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

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “Well, in light of what you’re telling me, I’m guessing that you were worried about me.”

  “That would be incorrect.”

  She felt as if this was a job interview and she was flunking. “Okay, to be honest, I was hoping that you were interested in representing me. As an actress.”

  “I am not.”

  That stung. “You know what, Darius? You could be a little kinder.”

  Once again the eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  She hesitated. She’d painted herself into a conversational corner. “Okay, never mind. I have no idea, my esteemed godfather, why you’ve asked me here today. I am all ears.”

  He smiled. “That’s better. There is, I believe, a Council meeting of the Elven Keepers scheduled for today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Time and place?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I do, but I want to make sure that you do, after your all-night adventures.”

  “Three o’clock this afternoon, at the home of Charles Highsmith.”

  “Which home? He has several.”

  “Lake Sherwood.”

  “Yes, his ranch. Do you know how to get there?”

  “I can operate a GPS, Darius. Even hungover. Which I’m not, by the way.”

  “Thank you for sharing,” he said, dryness creeping into his voice. “This will be your first closed Council meeting, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yup, first one.” Now that she knew there was no chance that her godfather would become her agent, her best behavior was slipping.

  “May I offer you a piece of advice, my dear?”

  “I’ll take several pieces, if you’ve got ’em.”

  Darius frowned. “First, in Council meetings, as regards talking, less is more. Unless you’re using it for misdirection, or to encourage others to speak about themselves, talking gives away information, when the objective is to acquire information.”

  “Okay, makes sense.”

  “In other words, Sailor, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Strive for a ninety-five-to-five ratio of listening versus talking. Anytime you’re tempted to speak to impress someone, don’t. Your fellow Keepers have been at this a long time and are, generally speaking, cleverer than they look. You will not be the smartest person in the room. Try not to be the most stupid.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Darius.”

  “I have a great deal of respect for your father, what in a normal man would be called affection. I’ve always found it curious that I was his choice of godfather to his only child. Rafe put a lot of store in the position.”

  “Yes. You’re supposed to oversee my spiritual development.”

  “But not your professional development, which is why I have thus far resisted your requests for representation.”

  The words thus far raised her hopes. “You could make me a star, you know. If you chose.”

  “Stardom would do nothing for your spiritual development.”

  Hopes died. Sailor stood. “Okay, then. Talk less, listen more, make it through the meeting without displaying my ignorance. I think I’ve got it.”

  “Sit.”

  She sat.

  “You understand the power of alliances?”

  Sailor thought of the pact she had with Rhiannon and Barrie. And Declan. “I do.”

  “Good. There will be more to this meeting than Robert’s Rules of Order. Observe alliances. There are two major players on your Council, Highsmith, and a woman named Justine Freud. They loathe each other. Everyone else will line up behind one of those two. See if you can figure out the teams. That should keep you from falling asleep. If all else fails, amuse yourself by determining who’s sleeping with whom. Finally, make your own alliances. Base your decisions not on pleasantness but usefulness. You’re friendly by nature, but this is business, so there must be a quid pro quo.” He reached for a pen. “I’d like a full report by the end of the day.”

  “Excuse me?” Sailor said. “I’m to report what goes on at a confidential meeting?”

  “Yes. Will that be a problem?”

  “Yes, that could be a problem. It’s confidential.”

  “You’ll find a way to reconcile things with your conscience,” he said. “These are exceptional times for your species. You’re walking proof of that.”

  “And one of the dead girls was a junior agent here.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I don’t socialize with junior agents. The question is, how badly do you want to find the killer of your Elven, and what are you willing to do? There are those who would consider me a powerful ally, arguably more valuable than anyone on the Elven Council. Perhaps you’re not one of them.”

  “No, I am. Of course. But—”

  “But?”

  “But what’s the quid pro quo? What’s in it for me?”

  At last, a slow smile from her godfather. “The satisfaction of knowing you’re in my good graces,” he said. “And that is preferable to the alternative.”

  He stood, walked to a mahogany-paneled door and opened it, and pulled out a jacket. “And now, my dear, I have a lunch date and you may go.”

  “One moment, please,” she said. “Why is it so important to you that I do well in the Council meeting?”

  He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “You’re my godchild. Your performance reflects on me, whether you do well or poorly. So far, it is the latter. You are twenty-eight years old, and you have to date exhibited no interest, no ability and no real understanding of what it is to be a Keeper. In short, you are something of a disgrace, Sailor.”

  She felt ill.

  “Fate has tossed you an opportunity,” Darius continued. “Thanks to your encounter with the Scarlet Pathogen, you’ve got people’s attention. Members of the inner circles. The question is, what will you do with this opportunity? You may choose to waste it.” He shrugged. “If so, I wash my hands of you.”

  He turned his back on her by way of dismissal.

  Sailor stood, put her sunglasses back on and left. She tried not to feel envious of the people on the hard couches she saw on her way out, actors who came here to meet with their agents and not their godfathers. Godfathers who had the ability to make them feel very small.

  * * *

  Sailor had been driven to Beverly Hills by Barrie, who’d offered to pick her up, as well, but Sailor chose to walk to the Snake Pit. It was less than two miles and a typical Los Angeles lunch hour, which was to say perfect. The temperature was seventy-two degrees, the sky cloudless, and she hoped that movement would somehow dispel her feeling of shame.

  Because of course Darius had a point. She had been a poor excuse for a Keeper. She couldn’t blame it on her inexperience, because Barrie and Rhiannon were in the same boat, and they were pulling it off. Rhiannon had dealt masterfully with a recent crisis, saving Sailor’s life, among others, and earning the respect of the entire Otherworld community. Barrie loved being a Keeper, and even her choice of a civilian career—journalism—was in service to her work with the shapeshifters. Compared to both her cousins, Sailor was a slacker.

  Or had been a slacker. She could change. She had changed. And she would change more.

  She walked faster, heading north on Santa Monica Boulevard. A car honked at her, whether because she was on foot, which was unusual in L.A., or because she’d dressed with care today. She wore a white sundress, backless, but high in the front to hide her damaged chest, with a patent leather shoulder bag, and a pair of cinnamon-colored sandals with ankle straps that had set her back two nights’ tips. They were not only beautiful, but she could actually walk in them. She’d picked up the New York City pedestrian habit in college and found it funny that in her own hometown, with the world’s loveliest weather, so few people walked anywhere unless dressed in athletic gear or exercising a dog.

  Another car honked at her, which annoyed her. But when it happened again two blocks later she found it less annoying. H
er temperature was rising, and suddenly Beverly Hills looked postcard-beautiful, palm trees swaying, the purple of a jacaranda just beginning to bloom. It was a full-on Scarlet Pathogen moment, she realized, recognizing the wave of sensual energy and, with it, a pressing need to connect to people, express herself, maybe even burst into song. She checked her watch to track how long the wild feeling lasted. Dr. Krabill would be interested in that. Another car honked, and this one actually pulled over in traffic, twenty feet ahead of her. Sailor approached, feeling reckless, and then realized it was the spaceship, Declan’s Lamborghini Aventador. Heart racing, she bent down to look in the open passenger window.

  “Get in,” Declan Wainwright said.

  “Hey, there,” she said.

  “Get in,” he repeated.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He laughed. “Holding up traffic. Get in.”

  Sailor looked at his face, his lovely black hair, his unshaven, raffish quality, his absurdly blue eyes, and got in. Her heart was thumping wildly, but even as she clicked her seat belt she could feel her temperature drop. She checked her watch. Two minutes, forty seconds, and this wave of whatever it was had abated. She looked around and, sure enough, the world looked ordinary once more.

  Except for Declan Wainwright, who still looked extraordinary.

  As he eased back into traffic, she asked, “How did you find me?”

  “Barrie. She said you’d be either at GAA or else on your way to the Snake Pit. On foot. I thought she was kidding. How many hours of sleep did you get?”

  “Four, five, something like that. I feel fine.” She paused. “Or at least I did until a half hour ago. I had a meeting with Darius.”

  “Darius Simonides is also your agent?” he asked.

  “No—not that I’m bitter—he was giving me a godfatherly...talk. About the upcoming Council meeting.”

  “How are your eyes?” He glanced at her, and she removed her glasses. She saw a softening in his expression as he looked at her, and she felt herself melting, the bad feelings washing away. She wanted to kiss him. She wished he would kiss her. But maybe it was too early in the day for kissing, because now he was looking businesslike again.

  Oops. She was too transparent, gazing into his eyes at this range. She turned her attention to the car’s upholstery. And, just peripherally, his black jeans, then his white T-shirt, which revealed a great set of biceps.

  “I’m eager myself to hear what goes on at that Council meeting,” Declan said.

  “Uh...”

  He looked at her. “‘Uh,’ what?”

  “Well, it’s confidential. Right? Isn’t that the whole point of a closed meeting?”

  “Yes, but I’m your partner.”

  “Okay. But ratting out my fellow Keepers, that wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Actually, it was,” he said. “You told me last night I needed a friend on your Council. That was part of your offer. What else would you mean by that?”

  Damn. She’d forgotten. “I guess I meant—I don’t know. A friend. In a general way. Not a spy. Not ‘Oh, here you go, here’s the full transcript of this very confidential meeting.’”

  “Afraid I’ll sell information to the L.A. Times?”

  “No, that’s not the point. Do you plan to tell me what happens in your shifter Council meetings?”

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be useful to you. What happens in the Elven Council today will affect all the species.”

  “But it’s an Elven issue, the victims are Elven, I’m an Elven Keeper, I’m not supposed to be blabbing confidential information to everyone and his dog!” Her voice was rising, and she abruptly stopped talking. It wasn’t Declan she was mad at, it was herself. Declan wanted a report, and Darius wanted a report, her cousins would probably want a report, and she’d just made a promise to herself to turn herself around as a Keeper and do the right thing. She stole a glance at Declan. He met her look, then turned away once more, keeping his thoughts to himself. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not your fault. I’m having a professional crisis. I keep discovering just how lousy a Keeper I am.”

  “‘Lousy’ is a strong word. You haven’t been at it long enough to be lousy.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  “What do you suppose your father would do if he were here?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that very question,” she said. “And the answer is, I don’t know. On the one hand, I think he’d say that confidential means confidential. On the other hand, Darius is expecting a full report of what goes on at my Council meeting. And my father trusts Darius.”

  “And then there’s me. Who your father doesn’t know well enough to trust. Or not trust. Just like you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that I—”

  “Stop. No lying, remember?” He looked at her and smiled. “Yeah, you like kissing me, that’s true. And you’re happy to work with me—to a point. But you’re not sure you trust me, and that’s okay. I have a tough skin, I can handle it.”

  “All right,” she said, unnerved by his reference to kissing. And how well he could read her. “Do I have to give you an answer about the Council meeting right now?”

  “No, but you realize your value as a partner is dropping.”

  “Well, that’s harsh,” she said.

  “True. But other than your blood samples, to put it bleakly, what have you got?”

  “Research,” she said, pulling a notebook from her bag. “The girl from Cal Arts who died, the acting student? She was Cyffarwydd, and her name was—”

  “Ariel MacAdam,” he said. “She came into the Snake Pit a few times. My bartender had to card her. She looked about fifteen, but very Lolita, if that reference means anything to you.”

  “Yes, I’ve read Nabokov.” She opened her notebook. “And the fourth victim, the agent from GAA. Did you know her, as well?”

  “Yes. She was Rath.”

  “And beautiful.”

  “Very.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  He threw her a look. “Well enough. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  Well enough? Did that mean he’d been intimate with her? A pang of jealousy shot through her, sharp and unpleasant. Get over it, she told herself. Because his list of intimate “acquaintances” is a long one. She flipped a page in her notebook. “The first two victims, our celebrities, Charlotte Messenger and Gina Santoro...aside from the usual PR blather, here’s what I found. They both got around. Lots of ex-lovers. Of course, that means nothing if the sex with their killer was nonconsensual.”

  “Well, which was it? Consensual or non?” There was a challenge in his voice.

  Sailor sighed. “All right, I’ll try Brodie.” She took out her cell and a moment later was talking to her soon-to-be cousin-by-marriage. Thirty seconds later she ended the call. “Yes, they were murdered. No, they weren’t raped. Yes, they both had sex with the same man before they were killed. The case was just reassigned to Robbery/Homicide, as we expected.”

  “Looks like Brodie trusts you with confidential information,” he said. “And no one’s calling him a blabbermouth.”

  “All right, point taken. But Brodie said not to make a habit of asking.” She looked at her notes. “As for their recent boyfriends, Gina had just been dumped by Alexander Cavendish, last year’s Sexiest Man Alive. Charlotte is—was—dating Giancarlo Ferro up until her death.”

  “Your sources?” Declan asked.

  “Who’sDatingWhom dot-com. But both of those men are mortals, as far as my cousins and I can tell, although either one could be a shifter. Barrie’s never met either in person.” Shifters were notoriously difficult to spot if they didn’t want to be spotted.

  “I have,” he said. “They’re not shifters.”

  “Okay, so we cross them off the list,” she said. “What this tells us is that whatever common lover the two women had, it was secret. Which suggests he’s the murderer.”

  “
No, it doesn’t.”

  “Sure it does.”

  Declan shook his head. “Plenty of men have could have slept with Charlotte and Gina without ending up on some website run by fans in Iowa. Your reasoning is flawed.”

  “No, though my research is limited. But I had only fifty-five minutes to devote to it. Anyway, never mind. It seems reasonable to me that Gina and Charlotte’s mutual secret lover infected them with the Scarlet Pathogen, then went on to seduce and murder the other two victims.”

  “Huge leap in logic,” Declan said. “First, we have no idea whether the other two victims had sex before dying, let alone a common sexual partner. Second—”

  “Hey, it’s a theory,” Sailor responded. “How else do you solve crime?”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. First, Gina Santoro. Very talented actress—in my opinion underrated. Just back from Romania, where she was shooting Technical Black, a big action-adventure popcorn movie, which explains the theory reported in Variety that the Scarlet Pathogen was picked up overseas. Technical Black is back in town shooting in a mansion in Malibu Canyon, where Gina died last week in her trailer. They’re finishing the film without her, and I want to get onto that set.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Sailor said. “Charlotte Messenger, she’d been filming a romantic comedy at Metropole Studios as well as on location around town, but she’d just wrapped before she died, lucky for them. The film’s got another week of shooting, so I want to get onto that set, as well. As for Charlotte herself, what can you say? A-list. A-plus, even. Gorgeous, but overrated.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Of course my opinion. No range whatsoever and dreadful at accents—did you see that Restoration swordfight thing she did two years ago? No. Because it was unwatchable. I looked at some scenes this morning, but it hasn’t improved with age. Okay, now as to tribes, Charlotte’s Déithe, trying to look Cyffarwydd with the nose job and the cheek implants. Like I said, the true Cyffarwydd is Ariel MacAdam, the acting student. Her school’s up north somewhere. Fresno, Bakersfield, someplace. Her Facebook page is heartbreaking.” Sailor’s throat tightened.

  “What?” Declan said.