by Jen Kirchner
I held up my fingers and snapped them twice, calling back her attention. “Yoo-hoo! Over here.”
Her gaze returned to me. Anger flashed in her eyes.
“On my way down from Cody Springer’s penthouse in Manhattan, I happened to bump into Ruairí O’Bryne. He was coming out of an apartment. Mikelis and I went back to that apartment. Your apartment.”
In Veronica’s living room, we had found a set of four necromancer posts. That was what Luucas had tried telling me—Ruairí could make the posts, and he was still alive. We had also discovered a handwritten note listing a few ways she might get Ker’Mortan back. There was a big dollar sign at the bottom.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Or should I say Luucas’s apartment, since he paid for that slice of luxury.” Before she could respond, I held up a finger. “By the way, I borrowed a pair of sweats and your little pink slippers.” I smirked. “And your bank statements.”
Her face turned an unflattering shade of purple. “I want my money back!” she shrieked.
“It’s not your money. It’s Luucas’s money, and now it’s back in his possession—with interest.”
Luucas turned to me, eyes wide with surprise. “What?”
“Veronica spent every penny you had—even what she had earned from selling the voodoo trinkets you took from Ruairí. When the money ran out, she made a deal to turn you over to Ruairí, along with the Ker’Mortan Dagger. I showed up and thwarted that plan, so she had to take her talents as a con artist to a whole new level.”
A thrilled voice behind us asked, “How?”
Luucas and I turned around. Both baristas were leaning on the counter, elbows up, listening raptly to the story.
“By posing as my estranged sister, who I haven’t spoken with in over twenty years, and spreading lies about my relationship with my cousin.”
“What a bitch!” one barista said.
The other sounded disappointed. “So you’ve never seen Brad Kasen naked?”
“Thankfully, no. Anyway, my lawyer was able to get at that money and put it in an iron-clad account with Luucas’s name on it.”
“How?” Luucas asked.
I looked up at him. We both knew the answer. “Um,” I said, “he has ways.”
Marcus knows very shady people. What he had done wasn’t legal, and it may not have been the right thing to do, but it was my family’s form of justice. I wasn’t sure how Luucas would feel, given that justice had not been served through lawful process.
Luucas stared at me, heavy thoughts churning behind his eyes. After a few moments, he nodded, relieved.
I turned back to Veronica, who was now staring at her feet. Her arms hung limply at her sides. “Now I have nothing.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” I said, “because in the next hour, my lawyer will be notifying you of impending legal action.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wet and red. She aimed them up at Luucas with an added puppy-dog expression that was fairly convincing. “You’re suing me?”
Luucas took a small step back, helpless against her wiles. His expression softened under her gaze. “No, I—”
I backhanded his arm before he could continue. He jolted upright, blinked, and looked at me.
“No,” I said, “Luucas is a Principal Conservator and is too busy for all that legal overhead.” I paused, building a dramatic drum roll in my head. “But I’m not!”
Her innocent façade dissolved. “You?” she snarled. “For what?”
“Slander, libel, assault, and a laundry list of other offenses that basically mean you can’t pretend to be my sister.” I picked up my latte. Before taking a sip, I added, “By the way, those gossip rags that paid you—they’ll probably sue you too.”
She grabbed fistfuls of her hair and tugged. “I’m ruined! What am I going to do?”
“The most horrible thing,” I said, widening my eyes in mock horror, “you’ll have to get a job.”
She gasped. The baristas giggled. So did Luucas.
Startled, Veronica and I both turned to Luucas. He had his coffee cup in front of his face, trying to hide his smile.
“Good luck, Veronica,” he said, then dissolved into a fit of laughter.
Veronica’s face fell. She turned away and walked toward the door. As she pushed open the door, I heard my band’s new single play. She jumped and let out a little shriek. She pulled her phone from her pocket.
“I guess my new song doesn’t suck after all,” I said. “And you’d better answer that. Might be important.”
Luucas slapped a hand over his face and laughed harder, a rolling belly laugh that caused tears to stream down his face. I knew that laughter well. It was the laughter of relief.
Veronica left the shop. We watched as she disappeared out of sight, hopefully forever.
Luucas quieted. He looked down at his coffee cup.
I asked, “You’re wondering if you should thank me and Marcus or arrest us, right?”
He flashed a rueful smile. “You’re already doing community service. I’ll have to speak with Marcus about his.”
“I don’t regret anything we did.”
“Off the record, neither do I.” His eyes met mine. “You put my son’s memory to rest and brought his killer to justice. There’s no way I can possibly thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “On a lighter note, now that you’re no longer financially destitute, you can live wherever you want.”
“That’s true. I could even buy a house.”
Buy a house? What was wrong with my house? “You don’t have furniture to put in a house, much less an apartment.”
“That’s true. I guess I could get a roommate who already has furniture.” He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. “I don’t mind roommates. Or pets…”
“Well, you could always…” Now it was my turn to get uncomfortable and look away. “Nah, never mind.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “You could just stay in my house. I’m going to be on tour for the next few months anyway. You’d have the house to yourself. And, uh, it would help to have someone oversee the kitchen rebuild.” I shuffled my feet. “You know, only if you want to. No big deal either way.”
I heard a giggle from behind the large latte machine, but I couldn’t see which barista was laughing.
The other called from the back room. “What’s so funny?”
The brunette set a white paper bag on the counter and stuck my wrapped turkey-on-wheat-with-no-mayo inside. “They want to stay roommates, but neither of them wants to say so.”
Luucas cleared his throat. I stuffed my box of half-eaten cake in the paper bag with the rest of my dinner.
“So,” I said, as if I hadn’t heard the comment, “if you get home before me, would you mind changing Nadia’s water?”
“No problem. You’re heading to Mikelis’s apartment?”
I smiled. “We have a date.”
He laughed. “I don’t think he’s been on a real date before.”
“Really?”
Luucas turned away and walked toward the door. “He’s never been able to let his guard down. Not until now. You two have fun tonight.” He pushed open the door, jingling the little bell. “You deserve it. It’s a brave new world without Ruairí.”
About the Author
Jen Kirchner is a writer, gamer, and coffee junkie who lives in Seattle to feed all three habits. You can find her at her website, JenKirchner.com, on Twitter, and on Facebook.
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