Apparently for no reason.
I slip on my scrubs and sneakers, make a date to see Smythe tomorrow—more training, oh the joy—and dart out the door, locking it behind me. Smythe can wave a hand, form a portal, and leave my house without unlocking the door.
Pretty nifty trick.
Shame he can’t use it to get me to work on time.
Especially since he’s the reason I’m running late.
Traffic runs smoothly, my drive easy and quick. And on time. Amazing that. The shift is the exact opposite, it being a Friday evening and a full moon to boot.
Which explains why I don’t hear my phone ringing, even though it sits in my pocket. It’s not until I clock out an hour after shift ends that I bother to check the thing on my walk to the parking garage.
I don’t recognize the number. But lucky for me they obeyed the leave a message command. I push the voice mail button and a slurred female voice booms through the speaker in a failed effort to shatter my eardrum. I yank the phone away from my ear in self-preservation.
“Hey!” It’s a tone only the seriously drunk can pull off, a loud, almost screaming twang, delivered that way since she seems to have trouble hearing her own voice. I pause in the hallway leading to the garage, leaning against the wall. She might be stumbling drunk, but something in her tone sends a chill chasing through my vertebrae, a prelude of the coming message.
“Hey!” She starts again, apparently believing I didn’t hear her the first time. “I got your number from Cecily.” Cecily? I rack my brain as she pauses for breath, or another sip of her drink. The answer comes to me as she speaks, bringing with it the sensation of a ball of slithering snakes squirming in my stomach. I’m no longer leaning against the wall. I’m slumping with terror.
“Yeah, anyway. She said maybe you’d know? So, like, Blake never came home last night. She said you’re friends, but I bet you’re fucking my boyfriend. You can’t do that, you know. Fuck him, right? He’s mine. But he’s gone.” Sobbing fills the line, followed by a swallow. A deep inhale. I can almost smell the smoke as she exhales into the receiver. “Do you know where he is, bitch? Because I’m going to find him, or you. Mainly him. No you. Whatever. Call me.”
The line goes dead.
Please press 1 to listen again, 2 to save...
I hit END with shaky fingers. Blake didn’t forget to stop by last night.
He never made it.
So where did he go and how do I find him?
Maybe trace his route from his office to my house? Of course, that would entail me knowing what office building he worked in. But while I doubt Jordan thinks clearly enough to call the police, I’m certain if she contacted Blake’s mother, Cecily placed the call.
Which means the police are out looking for him, even if he hasn’t been missing long. Cecily with her old Dallas money can pull more strings than a puppeteer. Unfortunately, unless he’s possessed by a minion, there’s nothing I can do the cops can’t.
So the real question becomes whether or not I’ll return Jordan’s call.
I vote no. Reason being, I’m not in the mood to talk to the girlfriend of the man I’m having an affair with while she calls me names and insults my parentage.
Not that I don’t do a little parentage insulting myself, but I’m not about to take it from some bottled-blonde boob-job bitch with a drinking problem.
Maybe Smythe would know what to do. As I walk to my car in a mind-fog, it dawns on me Smythe always shows up at my house. I have no idea where he lives—yeah, yeah, Boston in the Agency high-rise, like that tells me anything—or any idea how to get in touch with him.
I could call T, or send him a telepathic message, but it’s after midnight and I know without asking he lies in bed with Jackie. Asleep. And what would he do? Tell me I’m better off without my FWB who has turned into way more than a friends with benefits relationship should? Yeah, I can do without that.
An intersection pops in front of me, light flashing red. I blink. Talk about autopilot. Somehow I got from the hospital hallway to my car, and halfway home, so lost in thought I didn’t realize what I was doing. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows no flashing lights behind me, only a stretch of dark road punctuated by street lights and the occasional car.
Damn. I haven’t done anything like that since my younger, wilder days.
The rest of the drive goes without incident, as I’m now paying more attention to the road than my whirling panicked thoughts. I half expect to see a cop car parked in front of the house, sleepy detective ready to ask me questions about Blake, but there’s nothing there except a dark blob of oil staining the asphalt.
The garage door pulls open, STOP HERE sign hanging down. Vines out of jojo, pops into my mind and I chuckle as I hit the garage door clicker. Out the garage side door, onto my back porch, key in hand. Open the door, close and lock it, turn around. A lone light shines from the living room, streaking across the tiled kitchen floor like a killer’s scaly fingers searching for a throat.
I sure as hell didn’t leave a light on.
Clutching my purse as if it were a weapon, I take a step closer to the table, peer around the fridge into the living room. The lamp on the end table next to the couch lights up the room with its energy saving bulb, a shining beacon of hope. Big black boots rest toes up over the end of the couch. Snores greet my ears in a calming in-out rhythm.
Smythe sleeps stretched out on my couch, open laptop performing a balancing act on his chest.
Air rushes out of my lungs on a sigh of relief. I release my white-knuckled grip on my purse. Well, that solved my how to get in touch with Smythe problem. Thank god it wasn’t Samantha back again for round two.
I set my purse on the counter and grab a beer from the fridge. Which I then proceed to drink in long swallows until the thing runs dry. Naturally gulping down a beer like that makes me burp.
Not very ladylike, but it can’t be helped.
Smythe jumps, boots slamming against wood as he goes from horizontal to vertical in under a second, hands fumbling to keep the laptop from crashing to the floor. “What—”
“Sorry. Beer.” I hold the empty bottle, shake it a little.
He places the laptop on the coffee table, runs a hand through his hair, and blinks like a rousing dragon. “Bad night?”
“Blake’s missing.”
I could almost see him processing it, the wheels of his mind turning with the speed of a slug until they kicked into gear. Blue eyes narrow, laser sharp.
“How do you know he’s missing?” Maybe he just didn’t want to stop by last night, went unsaid, but still plastered across his face like words in a book.
“His girlfriend called. Drunk. Said he never came home last night and wanted to know where he was.” I walk so I stand in the doorway between the two rooms, lean against the wall.
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t. She left a message. Didn’t think I wanted to call her back.”
His mouth opens, closes as he decides not to speak his thoughts. But I see them on his face. He disapproves of sleeping with someone who has a significant other. Yeah, well. Circumstances and all that.
Maybe I should try having after midnight conversations with Smythe more often. I seem to know what he’s thinking without touching him or watching his lips form words.
Or maybe I’m just that good at reading faces.
“Did she call the police?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Are you sure he didn’t go away to work on a case?”
“He’s an estate lawyer. Not criminal.”
“So no one would want him dead?”
“Not for his job. At least I can’t imagine why any client would want a hit on him. He does estate wills.”
His fingers drum against his leg. “Maybe he wanted to get away from it all.”
“Not without telling his mother, he wouldn’t. Jordan implied Cecily didn’t know where he was.”
“Jordan being the girlf
riend and Cecily the mom?”
“Yep. What do you think? Can we find him?” I shove off the wall. Take a step forward.
“Not tonight.”
“But he’s been missing for over twenty-four hours!” I swallow back the screech clawing its way out of my heart. How can I do nothing? How can I do anything?
He draws in a deep breath through his nose. “Gin. It’s one in the morning. We’re not doing anything tonight but sleep. If it was a kidnapping, then Jordan or his mother would’ve already received the note and alerted the police. She would not have called you asking where he is.”
“Can’t you work your magic and hack into the police website again?” I wave a hand at his going-blurry computer.
He sighs, shoulders dropping. “Okay. Come have a seat.” He pats the couch cushion next to him before reaching for his laptop.
Still holding the empty beer bottle, I walk to where he sits—laptop balanced on his legs, fingers flying across the keyboard—and take a seat, close enough so my thigh brushes against his.
For once touching him brings no electric zingers.
Thank God.
Pages flash on the screen, confidential data accessed at will by a hacker. After asking me for his last name, Smythe types Blake Calder, hits enter and waits until the site loads the info.
Watching him hack the police website forms a twinge in my chest. Nerves or exhilaration? After years of working in the ER as a nurse, trying to make like I’m an outstanding citizen, I’ve forgotten how much fun it is to take a walk on the illegal side.
Provided the cops don’t track the hack to my IP address and come arrest me.
“See—” Smythe points at the screen “—they’ve started a missing person’s report, but haven’t gotten very far on it. I don’t see your name as a potential contact.”
“Okay. So what do we do now?”
“Go to sleep.” At my I-don’t-think-so look he amends, “I’ll sleep in here.”
“You can borrow T’s bed. I’ll give you fresh sheets. He’s not coming over tonight.”
“You sure?”
“We’ll change out the sheets again tomorrow. He’ll never know.”
“Okay.” Smythe shuts the laptop, stands.
“Unless you’d rather do the portal thing back to your apartment?” Good manners dictate I ask.
“Would that make you feel better?”
“Whatever. I don’t care.” Liar. I need the security of his magic, the magic of his touch. Bleh. Where the hell do I get these thoughts? I might want him to stay, but definitely not for that reason.
He tucks the laptop under an arm and heads for T’s room. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay the night.”
Whew. Mission accomplished. Just knowing he’ll be in the house loosens the knot in my chest. Does he know his presence is a tangible comfort?
Probably not and it wouldn’t do to tell him either.
Big head and all that.
“Sleep tight. Bathroom’s down the hall.”
I’m not sure if he heard me since the door closes on my words. No matter. He probably already knows where the bathroom is.
I snap off the light, double check the doors, grab my purse off the counter, and go into my bedroom. Close the door. Do the nighttime routine of clothes change, toilet and face wash. Brush my teeth for good measure. Turn off the light and crawl under the covers.
Light from the full moon creeps around the blinds, mixing with shadows of branches and leaves to form designs on the walls. Thoughts twist through my mind, questions of Blake’s location, the bracelet’s usefulness in tracking him, Smythe.
Finding him still in my house is a bit strange, after all, he claims to have an apartment. Not that I’m complaining. But is he staying for me? Or is forming a portal when tired harder than I think?
What do I know about magic anyway?
My thoughts circle around to Blake. I see his smile, the gleam in his eye when he wants me, smell the scent of his cologne as if he’s lying beside me. My body remembers his touch, the feel of his skin on mine, the way the fine hairs on his chest tickle my breasts as he moves within me.
Where is he?
Unlike last night, where I craved and needed, tonight I’m too drained to crave anything, my needs reduced to finding Blake, to ensuring his safety.
What will I do without him?
Think positive, Gin. You’ll find him.
I can only hope wishes come true.
Chapter 21
Sleep comes in snatches, dressed in dreams unremembered but nonetheless causing a sense of unease after waking. Or maybe all that unease came from watching the room grow lighter while knowing I needed more sleep. A groan escapes as I roll onto my side. The red numbers on the clock shine 8:00AM in a manner guaranteed to cause insomniacs to pull out a hammer and shatter all those happy freakin’ numbers into small pieces.
I’m not grumpy at all after a night of little sleep.
Nope, not me.
Since lying around hoping sleep will smack me upside the head proves useless, I sit up, run a hand over my eyes.
Maybe Smythe ran another computer search and found Blake.
Desperate hope lives eternal.
Slipping into a tank top and shorts, I stop by the bathroom on my way into the kitchen. Clearly I’m the only one in the house with sleeping issues. T’s door remains closed and the house has that sleepy, hung-over, not-yet-ready-to-rise feel to it.
After starting a pot of coffee brewing, I slip outside to pick up the newspaper. Enough humidity slams me in the face to curl my hair into ringlets in the under thirty seconds I’m outside.
Gotta love a Texas summer.
A bead of sweat runs between my breasts, pooling in the tank’s built-in bra as I walk into the pleasant coolness of an over-worked air conditioner. Taking the paper into the kitchen, I hear the coffeepot crackling cheerfully as it makes my wake-up juice.
It’s not until I pitch the paper on the table that I see the note. A small, white envelope sits on top of yesterday’s paper, unopened. My brain cranks with all the speed of a cold engine, trying to process an occurrence before I’ve had a caffeine hit. It takes a couple of tries, until I realize T must’ve gotten the paper yesterday along with the note and put them both on the table for me to read. But Smythe’s breakfast and ensuing training lesson interrupted my normal paper reading routine.
Which meant the note sat right there all day Friday.
Wonder what my paper carrier wanted now. The bill, maybe?
Join the crowd.
I grab the envelope, ripping open the seal, pulling out the card.
Thinking of You in calligraphy scrawls across the front, the crease at the top. Since when do bills come with that sentiment stamped on the front?
I open the card, blink at the picture inside. It takes longer than it should for the picture and words written on the card to register. But when they do, oh god, when they do...I crumble like a puppet with its strings cut, legs surrendering to gravity, fingers functionless. The card flutters to the floor, a silent landing with the force of an explosion.
A noise fills the kitchen, rattles the windows, strips skin from my soul. Me screaming, “No!” in one long cry, loud enough to frost the room with my rage, my fear.
Footsteps pound a race as Smythe runs into the kitchen, clad in nothing but boxer briefs. My scream turns into hiccups, little breaths of refusal. One finger points at the offending card, the other slaps over my mouth as if to hold in another screech.
Smythe squats, yanks the card off the floor, and opens it, his jaw tensing as he stares at the picture. As he stares at a trussed-up and bleeding Blake, the picture Photoshopped onto the obviously homemade card.
“We have under four hours.”
My lips refuse to form words, only allowing a moan to escape. Why? Who would do this to Blake? Why didn’t I see the card yesterday? We could’ve started looking for him then. Now, he’s been gone for over twenty-four hours. What kind of a frien
d, of a lover, am I not to notice the card? I’m worthless. Worthless.
And now he’s been captured and hurt.
Pain explodes in my chest, a scalpel performing open-heart surgery minus the anesthesia. My stomach churns while the taste of bitter acid fills my mouth. Smythe blurs as I try to swallow around a boulder the size of a whale lodged in my throat.
Someone took Blake.
How dare they? They can’t have my friend. He’s mine. The invisible scalpel sears a resolve into my soul, forges a promise. I will find him.
“Gin?” Smythe’s hand touches my forearm, a gesture meant to console. “Did you hear me? We have four hours until the meeting.”
A swallow followed by a sniff. Then a hand wipe across my cheeks. Smythe remains blurry around the edges each time my eyes run through the open-and-shut routine, but the boulder in my throat moves, allowing some other noise besides the hurt-animal moan.
“What meeting?” Never scream, sob and then try to talk. It makes your voice sound like a ninety-year-old smoker.
Another hand pat on the forearm. “On the card. Noon Saturday. Then the address. We’ll get him back.”
I want to believe him so badly it forms a taste in my mouth. A citrus-y taste of hope congealing shock and grief into a rage hot enough to consume.
I will get him back. And whoever took him will pay.
****
“Cops.” The word cracks through my raw throat. I swallow. Try again. “We need to call the cops.” Look at that, words can come out of a grief-constricted throat.
“They can’t help. This is the work of Jezebeth or her minion.”
“Jezebel?” Wasn’t that some Biblical queen with a bad reputation?
“No, not Jezebel. Jezebeth. A lower-level demon. This is her work. Or her minions’.”
I clear my throat, hope for a non-raspy voice. “A minion took Blake?”
“It looks that way.”
“What the hell? Since when do minions kidnap people?”
He gives me a get-real look, like I’m half-brained.
“I mean, kidnap people I know. Don’t we, the justitians I mean, don’t we fight them? How often does this happen?” Is T at risk?
Demon Lore Page 18
