by Julie Kenner
“Are you suggesting I’ve been less than truthful?” she asked in mock disbelief, even as she wondered how furious Hale was going to be when he found out she’d been flirting with a mortal. “Because if you are, then I guess you’re in the paid-escort business after all.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, if there are no thugs . . .” She trailed off, watching his eyes to make sure he got it.
The corner of his mouth curled up. “Ah. I see.”
She waited expectantly for a moment, then said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Say it.”
“Zoë—”
“Ah-ah,” she warned, waggling a finger, and fighting a grin.
“What?” he asked, amused.
“Come on. Say it. I have to know you know what you’re up against.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Fine. There are thugs. Big, ugly thugs. Gangly goons. Creepy crooks. And they’re chasing you all over the city.”
“Thank you,” she said, dropping into a little curtsy as Hoop laughed. “That’s much better.”
Taylor inclined his head, pretentious butler–style. “You’re very welcome.” He looked up and caught her gaze, his dark eyes flashing with something more than just amusement.
She broke eye contact, making a show of fumbling in her purse, hoping he couldn’t tell that her pulse had sped up crazily. “Pick me up tomorrow at five, okay?”
“Sure thing,” he said, and she nodded, wondering if it was a good or a bad thing that she’d already started counting down.
Twenty-two hours, thirteen minutes, thirty-nine seconds and counting.
She sighed. A bad thing. This is definitely a bad thing.
Ten
“How could you have let her get away?” Hieronymous leaned against his desk, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on his desktop, his eyes narrowing. “One mortal female. How much simpler could it have been?”
Mordi cringed and backed away, overcome with a sudden urge to shape-shift. How very nice it would be to simply change into a rat and scurry away. He smiled at the thought, closing his eyes, and imagining a little rat life where he could preside over all the other rats without his father’s incessant criticisms. Ah, such a lovely image.
“I’ve called you here to explain this blunder,” Hieronymous raved. “So explain.”
“I had it, Father—right in the palm of my hand. But Zoë was there—”
“Why? Did she know about the jewel?”
He shook his head. “An unfortunate coincidence, I think. But she was there nonetheless.”
“And she managed to defeat you.” Hieronymous looked down his nose at his son, his eyes dark and cold. “A few days ago you stood here and told me such a thing was not possible.”
Mordi swallowed. “My powers. They blipped.”
“Blipped?” Hieronymous repeated, scorn lacing his voice.
“The fluctuations. I had it, but then . . .” He trailed off, ashamed that he had no control over the changes that were upon him.
“I see.” He tapped louder on the tabletop. “You are a halfling, of course. I suppose we must make do.”
Mordi sighed. Truly, there were times when he despised being the son of the self-proclaimed soon-to-be high ruler of the mortals and usurper of the council.
Still, once he defeated Zoë—once he had the stone—then he’d be the son of the high ruler of the mortals and usurper of the council. Surely that would earn his father’s respect.
“Mordichai!”
“Yes, sir,” he said, jerking his head back up to face his father’s coal black eyes.
“You will return to Los Angeles and redouble your efforts. You will obtain the stone before the eclipse so that we may perform the ritual and gather the Outcasts.”
He glanced at the monitor, which was scrolling through his current portfolio. “The market closed up last week. That’s good news for you.” He smiled, all teeth and jowls. “It improved my mood considerably.”
Thank goodness for small favors, thought Mordi, as he desperately wished for an amazing performance by the Dow and NASDAQ for the rest of the week.
“As for the stone, I’m already on the trail, sir,” he said.
“How?” asked Hieronymous.
“I’ve hired a detective, sir,” Mordi mumbled.
“Yes. I am aware of that.” He settled himself into his chair and propped his feet on the mahogany desk. “I can’t say that I approve bringing a mortal into these affairs, particularly when his help is not necessary. What does a child of an Outcast need with mortal assistance?”
“The tracking device isn’t sufficient,” Mordi said, a little queasy at the thought of his father watching him on those damnable monitors.
Hieronymous swung his feet off his desk and leaned forward, long fingers drumming ceaselessly on the table. “Not sufficient? I created that device myself.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir.” Mordi drew a deep breath, trying to harness enough courage to suggest that his father had done something with less than his usual precision. “But the device indicates only the general area. It doesn’t pinpoint the stone.”
Actually, considering what a vague location the device offered, Mordi thought he’d done a heck of a job just finding the rock. He’d located the shopkeeper and the girl on his own, before hiring the P.I. If that wasn’t some quality gumshoeing, he didn’t know what was.
Apparently, though, Daddy Dearest didn’t agree.
“Father,” he said, with a slightly submissive tilt of his head to ward off any particularly violent bouts of disapproval. “We know two things for sure. One, the stone is somewhere in Los Angeles. Two, by the nature of the prophecy, the stone may well find its way to Zoë.”
His father’s long fingers continued their tap-tapping, and the man frowned. “Go on.”
“Right. Well. It seems only reasonable that I should focus my attention on Zoë. On keeping her from acquiring the stone. On wresting it away if she does. And this detective can be another set of eyes—eyes that are more accustomed to this sort of work.”
Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Mordi watched his father’s fingers, trying to gauge the man’s mood from the movement. The tapping stopped.
“You little fool,” Hieronymous said, and Mordi recoiled, anger and shame welling in his gut. His father pushed back from the desk and stood, practically filling the room.
“There’s another reason for hiring the detective,” Mordi squeaked, cringing.
“Explain.”
“The detective appears to have an interest in my cousin—and she in him. If she finds the stone, Mr. Taylor will learn about it. And he, in turn, will tell me.” He stared his father straight in the eyes. “And then I will go to retrieve the stone from Zoë. . . . Father, I will win that battle.”
Hieronymous stroked his chin. “Yes. I would prefer to avoid such a confrontation altogether, but I believe you will prove the victor if you are forced into battle with your little cousin. Our entire future—my entire plan—depends on it. So I must believe in you.”
“Thank you, sir.” If that wasn’t damning him with faint praise . . .
“I said I must believe. I did not say I intended to let blind faith dictate my actions.”
So much for the hope he’d ever have a warm, fuzzy relationship with his father. Hieronymous was as cold as steel and just as hard. No wonder Mordi’s mother had left him—why would the woman want to risk raising a son who might take after the paternal side of his family?
Hieronymous turned, facing the monitors, their glass reflecting his face so that Mordi was suddenly under the scrutiny of twelve Hieronymouses, rather than just one. He pressed a large gold button on his desktop, and his smile reminded Mordi of the Grinch, back when his heart was still two sizes too small. “You keep that detective on retainer. Once Zoë is no longer around, he may be especially useful in helping to find the stone.”
“Not around?” A chill ripped down Mordi’s spine. It was one thing to
beat her fair and square, to win the stone and fulfill the legend. But Hieronymous was apparently suggesting something much, much darker.
Still, if that was what it took to win his father’s favor . . .
He shivered slightly. Well, so be it.
“Our hour is at hand,” Hieronymous said. “And I think it is time that we stack the deck in our favor.”
He aimed the remote at the monitors, all twelve of which immediately filled with an aerial view of Los Angeles. “I think it’s time you took your cousin out of the equation.”
From his perch on her window sill, Elmer watched as Zoë pirouetted in front of the full-length mirror, showing off her gold-belted little red dress.
“So? Whadaya think?” Deena asked. “I think the belt makes the outfit. Not bad for three bucks, huh?”
Elmer yawned. It looks like you slapped a belt on a thrift-store dress, he chittered to no one in particular. The outfit didn’t exactly look like Versace. And he should know. Hale dragged him to enough photo shoots. What a lucky ferret I am, he thought snippily.
“You don’t think it looks tacky, do you?” Zoë asked, turning sideways. “Like I’ve slapped a belt on one of my mom’s hand-me-downs?”
Yes.
“Hardly,” Deena answered. Elmer wished he were human so he could roll his eyes. “You look hot,” she enthused.
Zoë turned another circle, then ran her hands down her sides and over her hips. “I can’t believe I’m going out in public like this. I mean, look at me. I’ve got curves.”
So she did. Little Zoë Smith definitely had the family genes. If he weren’t a ferret . . . well, zowie!
“I really look okay?” she asked again.
He nodded vigorously, but she wasn’t paying attention.
“Hell, yes,” Deena said. She cocked her head. “Still . . .”
Zoë’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“I was just thinking that you could use a Wonderbra.”
“Are you nuts? I’ve already got so much cleavage I could hide a bankroll. Besides, what exactly is he supposed to be wondering about?”
“Whether he’s going to get some, of course.”
“Deena! I told you. I’m not doing the dating thing. I’m not doing the relationship thing. And I’m certainly not doing the sex thing. Not anytime soon, at least. Leave it alone, okay?”
Deena shrugged. “Whatever.”
Zoë turned sideways, and Elmer saw her reflection in the mirror as she stood up straight and threw her shoulders back.
She ran her hands over the dress, and her eyes met Deena’s in the mirror. “You’re sure this looks good? Because I like it, and everyone knows I have no taste in clothes.”
“Trust me, kid. You look great. With your figure you’d look great in a flour sack.”
Just like he knew she would, Zoë turned to face Deena straight-on, and the blonde raised a hand in self-defense.
“Not that you look like you’re wearing a flour sack. This dress is used, but it’s chic.” She reached out and fondled the material. “Raw silk. Can’t beat that. And the belt is fab. Kind of retro cool.”
When was ugly cool? Elmer squeaked in annoyance. There were times when not speaking human was downright inconvenient.
“It needs something, though.” Deena dumped her purse on the bed, letting loose a shower of pens, paper, jewelry, paintbrushes, and other assorted stuff. “Earrings, maybe.”
Elmer jumped off the windowsill to have a closer look. He’d never seen a mortal who hauled around so much junk.
Deena gave him a gentle shove as he got to close. “Do you mind? You’re sitting on the jewelry.” She looked up at Zoë. “When did you get a ferret, anyway?”
Zoë laughed. “He’s my brother’s. His name’s Elmer, and he’s got a knack for being in the middle of things.”
“So I see,” Deena agreed, digging once more into her purseful of junk. “Anyway, I still say you should go for it.”
“For what?”
“It.” Deena waved her hand in the air. “You know. Sex.” Elmer’s ears perked up.
“No way. We had this conversation yesterday, remember? I’m not ready.” She shook her head. “Not happening. Uh-uh.”
Good for you, kid. Stick to your guns.
“But you said that’s because you hadn’t found Mr. Right.”
“No, that’s what you said.”
“Whatever.” The blonde brushed the objection away like a gnat. “The point is, it was a brilliant observation.” She finally came up with two matching earrings. “Yesterday you couldn’t find Mr. Right. Well, now you—”
“—rented some guy I don’t know anything about. No big deal.”
Elmer’s head shot up. Zoë looked over at him, her brows drawing together.
Deena paused, a sparkly earring dangling from her fingers. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just that Taylor’s nothing more than some guy I hired for the evening. I mean, I just met him.”
“No, he’s not. He’s Mr.—”
“George Bailey Taylor, private investigator.” Zoë’s eyes were wide, her jaw firm. “Good thing he’s hard up for cash, huh? I mean, I needed to hire a date and this guy I hardly know needed the work. . . .” She glanced at Elmer, then back to her friend.
Deena scowled, then looked at Elmer, obviously confused by something. “Okay, fine. Whatever. He’s just some guy you hired.”
“Exactly.”
“Nothing special there.”
Zoë shrugged. “Nothing at all.”
Elmer cringed. The girl was a lousy liar.
“So, you gonna wear your glasses?” Deena asked.
Zoë’s eyes widened. Elmer nodded his little head, frantically trying to signal, Yes, yes, by all means, wear the glasses.
“Are you insane? Of course I am,” she said, and Elmer breathed a sigh of relief.
Deena rolled her eyes. “Sweetie, you really need to take a walk on the wild side. You’re at least going to take a peek.”
“No peeking.” Zoë crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “There’s going to be absolutely no peeking.” A tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Well . . . probably not, anyway.”
Elmer crawled under a pillow. Hale was going to have an absolute fit, and, stone or no stone, the week was undoubtedly going to prove incredibly amusing.
“You’re telling me she really jumped off a building?” Taylor watched Lane pour water into the coffeemaker as he swung a squealing Davy by one hand and one foot in a wide arc around the living room. “As in nosedive toward the ground? EMS? Broken bones and traumatized children?”
She wiped her hands on her jeans. “I told you—she didn’t actually ‘jump.’ She wore some sort of special cape with these superstrong wires, and it worked like a hang glider.”
“Uh-huh.” He eased Davy to the floor. “Why am I not buying this?”
Lane shrugged. “What’s not to buy? I saw it with my own eyes.”
“And then you gave her the necklace—”
“Right.”
“—but didn’t get her name.”
His foster sister sighed, screwing up her mouth in annoyance. “Bummer, huh?”
He laughed. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
“Ten grand . . . I can’t believe it.”
“Ten grand and then some,” he added.
She ran her finger down an ancient refrigerator they’d just picked up at a garage sale. “Woulda been nice.”
“Woulda been? It’s not exactly over.”
“Hello?” Lane said. “We don’t have the necklace, remember?”
He shrugged. “Somebody does.”
“And that somebody’s not you or me. So how are we supposed to find it?”
He pointed at himself and tried to affect an insulted expression. “Remember me? Your multitalented brother? I’m a hell of an investigator. That’s why this Mordon guy hired me in the first place.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
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“But nothing. We’ll find her, and this rich loony bird can buy the necklace off her. Then we’ll split the finder’s fee.”
Lane nodded, but didn’t look too convinced.
“Come on. Trust me.” He pulled a chair out from under her kitchen table, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Lane . . .”
She grinned. “I guess if anyone can find it, you’re the man.” She snorted. “Talk about turnabout. Eight months ago I was the one trying to convince you that you still had the stuff.”
He cringed. Eight months ago he’d been released from rehab only to find out that the department was sticking him behind a desk and saddling him with an administrative job. Det. George Bailey Taylor, local hero, suddenly turned paper pusher.
After two months of sulking, he’d basically told them to shove the job and the damned disability checks. He’d struck out on his own—and was doing just fine, thank you very much. Incapacitated, my ass.
He rubbed his thigh, frowning. Of course, so far he hadn’t needed to chase any thugs down dark alleys. But if it came to that . . . well, he’d show them. He’d do what needed to be done. Annoying limp and all. Nothing important had changed.
Nothing at all.
And it wasn’t as if he’d be chasing any criminals tonight, anyway. At least, not any real ones. The only thugs after Zoë Smith were the ones living in her imagination. Though from what he could tell, her imagination was about as vivid as her hair.
“Taylor?” Lane was frowning. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he said, his voice harsh to his ears. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “So we start with what we know. What did she look like?”
Lane shrugged. “She had on a hood.”
“Strike one, but that’s okay. They were filming a movie, right?”
“Yeah, Boopsey Saves the World, remember?” She grimaced, clearly not impressed with the title.
“Hmmm. I managed to catch someone at the Hollywood Reporter, and no one there knows anything about a movie like that in production right now.”
Lane picked up Davy, who was tugging on her skirt. “Maybe it’s a really small movie and the trades just don’t know about it.”
“Could be. But with this gizmo you saw, it sounds like they’ve got a decent budget.”
