Keeper of the Moon (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “Kissed you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we were in the middle of negotiations. At least I was.” He looked at her and grinned. “That’s an intriguing habit you have, talking in your sleep while still awake.”

  “I’m not sleepy now. That woke me right up.”

  “Don’t get too lucid. I’ll have you home in minutes. And you need rest.”

  “I think we better close the deal first.”

  Declan smiled. “What’s your offer?”

  “Okay.” Sailor switched gears—reluctantly. “What you need, you and Kimberly Krabill, is me. You want access to my symptoms, my blood samples—how, by the way, does that find us the killer?”

  “It’s just one angle, but it’s a good one. He has a signature, and it’s distinctive. It’s the Scarlet Pathogen. Figuring out his motive could also lead me to him. Figuring out how he got access to his victims, that’s another angle to work. And I plan to. But the strange way he’s killing women, that to me is the obvious place to start. Also, it fell into my lap, and I pay attention to synchronicity. Understanding the pathogen could tell us how he got hold of it.”

  Okay, Sailor thought. Declan’s interest in me is primarily scientific. Good thing to know. “But if I’m lounging around on some exam table being studied, I don’t get to be out there doing my job.”

  “Yes,” he said, looking at her, “but being studied may lead to the development of the antidote. Don’t you care about being cured?”

  “Yes. Although so far I’m not finding the symptoms all that—” she yawned “—debilitating. I just don’t feel sick. A sudden rise in temperature, the world going Technicolor for a minute or two, people looking attractive—I can live with it. My eyes are probably scary, but as long as I don’t have any auditions...”

  “Sailor,” he said, “have you asked yourself the obvious? Do you have any enemies?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. And no. I mean, Kristoff, my manager at work, he doesn’t like me much, but he’s hardly going to assault me for putting too much foam on the cappuccinos.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Let me ask you the obvious,” she said. “Why are you so intent on finding this killer? The Elven are mine to worry about, not yours. And it’s not as if you’re a cop.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, so long that she thought he hadn’t heard the question. “I made a vow to someone,” he said finally. “It was a long time ago, but I’m still bound by it. I don’t break promises.”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t okay, really. She wanted to know much more but didn’t want to risk a rebuff. The energy between them had changed. Declan had turned serious, and she had no idea how to connect with him again. “So, then,” she said. “Partners?”

  He glanced at her. “I’ve got a few conditions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You have to tell me the truth. I’ve got nothing against lying, it’s a good tactical device. Just don’t do it with me.”

  “Have I lied to you?”

  “You said you’ve told no one but Highsmith about your attack. That was a lie. You told your cousins.”

  “Well, of course. Family. That hardly counts. Any other conditions?” she asked.

  “No drugs. If you’re an addict—”

  “One síúlacht pill hardly constitutes—”

  “—don’t be high around me.”

  “Declan, I’m not an addict. Life is trippy enough. I don’t even smoke pot.” Not since college, anyhow.

  “All right.”

  What was his issue with drugs? Sailor wondered. And where was the guy who’d been kissing her five minutes earlier? She wanted him back again. “And these conditions, I assume they’re reciprocal,” she said.

  “Reciprocal?”

  “Because I don’t care about your recreational habits. But, Declan, don’t lie to me, either.”

  He looked at her for so long that she was afraid they would crash into the mountainside, and just as she was reaching the point of panic, he looked back at the road and shifted gears, roaring up the canyon.

  “Done,” he said.

  * * *

  Sailor was practically dozing when Declan reached the House of the Rising Sun, even though it was mere minutes later. But by the time he parked and reached her side of the car, she was popping open the distinctive scissor door as if she’d been born in a Lamborghini.

  “Partners,” she said, refusing his offer of a hand out, “open their own car doors.”

  He smiled. “Okay, tough girl.” But he caught up to her just as she tripped on the flagstone path leading to the heavy door of the castle she called home. And he held on to her arm in spite of her “I’m okay.” Her bare skin was cool to the touch, not inflamed with the feverish heat of a pathogen episode.

  He’d loved kissing her. He hadn’t meant to do it, he shouldn’t have done it—and he wanted to do it again. Things were getting more complicated than he’d bargained for.

  Sailor fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her phone, then frowned. “Where’s my purse?”

  “My bad. Back at the Snake Pit most likely.”

  “My house keys are in it, along with my driver’s license, maxed-out credit cards and tonight’s tips.”

  She must be really distracted, Declan decided, not to have noticed this earlier. He took out his cell and made a call to Carolyn, his nighttime assistant. “Your purse will be waiting for you behind the bar, main floor,” he told Sailor, hanging up. “So how do we get into your house?”

  She led him around to the back, crawled through the doggie door, then unlocked the dead bolt and let him in.

  “Burglar’s paradise, this is,” he said.

  “Only skinny burglars,” she pointed out.

  “And no alarm system?”

  “We haven’t paid the bill,” she replied. “And it’s a drag to keep turning it off and on anyway, so we stopped bothering with it.”

  “Brilliant strategy,” he said. “So you’re completely unprotected?”

  “No, I have a vicious watchdog.” She looked around. “Jonquil! Jonquil? Where are you? Here, Jonquil!” She moved through the ancient house, turning on lights as she went, leading Declan to the kitchen. Jonquil was lying beside the kitchen stove, in his doggie bed. He looked up, made thumping noises with his tail on the floor, shuddered, yawned and then fell back to sleep.

  “Airtight security,” Declan said. “And what about magic?”

  She yawned. “My dad and uncles used to do lots of spells and enchantments. Me, not so much. Anyhow, I think I can take it from here. Unless you intend to follow me to my bedroom, see that I make it into bed?”

  There was nothing suggestive in the suggestion; she was so tired she was in danger of falling asleep in front of him. “I do,” Declan said. “I don’t like you staying here alone.”

  “I’m not alone. My cousins are in their respective houses fifty yards away, connected by tunnels to this one. And Alessande Salisbrooke gave me a dagger. I’ll sleep with it under my pillow. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  He steered her toward the staircase. “Still, I’m going to walk you up.”

  She yawned again. “Okay.”

  Her bedroom was a huge wallpapered affair complete with fireplace and large bay windows whose locks wouldn’t deter a ten-year-old. He checked the closets and adjoining bath, and then, finding nothing, made her show him the dagger she intended to sleep with. He said good-night and told her to lock the bedroom door after him. She gave him a wave and had her French maid outfit unzipped and was pulling it over her head as he walked out. Was she too tired to be self-conscious, or was she unaware of how seductive she was?

  Declan walked around the old house, this time memorizing the floor plan on all three stories, doing what protective magic he knew, got reacquainted with the half-comatose dog and then went back to check the door of Sailor’s room. It was unlocked.

  Car
eless girl.

  He opened it and went inside.

  She was fast asleep in the old four-poster bed, one bare arm stretched out along the white duvet, her long hair scattered about the pillow. Her breathing was slow and steady, her face untroubled.

  Something stirred in him. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. She’s not my concern.

  But he settled into an armchair in a corner of the room and watched her sleep until the moonlight turned into daylight and the world felt safe from dark magic.

  Then he walked downstairs and outside, and drove down the mountainside.

  Chapter 6

  The first thing Sailor did upon waking was think about Declan Wainwright. Specifically, about kissing him.

  The second thing she did was check the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were still scarlet, a fine color for underripe plums but disturbing in a human face. Other than that, she was okay. Her wound looked uninfected, and she decided to leave the bandage off. She was sore, no doubt from being hauled around, but it was no big deal, and she’d slept nearly four hours, enough to restore her to functionality. But she’d left Barrie’s colored contacts at the Snake Pit, so she would have to wear sunglasses until she could get them back from—

  Declan. She caught her breath. So many things had happened in the past twelve hours, and so much needed to be done in the next twelve, before her next waitress shift, but all she could think about was him.

  Had she really spent much of last night driving around L.A. with him? And kissing him? She looked again in the mirror and watched herself blush, as if he were there watching.

  She studied her naked body. Would he find her pretty? Stupid question. Straight guys of all species tended to like unclothed girls. And how would he look in the nude? Wonderful. Some things you could just tell, even hidden under jeans and a T-shirt.

  Where would his birthmark be?

  She turned profile to look at her own, a perfect oak tree on her left hipbone. Strange to think that everyone in the Council meeting today would have that same oak tree somewhere on their bodies. That they all shared DNA.

  That disturbed her. To know the blood coursing through her veins distinguished her from other humans, from her own mother— Was this who she was? Was this her identity, as indisputably her as the family she was born into?

  No. In a week or two this crisis would be behind her, and her mind would be on headshots and auditions and hunting for an agent. But for the moment she was a Keeper, and that was what had awakened her after four hours of sleep.

  That—and Declan. And what would he be to her once this crisis was over? What was he even now? What had that kiss meant last night?

  He was attracted to her at least. Amazing. She’d always felt like a presumptuous teenager around him from the first time she’d seen him in his club, when she had in fact been a presumptuous teenager, underage and easily intimidated. But years had passed since then, years in which she’d moved to New York, gone to college, grown. She’d returned to Los Angeles a different person in so many ways—except one. When she’d walked into the Snake Pit eight years had fallen away and she’d once again been a gawky teen, this time with a chip on her shoulder.

  But last night had changed all that.

  And maybe her value to him really was about the pathogen coursing through her, but this was a chance to do more, to prove herself as a Keeper, his equal. Time to get to work.

  She threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, and spent an hour on her laptop doing internet research on the four dead women, then went downstairs, pausing on the landing to touch Great-Aunt Olga’s glass window ornament. It was the tree symbol. The tree trunk itself was actually a man and woman, limbs intertwined, naked. She and her cousins had found that nakedness hilarious when they were little. “It’s the symbol of the Ancients,” Aunt Olga would tell them reprovingly.

  Now their nakedness looked beautiful to her.

  In the kitchen she fed Jonquil, plugged in her cell phone and checked her answering machine. Charles Highsmith’s assistant had called confirming, in code, the time and place of the meeting that afternoon. Sailor had to pause to find her decoding notes, hiding under a stack of bills, before listening to her last message. This one was from Darius Simonides’s assistant, asking her to return his call.

  Sailor grabbed the phone.

  Darius Simonides was arguably the most powerful talent agent in Hollywood, head of the biggest agency—and a vampire. He was also Sailor’s godfather.

  She cleared her throat several times and mentally rehearsed what she would say, hating her desperation to please this man. When the assistant answered, she said, “This is Sailor Ann Gryffald, returning—” before being interrupted.

  “Mr. Simonides would like to see you in the office this morning at eleven-twenty.”

  “I’ll be there,” Sailor told her.

  * * *

  Global Artists’ Alliance, or GAA, as it was known, occupied a good chunk of Wilshire Boulevard in the heart of Beverly Hills. It was a light salmon-colored slab of concrete that put Sailor in mind of an upscale penitentiary, and she wondered if the agents’ assistants saw it like that, the young MBAs and MFAs so underpaid and overworked they were nearly indentured servants. For those aspiring to be represented by GAA, however—and Sailor was of their number—the pale peach prison was Shangri-la.

  Keeping her sunglasses on, she gave her name to an astonishingly attractive receptionist at the front desk and was directed to the third floor, where another headphoned beauty directed her to a hard couch. On a coffee table were trade publications. Both Variety and The Hollywood Reporter had headlines referring to the dead celebrities, but she read the articles as an insider—a Keeper. She caught a few errors that she assumed had been fed to the trades by the publicity machine that operated in the world of the Others. Did the Elven have their own PR firm? Why hadn’t her father filled her in on this?

  The fact was, Rafe Gryffald hadn’t expected to be appointed to the International Council. He’d figured on working in L.A. for years, letting his daughter live her life, see the world, pursue her artistic aspirations. Which, up until yesterday—

  “Ms. Gryffald?” a woman said. “This way, please.”

  Sailor followed her down the hall. The woman wore a silver wrap dress that hugged her perfect, fat-free body and indicated an intriguing absence of underwear. Her gray heels were very high, making her ability to walk an art in itself. She showed Sailor to an anteroom and asked if she wanted coffee, water or Diet Coke. Apparently no actor in the history of GAA had requested regular Coke. Sailor wanted to compliment her on being so sexy, but she had a dim idea that this might not be taken well and it might be best to say nothing, even though she felt really chatty all of a sudden. And hot. Damn. Here we go again.

  The assistant moved off, and a man approached, elegant and grave, introducing himself as Joshua LeRonde—a higher class of assistant, as he was allowed a name—and told her that Darius would see her, if she would please follow him.

  And on they went, to the inner sanctum.

  The office was like a hotel suite, tasteful and spacious, with a wraparound view of both Century City and downtown. The view was obscured at the moment, windows shrouded with translucent curtains, protecting Darius from the piercing sunlight he found so unpleasant.

  He wore a white shirt and pressed black pants with a snakeskin belt, and a Ulysse Nardin watch. Sailor had never seen him in anything he couldn’t wear to officiate at a wedding or a funeral, and she’d known him her whole life. He was taller than she was, with dark hair with a touch of gray, beautifully cut, very pale skin and extraordinary hands, with long, graceful fingers. He looked fifty, but of course he was far older.

  “Here you are,” he said, coming from behind the desk to kiss her on both cheeks in the European way.

  “Godfather.”

  He smiled. “Godchild.” He peered at her, still within kissing distance, which made her as wary as if his fangs were extended, and then he removed her sunglasses with the ge
ntleness of an optician. It was an intimate gesture. She felt a stirring inside. How could she be finding Darius so appealing? Handsome, aristocratic, yes, but good grief, he had at least a hundred and fifty years on her. Plus he was her godfather.

  “Ah.” His hazel eyes stared into her own. “What have we here?”

  “I had a—an incident. Yesterday. An encounter.” She gestured to her chest, but she was wearing a dress that buttoned nearly to her neck, and she wasn’t about to unbutton it. It was very bad form to do that with a vampire, unless you were inviting him to feed.

  “Really? Have a seat and tell me.” He tucked her sunglasses into the pocket of her dress, another gesture she found intimate and almost erotic. He then moved behind his desk as though ascending a throne, which in a previous century had probably been the case.

  She told him of the attack, of being found by Alessande. She left out the part about the shapeshifter posing as Vernon the stockbroker, because that would make her look slow.

  “But no lasting effects, other than your remarkable eyes?”

  She reported the sharp vision that occurred every few hours, the visual beauty of everyone she encountered. “It happened just now, in fact,” she said. “And then there’s sleepiness. If Alessande hadn’t given me síúlacht, I wouldn’t have made it off her sofa.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Would that explain your passing out some hours later at the Snake Pit?”

  “Okay, that wasn’t actually—how did you hear about...”

  Darius half smiled. “Have you any idea how many people are employed by this agency? Young people, with after-hours habits similar to yours?”

  “Which they discuss with you the morning after?” She tried to picture the receptionists chatting him up over cheese Danish in the GAA kitchen.

  “My business is my clients. Knowing their predilections, who’s capable of sustaining a TV series or six months on location, who needs rehab. Useful information, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Were the assistants on the clock after midnight as spies?

  “And why do you think I invited you to come and see me today?” he asked.