by Ким Харрисон
His voice cut off, and I watched the emotion flicker behind his eyes. I was becoming good at reading them. "You want to know if she survived," I finished for him, knowing I had guessed right when his gaze went elsewhere. "Why were you there?" I asked, almost afraid he'd tell me.
"My father owned the camp. Where else would I spend my summers?"
The cadence of his voice and the slight tightening of his brow told me it had been more than that. A thrill of satisfaction warmed me; I'd found his tell for when he lied. Now all I needed was the same for when he was speaking the truth, and he'd never be able to successfully lie to me again.
"You are as filthy as your father," I said, disgusted, "blackmailing people by dangling a cure within their reach and making them your puppets. Your parents' fortune was built on the misery of hundreds, maybe thousands, Mr. Kalamack. And you're no different."
Trent's chin trembled almost imperceptibly, and I thought I saw a shimmer of sparkles about him, the memory of his aura playing tricks on me. Must be an elf thing. "I will not justify my actions to you," he said. "And you have become very adept in the art of blackmail yourself. I'm not going to waste my time bickering like children over who hurt whose feelings over a decade ago. I want to hire your services."
"Hire me?" I said, unable to keep my voice lowered as I put my hands on my hips in disbelief. "You tried to kill me in the rat fights, and you think I'm going to work for you? To help clear your name? You murdered those witches. I'm going to prove it."
He laughed, his hat shadowing his face as he bowed his head and chuckled.
"What's so funny?" I demanded, feeling foolish.
"You." His eyes were bright. "You were never in any danger in that rat pit. I was only using it to knock home your current sordid state. But I did make a few astounding contacts while I was there."
"You son of—" Lips pressed tight, I clenched my hand into a fist.
Trent's mirth vanished and his head tilted in warning as he took a step away. "I wouldn't," he threatened, raising a finger. "I really wouldn't."
I slowly rocked back, my knees shaking in the memory of the pit. The gut-twisting feeling of helplessness, of being trapped and forced to kill or be killed, washed through me. I had been Trent's toy. Him running me down on horseback was nothing compared to that. After all, I had been thieving from him at the time.
"Listen to me really good, Trent," I whispered, the thought of Quen forcing me to retreat until the concrete pressed cold into the small of my back. "I'm not working for you. I'm going to take you down. I'm going to figure out how to tie you to every one of those murders."
"Oh please," he said, and I wondered how we went so quickly from a Fortune-twenty businessman and a slick independent runner to two people squabbling over past injustices. "Are you still on that? Even Captain Edden realizes Dan Smather's body was dumped in my stables, which is why he sent his son to watch me instead of filing charges. And as for having contact with the victims, yes, I talked to them all, trying to employ them, not kill them. You have a very strong skill set, Ms. Morgan, but detective is not among them. You are far too impatient, driven by your intuitive skills, which seem to only work forward, not backward."
Affronted, I put my hands on my hips and made a sound of disbelief. Who did he think he was, lecturing me?
Trent reached into a shirt pocket, pulling out a white envelope and handing it to me. Leaning forward and back, I snatched it, flipping it open. My breath caught as I realized it held twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
"That's ten percent up front, the rest on completion," he said, and I froze, trying to look cavalier. Twenty thousand dollars? "I want you to identify who is responsible for the murders. I've been trying to hire a ley line witch for the last three months, and every one of them ends up dead. It's growing tiresome. All I want is a name."
"You can go to hell, Kalamack," I said, dropping the envelope when he didn't take it back. I was angry and frustrated. I had come here with information so fine, I was sure I was going to get a confession. What I got was threatened, insulted, and then bribed.
Looking unperturbed, he stooped to pick up the envelope, smacking it against his palm several times to get the grit off before tucking it away. "You do realize that with that little stunt you pulled yesterday, you are next on the killer's list? You fit the profile nicely, having shown yourself as proficient in ley line magic, and then adding our little tryst today."
Damn. I'd forgotten about that. If Trent really wasn't the murderer, than I had nothing to stop the real one from coming after me. Suddenly the sun wasn't warm enough. I felt breathless, sick that I was going to have to find the real killer before he found me.
"Now," Trent said, his voice smoother than the water. "Take the money so I can tell you what I've managed to learn."
Stomach twisting, I met his mocking gaze. I was going to do just what he wanted. He had manipulated me into helping him. Damn, damn, and double damn. Crossing to his side of the bridge, I put my elbows atop the thick railing with my back to Glenn. Sharps was deep underwater, only the lack of ducks to say he was here. Beside me stood Trent.
"Did you send Sara Jane to the FIB with the sole intention that Edden would involve me?" I asked bitterly.
Trent shifted, putting himself so near I could smell the clean scent of his aftershave. I didn't like how close he was, but if I moved, he'd know it bothered me. "Yes," he said softly.
In his voice was the sound of truth I had been waiting for, and a trickle of excitement pulled my breath tight. There it was. Now I had it. He'd never be able to lie to me again. Looking back over our past conversations in a new light, I realized that apart from the reason he'd given me for being at his father's camp, he never had. Ever.
"She doesn't know him, does she?" I asked.
"A few dates to get the picture, but no. It was a calculated certainty that he would be murdered after he agreed to work for me, though I tried to protect him. Quen is very upset," he said lightly, his gaze on Sharps's ripples. "That Mr. Smather turned up in my stables means the killer is getting cocky."
My eyes closed briefly in frustration as I scrambled to realign my thinking. Trent hadn't killed those witches. Someone else had. I could either take the money and help Trent solve his little employment problem or not take the money and he'd get it for free. I'd take the money. "You're a bastard, you know that?"
Seeing my new understanding, Trent smiled. It was all I could do to not spit in his face. His long hands hung out over the edge of the railing. The sun turned his tan a warm golden color that almost glowed against his white shirt, and his face was shadowed. Wisps of his hair moved in the breeze, almost touching my own wayward strands.
With a casual movement, he reached into his shirt pocket, and with our bodies hiding the action from Glenn, he extended the envelope. Feeling dirty, I took it, shoving it out of sight behind my jacket and into my waistband.
"Excellent," he said, warm and sincere. "I'm glad we can work together."
"Go Turn yourself, Kalamack."
"I'm reasonably confident that it's a master vampire," he said, easing away from me.
"Which one?" I asked, disgusted with myself. Why was I doing this?
"I don't know," he admitted, flicking a bit of mortar off the railing to land in the water. "If I did, I'd have taken care of it already."
"I just bet you would," I said sourly. "Why not take them all out? Get it over with?"
"I can't go about staking vampires at random, Ms. Morgan," he said, worrying me because he'd taken my question seriously instead of the sarcasm it was. "That's illegal, not to mention it would start a vamp war. Cincinnati might not survive it. And I know my business interests would suffer in the interim."
I snickered. "Oh, we can't let that happen, now. Can we?"
Trent sighed. "Using sarcasm to cover your fear makes you look very young."
"And twirling your pencil in your fingers makes you look nervous," I shot back. It felt good to argue with someone who wouldn't
bite me if things got out of control.
His eye twitched. Lips bloodless, he turned back to the large pond before us. "I'd appreciate it if you would keep the FIB out of this. It's an Inderland matter, not human, and I'm not sure the I.S. can be trusted, either."
I found it interesting how fast he had fallen into the "them" and "us" verbiage. Apparently I wasn't the only one who knew Trent's background, and I didn't like the higher degree of intimacy it put between us.
"I'm thinking it might be a rising vamp coven trying to gain a foothold by removing me," he said. "It would be a lot less risky than taking out one of the lesser houses."
It wasn't a boast—just a tasteless fact—and my lips curled at the thought I was taking money from a man who played the underworld like a chessboard. For the first time in my life I was glad my dad was dead and couldn't ask me "Why?" The picture of our fathers standing before the camp bus intruded, and I reminded myself I couldn't trust Trent. My father had, and it killed him.
Trent sighed, the sound both regretful and tired. "Cincinnati's underground is very fluid. All of my usual contacts have gone quiet or dead. I'm losing touch with what's happening." He flicked a glance at me. "Someone is trying to keep me from increasing my reach. And without a ley line witch at my disposal, I've reached an impasse."
"Poor baby," I mocked. "Why not do the magic yourself? Bloodline too polluted with nasty human genes to manage the heavy magic anymore?"
The knuckles of his fingers whitened as he gripped the rail, then relaxed. "I will have a ley line witch. I would much rather hire someone willing than abduct them, but if every witch I talk to ends up dead, I will steal someone."
"Yes," I drawled caustically. "You elves are known for that, aren't you?"
His jaw clenched. "Be careful."
"I'm always careful," I said, knowing I wasn't a good enough witch to have to worry about him "stealing" me. I watched the rims of his ears slowly lose their red tint. I squinted, wondering if they were a little pointed or if it was my imagination. It was hard to tell with the hat he had on. "Can you narrow it down for me?" I said. Twenty thousand dollars to sift through Cincinnati's underworld to find out who wanted to put a crimp in Mr. Kalamack's day by killing his potential employees. Yeah. That sounded like an easy run.
"I have lots of ideas, Ms. Morgan. Lots of enemies, lots of employees."
"And no friends," I added snidely, watching Sharps make serpentlike humps like a miniature Loch Ness. My breath slipped from me in a slow sound as I imagined what Ivy was going to say when I came home and told her I was working for Trent. "If I find out you're lying, I'll come after you myself, Kalamack. And this time, the demon won't miss."
He made a scoffing bark of laughter and I turned to him. "You can drop the bluff. You didn't send that demon after me last spring."
The slight breeze was cold, and I pulled my jacket closed as I turned. "How did you…"
Trent gazed distantly over the lower basin. "After overhearing your conversation with your boyfriend in my office and seeing your reaction to that demon, I knew it had to have been someone else, though I'll admit seeing you beaten and blue after I freed that demon to go back to kill its summoner nearly had me convinced."
I didn't like that he had overheard me talking to Nick. Or that he had responded the exact same way as I had after gaining control over Algaliarept. Trent's shoes scuffed, and a cautious inquiry came into his eyes. "Your demon scar…" He hesitated, and the flicker of haunted emotion strengthened. "It was an accident?" he finished.
I watched the ripples from Sharps's disappearing humps. "It bled me so badly that—" I stopped, my lips pressing together. Why was I telling him this? "Yeah. It was."
"Good," he said, his gaze still upon the pond. "I'm glad to hear that."
Ass, I thought, thinking whoever had sent Algaliarept after us had gotten a double whammy of pain that night. "Someone sure didn't like us talking, did they," I said, then froze. My face went cold and I held my breath. What if the attacks on our lives and the recent violence were connected? Perhaps I was supposed to have been the witch hunter's first victim?
Heart pounding, I held myself still, thinking. Every single one of the victims had died in their own personal hell: the swimmer drowned, the rat caretaker ripped apart and eaten alive, two women raped, a man working with horses pressed to death. Algaliarept had been told to kill me in terror, taking the time to find out what my strongest fear was. Damn. It was the same person.
Trent tilted his head at my silence. "What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing." I leaned heavily into the railing. Dropping my head into my cupped hands, I willed myself to not pass out. Glenn would call someone, and that would be that.
Trent pushed away from the railing. "No," he said, and I pulled my head up. "I've seen that look on you twice before. What is it?"
I swallowed. "We were supposed to be the first victims of the witch hunter. He tried to kill both of us, giving up after we showed him we could best a demon and I made it clear I wasn't going to work for you. Only the witches who agreed to work for you were killed, yes?"
"They all agreed to work for me," he breathed, and I stifled a shudder at how the words seemed to flow over my spine. "I never thought to connect the two."
You can't accuse a demon of murder. Because there was no way to contain it if sentenced, the courts had long ago determined to treat demons as weapons, even if the comparison wasn't quite right. Free choice was involved, but as long as the payment was commensurate with the task, a demon wouldn't turn down murder. Someone, though, had summoned it. "Did the demon ever tell you who sent it to kill you?" I asked. Easiest twenty thousand I'd ever made. God help me.
Anger tinted in fear crossed Trent. "I was trying to stay alive, not have a conversation. You seem to have a working relationship with it, though. Why don't you ask it?"
My breath come in a jerky sound of disbelief. "Me? I already owe it one favor. You can't pay me enough to dig myself in deeper. I'll tell you what, though. I'll call it up for you, and you can ask it. I'm sure the two of you can come to some agreement about payment."
His sun-tanned face went pale. "No."
Satisfied, I looked over the small pond. "Don't call me a coward unless it's something you would do yourself. I'm reckless. Not stupid." But then I hesitated. Nick would do it.
A faint smile, surprising and genuine, came over Trent. "You're doing it again."
"What," I said flatly.
"You had another thought. You are such fun, Ms. Morgan. Watching you is like watching a five-year-old."
Insulted, I looked out over the water. I wondered if Nick asking who had sent it to kill me would be considered a small question or a large one, necessitating further payment. Pushing myself away from the railing, I decided I'd walk over to the museum and find out.
"So?" Trent prompted.
I shook my head. "I'll have your information after sundown," I said, and he blinked.
"You're going to call it?" His sudden, unguarded surprise caught at me, and I kept my face impassive, thinking that managing to startle him was an ego boost I badly needed. How quickly he hid it made the feeling twice as satisfying. "You just said—"
"You're paying for results, not a play-by-play. I'll let you know when I find something."
His expression shifted to what might be respect. "I've misjudged you, Ms. Morgan."
"Yeah, I'm just full of surprises," I muttered, reaching up to keep the hair out of my eyes as the wind gusted. Trent's hat threatened to blow off into the water, and I stretched to catch it before it left his head. My fingers brushed his hat, then nothing.
Trent leapt backward. I stared, blinking at where he had been. He was gone.
I found him a good four feet away, entirely off the bridge. I'd seen cats move like that. He looked frightened as he straightened, then angry that I'd seen the emotion on him. The sun glinted on his wispy hair; his hat was in the water, turning a sickly green.
I stiffened as Quen dropped out of t
he nearby tree to land softly before him. The man stood with his arms hanging loose, looking like a modern-day samurai in his black jeans and shirt. I didn't move as a whoosh of water came from behind me. I could smell copper sulfate and scum. I felt, more than saw, Sharps loom behind me, cold, wet, and almost as big as the bridge he lived under, having sucked in a huge amount of water to give himself more mass. A faint clatter from the nearby bathroom told me Glenn was on his way.
My heart pounded as no one moved. I shouldn't have touched him. I should not have touched him. Licking my lips, I tugged my jacket straight, glad Quen had the sense to know I hadn't been trying to hurt Trent. "I'll call you when I have a name," I said, my voice sounding thin. Giving Quen an apologetic look, I turned on a heel and strode quickly to the street, my heels thumping soundlessly up through my spine.
And you are afraid of me, I thought silently. Why?
Twenty-Four
"For the third time, Rachel. Would you like another piece of bread?"
I looked from the light glinting on the surface of my wine, finding Nick waiting with a curious, amused expression. He was holding out the plate with the bread. By his wondering expression, I guessed he'd held it there for a while. "Um, no. No, thank you," I said, glancing down to find the supper Nick had made for me almost untouched. Giving him an apologetic smile, I sent my fork under another bite of pasta and white sauce. It was his supper, my lunch, and both delicious, and even more so since I hadn't done anything but make the salad. It would likely be the last thing I ate today because Ivy had a date with Kist. That meant I'd be having dinner with Ben and Jerry in front of the TV. I thought it unusual she would go out with the living vamp, seeing as he was worse than a monkey when it came to sex and blood, but it was resolutely not my business.
Nick's plate was empty, and after setting the bread down, he sat back and played with the end of his knife, making it lay just so atop his napkin. "I know it's not my food," he said. "What's the matter? You've hardly said a word since you—ah—came over to the museum."
