“Yes. Not that he’s doing anything about it.”
“Maybe he needs outside counsel.”
“Are you going to storm into my office, briefcase blazing, and tell him how to do his job?” I asked.
She glared at me. Her support made me smile, but I really didn’t want the lawyer lecture I saw brewing.
Bridget threw up her hands. “I don’t want you to move.”
“Me, neither.” Since we both were shivering and our champagne glasses were empty, we ducked back inside.
“What’d you bring today?” I asked.
“Shrimp and pea risotto and cranberry-pistachio biscotti.”
“Homemade?” She nodded. “Could you make me look any worse?”
She smiled smugly, then shrugged. “It’s the least I could do for your parents inviting me over four years in a row.”
“Are you kidding? Mom forgets which of us is hers half the time.”
Thanksgiving dinner was a cozy affair. My mom’s sister Evelyn brought homemade biscuits, and her boyfriend, Milton, provided three bottles of Mt. Vernon Zinfandel, earning him my seal of approval. My cousin Megan’s two kids were young enough to still think hanging with adults was cool but old enough to entertain themselves at the kid table. Not even Megan’s husband, David, spoiled the easygoing atmosphere, despite lingering tension between us from my stint as an atrocious used-car saleswoman at the lot he owned. But as pleasant as the scene looked, it was a smoke screen for the main event: the interrogation.
It began shortly after all dishes had been passed around, along with the expected compliments for each one.
“Tell us about your new job, Madison,” Megan suggested.
I’d practiced for this one. “It’s at Illumination Studios. The company makes bumper stickers. My official job title is sales associate. It’s a glorified title for a little bit of everything.”
“The way the economy’s going, I hope you guys can keep afloat,” Milton said. Bald, in steel-toed boots and a black shirt adorned with flames, Milton looked like a badass biker gone soft. Probably because he was one. “A lot of small businesses are closing shop lately.”
After last night’s meeting, my paranoia made his comment sound like a veiled threat. I blinked and examined his soul. It glowed gray, without black streaks, but without any traces of white, either. He was neutral, as could be expected of a man his age. His neutrality also guaranteed he wasn’t a member of the CIA or involved with the imminent takeover of my region.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said.
I forced myself to examine everyone around the table. It was a bit like looking through their belongings without asking, but if anyone had brought in evil, I needed to know. My family was a clean group, though Megan had a few dark patches I wished I could ask her about. The last time I’d looked at my parents’ souls had been over ten years ago. It pleased me to see they looked pretty much the same—light gray, with traces of white. I didn’t bother to look at Bridget. She’d made me examine her multiple times, especially after tough cases, and she always looked the same: sort of like a Dalmatian, only with gray spots instead of black.
I blinked back to normal sight with a sigh of relief.
“Are you going to be working at any more Star Trek conferences?”
“You mean video game conventions?” I asked. Mom nodded. Apparently the concept of if you’ve seen one nerd, you’ve seen them all ran in the family. “That was hopefully a one-time deal,” I said, speaking of both the convention and the demon who’d inhabited it.
Seeing the interrogators gearing up for a whole new slew of questions, I gave Bridget our I need rescuing signal. Like a gallant friend on a white steed, she rode to my rescue.
“I’m more interested in her smokin’ hot coworker,” Bridget said.
“Oh?” Aunt Evelyn asked.
“Oh?” Dad growled.
“Um, you know, for myself. Not for Madison. She’s got the date with her vet.”
Every eye at the table jerked to me—even Megan’s kids turned to stare with open mouths. I glared at Bridget. She mouthed, “I’m sorry,” but the damage was done.
“Aren’t most vets a little old for you?” Aunt Evelyn asked innocently.
“Depends on the war.” Milton waved his turkey-laden fork in a sweeping gesture. “We’ve had nonstop wars since Vietnam. It’s all those damn Bushes in the White House getting rich off good ol’ American blood.”
“Oh, don’t get him started on the presidents,” Evelyn admonished us, like we had any say in the matter.
“Republicans love war. You don’t see them out on the front lines, though. If I could get a minute with a Bush, I’d tell him—”
“Not a veteran. A veterinarian. An animal doctor,” Bridget clarified over Milton’s ongoing rant.
“Oh,” Evelyn said.
“—and he can eat my shorts while he’s down there!” Milton concluded with a fierce jab of his fork into his plate. Peas and risotto sprayed across the table in front of him.
“This is the first I’ve heard of a date,” Dad said. He pretended to be oblivious to Evelyn’s frantic whispered conversation with her boyfriend.
“Oh, an animal doctor.” Milton’s blush spread across his pale, bald head.
“There’s nothing to tell.” I forked a bite and avoided eye contact.
“What’s his name?” Mom asked.
I shot Bridget another glare. She compressed her lips to hide her smile.
“Alex Love,” I said.
“How long have you known him?”
“He’s Mr. Bond’s doctor, Mom. I’ve known him as long as I’ve had Mr. Bond. Really, there’s nothing to tell because I haven’t had a date yet.” Oh, hell. Mom had that look in her eye. The one that said she was already picking out yarn to knit baby socks for my unborn twins. “Did Bridget tell you she had a case where her client was a woman accused of sexual harassment by her husband?”
“You can do that?” Megan asked, awed.
“More proof the system is flawed,” Milton said. “Did you win?”
Unfortunately, Mom didn’t fall for my diversionary ploy. While everyone else hung on the bizarre details of Bridget’s case, Mom leaned over and whispered, “We’ll talk later, dear.”
I groaned and dug into my meal. If Mom decided to launch a full-scale interrogation into my love life, I was going to need my strength—and some ninja skills—to avoid it.
Eventually the conversation turned to the recent fires plaguing the state, and I kept my mouth shut there, too. The evil-world connection to the fires was another detail I’d avoided telling Bridget. I hated secrecy between us, and I considered pulling her aside to fill her in but decided against it for the same reason as before: Bridget couldn’t do anything but worry about crazed evil fire-breathing salamanders, and I couldn’t even reassure her I would protect her. Damn Mr. Pitt for rolling over and letting Liam commandeer our region.
After the second helping of dessert and some general good-natured groaning, Megan’s family left, and Bridget and I headed out a few minutes later. Mom and Dad walked us to the door.
“Your cranberry-pistachio bits of heaven were wonderful,” Dad said, giving Bridget a hug. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said to me.
“Evelyn had the wonderful idea of us all going to the mall tomorrow,” Mom said.
My stomach flip-flopped. “Tomorrow? Black Friday? You don’t want to be out in those crowds.” Not with me there, doing whatever hunting citos involved.
“Of course I do. Think of all the sales!”
“Count me out,” Dad said, retreating to the kitchen.
“I can’t. Holly is in town tomorrow. We were all going to hang out,” Bridget said, including me in the gesture.
Holly was a college friend. She’d taken up permanent residence in Davis after we’d graduated, so her driving forty minutes to be “in town” wasn’t a big deal. I appreciated Bridget giving me the out, but I couldn’t take it. I knew my luck: If I told my mom I wa
s busy, even in a mall filled to capacity, we’d run into each other and my lie would be exposed.
“There’ll be plenty of time for Holly after we’re done shopping. What do you say, Madison? Are you up for a little fun with your aunt and me? I promise not to ask about Alex tomorrow.”
I wasn’t going to get a better offer. “Deal. I’ll pick you two up here tomorrow. How about six?”
“We’ll be ready. Have a good night. Drive safe.”
“Pushover,” Bridget said once Mom closed the door.
“What else was I supposed to do?”
She shrugged. “Tell me how it goes.”
“A little something like this.” I mimed shooting myself in both feet and collapsed dramatically against my car.
“It won’t be that bad.” Bridget laughed.
“Famous last words.”
* * *
I changed out of my good clothes when I got home and flopped into my chair to savor my turkey-induced food coma. After a few minutes of channel surfing, I turned off the TV and tugged the handbook out of my purse, along with leather polish I’d purchased that morning with the food. After the way I’d reacted last night, I realized I probably did have some apologizing to do. Plus, maybe the handbook would be more useful if I could get on its good side. If not, I wouldn’t have to open it again and I could stuff it on some shelf to be forgotten until the next new enforcer came along.
Mr. Bond leapt to my lap to investigate. I allowed him to sniff the polish jar, but I held the book out of his reach. Once he sprawled comfortably across my lap, with clumps of fur stuck to the fleece sweater I’d changed into, I turned my attention to the book and blinked.
The majority of the first page, which I considered its face, remained blank except for the small-print disclaimer at the bottom: All apologies must be heartfelt to be considered.
“I’m very sorry for being so harsh.” Mr. Bond started purring, assuming I was talking to him. “I hope you will accept my humble and heartfelt apology.”
I gently closed the book, blinked back to normal vision, and opened the jar of polish. Mr. Bond got one whiff of the potent contents and pushed off my stomach to jump to the floor. Resettling myself, I took out the provided cloth and rubbed polish into the cover. Scuff marks and scratches buffed out, and the soft leather soaked in the polish, darkening to a healthy tan. Previously indistinct green and blue ribbons of color twined across the cover in a simple but beautiful pattern. After using a separate rag to wipe off the excess polish, I laid the book on the table. This had better have worked.
I opened the book and blinked.
Apology accepted, was penned neatly across the top of the page.
“Do you have anything else to say?”
No.
“Are you certain you don’t wish to apologize to me?”
The page went blank. I waited. I’d been thinking this over as I drove home. If I accepted that a book could talk, think, hear me, and have emotions, I needed to treat it like I would a person. I wanted more than to assuage its hurt pride; I wanted a working relationship, and for that, we needed some mutual respect. I was willing to give the book the benefit of the doubt, despite how useless it’d been last night. I needed to see if it was willing to reciprocate.
I held my silence like a parent waiting for a child to confess.
I apologize for my rudeness. The words flashed across the page and disappeared nearly as fast. I hid my triumphant grin.
“Do you have a name?”
The edges of the pages curled. I jerked back, then turned the motion into wiping lingering polish off my hands. If it could see me, I didn’t want the book to know it had scared me.
Lord Valentinus Aurelius.
“Really?”
It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?
“Is that your real name?”
Will you call me that?
I considered the fragile ego I was dealing with and my desire to learn more to prove my usefulness to the wardens.
“Let’s drop the ‘lord.’ I’ll call you Valentine, unless you’d like to be called Aurelius more.”
Valentine is fine.
“You totally made it up, didn’t you?”
Maybe. They’re both good, strong Latin names, even if you did anglicize Valentinus. Plus, Marcus Aurelius was one of my favorite enforcers.
I let that absorb a moment, opening and closing my mouth over several questions that could lead this conversation seriously astray.
“Okay, Valentine, I need to become a top-notch enforcer as of yesterday if Mr. Pitt and I are going to keep our region. Oh, wait, you don’t know. Mr. Pitt is—”
The only warden with a brain, though you wouldn’t know it the way the others work to deface him.
At least I knew where Valentine fell in the whole fire-or-keep Mr. Pitt debate. “How do you know that?”
I’m paper, not platinum.
Was that a book joke?
“Then you know I need all the help I can get.” As we’d talked, or as I’d talked and he had written, the previous words had faded away, so each new line he spoke—wrote, agh, whatever!—was the only text on the page.
You’ve got to give a little to get a little.
“What do have in mind?”
First of all, I’m not a wallet. I don’t belong stuffed in a purse. How am I supposed to observe anything from in there?
“You, uh, observe? You don’t osmose or something?”
I look. See. Examine. Watch. Note. Take a gander at.
“Okay, okay. I get it. Where exactly do you see from?” If squishy, moist eyeballs were going to appear somewhere on the book, I didn’t want my fingers anywhere near them.
Everywhere.
“That’s helpful.”
Valentine fluttered a page-ruffle sigh. I see like you feel. If your hand is covered in a glove, it doesn’t matter what you touch—all you’re really feeling is the glove. When you stuff me into the bottom of your purse, it doesn’t matter where you take me, all I see are tampons and gum wrappers.
“How do you purpose I carry you?”
In your hand.
“That’s going to get a bit cumbersome.”
Do you have a better idea?
“Let me think about it. In the meantime, what can you tell me about salamanders? And prajurit?”
No more black pit?
“I promise. I won’t leave you in my purse.”
Fine. It’s there.
“Where?”
Turn a page.
“Why don’t you tell me here?”
Because if I wanted to have everything printed on one page, I’d be a piece of paper, not a book.
“Zero to grumpy in no time flat,” I muttered, and thumbed through the pages. Again, nearly all were blank. I finally came across one with text.
PRAJURIT BERSAYAP.
This entry had a pencil sketch of a thin couple, both clad extravagantly in heavily decorated long-sleeve tops so tight they might have been tattoos if not for small flares of fabric near the shoulders and elbows. The waist and hems of their dark, flared pantaloons were similarly adorned, ending just below the knees. Cloth bindings wrapped their feet and ankles. Both held crossbows and wore slender swords nearly as long as their arms. The woman had the surreal beauty of a Barbie doll, only refined and exaggerated, with an eye-to-face ratio usually reserved for kittens, a full bow mouth, and a chin delicate enough to appear sharp. The man could have been her masculine twin. I stared the longest at their two sets of round wings and the extra segment of their bodies extending from their behinds like bees’ abdomens.
Niko’s words came back to me: Each hive is led by a queen, not unlike bees. Don’t ever make the comparison to their faces, though. I had a hard time picturing meeting a tiny winged humanlike creature at all, let alone conversing with one.
I’d spent most of my life knowing I could see souls. I’d had only a handful of days to acclimate to the existence of pure evil creatures and my ability to kill them. It had t
aken a bit of mental adjustment, but in many ways, it had been a logical step: See souls. Protect souls. The prajurit didn’t fit. They looked like they belonged in a Disney movie, not in this world.
I read Valentine’s description.
Aka “winged warrior.” Typically four to six inches in height, with an average flight speed of fifteen to twenty miles per hour. The prajurit live in a monarchical hive community, led by a queen. Though allies of the CIA, the prajurit do not recognize CIA-delineated regions, and instead patrol areas designated and controlled by the reigning queen. Prajurit are fiercely territorial; they protect their land and air from all forms of atrum as well as from neighboring clans. Feuds and bloody takeovers are common. Origin: Indonesia.
I studied the picture again, then turned back to the first page. “Are they visible only in Primordium?”
Hardly.
“Then why haven’t I seen them before? Or other people, for that matter?”
They’re skilled.
I drummed my fingers on my knee. Valentine’s intentionally obtuse answer irritated me. I wanted to call him on it, but as long as he was giving me some information, I didn’t want to chance sending him back into a pout. “If the prajurit were still around, how would I work with them?”
As your warden saw fit.
“Come on. That’s a Niko answer.”
He’s a wise man.
“He is, which is why he said I should learn everything I can from you.”
Valentine paused before writing, Prajurit and wardens work together, so Brad would coordinate with the queen or queens in your region.
“Okay.” Now I was getting somewhere. I would now know what prajurit looked like if I ever came across one. I suspected Valentine could share a great deal more about the prajurit with me, but since they weren’t the pressing problem, I didn’t push. Instead, I asked about salamanders and flipped through the otherwise blank book until I came to their entry. The sketch of the salamander looked exactly like its normal-world counterpart, only pure black.
A few inches to a few feet large. Salamanders incubate and hatch in ash pits fed by live plant fuel. Fully mature at birth, salamanders can immediately breathe fire, but long-term combustion requires the consumption of live plants. Eggs and hatched salamander are killed by being doused with live water.
A Fistful of Fire: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Madison Fox, Illuminant Enforcer Book 2) Page 9
