyes at me. “My mother gave him the recipe,” she said. “Piscary makes it special for me. It’s no big deal.” She went back to eating. A feeling of unease drifted through me, and I listened to the crickets over the twin soft scraping of our sticks. Mr. Fish swam in his bowl on the windowsill. The soft, muted noise of the Hollows at night was almost unheard over the rhythmic thumps of my clothes in the dryer. I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing the same clothes again tomorrow, but Jenks told me it wouldn’t be until Sunday that his friend could have my clothes despelled. The best I could do was wash what I had and hope I didn’t run into anyone I knew. Right now I was in the nightgown and robe Ivy had lent me. They were black, obviously, but Ivy said the color suited me fine. The faint scent of wood ash on them wasn’t unpleasant, but it seemed to cling to me. My gaze went to the empty spot above the sink where a clock should be. “What time do you think it is?” “A little after three,” Ivy said, not glancing at her watch. I dug around, sighing when I realized I had eaten all the pineapple. “I wish my clothes would get done. I am so tired.” Ivy crossed her legs and leaned over her dinner. “Go ahead. I’ll get them out for you. I’ll be up until five or so.” “No, I’ll stay up.” I yawned, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “It isn’t like I have to get up and go to work tomorrow,” I finished sourly. A small noise of agreement came from Ivy, and my digging about in my dinner slowed. “Ivy, you can tell me to back off if it’s none of my business, but why did you join the I.S. if you didn’t want to work for them?” She seemed surprised as she looked up. In a flat voice that spoke volumes, she said, “I did it to tick my mother off.” A flicker of what looked like pain flashed over her, vanishing before I could be sure it existed. “My dad isn’t pleased I quit,” she added. “He told me I should have either stuck it out or killed Denon.” Dinner forgotten, I stared, not knowing if I was more surprised at learning her father was still alive or at his rather creative advice on how to get ahead at the office. “Uh, Jenks said you were the last living member of your house,” I finally said. Ivy’s head moved in a slow, controlled nod. Brown eyes watching me, she moved her chopsticks between the box and her lips in a slow dance. The subtle display of sensuality took me aback, and I shifted uneasily on my perch on the table. She had never been this bad when we had worked together. Of course, we usually quit work before midnight. “My dad married into the family,” she said between dips into the box, and I wondered if she knew how provocative she looked. “I’m the last living blood member of my house. Because of the prenuptial, my mother’s money is all mine, or it was. She is as mad as all hell I quit. She wants me to find a nice, living, high-blood vamp, settle down, and pop out as many kids as I can to be sure her living bloodline doesn’t die out. She’ll kill me if I croak before having a kid.” I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. “I joined because of my dad,” I admitted. Embarrassed, I put my attention into my dinner. “He worked for the I.S. in the arcane division. He’d come home every morning with these wild stories of people he had helped or tagged. He made it sound so exciting.” I snickered. “He never mentioned the paperwork. When he died, I thought it would be a way to get close to him, sort of remember him by. Stupid, isn’t it?” “No.” I looked up, crunching through a carrot. “I had to do something. I spent a year watching my mother fall off her rocker. She isn’t crazy, but it’s like she doesn’t want to believe he’s gone. You can’t talk to her without her saying something like, ‘I made banana pudding today; it was your father’s favorite.’ She knows he’s dead, but she can’t let him go.” Ivy was staring out the black kitchen window and into a memory. “My dad’s like that. He spends all his time keeping my mother going. I hate it.” My chewing slowed. Not many vamps could afford to remain alive after death. The elaborate sunlight precautions and liability insurance alone was enough to put most families on the street. Not to mention the continuous supply of fresh blood. “I hardly ever see him,” she added, her voice a whisper. “I don’t understand it, Rachel. He has his entire life left, but he won’t let her get the blood she needs from anyone else. If he’s not with her, he’s passed out on the floor from blood loss. Keeping her from dying completely is killing him. One person alone can’t support a dead vampire. They both know that.” The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn, but I couldn’t just leave. “Maybe he’s doing it because he loves her?” I offered slowly. Ivy frowned. “What kind of love is that?” She stood, her long legs unfolding in a slow graceful movement. Cardboard box in hand, she vanished into the hall. The sudden silence hammered on my ears. I stared at her empty chair in surprise. She walked out. How could she just walk out? We were talking. The conversation was too interesting to drop, so I slid from the table and followed her into the living room with my dinner. She had collapsed into one of the gray suede chairs, sprawled out in a look of total unconcern, with her head on one of the thick arms and her feet dangling over the other. I hesitated in the doorway, taken aback at the picture she made. Like a lioness in her den, satiated from the kill. Well, I thought, she is a vampire. What did I expect her to look like? Reminding myself that she wasn’t a practicing vamp and that I had nothing to worry about, I cautiously settled in the chair across from her, the coffee table between us. Only one of the table lamps was on, and the edges of the room were indistinct and lost in shadow. The lights from her electronic equipment glowed. “So, joining the I.S. was your dad’s idea?” I prompted. Ivy had set her little white cardboard box atop her stomach. Not meeting my gaze, she lay on her back and indolently ate a bamboo shoot, looking at the ceiling as she chewed. “It was my mother’s idea, originally. She wanted me to be in management.” Ivy took another bite. “I was supposed to stay nice and safe. She thought it would be good for me to work on my people skills.” She shrugged. “I wanted to be a runner.” I kicked off my slippers and tucked my feet under me. Curled up around my take-out box, I flicked a glance at Ivy as she slowly pulled her chopsticks out from between her lips. Most of the upper management in the I.S. were undead. I always thought it was because the job was easier if you didn’t have a soul. “It wasn’t as if she could stop me,” Ivy continued, talking to the ceiling. “So to punish me for doing what I wanted instead of what she wanted, she made sure Denon was my boss.” A snicker escaped her. “She thought I’d get so ticked that I’d jump to a management position as soon as one opened up. She never considered I’d trade my inheritance to get out of my contract. I guess I showed her,” she said sarcastically. I shuffled past a tiny corncob to get to a chunk of tomato. “You threw away all your money because you didn’t like your boss? I don’t like him, either, but—” Ivy stiffened. The force of her gaze struck me cold. My words froze in my throat at the hatred in her expression. “Denon is a ghoul,” Ivy said, her words drawing the warmth from the room. “If I had to take his flack for one more day, I was going to rip his throat out.” I hesitated. “A ghoul?” I said, confused. “I thought he was a vamp.” “He is.” When I said nothing, she swung herself upright to put her boots on the floor. “Look,” she said, sounding bothered. “You must have noticed Denon doesn’t look like a vamp. His teeth are human, right? He can’t maintain an aura at noon? And he moves so loud you can hear him coming a mile away?” “I’m not blind, Ivy.” She cradled her white paperboard box and stared at me. The night air coming in through the window was chilly for late spring, and I drew her robe tighter about my shoulders. “Denon was bitten by an undead, so he has the vampire virus in him,” Ivy continued. “That lets him do a few tricks and makes him real pretty, and I imagine he’s as scary as all hell if you let him bully you, but he’s someone’s lackey, Rachel. He’s a toy and always will be.” There was a small scrape as she put her white box on the coffee table between us and edged forward to the end of her chair so she could reach it. “Even if he dies and someone bothers to turn him into an undead, he’ll be second-class,” she said. “Look at his eyes next time you see him. He’s afraid. Every time he lets a vamp feed on him, he has to trust that they’ll bring him back as an undead if they lose control and accidentally kill him.” She took a slow breath. “He should be afraid.” The red curry went tasteless. Heart pounding, I searched her gaze, praying it would just be Ivy staring back at me. Her eyes were still brown, but something was in them. Something old that I didn’t understand. My stomach clenched, and I was suddenly unsure of myself. “Don’t be afraid of ghouls like Denon,” she whispered. I thought her words were meant to be soothing, but they tightened my skin until it tingled. “There are a lot more dangerous things to be afraid of.” Like you? I thought, but didn’t say it. Her sudden air of repressed predator set off alarm bells in my head. I thought I should get up and leave. Get my scrawny witch butt back in the kitchen where it belonged. But she had eased herself back into her chair with her dinner, and I didn’t want her to know she was scaring the crap out of me. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen Ivy go vampy before. Just not after midnight. In her living room. Alone. “Things like your mother?” I said, hoping I hadn’t gone too far. “Things like my mother,” she breathed. “That’s why I’m living in a church.” My thoughts went to my tiny cross on my new bracelet with the rest of my charms. It never failed to impress me that something so small could stop so powerful a force. It wouldn’t slow a living vamp down at all—only the undead—but I’d take whatever protection I could get. Ivy put her boot heels on the edge of the coffee table. “My mother has been a true undead for the last ten years or so,” she said, startling me from my dark thoughts. “I hate it.” Surprised, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why?” She pushed her dinner away in what was obviously a gesture of unease. There was a frightening emptiness in her face, and she wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I was eighteen when my mother died,” she whispered. Her voice was distant, as if she wasn’t aware she was even talking. “She lost something, Rachel. When you can’t walk under the sun, you lose something so nebulous, you can’t even say for sure what it is. But it’s gone. It’s as if she’s stuck following a pattern of behavior but can’t remember why. She still loves me, but she doesn’t remember why she loves me. The only thing that brings any life to her is the taking of blood, and she’s so damned savage about it. When she’s sated, I can almost see my mother in what’s left of her. But it doesn’t last. It’s never enough.” Ivy looked up from under her lowered brow. “You do have a crucifix, don’t you?” “Right here,” I said with forced brightness. I wouldn’t let her know she was putting me on edge; I wouldn’t. Holding up my hand, I gave it a little shake so the robe’s sleeve fell to my elbow to show my new charm bracelet. Ivy put her boots on the floor. I relaxed at the less provocative position until she leaned halfway over the coffee table. Her hand went out with an unreal quickness, gripping my wrist before I knew she had moved. I froze, very aware of the warmth of her fingers. She studied the wood-inlaid metal charm intently as I fought the urge to pull away. “Is it blessed?” she asked. Face cold, I nodded, and she released me, easing back with an eerie slowness. It seemed I could still feel her grip on me, an imprisoning firmness that wouldn’t tighten unless I pulled away. “Mine, too,” she said, drawing her cross out from behind her shirt. Impressed anew with her crucifix, I set aside my dinner and scooted forward. I couldn’t help but reach out for it. The tooled silver begged to be touched, and she leaned across the table so I could bring it closer. Ancient runes were etched into it, along with the more traditional blessings. It was beautiful, and I wondered how old it was. Suddenly, I realized Ivy’s warm breath was on my cheek. I sat back, her cross still in my hand. Her eyes were dark and her face blank. There was nothing there. Frightened, I flicked my gaze from her to the cross. I couldn’t just drop it. It would smack her right in the chest. But I couldn’t set it gently down against her, either. “Here,” I said, terribly uncomfortable at her blank stare. “Take it.” Ivy reached out, her fingers grazing mine as she grasped the old metal. Swallowing hard, I scooted back into my chair and adjusted Ivy’s robe to cover my legs. Moving with a provocative slowness, Ivy took her cross off. The silver chain caught against the black sheen of her hair. She pulled her hair free, and it fell back in a cascading shimmer. She set the cross on the table between us. The click of the metal meeting the wood was loud. Eyes unblinking, she curled up in her chair opposite mine with her feet tucked under her and stared at me. Holy crap, I thought in a sudden wash of understanding and panic. She was coming on to me. That’s what was going on. How blind could I be? My jaw clenched as my mind raced to find a way out of this. I was straight. Never a thought contrary to that. I liked my men taller than me and not so strong that I couldn’t pin them to the floor in a surge of passion if I wanted. “Um, Ivy …” I started. “I was born a vampire,” Ivy stated softly. Her gray voice ran down my spine, shutting off my throat. Breath held, I met the black of her eyes. I didn’t say anything, afraid it might trigger her into movement, and I desperately didn’t want her to move. Something had shifted, and I wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. “Both of my parents are vampires,” she said, and though she didn’t move, I felt the tension in the room swell until I couldn’t hear the crickets. “I was conceived and born before my mother became a true undead. Do you know what that means—Rachel?” Her words were slow and precise, falling from her lips with the soft permanence of whispered psalms. “No,” I said, hardly breathing. Ivy tilted her head so her hair made an obsidian wave that glistened in the low light. She watched me from around it. “The virus didn’t have to wait until I was dead before shaping me,” she said. “It molded me as I grew in my mother’s womb, giving me a little of both worlds, the living and the dead.” Her lips parted, and I shuddered at the sight of her sharp teeth. I hadn’t meant to. Sweat broke out on the small of my back, and as if in response, Ivy took a breath and held it. “It’s easy for me to pull an aura,” she said as she exhaled. “Actually, the trick is to keep it suppressed.” She uncurled from her chair, and my breath hissed in through my nose. Ivy jerked at the sound. Slow and methodical, she put her boots on the floor. “And although my reflexes and strength aren’t as good as a true undead, they’re better than yours,” she said. I knew all of this, and the question of why she was telling me increased my fear tenfold. Struggling not to show my alarm, I refused to shrink backward as she put her palms flat on the table to either side of her cross and leaned forward. “What’s more, I’m guaranteed to become an undead, even if I die alone in a field with every last drop of blood inside me. No worries, Rachel. I’m eternal already. Death will only make me stronger.” My heart pounded. I couldn’t look away from her eyes. Damn. This was more than I wanted to know. “And you know the best part?” she asked. I shook my head, afraid my voice would crack. I was walking a knife edge, wanting to know what kind of a world she lived in but fighting to keep from entering it. Her eyes grew fervent. Torso unmoving, she levered one of her knees up onto the coffee table, and then the other. God help me. She was coming at me. “Living vamps can bespell people—if they want to be,” she whispered. The softness of her voice rubbed against my skin until it tingled. Double damn. “What good is it if it only works on those who let you?” I asked, my voice harsh next to the liquid essence of hers. Ivy’s lips parted to show the tips of her teeth. I couldn’t look away. “It makes for great sex—Rachel.” “Oh.” The faint utterance was all I could manage. Her eyes were lost in lust. “And I’ve got my mother’s taste for blood,” she said, kneeling on the table between us. “It’s like some people’s craving for sugar. It’s not a good comparison but it’s the best I can do unless you … try it.” Ivy exhaled, moving her entire body. Her breath sent a shock reverberating through me. My eyes went wide in surprise and bewilderment as I recognized it as desire. What the hell was going on? I was straight. Why did I suddenly want to know how soft her hair was? All I’d have to do was reach out. She was inches from me. Poised. Waiting. In the silence, I could hear my heart pound. The sound of it echoed in my ears. I watched in horror as Ivy broke her gaze from mine, running it down my throat to where I knew my pulse throbbed. “No!” I cried, panicking. I kicked out, gasping in fear as I found her weight on me, pinning me to the chair. “Ivy, no!” I shrieked. I had to get her off. I struggled to move. I took a lungful of air, hearing it explode from me in a cry of helplessness. How could I have been so stupid! She was a vampire! “Rachel—stop.” Her voice was calm and smooth. Her one hand gripped my hair, pinning my head back to expose my neck. It hurt, and I heard myself whimper. “You’re making things worse,” she said, and I wiggled, gasping as her grip on my wrist tightened until it hurt. “Let me go. …” I panted, breathless, as if I had been running. “God, help me, Ivy. Let me go. Please. I don’t want this.” I was pleading. I couldn’t help it. I was terrified. I’d seen the pictures. It hurt. God, it was going to hurt. “Stop,” she said again. Her voice was strained. “Rachel. I’m trying to let go of you, but you have to stop. You’re making things worse. You have to believe me.” I took a gasping breath and held it. I flicked my gaze at what I could see of her. Her mouth was inches from my ear. Her eyes were black, the hunger in them a frightening contrast to the calm sound of her voice. Her gaze was fixed to my neck. A drop of saliva dropped warm onto my skin. “God, no,” I whispered, shuddering. Ivy quivered, her body trembling where it touched mine. “Rachel. Stop,” she said again, and terror swept me at the new edge of panic in it. My breath came in a ragged pant. She really was trying to get off me. And by the sound of it, she was losing the battle. “What do I do?” I whispered. “Close your eyes,” she said. “I need your help. I didn’t know it was going to be this hard.” My mouth went dry at the little-lost-girl sound of her voice. It took all my will to close my eyes. “Don’t move.” Her voice was gray silk. Tension slammed through me. Nausea gripped my stomach. I could feel my pulse pushing against my skin. For what felt like a full minute I lay under her, all my instincts crying out to flee. The crickets chirped, and I felt tears slip from under my fluttering eyelids as her breath came and went on my exposed neck. I cried out when her grip on my hair loosened. My breath came in a ragged gasp as her weight lifted from me. I couldn’t smell her anymore. I froze, unmoving. “Can I open my eyes?” I whispered. There was no answer. I sat up to find myself alone. There was the faintest sound of the sanctuary door closing and the fast cadence of her boots on the sidewalk, then nothing. Numb and shaken, I reached up to first wipe my eyes and then my neck, smearing her saliva into a cold spot. My eyes rove over the room, finding no warmth in the soft gray. She was gone. Drained, I stood up, not knowing what to do. I clutched my arms about myself so tight it hurt. My thoughts went back to the terror, and before that, the flash of desire that had washed through me, potent and heady. She had said she could only bespell the willing. Had she lied to me, or had I really wanted her to pin me to the chair and rip open my throat? Seven (#ulink_62a0c594-af12-5f15-bc22-af77f17952da) The sun was no longer slanting into the kitchen, but it was still warm. Not warm enough to reach the core of my soul, but nice. I was alive. I had all my body parts and fluids intact. It was a good afternoon. I was sitting at the uncluttered end of Ivy’s table, studying the most battered book I had found in the attic. It looked old enough to have been printed before the Civil War. Some of the spells I’d never heard of. It made for fascinating reading, and I would admit the chance to try one or two of them filled me with a dangerous titillation. None even hinted at the dark arts, which pleased me to no end. Harming someone with magic was foul and wrong. It went against everything I believed in—and it wasn’t worth the risk. All magic required a price paid by death in various shades of severity. I was strictly an earth witch. My source of power came gently from the earth through plants and was quickened by heat, wisdom, and witch blood. As I dealt only in white magic, the cost was paid by ending the life of plants. I could live with that. I wasn’t going to delve into the morality of killing plants, otherwise I’d go insane every time I cut my mom’s lawn. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t black earth witches—there were—but black earth magic had nasty ingredients like body parts and sacrifices. Just gathering the materials needed to stir a black spell was enough to keep most earth witches white. Ley line witches, however, were another story. They drew their power right from the source, raw and unfiltered through living things. They, too, required death, but it was a subtler death—the slow death of the soul, and it wasn’t necessarily theirs. The soul-death needed by white ley line witches wasn’t as severe as that required by black witches, going back to the cutting the grass analogy vs. slaughtering goats in your basement. But creating a powerful spell designed to harm or kill left a definite wound on one’s being. Black ley line witches got around that by fostering that payment onto someone else, usually attaching it right on the charm to give the receiver a double whammy of back luck. But if the person was insanely “pure of spirit” or more powerful, the cost, though not the charm, came right back to the maker. It was said that enough black on one’s soul made it easy for a demon to pull you involuntarily into the ever-after. Just as my dad had been, I thought as I rubbed my thumb against the page before me. I knew with all my being that he had been a white witch to the end. He would have had to be able to find his way back into reality, even though he didn’t last to see the next sunrise. A small sound jerked my attention up. I stiffened upon finding Ivy in a black silk robe, slumped against the doorframe. The memory of last night washed through me, knotting my stomach. I couldn’t stop my hand from creeping up to my neck, and I changed the motion to adjusting my earring as I pretended to study the book before me. “ ’Morning,” I said cautiously. “What time is it?” Ivy asked in a ragged whisper. I flicked a glance at her. Her usually smooth hair was rumpled, waves from her pillow creasing it. Her eyes had dark circles under them, and her oval face was slack. Early afternoon lassitude had completely overwhelmed her air of stalking predator. She held a slim leather-bound book in her hand, and I wondered if her night had been as sleepless as mine. “It’s almost two,” I said warily as I used a foot to push out a chair across the table from me so she wouldn’t sit beside me. She seemed all right, but I didn’t know how to treat her anymore. I was wearing my crucifix—not that it would stop her—and my silver ankle knife—which wasn’t much better. A sleep amulet would drop her, but they were in my bag, sitting out of easy reach on a chair. It would take a good five seconds to invoke one. In all honesty, though, she didn’t look like much of a threat right now. “I made muffins,” I said. “They were your groceries. I hope you don’t mind.” “Uh,” she said, shuffling across the shiny floor to the coffeepot in her black slippers. She poured herself a cup of lukewarm brew, leaning back against the counter to sip it. Her wish was gone from around her neck. I wondered what she had wished for. I wondered if it had anything to do with last night. “You’re dressed,” she whispered as she slumped into the chair I had kicked out for her in front of her computer. “How long have you been up?” “Noon.” Liar, I thought. I’d been up all night pretending to sleep on Ivy’s couch. I decided to officially start my day when I put my clothes back on. Ignoring her, I turned a yellowing page. “Spent your wish, I see,” I murmured cautiously. “What was it?” “None of your business,” she said, the warning obvious. My breath left me in a slow exhalation, and I kept my eyes lowered. An uncomfortable silence descended and I let it grow, refusing to break it. I had almost left last night. But the certain death waiting for me outside Ivy’s protection outweighed the possible death at Ivy’s hands. Maybe. Maybe I wanted to know what it felt like for her teeth to sink into me. This was not where I wanted my thoughts to go. Ivy had scared the crap out of me, but seeing her in the bright light of post noon, she looked human. Harmless. Dare I say, a grump? “I have something I want you to read,” she said, and I looked up as the thin book she had been holding hit the table between us. There was nothing written on the cover, the embossing almost completely worn away. “What is it?” I said flatly, not reaching for it. Eyes dropping, she licked her lips. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said, and my gut tightened. “You probably won’t believe me, but it scared me, too.” “Not as much as you scared me.” Working with her for a year hadn’t prepared me for last night. I’d only seen her professional side. I hadn’t considered she was different away from the office. I flicked my eyes up at her and away. She looked entirely human. Neat trick, that. “I haven’t been a practicing vamp for three years,” she said softly. “I wasn’t prepared for … I didn’t realize—” She looked up, her brown eyes pleading. “You have to believe me, Rachel. I didn’t want that to happen. It’s just that you were sending me all wrong signals. And then you got frightened, and then you panicked, and then it got worse.” “Worse?” I said, deciding anger was better than fear. “You nearly ripped out my throat!” “I know,” she implored. “I’m sorry. But I didn’t.” I fought to keep from shuddering as I remembered the warmth of her saliva on my neck. She nudged the book closer. “I know we can avoid a repeat of last night. I want this to work. There’s no reason it can’t. I owe you something for taking one of your wishes. If you leave, I can’t protect you against the vamp assassins. You don’t want to die at their hands.” My jaw clenched. No. I didn’t want to die at the hands of a vampire. Especially one who would say she was sorry while killing me. I met her gaze across the cluttered table. She sat in her black robe and kick-off slippers, looking as dangerous as a sponge. Her need for me to accept her apology was so raw and obvious, it was painful. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. I reached a finger out to pull the book closer. “What is it?” “A—uh—dating guide?” she said hesitantly. I took a quick breath and drew my hand back as if stung. “Ivy. No.” “Wait,” she said. “That’s not what I mean. You’re giving me mixed signals. My head knows you don’t mean it, but my instincts …” Her brow furrowed. “It’s embarrassing, but vampires, whether living or dead, are driven by instincts triggered mostly by … smell?” she finished apologetically. “Just read up on the turn-ons, okay? And don’t do them.” I settled back into my chair. Slowly, I pulled the book closer, seeing how old it was by the binding. She had said instincts, but I thought hunger was more accurate. It was only the realization of how hard it had been for her to admit that she could be manipulated by something as stupid as smell that kept me from throwing the book back in her face. Ivy prided herself on her control, and to have confessed such a weakness to me told me more than a hundred apologies that she was really sorry. “All right,” I said flatly, and she gave me a relieved, closed-lipped smile. She took a muffin and pulled the evening edition of the Cincinnati Enquirer that I had found against the front door to her. The air was still tense, but it was a start. I didn’t want to leave the security of the church, but Ivy’s protection was a double-edged sword. She had bottled up her blood lust for three years. If she broke, I might be just as dead. “‘Councilman Trenton Kalamack blames I.S. negligence in secretary’s death,’” she read, clearly trying to change the subject. “Yeah,” I said cautiously. I put her book in the pile with my spell books to read later. My fingers felt dirty, and I wiped them on my jeans. “Ain’t money grand? There’s another story of him being cleared of all suspicion of dealing in Brimstone.” She said nothing, turning pages between bites of muffin until she found the article. “Listen to this,” she said softly. “He says, ‘I was shocked to learn of Mrs. Bates’s second life. She seemed the model employee. I will, of course, pay for her surviving son’s education.’” Ivy gave a short snort of mirthless laughter. “Typical.” She turned to the comics. “So will you be spell crafting today?” I shook my head. “I’m going to the records vault before they close for the weekend. This,” I flicked a finger at the paper, “is useless. I want to see what really happened.” Ivy set down her muffin, thin eyebrows high in question. “If I can prove Trent is dealing in Brimstone and give him to the I.S.,” I said, “they’ll forget about my contract. They have a standing warrant for him.” And then I can get the hell out of this church, I added silently. “Prove Trent runs Brimstone?” Ivy scoffed. “They can’t even prove if he’s human or Inderlander. His money makes him slipperier than frog spit in a rainstorm. Money can’t buy innocence, but it can buy silence.” She picked at her muffin. Dressed in her robe and with her sloppy hair, she could have been any of my sporadic roommates over the past years. It was unnerving. Everything changed when the sun was up. “These are good,” Ivy said as she held up a muffin. “Tell you what. I’ll buy groceries if you make dinner. Breakfast and lunch I can get on my own, but I don’t like cooking.” I made a face in understanding and agreement—I didn’t appreciate the finer arts of culinary expertise, either—but then I thought about it. It would take up my time, but not having to go to the store sounded great. Even if Ivy only offered so I wouldn’t have to put my life on the line for a can of beans, it sounded fair. I’d be cooking either way, and cooking for two was easier than cooking for one. “Sure,” I said slowly. “We can try it for a while.” She made a soft noise. “It’s a deal.” I glanced at my watch. It was one-forty. My chair squeaked across the linoleum as I stood up and grabbed a muffin. “Well, I’m out of here. I’ve got to get a car or something. This bus thing is awful.” Ivy laid out the comics atop the clutter surrounding her computer. “The I.S. isn’t going to let you just walk in.” “They have to. Public record. And no one’s going to tag me with a bunch of witnesses they will have to pay off. Cuts into their profits,” I finished bitterly. The arch to Ivy’s eyebrows said more clearly than words she wasn’t convinced. “Look,” I said as I pulled my bag from atop a chair and sorted through it. “I was going to use a disguise spell, all right? And I’ll leave at the first sign of trouble.” The amulet I waved in the air seemed to satisfy her, but as she went back to her comics, she muttered, “Take Jenks with you?” It really wasn’t a question, and I grimaced. “Yeah. Sure.” I knew he was a babysitter, but as I poked my head out the back door and yelled for him, I decided it would be nice having the company, even if it was a pixy. Eight (#ulink_504ecb9e-657f-582e-9a58-577ad07a0792) I scrunched deeper into the corner of the bus seat, trying to make sure no one could look over my shoulder. The bus was crowded, and I didn’t want anyone to know what I was reading. “If your vampire lover is sated and won’t be stirred,” I read, “try wearing something of his or hers. It needn’t be much, perhaps as little as a handkerchief or tie. The smell of your sweat mingling is something even the most restrained vampire can’t resist.” Okay. Don’t wear Ivy’s robe or nightgown anymore. “Often the mere washing of your clothes together leaves enough of a scent to let your lover know you care.” Fine. Separate loads. “If your vampire lover moves to a more private location in the middle of a conversation, be assured that he or she isn’t spurning you. It’s an invitation. Go all out. Take some food or drink with you to get the jaws loosened up and the saliva moving. Don’t be a flirt. Red wine is pass?. Try an apple or something equally crunchy.” Damn. “Not all vampires are alike. Find out if your lover likes pillow talk. Foreplay can take many forms. A conversation about past ties and bloodlines is sure to strike a chord and stir pride unless your lover is from a secondary house.” Double damn. I was a harlot. I was a freaking vampire hussy. Eyes closed, I let my head fall against the back of the seat. A warm breath tickled my neck. I jerked upright, spinning. The heel of my hand was already in motion. It smacked into the palm of an attractive man. He laughed at the resounding pop, raising his hands in placation. But it was the soft, speculative amusement in his eyes that stopped me. “Have you tried page forty-nine?” he asked, leaning forward to rest his crossed arms on the back of my seat. I stared blankly at him, and his smile grew seductive. He was almost too pretty, his smooth features holding a childlike eagerness. His gaze slipped to the book in my hand. “Forty-nine,” he repeated, his words dropping in pitch. “You’ll never be the same.” On edge, I flipped to the right page. Oh—my—God. Ivy’s book was illustrated. But then I hesitated, squinting as I became confused. Was there a third person in there? And what the hell was that bolted to the wall? “This way,” the man said, reaching over the seat and turning the book sideways in my grip. His cologne was woodsy and clean. It was as nice as his easy voice and soft hand intentionally brushing mine. He was the classic vampire flunky: nice build, dressed in black, and a frightening need to be liked. Not to mention his lack of understanding personal space. I tore my gaze from his when he tapped the book. “Oh,” I said, as it suddenly made sense. “Oh!” I exclaimed, warming as I slammed the book shut. There were two people. Three if you count the one with the … whatever it was. My eyes rose to his. “You survived that?” I asked, not sure if I should be appalled, horrified, or impressed. His gaze went almost reverent. “Yeah. I couldn’t move my legs for two weeks, but it was worth it.” Heart pounding, I shoved the book into my bag. He rose with a charming smile and ambled forward to get off. I couldn’t help but notice that he limped. I was surprised he could walk. He watched me as he descended the stairs, his deep eyes never leaving mine. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to look away. Curiosity got the better of me, and even before the last of the people had gotten off the bus, I had pulled Ivy’s book back out. My fingers were cold as I thumbed it open. I ignored the picture, reading the small print under the cheerful “How to” instructions. My face went cold and my stomach knotted. It was a warning to not allow your vampire lover to coerce you into it until you had been bit at least three times. Otherwise, there might not be enough vamp saliva in your system to overwhelm the pain receptors, fooling your brain into thinking pain was pleasure. There were even instructions on how to keep from passing out if you indeed didn’t have enough vamp saliva and you found yourself in agonizing pain. Apparently if the blood pressure dropped, so did the enjoyment of your vampire lover. Nothing on how to get him or her to stop, though. Eyes closing, I let my head thump against the window. The chatter of the oncoming passengers pulled my eyes open, and I blinked as my gaze went to the sidewalk. The man was standing there, watching me. I clasped an arm about myself, chilled. He was smiling as if his groin hadn’t been delicately incised and his blood pulled from him and consumed as if in communion. He had enjoyed it, or at least he thought he had. He held up three fingers in the Boy Scout’s salute, touched the tips of them to his lips, and blew me a kiss. The bus jerked into motion, and he walked away, the hem of his duster swinging. Staring out the window, I felt nauseated. Had Ivy ever been a part of something like that? Maybe she had accidentally killed someone. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t practicing anymore. Maybe I should ask her. Maybe I should keep my mouth shut so I could sleep at night. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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