The Good, The Bad, And The Undead th-2

by Ким Харрисон

  Uncomfortable with my thoughts, I pulled on the ley line and sent a pitched ball wild, to smack into the wall behind the catcher.

  "Rachel?" Captain Edden said, his eyes behind his glasses taking on a hard look as he leaned past his son to see me. "Let me know if she wants to talk to Piscary. I'd be glad to look the other way if she wants to smack him around."

  He eased back as I gave him a wan smile. Piscary had been extradited to I.S. custody, safe and sound in a vamp jail cell. The preliminary hearing had gone well, the sensationalism of the situation prompting an unexpected opening in the court docket. Algaliarept showed up to prove he was a reliable witness. The demon made all the papers, morphing into all sorts of figures to scare the pants off everyone in the courtroom. What disturbed me most was that the judge was afraid of a little towheaded girl with a lisp and a limp. I think the demon enjoyed it.

  I adjusted my red Howlers' hat against the sun as a batter came to the mound to pop a few into the infield. Hot dog in my lap, I shifted my fingers and mouthed the incantation. The park's safeguards had risen higher, and I had to punch a hole through them to reach the line. A sudden influx of everafter coursed through me, and Nick stiffened. Excusing himself, he slid past me, muttering about the bathroom. His lanky form hastened down the steps and vanished.

  Unhappy, I sent the ever-after energy into the pitcher's throw. There was a sharp crack as the bat broke. The batter dropped the shattered ash, swearing loud enough that I could hear him. He turned to look at the stands in accusation. The pitcher put his mitt on his hip. The catcher stood. My eyes narrowed in satisfaction as the coach whistled, pulling everyone in.

  "Nice one, Rache," Jenks said, and Captain Edden started, giving me a questioning look.

  "That you?" he asked, and I shrugged. "You're going to get yourself banned."

  "Maybe they should have paid me." I was being careful. No one was getting hurt. I could make their runners twist their ankles and the wild throws hit players if I wanted. I wasn't. I was just messing with their warm-up. I poked about in the napkin the hot dog had been wrapped in. Where was my ketchup packet? This hot dog was utterly tasteless.

  The FIB captain moved uneasily. "Ah, about your compensation, Morgan…"

  "Forget it," I offered quickly. "I figure I still owe you for paying off my I.S. contract."

  "No," he said. "We had an agreement. It's not your fault the class was canceled—"

  "Glenn, can I have your ketchup?" I said brusquely, cutting Edden off. "I don't know how you people can eat hot dogs without it. Why the Turn didn't that guy give me any ketchup?"

  Edden leaned back, a heavy sigh slipping from him. Glenn obediently shuffled about his wad of paper until he came up with a white plastic packet. Face drawn, he looked at my broken arm and hesitated. "I'll—uh—open it for you," he offered.

  "Thanks," I muttered, not liking being helpless. Trying not to scowl, I watched the detective carefully tear open the packet. He handed it to me, and with the hot dog balanced on my lap, I awkwardly squeezed the ketchup out. So intent was I on getting it on the right spot, I almost missed Glenn raising his hand and surreptitiously licking a red smear off his fingers.

  Glenn? I thought. My face went slack as I remembered our missing ketchup and the pieces fell into place. "You…" I sputtered. Glenn had stolen our ketchup?

  The man's face went panicked, and he reached out, almost covering my mouth before he drew back. "No," he pleaded, leaning close. "Don't say anything."

  "You took our ketchup!" I breathed, shocked. Beyond Glenn I could see Jenks rocking in mirth on Edden's shoulder, able to hear our whispers and keep up a running conversation to distract the FIB captain at the same time.

  Glenn shot a guilty look at his dad. "I'll pay you for it," he begged. "Anything you want. Just don't tell my dad. Oh God, Rachel. It would kill him."

  For a moment I could only stare. He had taken our ketchup. Right off our table. "I want your handcuffs," I said suddenly. "I can't find anything real without fake purple fur glued to it."

  His panicked look eased and he shifted back. "Monday."

  "Soon enough for me." My words were calm, but inside I was singing. I was going to get my cuffs back! It was going to be a good day.

  He darted a guilty look toward his dad. "Will you—get me a bottle of spicy?"

  My eyes jerked to his.

  "Maybe some barbecue sauce?"

  I closed my mouth before a bug flew into it. "Sure." I did not believe this. I was pimping ketchup to the son of the FIB's captain.

  I looked up to see a park official wearing a red polyester vest loping up the stairs toward us, scanning the faces. A smile curved over me as he met my eyes. He worked his way down the relatively empty aisle in front of us as I wrapped up what was left of my hot dog and set it on Nick's seat, then dropped the baseball into my bag out of sight. It had been fun while it lasted. I wasn't going to interfere with the game, but they didn't know that.

  Jenks flitted from Captain Edden to me. He was wearing all red and white in honor of the team, the brightness hurting my eyes. "Oooooh," he mocked. "You're in trouble now." Edden gave me one last warning look before putting his attention on the field, clearly trying to divorce himself from me lest they kick him out, too.

  "Ms. Rachel Morgan?" the young man in the red vest questioned as he reached us.

  I stood with my bag. "Yes."

  "I'm Matt Ingle. Park ley line security? Could you come with me, please?"

  Glenn got to his feet, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips. "Is there a problem?" he asked, turning the angry-young-black-man mien on high. I was too thrown by him liking ketchup to get angry at him wanting to protect me.

  Matt shook his head, not cowed at all. "No sir. The Howlers' owner heard about Ms. Morgan's efforts to retrieve their mascot and would like to speak with her."

  "I'd be happy to talk to her," I said as Jenks chortled, his wings turning a bright red. Despite Captain Edden keeping my name out of the paper, the entirety of Cincinnati and the Hollows knew who had solved the witch hunter murders, made the tag, and summoned the demon into the courtroom. My phone was ringing off the hook with requests for help. Overnight, I had gone from struggling entrepreneur to bad-ass runner. What did I have to fear from the owner of the Howlers?

  "I'm coming with you," Glenn said.

  "I can handle this," I said, mildly affronted.

  "I know, but I want to talk to you, and I think they're going to kick you out of the park."

  Edden chuckled, shifting his squat bulk deeper into the hard seat. Taking a key chain from his front pocket, he handed it to Glenn.

  "You think?" I said, waving 'bye to Jenks and telling him with a finger motion and a nod that I'd see him back at the church. The pixy nodded, settling himself back on Captain Edden's shoulder, hooting and hollering, having too much fun to leave.

  Glenn and I followed the ley line security guy to a waiting golf cart, and he drove us deeper into the stadium. It grew cool and quiet, the thrum of the unseen thousands around us a low, almost subliminal thunder. Far into the authorized personnel areas and amid black suits and champagne, Matt stopped the cart. Glenn helped me out, and I took my cap off, handing it to him as I fluffed my hair. I was dressed nice in jeans and white sweater, but everyone I'd seen in the last two minutes was wearing a tie or diamond earrings. Some had both.

  Matt looked nervous as he took us up an elevator and left us in a long plush room that overlooked the field. It was comfortably full of talk and nicely dressed people. The faint smell of musk tickled my nose. Glenn tried to give me my hat back, and I motioned for him to keep it.

  "Ms. Morgan," a small woman said, excusing herself from a group of men. "I am so glad to meet you. I'm Mrs. Sarong," she said as she approached, her hands extended.

  She was shorter than me, and clearly a Were. Her dark hair was graying in wispy streaks that looked good on her, and her hands were small and powerful. She moved with a predatory grace that drew attenti
on, her eyes seeing everything. Were men had to work hard to hide their rough edges. Were women got more dangerous-looking.

  "I'm pleased to meet you," I said as she briefly touched my shoulder in greeting since my right arm was in a sling. "This is Detective Glenn, of the FIB."

  "Ma'am," he said shortly, and the small woman smiled to show flat, even teeth.

  "Delighted," she said pleasantly. "If you would excuse us, Detective? Ms. Morgan and I have a need to chat before the game begins."

  Glenn bobbed his head. "Yes ma'am. I'll get you both a drink if I might."

  "That would be lovely."

  I rolled my eyes at the political niceties, relieved when Mrs. Sarong put a light hand on my shoulder and led me away. She smelled like ferns and moss. Every man watched us as we moved together to stand by a window with an excellent view of the field. It was a long way down, making me slightly queasy.

  "Ms. Morgan," she said, her eyes not at all apologetic, "it has just come to my attention that you were contracted to retrieve our mascot. A mascot that was never missing."

  "Yes ma'am," I said, surprised how the title of respect just seemed to flow out of me. "When I was told, my time and energies were given no consideration."

  She exhaled slowly. "I detest digging out prey. Have you been magicking the field?"

  Pleased at her frankness, I decided to be the same. "I spent three days planning how to break into Mr. Ray's office when I could have been working on other cases," I said. "And while I admit that isn't your fault, someone should have called me."

  "Perhaps, but it remains that the fish was not missing. I am not in the habit of paying out blackmail. You will stop."

  "And I'm not in the habit of offering it," I said, having no trouble keeping my temper as her pack surrounded me. "But I'd be remiss if I didn't make you aware of my feelings in the matter. I give my word I won't interfere with the game. I don't need to. Until I get paid, every time a ball goes foul or a bat cracks, your players will wonder if it's me." I smiled without showing my teeth. "Five hundred dollars is a small price for your players' peace of mind." Lousy five hundred dollars. It should have been ten-times that. Why Ray's henchmen wasted bullets on me for a lousy stinking fish was still beyond me.

  Her lips parted and I swear I heard a small growl in her sigh. Athletes were notorious for being superstitious. She'd pay.

  "It's not the money, Mrs. Sarong," I said, though at first it had been. "But if I let one pack treat me like a cur, then that's what I'll be. And I'm not a cur."

  She brought her gaze up from the field. "Not a cur," she agreed. "You are a lone wolf." With a graceful motion, she motioned to a nearby Were, one that looked oddly familiar, in fact. He hastened forward with a leather-bound checkbook the size of a Bible, which took two hands to handle. "It's the lone wolf that is the most dangerous," she said as she wrote. "They also have extremely short life spans. Get yourself a pack, Ms. Morgan."

  The rip of the check was loud. I wasn't sure if she was giving me advice or a threat. "Thank you, I have one," I said, not looking at the amount as I tucked it in my bag. The smooth shape of the baseball touched my knuckles and I pulled it out. I set it into her waiting hand. "I'll leave before the game starts," I said, knowing there was no way they would let me back in the stands. "How long am I banned for?"

  "Life," she said, smiling like the devil herself. "I, too, am not a cur."

  I smiled back, genuinely liking the older woman. Glenn drifted closer. I took the champagne he handed me and set it on the windowsill. "Good-bye, Mrs. Sarong."

  She inclined her head as way of dismissal, the second flute of champagne Glenn had brought resting easy in her grip. Three young men lurked behind her, sulky and well-groomed. I was glad I didn't have her job, though it looked as if the perks were great.

  Glenn's shoes sounded loud on the concrete as we made our way back to the front gate without the help of Matt and his golf cart.

  "You'll tell everyone good-bye for me?" I asked, meaning Nick.

  "Sure." His eyes were on the huge signs with their letters and arrows pointing to the exits. The sun was warm when we found it, and I relaxed as I went to stand at the bus stop. Glenn came to a halt beside me and handed me my hat. "About your fee—" he started.

  "Glenn," I said as I put it on, "like I told your dad, don't worry about it. I'm grateful for them paying off my I.S. contract, and with the two thousand Trent gave me, I've enough to see me through until my arm heals."

  "Would you shut up?" he said, digging in his pocket. "We worked something out."

  I turned, my gaze dropping to the key in his hands and then rising to his eyes.

  "We couldn't get approval to reimburse you for the canceled class, but there was this car in impound. The insurance agency salvaged the title, so we couldn't put it up for auction."

  A car? Edden was going to give me a car?

  Glenn's brown eyes were bright. "We got the clutch and the transmission repaired. There was something wrong with the electrical system, too, but the FIB garage guys fixed it, no charge. We would have gotten it to you sooner," he said, "but the DMV office didn't understand what I was trying to do so it took three trips down there to get it transferred to your name."

  "You guys bought me a car?" I said, excitement bubbling up into my voice.

  Glenn grinned and handed me a zebra-striped key on a purple rabbit's foot key chain. "The money the FIB put into it just about equals what we owed you. I'll drive you home. It's a stick, and I don't think you can handle shifting gears yet with your arm."

  Heart suddenly pounding, I fell into step beside him, scanning the lot. "Which one?"

  Glenn pointed, and the sound of my heels on the pavement faltered as I saw the red convertible, recognizing it. "That's Francis's car," I said, not sure what I was feeling.

  "That's okay, isn't it?" Glenn asked, suddenly concerned. "It was going to be scrapped. You aren't superstitious, are you?"

  "Um…" I stammered, drawn forward by the shiny red paint. I touched it, feeling the clean smoothness. The top was down, and I turned, smiling. Glenn's worried frown eased into relief. "Thank you," I whispered, not believing it was really mine. It was mine?

  Steps light, I walked to the front, then the back. It had a new vanity plate: runnin'. It was perfect. "It's mine?" I said, heart racing.

  "Go on, get in," Glenn said, his face transformed by his pleased enthusiasm.

  "It's wonderful," I said, refusing to cry. No more expired bus passes. No more standing in the cold. No more disguise charms just so they would pick me up.

  I opened the door. The leather seat was warm from the afternoon sun and as smooth as chocolate milk. The cheerful dinging of the door being opened was heaven. I put in the key, checked that it was in neutral, pushed in the clutch, and started it up. The thrum of the engine was freedom itself. I shut the door and beamed at Glenn. "Really?" I asked, voice cracking.

  He nodded, beaming.

  I was delighted. With my broken arm, I couldn't safely manage the gearshift, but I could try all the buttons. I turned on the radio, thinking it must be an omen when Madonna thundered out. I turned "Material Girl" down and opened the glove box just to see my name on the registration. A thick yellow business-size envelope slid out, and I picked it up off the floor.

  "I didn't put that there," Glenn said, his voice carrying a new concern.

  I brought it to my nose, my face going slack as I recognized the clean scent of pine. "It's from Trent."

  Glenn straightened. "Get out of the car," he said in a hard staccato, every syllable laced with authority.

  "Don't be stupid," I said. "If he wanted me dead, he wouldn't have had Quen bail me out."

  Jaw tight, Glenn opened the door. My car started chiming. "Get out. I'll have it looked at and bring it over tomorrow."

  "Glenn…" I cajoled as I opened the envelope and my protests wavered. "Um," I stammered. "He's not trying to kill me, he's paying me."

  Glenn leaned to see, and I tilted the envelope t
o him. A muttered oath came from him. "How much is that, you think?" he asked as I closed it and shoved it in my bag.

  "I'm guessing eighteen thousand." I tried to be cavalier, ruining it with my trembling fingers. "It was what he offered me to clear his name." Brushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up. My breath caught. Visible in the rearview mirror was Trent's Gray Ghost limo sitting in the fire lane. It hadn't been there a moment ago. At least, I hadn't seen it. Trent and Jonathan were standing beside it. Glenn saw where my attention was and turned.

  "Oh," he said, then a concerned wariness tightened the corners of his eyes. "Rachel, I'm going to go over to the ticket booth right over there…" He pointed. "…and talk to the lady about possibly buying a block of seats for the FIB's company picnic next year." He hesitated, shutting my door with a solid thump. His dark fingers stood out against the bright red paint. "You going to be all right?"

  "Yeah." I pulled my eyes from Trent. "Thanks, Glenn. If he kills me, tell your dad I loved the car."

  A trace of a smile crossed him, and he turned away.

  My eyes were fixed to my rearview mirror as his steps grew faint. Behind me came a roar of fans as the game began. I watched Trent have an intent conversation with Jonathan. He left the angry tall man and ambled slowly to me. His hands were in his pockets and he looked good. Better than good, really, dressed in casual slacks, comfortable shoes, and a cable-knit sweater against the slight chill in the air. The collar of a silk shirt the color of midnight showed behind it, contrasting wonderfully with his tan. A tweed cap shaded his green eyes and kept his fine hair under control.

  He came to a slow halt beside me, his eyes never leaving mine to touch upon the car even once. Feet scuffing, he half turned to look at Jonathan. It stuck in my craw that I had helped clear his name. He had murdered at least two people in less than six months—one of them Francis. And here I was, sitting in the dead witch's car.

  I said nothing, gripping the wheel with my one good hand, my broken arm sitting in my lap, reminding myself that Trent was afraid of me. From the radio, a fast-talking announcer took over, and I turned the radio almost off. "I found the money," I said as way of greeting.