I drove a route that happened to take me past the veterinary clinic Mr. Bond loved. I tried to catch a glimpse of the people inside as I flew by at forty-five miles per hour. Okay, so maybe Mr. Bond didn’t love going to the vet—that’d be like me saying I loved to go to the gynecologist. Maybe I was the only one who looked forward to our visits to the Love and Caring Veterinary Clinic.
The name was a charming play on the main vet’s name: Dr. Alex Love. There were three things I knew about the doctor: (1) he was delectable—tall, fit, and unmarried, with a smile that could be used as a defibrillator for women of all ages, (2) he had devoted his life to helping animals, instantly earning him my adoration, and (3) he had graduated from UC Davis two years before me. I berated myself yet again for not having the foresight to run into him on campus my freshman or sophomore year.
I’d met him only twice: once to get Mr. Bond fixed, the other time to have Mr. Bond’s shots brought up to date. Both times I’d left feeling more dazed than my drugged cat. There’s something about a confident, animal-loving, incredibly handsome, single male that gets my juices going. Frankly, I think I’d have to be dead to not feel a flutter in my pulse just at the sight of him.
I spent the rest of my drive daydreaming amusing bedroom puns on the doctor’s last name and erotic situations in which they wouldn’t sound corny.
Bridget’s silver Prius was parked under a lamp in the nearly empty parking lot in front of The Golden Goose. I pulled into the space next to it. Although it was just the two of us, I’d still dressed up in dark skinny jeans, low boots, and a green cotton scoop-necked shirt that had enough gathers to create an optical illusion of cleavage—if you didn’t look too close. I felt cute without being slutty, but the outfit wasn’t exactly cold-November-weather wear. I jogged to the door and shivered when I slipped into the warm interior.
The Golden Goose was a cross between a swanky lounge and a dive, with pool tables and a juke box on one side, couches and leather chairs on the other, and a U-shaped bar that protruded into the middle of the room to act as a natural divider.
I waved to Bridget, who had snagged a couch, and wound my way through the seating to her side. Aside from a few men bellied up to the bar and a group of college students at the pool tables, we had the place to ourselves.
“Bridget, I’m doomed,” I said, flopping down on the sofa next to her.
Bridget rolled her green eyes, familiar with my melodrama. “Did your freshman spring break photos finally get posted on Facebook?”
“Worse.”
“I thought you said you got the job?” She signaled the bartender, who indicated he’d be right over.
“I did.”
“Then what’s the problem, Dice?”
Dice was Bridget’s nickname for me, stretching the verisimilitude of an abbreviation of my name: Ma-Dice-on. She’d started calling me Dice when we were still in college together, saying I ran my life like every decision was made by rolling a dice. I guess that was her way of saying I was flighty. I didn’t take it personally. I knew how I looked. Changing majors four times in as many years doesn’t lead to people thinking you’re on a stable path to anywhere. The nickname had stuck—partially because I liked it. It fit, though not for the reasons Bridget thought. My life had always felt a little out of my control, like the gods were toying with me—the fantasy of them playing dice with my fate was a fittingly humorous, melodramatic thought.
“I need a drink first.” I ordered a peach margarita, and Bridget ordered a long island iced tea and a plate of nachos for us to share. I had training tonight, but that was several hours away. One drink wasn’t going to impair me.
Despite the fact that Bridget had been at work for her usual ten-hour day, she looked refreshed. Her bright red hair hung around her shoulders in waves, still kinked from being trapped in a bun all day. Her gray pencil skirt had subtle cream pinstripes that perfectly matched her blouse. Her feet were strapped into shoes that, while sexy, would have murdered my feet in minutes. She looked exactly like what she was: a woman who had her life together.
I knew for a fact that if we hadn’t been roommates in college, we never would have met or become friends. We’d bonded over boys and music tastes and shared activities, but there wasn’t much else we had in common. Bridget had always had her life in order, even as a freshman. She’d had a four-year plan followed by a master’s plan, and she’d never strayed off course. Now, at twenty-six, she was on the fast track to becoming partner at Cable and Weintraub law offices, owned a home in a posh subdivision just outside of Roseville, drove a Prius, and had a closet full of shoes two sizes too small for sharing. Compared to my unsuccessful career and paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle, it was a wonder I didn’t hate her.
“All right. Tell me what’s distressing you,” Bridget said, settling back into the couch with her drink.
“We could start with how many people saw my underwear today. Or would you prefer to start at the point where I realized that the job advertised had been a front for a position with a wacky society of people who like to refer to themselves as the CIA? Or maybe we should begin at the point where I nearly got fired.”
“The CIA?”
“The Collaborative Illumination Alliance.”
Bridget was leaning forward now, expression intent. “Hang on. You have the job and you want to keep it?” I nodded. “And you don’t want to sue?” I shook my head. “Not even over the panties thing?” I grimaced and shook my head again. Bridget studied my face. After a moment, she relaxed back against the couch. “In that case, I can’t decide between the underwear or the front. You pick, but tell me everything.”
I did. She was as shocked as I had been that the junior sales associate position had been a cover-up for an illuminant enforcer position (after I explained what an IE was, which she was thrilled by). I told her about Kyle and seeing him glow, and she immediately wanted to know if I could glow that bright, too (not unless I was set on fire). I told her about the imps, and she was appreciably awed and frightened, loyally agreeing she would have ended up on the floor, too.
“Only, after I flashed everyone, I probably would have run screaming,” she said.
“I wanted to, but Kyle took care of the imps.”
“Took care of them as in he snuggled them up in a blanket and fed them?”
“The way a mafia mob boss would. Poof. No more imp.”
Bridget’s eyes widened as this sank in. “You mean, your soul-sight—”
“Has a purpose.” I grinned at her round-eyed expression. I explained that as an IE, my duty was to kick evil-creature butt. When I said it out loud, it sounded completely insane, but Bridget never once questioned the veracity of my story.
“I always knew there had to be a reason,” she said.
“Other than the pervy reasons?”
She rolled her eyes. “Wait, didn’t you say you already almost got fired?”
I finished my tale, describing the portion of Roseville under my jurisdiction—Bridget was happy she lived in my region; I felt a little sick at the thought that I was now responsible for the well-being of her soul—the horror of the imp’s attack, its impossible number of teeth, my pathetic reaction, and finally Mr. Pitt’s rage.
“It’s your first day on the job—not even that: It’s the day you were interviewed! What does he expect?” Bridget demanded.
“Apparently most IEs have figured all this stuff out all by themselves by my age,” I said. “So he thought I’d be ready to step into Kyle’s shoes. Obviously I can’t, which is why I have training tonight.”
“Tonight?” Bridget glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eight.”
“The crotchety lady said she’d be by around ten. I got the feeling that she wanted to make me squirm awhile. Instead, I’m here with you, and this has been the highlight of my day.”
Bridget raised her glass in a toast. “To finally finding your life purpose.”
I lowered my glass. “Life p
urpose? This is just a job.”
“Maybe. But think about this. You haven’t been able to stick with anything since we met, and nothing’s stuck with you, but the whole time you’ve had this ability to see the world in Primordium.” She winked at me for her correct use of the new terminology. “And now you find out that you can do something with it. I don’t think the universe could light up a bigger neon sign for you.”
She had dropped her hand when I did, and now she raised it again. “To finding a new purpose,” she amended.
I clinked my glass against hers and drank, my thoughts spinning.
“Don’t look now, but there’s a cute guy at the bar who’s been staring at us for the last ten minutes. I think he’s working up the nerve to come over.”
I rolled my eyes at her, but that didn’t stop me from trying to get a discreet glance.
Bridget flashed me a knowing grin. “Here he comes,” she whispered. Much louder, she said, “I’m so proud of you, Madison. We should celebrate.”
“If you’re celebrating, maybe I could buy you both another drink,” said a rough male voice behind me.
The man walked around the low table that held our nachos and into my line of sight. Bridget was right: He was cute, in a very disarming way. He couldn’t have been much taller than my five-feet-ten, though his gelled brown hair gave him an extra inch or so. I pegged him to be a banker or maybe a higher-paid office drone in management, judging by his well-pressed black slacks and light blue shirt with subtle gray pin-striping that matched his black and gray tie. His shirt matched his eyes perfectly. It was a very pleasing effect, and I wondered if he knew it.
He flashed us an unsure smile, his eyes darting between us. “Or maybe I’m interrupting?”
“Nope,” Bridget said. “Have a seat. We’re celebrating my best friend’s new job.”
The man eased into a chair across from Bridget. “Congratulations. What’s the new job?”
“Bumper stickers,” I said before Bridget could tell the truth. Just because she believed me often made her forget that others wouldn’t. “It’s not the most exciting thing, but at least it pays well.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone in bumper stickers before.”
His easy grin made my pulse kick up a notch. Bridget caught my eye and cocked an eyebrow. I gave her a slight nod. Cute, blue-eyed man had made it through the first round.
We introduced ourselves, shaking hands with him. His name was Tim, he was new to Roseville, and he had large warm hands. He asked what we were drinking, then headed for the bar. All traces of his nervousness had disappeared as we’d introduced ourselves, and I found myself thankful once again to be on the receiving end of the traditional pickup. The guys had the nerve-wracking part.
The bar was still virtually empty, so Bridget and I had time only to solidify our exit strategies before Tim returned. Mine was set for me by Doris, and Bridget agreed that she’d leave when I did.
Bridget and I flirted our way through the next half hour, filling Tim in on the local scene, good places to shop and eat, and from Bridget, good places to buy a home if he decided to stay in the area. Bridget’s enthusiasm for real estate was contagious, and while Tim had started the conversation seemingly more interested in me, by the end, he was fascinated with Bridget. She tended to have that effect on men. With her wavy red hair and large green eyes, Bridget looked guileless and sweet, but once men realized that she had more brains than the average woman, many found the juxtaposition enchanting.
“You’re out of your mind, dude!”
The shout turned every head in the bar toward the pool tables and the circle of college kids that now crowded around two men, both who had cue sticks clutched in their white-knuckled fists. Bridget trailed off, and Tim turned to watch the men, too. The last song on the juke box ended, and the bar was unnaturally quiet as the bizarre fight unfolded.
“Linux requires you to think.”
“You might as well be programming in DOS. The eighties called; they want their OS back.”
“I can see how the simpleton interfaces of Windows panders to a poser like you,” the first man countered.
“Right. Because ugly equals quality? I guess Bill Gates didn’t get the memo.”
“Bill Gates wouldn’t know quality if it was shoved up his ass.”
“I’ll shove quality up your ass. Bend over!”
The men lunged for each other. The first got in a good jab to the other’s gut with the thin end of his cue stick, but the other followed with a swing to the jabber’s arm. The meaty sound of the cue stick hitting flesh made me flinch. In a flash, the bartender vaulted the bar, his wiry frame serving him well as he slithered through the small crowd, then dodged the flying cue sticks and fists to pull the two guys apart.
Bridget and I shared a wide-eyed look.
“That never happens here,” Bridget assured Tim. We’d been coming to this bar for the last two years, and we’d never seen so much as a raised-voice argument. I peeked at the face of Tim’s watch. “Shoot. We’ve got to get going.”
“I’ll walk you both out,” Tim suggested.
“Thank you, but I’ve got to freshen up,” I said. I might have accepted his offer a moment ago, but witnessing the fight had raised my danger radar. Tim was undoubtedly perfectly safe, but I didn’t feel like walking with him to an empty parking lot now.
Bridget took her cue from me, and we bid farewell to Tim—after he got Bridget’s phone number.
Five minutes later, we exited the bar and hurried through the crisp November air to where we’d parked our cars under a lamp.
“Call me and tell me how tonight goes,” Bridget said.
“I’m sure it’ll be a piece of cake.”
5
Welcome to the Dark Side. Are You Surprised We Lied about the Cookies?
I got home with time to spare, so after giving Mr. Bond attention and treats, I retrieved Medusa from the bottom of my purse and entered my friends’ and parents’ numbers. I considered once again calling my parents. I wanted to tell them I had a job, even if I couldn’t tell them any specifics.
I’d hinted at my ability to see souls to them once as a teenager. They’d taken me to see a psychologist. If I let them know about my evil-fighting skills now, I was sure they’d make it their mission to get me back into therapy. When I told them about the job, it’d have to be the one which I had originally thought I’d been interviewing for. A nice, normal office job.
I considered calling to tell them at least that much—to avoid any well-meant meddling in my life, if nothing else—but then I worried Doris would show up in the middle of the call, and I couldn’t think of a plausible explanation to be training in the middle of the night for a sales position at a bumper sticker company.
I didn’t want to admit to myself, but I was anxious about Doris’s imminent arrival. I’d cooled down since my outburst in Mr. Pitt’s office, and now I was beginning to regret my rudeness.
“This is what happens when you let your mouth do the thinking,” I told myself.
What if she didn’t show up just to teach me a lesson? What if she came and was really mean?
“She sounded like a little old lady. How tough can she be?” I asked Mr. Bond. He batted at a rope mouse, pounced, and bit into it, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. “You’re not helping.”
Abandoning the mouse, he darted through the kitchen and back, racing behind the TV in a flurry of flying claws. I tossed him his mouse. He came out of hiding claws first. The mouse never stood a chance.
Since Medusa was still in my hand, I scrolled through all the people Rose had entered. I didn’t recognize the majority of the names. I nearly dropped the phone when I saw Niko’s name and number. Niko Demitrius. Mr. Dark and Deadly. Too bad I didn’t have a reason to call him.
I spent several minutes imagining it was Niko instead of Doris I was waiting for, but when those fantasies began to stagnate, I decided to t
ry my luck at programming ring tones.
It was easy to pick a ring tone for Bridget (Shakira’s “Ready for the Good Times”) and my mom and dad (Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5). It took a little longer to select “Hail to the Chief” for Brad Pitt. Choosing a ring tone for Niko was the hardest. I needed something subtle, a song that didn’t say every molecule of estrogen in my body went into overdrive when I saw him. After wracking my brain for several long minutes, logic prevailed over my imagination, and over my ego: The likelihood of the model-esque elite enforcer of northern California calling me was zilch. Which meant it didn’t matter what I picked. After that, it took me only a moment to program Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back” as his ring tone.
I jumped at the sharp rap on my door.
“Third floor, eh?” a diminutive gray-haired whirlwind greeted me. She brushed past me into the front room. “Good thing I do spinning every day, or I might have had to play Romeo down there.”
I shut the door behind her.
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said on the phone,” I began.
“Water. Bridge. No worries, dear.”
Doris made a beeline for Mr. Bond, who obligingly trotted up to sniff her fingers. She had the short, permed hair of grandmas everywhere, sneakers, elastic-banded jeans, and a sweater that had two felt old ladies holding up a banner that said “I Like to Get Knotty.” Mr. Bond stuck his head in her enormous leather purse and meowed happily.
“Cute cat. Got a man?”
“No.” The “not that it’s any of your business” part of the sentence came through in my tone.
“Too bad, but I guess it makes this easier. I tried to explain what I did to only one of my husbands, and he tried to force me into a loony bin. Instead, I took his house and called it even. You should find a man, though. This job can be hard without the support.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Doris snorted. “Is that all you’re wearing? We’re going to be out in the elements.”
A Fistful of Evil: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Madison Fox, Illuminant Enforcer Book 1) Page 5
