by Rob Cornell
I didn’t give a damn. Not only because my real concerns were more urgent, but because I was thankful to have any reflection at all. At the worst point during my infection, my reflection had started to fade. One of the weirdest experiences of my life. Imagine thinking you would never see yourself again. Yeah. Weird. And scary.
These thoughts took less than a second to cross my mind, and went on mostly in my subconscious.
The bulk of my concerns circled around my next move.
I hadn’t seen any sign of Mom yet. I was pretty good at imagining worst case scenarios. The question was, should I check the bathroom first so I could then head into the bedroom without worrying about someone coming at me from behind? Or should I go for Mom first, in case the attacker was with her?
The bedroom door was closed. It gave me a shred of (probably false) hope. The intruder hadn’t bothered closing the entrance door. Why close the bedroom?
It meant nothing, but I needed to tally up every detail to make a decision.
Fuck that. Mom came first. If a bathroom lurker tried to take me from behind, I’d grab them in the crotch and set their bits on fire.
I rushed to the bedroom door. I wasn’t feeling the action hero vibe, so I opened the door with the knob like a normal person.
The room was dark.
I held out my hand like a dungeon crawler holding out his torch to illuminate the dark cavern ahead.
The darkness peeled back some, quivering at the edge of the flickering light’s reach. I could see plenty.
Plenty of nothing.
The covers on the bed were rumpled, but Mom wasn’t lying under them. All the remaining furniture looked intact. The couple of perfume bottles, the hairbrush, and the jewelry box on the dresser undisturbed. Nothing knocked onto the floor. Not so much as a lampshade askew. In other words, no sign of a struggle.
But no sign of Mom either.
I backed out into the hallway again. The growing heat from my flame made my face sweaty. The heat wasn’t just coming from the flame, I realized. My whole body radiated. My shirt stuck to my back. A bead of moisture tickled my ear.
My nervousness had my power working overtime. I was reaching the point where keeping my flame up would outweigh the cost of casting it from scratch. I had never felt this way before. Never paid attention to the calculus behind my magic. I had cast when I needed to cast, and sometimes even when I didn’t.
Damn it, hold on a little longer. Check the bathroom.
I hurried down the hall, not concerned about stealth. If something was hiding in the bathroom, they had heard me by now. And I had a big ass fireball ready to melt off their face.
My reflection in the mirror grew as I approached. Between the sheen of sweat on my face and the wild look in my eyes, I kind of freaked myself out, as if that reflection might dive out of the mirror and try to throttle me.
I ignored the crazy guy in the mirror and charged into the bathroom.
The space wasn’t much bigger than a modest walk-in closet. Between the vanity, the toilet, and the tub, there wasn’t a lot of room to maneuver. And not a lot of space to hide—not even for a shadow walking vamp.
The shower curtain was drawn. I checked there first, yanking it aside, the metal rings it hung from scraping and jangling along the bar.
Nothing.
I shoved my hand into the cramped space, throwing aside the shadows to be sure.
Still nothing.
I turned around. Unless someone had climbed into the cabinet in the vanity, the only remaining place to hide was behind the open door. There wasn’t a lot of space back there, and when I grabbed the door to swing it closed, I already knew what I would find.
I was right.
A whole lot of nothing.
I tossed the door back open so hard the knob punctured the drywall and stuck hard.
“Damn it.” My voice buzzed in the bathroom’s close quarters.
I finally released my energy. The flame engulfing my hand went out with a soft poof. The heat I had felt coursing through my body cooled instantly. All the sweat covering me chilled me like stepping out of the gym after a heavy workout into winter air. A shiver shot through me as I marched down the hall and into the living room.
Fiona moaned, the corners of her closed eyes pinched.
I knelt beside her. “Fiona.”
Another moan. She raised a hand to her forehead and touched the gash. She hissed between her teeth and jerked her hand back as if touching a hot stove. Her fingertips came away with blood on them.
I gently touched her arm. “Fiona, are you with me?”
Her eyes fluttered open. She frowned up at me. “Sebastian? What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Mom’s gone.”
“Gone?” She put her hand to her head again, this time avoiding the gash. She groaned. “Someone…”
“Someone? Someone what? Who?” I knew she had only regained consciousness a mere minute ago, but I couldn’t hold back my questions. I needed to know where Mom was. I needed to know now.
She reached out for me. I took her hand, and she tried to pull herself up.
“Easy,” I said. “Lay there a sec. Just tell me what happened.”
“A man…at the door. Forced his way in. He had a gun. Hit me with it. Hard.” She refocused her gaze on me, her face twisted with pain. “That’s all I remember. He knocked me out.”
Shit. Shitshitshitshit.
“Where was Mom when this happened?”
She waved weakly behind her. “Couch.”
I glanced at the couch as if I might have missed her during my initial search. Nothing to see but the shiny leather. No sign of struggle either. In fact, the Norse horn sat right where she had left it on the coffee table.
I ran a hand through my hair, my thoughts buzzing at light speed. I needed to focus. Focus on the guy.
“Tell me about the attacker,” I said.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. Her lips formed a straight line and went white around the edges. “Happened so fast.”
I took her hand. “I know you’re hurting. But I need you to concentrate. Describe this guy to me.”
“Long hair,” she said. “Greasy.”
“Color?”
“Black.”
“Anything about his face, the way he dressed, identifiable features?”
She hunched up one shoulder. “I can’t—”
“You have to,” I snapped. I drew a calming breath—as calming as I could muster, at least—and concentrated on toning my voice down. Then I said what I had yet to admit to myself. “He took her. He took my mom.”
“I’m sorry.” She propped herself up on her elbows. Clarity returned to her eyes. I noticed the gash on her head had already clotted. Shifters were tough, healed fast. In twenty minutes or so, it would be like she’d never been hit. Speaking of fast, whoever had knocked her out must have done it quick enough that Fiona hadn’t had a chance to take on her tiger form.
The guy would have had serious regrets about breaking into a weretiger’s apartment.
How had he taken her by such surprise?
“Was he a vamp?” I asked, then waved a hand, dismissing the question right after asking. Couldn’t have been a vampire unless Fiona had invited him in. I couldn’t think of any other kind of nasty who could get the better of Fiona and want to kidnap my mother. So, despite the obvious answer, I asked again. “Was he? Did you invite him in?”
Her eyebrows drew together. Her nostrils flared. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
I stood and offered my arm so she could pull herself up. Her grip pinched tight, even through my coat’s leather sleeve. She lifted herself to her feet, rocked back on her heels, but steadied herself. She let go of me and explored her head wound with her fingers. She didn’t wince this time.
“He wasn’t a vampire.”
“How did he get at you before you shifted?”
“He took me by surprise, Sebastian. He had a gun. Do you think I let him in and a
sked for a good crack to the skull?’”
“Of course not. Sorry. But this…” I gestured at the general center of the living room as if it represented everything. “It doesn’t make any sense. Unless it was a vampire. Otherwise…”
I pressed the heels of my palms against my temples and growled.
Was there another player here? Because the vamps had been after me, right? Not Mom. At least, that’s what I had assumed.
It sure as shit wasn’t some random home invasion. The only thing the intruder had taken was Mom. Hadn’t broken anything. Hadn’t so much as left a dirty footprint on the carpet.
Which raised a whole other question.
“Why didn’t Mom put up a fight?”
Fiona picked at the edge of her thumb nail. Her hands trembled. I wanted to take her in my arms, console her, give her whatever support she needed. It must have been damn scary to get jumped like that in her own home.
I didn’t have time to comfort her, though.
I glanced at the round plastic clock hung on the wall. Almost one AM.
“He had a gun,” I said. “That’s all he had?”
“That’s all I saw.”
“Just one guy?”
“From what I saw.”
I gritted my teeth. What Fiona saw didn’t help a whole hell of a lot.
“Mom could have thrown a single guy right back out the door with a twitch of her hand. Hell, she put a hole in your wall in her sleep. Nearly nuked the fucking building.” I started to pace. “And you’re telling me one…one greasy-haired guy took her out of here without a single sign of struggle?”
“I don’t know what happened,” Fiona shouted. “Maybe he threatened to hurt me if she didn’t go along peacefully.”
Possible. Mom would have made sure nothing happened to Fiona. And yet…
“What about once they were out the door? She could have taken him out at any point once she had him away from you.”
“I don’t know!” Her face flushed. “But I do not appreciate you making it sound like it was my fault.”
“I never said…” I stopped pacing and pounded my fists against my thighs. I’d never said it, but she was right. I had implied it. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make myself apologize, because it wasn’t only my frustration talking—a part of me did blame her. I had brought Mom here to keep her safe.
That’s right. You brought her here, which means you’re as much to blame. More so, actually. You screwed up big time. Congratulations! You’ve won the Worst Son in the World Championship. What are you gonna do now?
I was going to get her back, that’s what. And I would burn through every guy with long, greasy black hair in Detroit if I had to.
Chapter Twelve
Before I had a chance to put together a thought about how to track down the grease ball, my phone trilled in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the number.
Toft.
I tapped the screen to answer, my already nervous stomach quivering. What the hell did he want now?
“Have you misplaced something?”
The question threw me. I ran through my memory of my visit with him earlier, couldn’t think of anything I might have left behind.
Toft sighed, somehow making it sound condescending.
“A little slow tonight, are we?” he asked. “Let me rephrase. Have you misplaced someone?”
“Odi,” I said through a sigh of my own, both because I felt like an idiot for not catching on to Toft’s sarcasm, and out of relief that the kid had slipped the cops.
“Master Crossman has a gift for you,” Toft said. His formal word choice sounded ridiculous in his little boy voice. Especially over the phone, without his wizened eyes looking back at me. “I think you need to come by the Black Rose to take it…and him.”
Hope buzzed through me like a static shock.
“He’s got the remains?”
“Indeed,” he said. “Now hurry, while there is plenty of night left for you to tutor your new student.”
He disconnected without another word.
Fiona must have sensed a change in me. She gave me a worried look. “Who was that?”
“Toft,” I said. “I might have a way to find Mom.”
Assuming it was the vampires who had her. I still couldn’t be sure there was any connection, though I couldn’t imagine how there wasn’t.
Fiona’s worried expression deepened. “With Toft Kitchens’s help? Again? I thought we wanted to avoid vampires.”
“Toft is different.” Kinda. “And right now he has the only available lead.”
I didn’t want to take the time to get too specific. I also wanted to hold off explaining my recently acquired responsibility. If consorting with Toft bothered her, Fiona might go tiger on me when she heard about Odi.
She narrowed her eyes, her worry turning to suspicion. She could tell I was holding back. After only three months together, the woman knew me better than most—right behind Sly and Mom.
“What’s this lead?”
“I’ll explain later. I have to get over to the Black Rose.”
“Let me grab my coat. You can explain on the way.” She started for the coat closet by the entrance.
“Whoa.” I stepped in her path. “Not even ten minutes ago you were unconscious on the floor.” I pointed at the spot where I had found her as if she didn’t know.
“Really?” She pulled her hair back from her forehead to show me the gash. Only it wasn’t a gash anymore. The wound had closed, leaving behind a crust of blood. When she washed that off, you’d never know she’d had the injury to begin with. “Shifter, remember?”
“Yeah, but…” I didn’t have a good excuse to leave her behind. She didn’t need my protection. Besides, chivalry didn’t work with her. She wouldn’t even let me open doors for her. Truth was, having her at my side made sense. Especially since I couldn’t go so heavy on the pyrotechnics like I used to.
Taking her, however, could complicate things with Odi. It would require more explanations, likely open up a debate, and the inevitable tension from Fiona’s disapproval would bog us down.
Fiona huffed impatiently and moved around me.
Then an idea struck me. A legitimate reason Fiona needed to stay here.
“Fiona, wait.”
She stopped.
“Someone needs to be here in case Mom comes back. Odds are high she can get away. Fucking with a century and a half year-old sorceress doesn’t typically end in your favor.”
I could tell by her frown she knew I was right. “You get to be my protector after all, huh?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure, sure.” She came at me like she meant to slap me. I almost pulled back, but when she got to me she placed her hands on either side of my face and pulled me into a kiss.
The soft touch of her lips sent its usual shiver through me. I planted my hands on her hips and drew her closer. The kiss didn’t last nearly long enough, and when she backed away, it almost hurt to let her go.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Don’t say ‘of course.’ Promise me like you mean it.”
“You know I can’t promise.”
“You pick now to be honest with me?” She slugged me in the chest. “You’re an ass.”
“Of course,” I repeated, kissed her on the cheek, and took off for the Black Rose.
On the way, I found myself disturbed by my hope that the vamps had Mom. Because if they didn’t, the remains Odi had recovered wouldn’t do me a damn bit of good.
Chapter Thirteen
When I arrived at the Black Rose, Toft had everything I needed laid out on one of the tables in the middle of the club. Apparently, he’d decided to close early for the night. He had the tablecloth and centerpiece removed. Probably a good thing, since I was certain to make a mess. I didn’t have a lot of experience working the more subtle and focused spells like the one I had planned. I was bound to spill some things.
Odi came out of the back office, a huge grin on his pasty face. His red nest of hair looked nestier than when I last saw him. His stylishly torn jeans had grass stains on them. Apparently, his escape from the police hadn’t gone as easily as it should have. But he had taken it in stride and didn’t seem to hold a grudge over my leaving him behind.
“Dude,” he said, crossing over to me. “Dude.”
I smiled, his enthusiasm taking my mind off Mom’s abduction for a few seconds. But only a few.
Odi gestured at the table. “I totally got it.”
I looked down at the items before me. The plastic baggie held what looked like black sand, the vamp dust a little scorched. That fire staff Mom had given me had a hell of a kick. Too bad the fight at the house had drained it.
Next to the baggie was a pair of wire-framed glasses with thin lenses. Considering Toft had sent out for my materials, I suspected the golden frames had a few karats to them. A shame, since I was about to ruin them. Beside the glasses was an octagonal bottle about the same size as a shot glass. A rubber stopper kept the clear fluid contained, but I highly doubted Toft had handled this bottle himself. It also explained why I didn’t see any sign of him—even this small amount of holy water could do serious damage to a vampire’s complexion, or eat a hole straight through his skull.
Odi didn’t appear at all bothered by it.
Ah, the naiveté of youth.
The other items on the table were a mortar and pestle and a nail clipper.
I pulled out a chair and sat. Odi followed suit, then clapped his hands and rubbed them together, his eyes sparkling.
“Show me the ways of the Force, Obi Wan.”
I snorted. “Star Wars reference? You weren’t even alive when the original trilogy came out.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, and like you were?”
“I was three when Jedi came out.”
“Pfft. Whatever. That barely counts.”
“My dad took me to see it in the theater. Not sure what he was thinking, but I remember nearly peeing my pants at the rancor scene.”
