A Perfect Blood th-10

by Kim Harrison

  He looked up as he finished the last, his expression brightening with understanding. “Oh! That’s why the ones you made last year . . .”

  I nodded. “Yes. I thought I’d done them wrong . . . but it’s my blood.”

  Marshal knew I wasn’t a witch—he was there the week I figured it out for myself—but I could tell by his suddenly sick expression that he hadn’t really believed it. He thought that I’d taken a label to get the coven to back off. “Then you really are . . .”

  His words faltered, and I slumped, tired beyond belief. “I’m a demon,” I said, looking away. A demon with no demon magic. “Well, thanks,” I said as understanding, and even worse, pity, cascaded over him. “I don’t know any other witches I could have asked to do this. Isn’t that stupid?” I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong, and the silence afterward was worse.

  The amulets were invoked, and still he stood there, four feet and an entire chasm of unspoken thought between us. “No,” he said softly, and I looked up, seeing his pity, his fear, and his reluctance all wrapped up in one terrible expression. “Rachel, I’m sorry this happened. And I’m glad you got your shunning removed. I didn’t like the way things ended.”

  “Me neither,” I said, backing slowly away. My stomach hurt. This was such a bad idea. I couldn’t go back—this proved it—but what hurt wasn’t Marshal as much as it was me grieving, letting go of the hope that I could be the person I’d always thought I was. It was going to be harder now that I couldn’t pretend.

  “That’s why I came over today,” he said, but I didn’t know if I believed him. “Not because I wanted to start dating again or anything. I just wanted to see that you were really okay and not just surviving.”

  I leaned against the sink, wishing he would go away. I hadn’t invited him over here to see if he was available, but now I felt even more alone. “I’m doing okay,” I said, wishing I could say it louder.

  “You’re doing great!” he said, but it sounded flat. I jumped when he touched my elbow, and his hand fell away. “You’re doing great,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m glad that no one is telling me I can’t talk to you anymore, because you are a very special woman.”

  My gut hurt, and I made a fist, jamming it into my side. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” I was not going to cry, damn it.

  “You deserve good things,” Marshal said, but he was still wearing that damn pitying smile. “There’s someone out there for you. I really believe that.”

  “Me, too,” I lied, then swallowed the pain down where it could fester. “I’m glad you’re doing okay, too. And thanks again. For the amulets.” I was never going to call him again.

  Marshal reached out and I shook my head, unable to look at him. The soft slap of his hand meeting his leg was loud. “Bye, Rachel,” he said, and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t cry when he leaned in and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  “Bye, Marshal,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm, though my chest felt like it was caving in. It wasn’t Marshal, it was everything else.

  “I’ll let myself out.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly, and I looked up as he walked away. I took a deep breath, gazing at the ceiling as I shook my hair out. It was almost dry. I wasn’t looking for someone to complete me, but having someone to do stuff with would be nice. And I didn’t think I could even have that anymore.

  “I have to get out of here,” I said softly, feeling the walls close in on me. If I didn’t do something, I’d explode in a puff of self-absorbed pity. But not with Wayde watching me. Yes, he was right that I was vulnerable without my ley-line magic. Yes, Trent was right that I was putting those I cared about at risk by not accepting my full abilities. But I was not helpless. I had survived an I.S. death threat, banshees, Weres with guns, and political witches—all without demon magic. It would’ve been an entirely different story last night if I had been prepared and had had my splat gun. Perhaps Wayde needed to know that.

  I heard the front door shut, then stuffed the last of the amulets into my bag, sliding them next to my restocked splat gun. I was so out of here. Wayde still had my keys after driving me home last night, but I could take the bus to the FIB. He kept telling me he could keep me safe, but he wasn’t taking this seriously if someone he’d never met had come into the church and left without Wayde checking him out. The Were needed a wake-up call, and I was frustrated enough to give it to him.

  “Ivy?” I called out, knowing she had probably been listening to the entire conversation. “I’m going to take the bus to the FIB. I’ve got my splat gun and phone.”

  There was a hesitation, then through the walls came, “What about Wayde?”

  “I think he’s still sleeping,” I said loudly, knowing he couldn’t hear us, and not caring if he did. I’d been afraid to hurt him last night. The stakes hadn’t been high enough, and I’d been showing restraint, not cowardice. Today it would be a different story.

  Again the hesitation, followed by “Call me when you get there!”

  I felt a surge of gratitude. Ivy knew I wasn’t helpless. Feeling better, I grabbed my jacket, shuffling into it while slinging my bag over my shoulder. Phone in my pocket, I strode through the back living room to the porch door. I’d spent almost an entire year taking public transportation, and I knew the schedule. If I hurried, I could catch the next bus into Cincy—easy.

  Catch me if you can, big boy, I thought as I scuffed my garden shoes on and opened the back door. I owed him a little grief for last night if nothing else.

  Chapter Eight

  Garden shoes did not make the best getaway attire, and I was leaving little clumps of dirt as I eased the door shut behind me. Exhaling, I turned, taking in the sunny but wet garden. The trees had lost most of their leaves, but the sun was warm. All the vegetation looked tired and worn, kind of like how I felt, and I tugged my jacket closer. The soft hush of a passing car disturbed the Sunday afternoon, then silence.

  “Some bodyguard,” I said sourly, thinking he should have been on to me by now. It wasn’t as if I was trying to sneak out. I was prepared for trouble and would be fine.

  The church sat on an entire city block, the graveyard taking up the lion’s share of it. A shoulder-high stone-and-wrought-iron wall encompassed the property, helping separate the living from the dead. A low stone wall divided the mundane witches’ garden from the gravestones, but I used almost every inch of the place for my plants. From where I stood on the porch, I could see over it to the homes and cars on the street behind the church. There was a bus stop, too. That was where I was headed.

  Arms wrapped around myself, I stomped down the wooden steps and into the witches’ garden. Ivy’s grill was covered, and the picnic table, scarred by a past curse, was soggy from last night’s rain. Rex, Jenks’s cat, was sitting on the knee-high stone wall where Jenks had made his new summer bachelor home. Her tail was twitching, and figuring that her tiny master was inside the wall, I gave her a wide berth. But the stupid cat stood, her back arched and her tail crooked as she minced along the top of the wall to me, and I waved for her to stay. Rex had avoided me like the plague for our first year together, but now, when I wanted her to stay, I was her favorite toy. Figures.

  “Stay there, you stupid cat,” I whispered, then froze when I heard Jenks’s voice, faint on the still air. “It’s a beautiful coat, Belle,” I heard him plead. “I’m sorry. No one has ever made me anything except my mother and my wife, and I didn’t know what to say when you gave it to me. Let me see it again.”

  “No,” Belle said, her lisping voice harder to distinguish above the whispering of the leaves. “I have my pride. I’ll give it to my brother. Oh, that’s right. You killed him.”

  “You killed my wife,” Jenks replied. “Let me see the damn coat! I want to wear the Tink-blasted thing!”

  I couldn’t help my smile, deciding that as long as Ivy knew where I was there was no need to bother him. Besides, he didn’t have his winter clothes on, and it was cold. Giving Rex a
scratch under her chin, I stepped over the low wall, starting through the tombstones for the distant wall. There were two bars in the rusted car gate that had been wedged apart just enough for a size eight tall to squeeze through.

  A feeling of excitement began to push out my melancholy. I hadn’t been on a run in ages. Not a run run—I ran regularly at the zoo before they opened, Wayde in tow. I meant a bad-guy run, where the adrenaline flowed and both the brain and the body got a workout. Ivy had been trying to include me in her work, but I’d not had much business since I’d been labeled a demon, and I missed it. But now, as I slunk through the graveyard, the hair on the back of my neck prickling from being in sight of Wayde’s windows, I felt a thrill down to my dew-wet toes. If he didn’t see me, then my gut feeling that he wasn’t up to this was right, and I needed to stop depending on him.

  The bus stop was about thirty yards away—and right in Wayde’s line of sight should he be looking. I thought it inexcusable that I could have gotten this far without him knowing it, and a feeling of justifiable anger suffused me.

  The choking gurgle of the bus brought my head up, and I peered down the street, heart pounding. It was early. Smiling, I ran for the fence, the bus passing me as I slipped between the rusty bars. “Wait!” I shouted, the bars leaving a long red stain on my jacket as I shoved my way through, waving my arm as I ran. Man . . . I hoped they’d pick me up. Sometimes they didn’t. You take the hair off the first three rows with a misfired charm and they never forget. “Hey! I’m running here!” I shouted, garden shoes squishing.

  I pounded after it, and the bus finally stopped. “Rachel!” I heard Wayde bellow, and I, grinning, didn’t turn. It was about time. I knew I should stop, but I was burning with the need to rub his nose in something. “Rachel! You wicked little witch! Get back here!”

  The bus’s door was open, and I grabbed the handle, swinging myself in. “Thanks,” I said breathlessly to the driver, then turned to wave at Wayde as I stood on the lowest step. He was in his boxers and a white T-shirt, standing on the porch steps with his hair wild and his beard matted. Clearly he had expected me to be a good little girl after yesterday’s show of masculine strength. He was still in his jammies.

  Wayde just about lost it, stomping down the stairs and heading across the wet grass in his bare feet. Crap, I had to get out of here.

  Skittering up the steps, I dug a couple of dollars out of my bag and dropped it into the plastic piggy bank. “Thanks again,” I said to the sour-looking man driving the bus. He frowned, which made his deeply wrinkled face even more crevassed.

  “Is he after you, miss?” he asked, and I smiled and nodded.

  “Yep. Mind making this thing move? He’s a bastard before his first cup of coffee.”

  With a tired sigh, the man closed the door and revved the engine. He put it into motion, and I swayed my way to the very back seat so I could watch Wayde skitter through the graveyard, trying not to walk on anyone’s grave. “You have to move faster than that if you want to keep up with me, wolfman,” I said under my breath, my mood much improved as I plunked myself down.

  From the other side of the bus came a soft masculine throat clearing. “Boyfriend?”

  My hand smacked into my shoulder bag and the reassuring presence of my splat gun. Startled, I turned to the other back seat and saw a young man in a short brown coat. By the tattoo peeking out of his collar, he was a Were. His tousled hair was black and wavy. A thick stubble was on his face, jet black and sexy. His smile was sly, and it went right to my gut and twisted.

  I resettled myself, glad I had my jacket even if I was right over the heater. “Boyfriend? No. But he acts like it sometimes.” I looked out the back window, seeing Wayde making his way back to the church, his head down and his arms swinging. Yeah, he was mad. “I need some time alone,” I said as the bus turned the corner and he was gone.

  “Oh, sorry,” the man said as he shifted his body angle away from me.

  “Not from everyone,” I said, realizing what I’d sounded like. “Just . . . everyone at home. You know?”

  He turned back to face me, his smile warming me through my thin jacket. “Trex,” he said, extending his hand across the aisle.

  Oh my God, I probably looked a mess, but I reached for his hand, hoping my fingers had warmed up as I took it. “Hi, Trex. I’m Rachel.”

  Trex’s eyes went from my tattoo to the bracelet of charmed silver peeping out of my cuff, then back to the tattoo fluff on my neck. “You’re Rachel Morgan? Black dandelion pack? Let’s have a squint at it.”

  Wow, word gets around fast. Flustered, I turned and yanked my shirt aside to show him.

  Trex drew close for an instant, then pulled back, whistling in appreciation. “That’s new,” he said, and I spun back around. “Emojin?”

  I nodded, propping myself against the back of the next seat up when we hit a bump. We were heading into Cincy over the bridge. There wasn’t much traffic on a Saturday afternoon, and we’d be right downtown in a matter of minutes if we didn’t have to stop for anyone. That was cool. I could get a coffee before I headed to the FIB. My own first cup was still sitting untouched on the kitchen counter. “Yes. She inked me last night.”

  “Quality.” His eyes fixed on mine, he pulled his coat and shirt aside to show an hourglass broken by a thorny rose vine. Red sand spilled out like blood. “Blood sand,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” I said, deciding that it was. I was never going to see this man again, but that was part of the joy. He was here, I was here, we were sharing a moment, and it wouldn’t impact my future one bit.

  My phone began ringing in my back pocket. It was on vibrate, but I think Trex could hear it, since his eyes went to it. I ignored it, smiling at him. “Your phone is ringing,” Trex finally said, and I sighed, reaching around to my back pocket and slumping in the seat when I saw the church’s number.

  “It’s Wayde,” I said glumly as I dropped it into my shoulder bag, wondering if he knew how to track me with a live phone. “The guy in boxers.”

  “You need some help ditching him?”

  Just the offer meant the world to me, and I gave him a bright smile. We were already among Cincy’s tall buildings. I could run my errand and be back in a few hours, easy. “Thanks, but no,” I said as I stood, seeing Junior’s just down the block. “I’m good. It was a pleasure.”

  He nodded, his lips still curved up, but with disappointment in his eyes. He had no idea how much that meant to me, and I could have hugged him. I’d been shunned and reviled for so long that even this harmless flirting felt great. I could not go back, but I could go forward. David was right. A show of pack membership had rubbed out the stigma of being a demon. At least for Trex here.

  “Have a good run,” he said as the bus came to a stop and I headed for the door.

  I didn’t think he meant my errand to the FIB, but rather a run run. He knew what I was doing. I got off the bus, wishing I’d worn a heavier coat as I stood in the cool wind coming off the river. The door shut, and the bus took off. I resisted the urge to wave to Trex, but barely. I smiled up at the bright sky, enjoying being alone while surrounded by thousands. Maybe I could grab a late breakfast somewhere after dumping off the amulets.

  I walked away, feeling sassy despite my garden shoes squishing. Coffee. Yeah. That sounded good.

  The chimes on the handle reminded me of Jenks’s kids’ laughter as I pushed the glass door open. Warm air smelling of coffee and ginger enveloped me, and I immediately felt warmer. I paused just past the threshold to take in the familiar tables and booths, and the weird pictures of babies dressed up as fruit and flowers. I still didn’t get it.

  I was leaving mud behind as I went to place my order. Junior’s had only recently opened a drive-through window, and though it was busy outside, the tables held only a few people. Most of them looked like they were drumming up business, their advertising logos prominently showing as they interviewed potential acolytes.

  Rubbin
g the cold from my arms, I went to the pastry shelves, deciding I’d treat myself. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, much less my first coffee.

  “Hi, what can I get for you today?”

  I looked up to see Junior—or Mark, rather—with a bright red manager tag on his apron. He was smiling professionally at me, and I smiled back, but then his expression clouded. “What are you doing here?” he barked as he recognized me.

  My smile faded. “Getting a coffee.” I pulled myself to my full height in my soggy, muddy garden shoes. “I’m not shunned anymore. Okay?” The patrons looked up, and I lifted my chin. Squinting at him, I put my palm on the counter, making sure my band of charmed silver hit it with a small clink.

  Mark looked at it. He was a witch—I’d seen him make a circle before—and he knew what it was. But like everyone else, he probably thought that the coven of moral and ethical standards had put it on me to keep me from doing any magic.

  “I can take it off if it bothers you,” I said lightly, running a finger along the inside.

  Mark frowned and backed up a step. I figured he’d put himself in an uninvoked circle—having them behind the counter was standard practice in case of attempted armed robberies. My good mood was falling apart.

  “What do you want?”

  It was flat and hostile, but I couldn’t blame him—much. Last year, I’d almost trashed the place trying to catch a banshee and her psychotic serial-killer husband. Then just a few months ago, my ex-boyfriend Nick had caused a scene to give me time to escape a member of the coven. Mark hadn’t known it was me then, but the papers had made it public. It made me wonder if Junior’s had been built on some kind of “galactic time-warp continuum.” Everything seemed to start or end here.

  “I’d like two of the mini scones,” I said, then added, “No, make that three.” I’d take one back to Jenks and the kids. “And a grande latte, double espresso, Italian blend. Light on the froth, skim milk.” Whole milk would have been better, but the scones were rich.