by Cate Lawley
“Fine,” she snapped. “When’s the service?”
“Tomorrow evening, six thirty.” And as Ben gave Abby the remaining particulars, I realized how awkward a situation he was in.
He was discussing the funeral service of a married man with that man’s girlfriend, knowing the wife and mistress would be attending. At least, if we had our way, they would be. The plan would hardly work without all the players present.
Even with Ben’s fair complexion, I didn’t see a hint of a flush. Maybe delicate situations such as these occurred with some frequency out in Buda, Texas. Not the fake-corpse part, of course, but the complex familial dynamics. It was either practice, or Ben was simply a cool, calm, and collected guy, whatever the situation.
Or he was really good at faking it.
Alex gave Abby a brief sketch of what to expect. We’d gather the players at the funeral, incite Richard to anger by criticizing his grand plan and motivations, push said anger to sufficient heights that he’d be incautious in what he revealed, elicit an explanation of his grand plan without triggering mass bloodshed, hope like heck that Lydia’s desire for a child outweighed any loyalty she felt to her manipulative assistant, and, finally, record all of the above in case Lydia refused to give testimony.
No one said it was a good plan.
A lot of moving parts and some uncontrollable factors made it a gamble, but Alex was especially good at thinking on his feet and adjusting on the fly, and I wasn’t half bad at it myself.
We’d make it work.
When he was done, Abby shrugged and nodded. “It might work. The transformation gave him that same narcissistic bent that so many vamps have, and then add in the weird mommy issues… Yeah, it may just work.”
Her words still held that mean-girl bite, but her confrontational zeal had ebbed. I could see the edges of grief pushing back again. Unlikeable as she might be, she’d cared for Robert. She was likely the only one who had.
“Can we count on you to crank up the heat, make the first accusation?” Alex asked.
“Oh yes. I’ll gladly show up and stir the pot. Lydia hates a scene, and she’ll despise the fact that her darling Richard put a wrench in her plans. If she wasn’t so blinded by his puppy-like adoration, she’d have seen his glaring faults and fired him long ago.” She perked up just a little. “This might almost be fun. What about the normals? Wouldn’t do to have anyone fall in the crossfire.”
That last part was delivered in a dismissive tone that made her feelings toward unenhanced humans quite clear. The little, nonmagical folk were expendable, but it wouldn’t do at all to risk a reveal scandal. Abby was the personification of the Society’s attitudes toward human life.
So long as people like her were greater in number than people like Alex, Camille, and me, then changing the Society’s laws truly would be an uphill battle.
Alex inclined his head toward Ben, who said, “The service begins at seven. Only the principals are being instructed to arrive at six thirty, including Lydia, Richard, Brooke, and yourself. We would appreciate your promptness.”
She gave him a cold look. “I’m sure you would.” Turning a much kinder eye to Alex, she said, “And you’ll make certain I’m not a casualty in your little crusade, won’t you, Alex?”
“I’ll put in a word with Cornelius, if it comes to that.” Alex was basically promising to take the blame for whatever went down at the funeral.
I hadn’t been giving it much thought, because unlike me, Alex had serious clout with the Society, but Alex was risking repercussions.
Alex, Ben, and I had been bouncing along, asking questions, poking our noses in, as if we had the Society’s seal of approval. But this was no official Society case.
Alex was freelancing. If this blew up, he could be in real trouble.
I sighed. Both of us could.
That was a lovely topic to stew on while I rode in the back of Alex’s car and clung to the armrest for dear life.
16
The Other Plan…
Alex, Ben, and I had the rest of today and tomorrow to sort out details for the funeral. Alex had “errands,” whatever that meant, so he’d dropped Ben and me back at the funeral home with a promise to return at nine this evening.
Prep was tight, in part because Ben had been distracted from work concerns by his foray into the land of murder investigations, and also because he was technically down an assistant director since his had retired and he hadn’t yet replaced her.
Tight, but doable, he assured me as we divvied up tasks.
And I would have agreed with him—up until about three minutes ago.
Kinda hard to finish prepping for a funeral service while hunkered underneath the spare desk in the prep room. Which was exactly where Ben and I currently were.
Leaving didn’t seem wise, since we were being shot at.
Talk about sucking all of the joy out of my work.
I’d constructed a shield using the existing surface of the desk as a foundation, but I hardly had experience with gunfire and sure as heck hadn’t tested it in these conditions.
Funny thing was that we really did have a productive afternoon. I wasn’t scheduled until later in the evening, but circumstances being what they were, I figured I could volunteer my time until the official clock started for me at seven p.m.
The prep room filled with the loud report of a gun being fired indoors, deafeningly loud, as it turned out, even with the sound filter I’d wrapped around us.
I reconsidered my choice to volunteer my time today. If I was getting shot at, it would be cool to be paid.
Then again, I suppose Ben and I were only on the wrong side of a gun because of me, so… yeah, probably a bad idea to ask for my regular hourly rate, let alone hazard pay.
On the bright side of this utter mess, we didn’t have to worry about the original plan falling apart. It had always been a bit of a gamble. Lots of moving parts to go awry, lots of people to act in unpredictable ways.
But there was unpredictable, and there was showing up at Kowalski’s and opening fire on me and Ben.
A bullet pinged off my makeshift shield.
There was another bright side. My shield was officially battle-tested. If I were all about peddling my wares like most witches, I’d find a way to make some money out of that claim.
Probably the more immediate bonus was that it happened to be keeping the sociopathic—psychotic?—armed vampire from killing us.
“You have a plan?” Ben crouched lower under the desk, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Not get shot?” The sound of a bullet ricocheting off metal made me flinch.
“He’s shooting at the cold-storage lock.” Ben reached his arm out to point, but I smacked it.
“Quit that. I don’t know how far this shield extends.” I’d used the desk as a foundation, and I knew it covered the entirety of the actual desk. I’d certainly attempted to extend it beyond the metal surface by several inches, but those parts were bound to be weaker.
“Now you tell me?” He squished closer to me. He was a big guy, and it wasn’t a huge desk. “Any chance Alex will show up early?”
He was due to meet us at nine, and last I’d looked that was over fifteen minutes from now.
“Could be two minutes, could be ten.” Optimistically ten. Another shot had me rubbing my ears.
We really should have discussed a plan B. “We” being mostly Alex, because Ben and I weren’t exactly battle-seasoned.
But even Alex hadn’t anticipated a raid of the dang funeral home.
I peeked around the edge of the desk, but ducked back when Richard pointed the gun in my direction again.
“What self-respecting vampire uses a gun?” I hollered. Apparently I was angry enough to shut off all the logical parts of my brain.
A sharp jab in my rib cage was quickly followed by Ben whispering, “Stop agitating the armed man. Vampire. Whatever.”
Since I’d dropped the sound filter around us to deliver my less-than-zing
er-like jab, Richard heard Ben’s comment as well.
“That’s right, Star, stop agitating the man with the gun.” Richard fired another round at the cold storage. “You could give me the combination and make this a lot easier for yourself.”
“So you can destroy all of the evidence and then kill us? No thanks.” It wasn’t until I said the words out loud that I realized: there was evidence.
That was why the sociopath-psychopath PA was here. The original body held some clue that we’d missed.
My full mental effort had been focused on remaining calm, not getting killed, and keeping Ben safe. I hadn’t been thinking in terms of Richard’s motivation, but why else chance this break-in?
Another two ricocheting shots had more than my ears ringing this time. My brain felt like it was turning into mush inside my skull. I popped the sound filter back up.
We needed a plan.
We could hang out while Richard blew a hole in the cold-storage door, but then he’d be after us. Alex might show up by then. Richard didn’t know to hurry, because he didn’t know Alex was meeting us in a few minutes. But what if Alex was late?
“I’m getting a mobile phone,” I muttered.
Ben shot me a concerned look.
“Sorry. It’s just come up a lot lately. Seems to solve a lot of problems.”
“But since we don’t have one…?”
We could make a run for it, but I’d have to construct a much less reliable shield. I wasn’t interested in taking that kind of chance, especially since maintaining any sort of protection while moving would be extremely difficult. I honestly wasn’t sure I was up to it.
From what I’d seen, Richard didn’t have vamp speed. He was a baby vamp, so that wasn’t surprising. But I’d been squatting under the desk long enough that one of my feet was falling asleep, and the Doc Martens wouldn’t help with speed. Ben…Ben might be fast; it was hard to say.
But really, that was moot without a workable shield.
Ben poked me.
“Ow. Stop it. I’m thinking.” Actually, I was done thinking. I only had one real option: magic. Small problem—I’d never actually hurt someone with magic.
“Think faster.”
Mentoring with Camille meant I was pretty strong in potions, charms, and chants—but those all required prep time I didn’t have.
And Richard just kept firing. Maybe I should have counted? Except I had no clue how many rounds his semiautomatic held, so it didn’t matter. Besides, he seemed like a prepared sort of psychopath. He probably brought extra clips.
“Seriously, faster would be good. Can’t you zap him with one of those magic balls?”
Since I’d never tried to do more than singe with one, I hadn’t a clue.
“Yeah, absolutely.” Maybe it was the lying—or the flying bullets—but I was feeling a little lightheaded.
Very scattered.
Neither was good for focused magic.
I leaned close to Ben—he was here, and I needed to ground myself quickly—and I kissed him.
It was an impulse, and my brain was mush from the stress. But it worked.
I focused on his lips touching mine and nothing else until I felt the hum of magic pushing at the periphery of my awareness. I placed my palm on his chest. “Stay here.”
I took that zing of magic I’d found and molded it into a ball.
Here was the trick: As I shaped it and bent it to my will, I let the fear and the anger I’d been hiding behind a false sense of calm seep into the small ball.
And then I let it fly.
The room shuddered.
Debris flew.
Smoke rose.
A mini war zone, created with a single burst of pissed-off witch magic.
I exhaled.
A mess of dust and plaster was barely discernible through the smoke. Looked like I had a lot of anger and a good amount of fear locked up inside me. More than was generated by today’s confrontation. A lot of carefully buried emotions had been unearthed as I’d yanked them into the grenade of magic and angst I’d constructed.
No need for anyone to know how I’d drummed up that much juice on short notice. The buried emotions and the kiss were tidbits I’d keep to myself.
I would, however, be mentioning my exceptional aim.
I touched my ears. They were still faintly ringing.
And Ben… I turned to make sure he’d stayed behind the desk—and my shield—where I’d left him. He looked unharmed, but he’d emerged and was surveying his prep room. He was covering his mouth to keep the plaster dust out; that was how bad it was.
Wild guess: his insurance didn’t cover acts of magic.
Unemployment, here I come.
At least I had my under-the-table witch gig at Camille’s store. It wouldn’t pay for a new apartment, but I wasn’t about to starve any time soon.
I rubbed the grit out of my eyes and inspected the room.
The cold storage looked intact. Bonus: I hadn’t blown up what might turn out to be our only evidence, especially if I had blown up our killer PA.
“Oops,” I whispered, but Ben wasn’t looking at me and didn’t turn at the sound of my voice.
The poor guy. From the look on his face, he was thinking about insurance too. Then he said something, gave me a concerned look, and pointed—emphatically.
I turned back to find the smoke haze gone and Richard intact. Passed out cold, maybe dead, but definitely in one piece.
He twitched. Not dead, then.
Another energy ball? But maybe this time with fewer repressed emotions fueling it. I’d hate to accidentally burn down the entire backside of the building.
Alex stepped into my line of sight just in time, as I was having the inconvenient realization that I couldn’t zap an already unconscious man. Even to keep him incapacitated and therefore not attempting to kill us.
An extremely inconvenient realization.
“About time,” I said.
Alex winced as he held up a hand. I took that to mean stop. And by the peeved expression, maybe something like, “Stop with the energy balls already.”
“Is he all right?” I asked, pointing at Richard.
Alex paused over Richard’s body. His once more very still body. My stomach roiled.
What did I care if the guy was dead? He was probably getting hung in the next day or two anyway.
My hand drifted to cover my midsection, and I had to take a few breaths to quell the nausea. Dead by me was different from dead by someone else. At least, my stomach thought so.
Alex turned away from the body and mouthed…something.
I shrugged. “I can’t hear you.”
Alex closed his eyes with a pained expression, so I turned to Ben.
He lifted his finger to his lips, at which point the light bulb came on. I finally noticed the roar of silence in my ears. It was the blood-rushing shush of nothing. The ringing in my ears had faded, but so had my hearing and I hadn’t even noticed. I must have been yelling my head off.
I turned my back on Ben, Alex, and the possibly dead Richard. I needed to focus. Most witches could speed minor healing. I thought I could do it, if the damage to my hearing wasn’t too severe. And I remembered how to do it, though it had been a while since I’d tried.
I stilled my thoughts, focused, thought pleasant, fluffy, healing thoughts—and got a big bunch of nothing.
Worst witch ever.
Ben popped up in my peripheral vision holding some brightly colored scrap of paper. He held it out to me.
When I saw what it was, I couldn’t help laughing. It looked like a tiny temporary tattoo of a skull and crossbones, the traditional label for poison, but in reality was a healing potion. I’d impregnated the paper with a nifty little potion I’d learned from Camille. Bright pink, because I thought that color would most offend the macho wizard I’d thought Alex was, but he’d just smiled one of his oh-so-rare smiles and thanked me.
Since it had been a gift when we’d first been an item, before
we’d even moved in together, he’d been carrying it around in his wallet a long time. Maybe there was a sentimental bone or two in him after all.
I took it from Ben, licked the paper, and stuck it on the back of my hand. I held my hand up and couldn’t help but admire it. It was kinda cute. But then it faded away as the magic absorbed into my skin.
My hearing came back in a flood of sounds.
Funny how I hadn’t noticed the little noises before. The hum of the cold-storage locker, the slight click of an overhead light on the verge of failing.
But mostly I heard Richard’s screams of pain.
I rubbed my temple as I turned to see what exactly Alex was doing to the very-not-dead vampire.
17
Bullets, Bad Guys, and Lessons Learned
Richard was a despicable being, even for a vamp.
But that didn’t make me any more comfortable with Alex’s slice-and-dice torture strategy.
The cuts were superficial, and he healed as fast as they were made, so there was no way they’d actually kill the guy. But I could barely watch. I liked to think my moral compass wasn’t completely broken. The occasional fritz, but not broken, and my compass was saying no.
Ben had followed me and now stood next to me as we watched from ten or so feet away in horror-filled fascination.
Alex could use a sword with all the skill and dexterity that his age and years of practice allowed. If the result wasn’t so disturbing, it would be pretty cool to see.
“We should stop him,” Ben said, but he didn’t move.
We should, but since Alex was asking what evidence the body in cold storage had, and no permanent damage was being done…and Richard was a sociopath.
Then Alex cut him again, and Richard moaned…again.
No.
I gritted my teeth. “Enough, Alex.”
