by Cat Adams
I gave a gusty sigh. “You’re probably right.”
“You know it.” He set the unopened bottle on my desk in case I changed my mind, and sprawled into one of the guest chairs. Raising the bottle in salute, he said, “Screw the bastards,” before taking a long pull of beer.
“Screw the bastards,” I agreed.
“So, what can I be doing to help you?” Bubba asked. “ ’Cause I know you’re needing help.” He looked me up and down and my eyes followed his gaze, trying to see if I had shit on my clothes.
“I don’t look that bad.”
“Nope. Worse.” He smiled to soften the words.
Ouch. Well, that was not particularly flattering but probably honest. We sat in silence for a moment, and in that moment of peace and quiet something occurred to me for the first time. One of the biggest problems I’d been having was that too many things were happening to me, so many that I didn’t have time to do more than react to them. I got bit, I reacted. I got charged, I reacted. I was put in Birchwoods, I reacted. We were kidnapped, I reacted. Over and over again until I was exhausted and looking for escape.
If that went on, the pressure would break me, and soon.
It was time to break the cycle, to start forcing people to react to me. I raised my eyes to Bubba’s. I smiled, showing my fangs. Screw the bastards, indeed. “You still have that GPS navigation unit?”
“Yeah. It’s down in my truck.”
“Any chance I could borrow it for a couple days?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I have to find an island.” Specifically, I needed to find the Isle of Serenity. If the queen was annoyed I hadn’t dropped by . . . it was time to go find out who didn’t want me to meet her.
He didn’t seem bothered by my request. Then again, Bubba liked to deep-sea fish. Every time he could manage to wrangle a couple of days off he was out on the water in his boat, Mona’s Rival, so named because she was the only thing that came close to his wife in his affections. She was a good-sized vessel, too, big enough to hold five in reasonable comfort. That was convenient, since that’s exactly how many I needed to bring along. I didn’t know what Bubba would charge me, but it had to be less than one of the commercial rentals. Despite what I’d told Gran, I wasn’t broke yet, but I was going through capital at a truly alarming rate. That refund from Birchwoods couldn’t come too soon.
“I’ll go get it.” Bubba rose with a lazy grace and meandered downstairs.
I closed my office door and locked it. I stripped down to my undies, changing out of the comfy-but-not-practical-for-business workout clothes and into the things I’d picked up from my old bedroom at my gran’s. I hadn’t had a lot to choose from and most of it had been black—from back in my “I’m cool, I’m goth” teenage period. I pulled on black low-rise jeans and was pleased to discover that they still fit perfectly. Yay. Let’s hear it for the all-liquid diet . . . at least until the next time I craved a pizza.
The cropped black tee with the motto Don’t get even . . . get odd was a little tight across the bust but not enough to be uncomfortable. The blazer I’d bought from Isaac was black, so it would match well enough and cover enough that I wouldn’t look slutty in the tight top. Which left me with a choice of shoes. I could go with the white sneakers: practical but not terribly stylish; the lace-up, heavy-duty, steel-toed Frankenstein’s work boots, which would certainly make a fashion statement but were a little extreme; or the dress pumps I’d worn to court. Not the pumps. There may be people who can run and fight in heels, but I’m not one of them. The Frankenboots were fun but heavy. So I went with the sneakers.
Once I was decent, I opened the door. Bubba would be back in a minute. Then, taking the jacket off the hanger, I spread it out flat on the desktop and opened my safe. First, before I forgot, my passport. We were going to a foreign country, after all. Then I began arming up again. I was strapping on the shoulder rig for my Colt when I heard Bubba’s tread on the stairs. I checked the gun, going with silver-jacketed loads. Not cheap and not necessary for dealing with ordinary baddies, but damned near essential if you want to do more than annoy the monsters. In my case, better safe than sorry.
I put a pair of One Shot water pistols, filled with holy water, in the snap loops Isaac had sewn into the jacket lining to hold them, then strapped on an ankle holster with my backup Derringer. When Bubba reached my doorway I was staring at the safe, wondering what else I should take. I have quite a few preset spells, little ceramic disks like the one Bruno had used at the courthouse. You don’t have to be a mage to use them. You just break the disk to release the magic. It would be very cool if Creede really could put a full binding spell in a disk. Not knowing what I’d be up against, I couldn’t know what spells I might need.
“Damn, woman, you’re arming for bear.” Bubba set the GPS unit on the desk and picked up the beer bottle he’d set there earlier.
“I’m in the middle of a situation.”
“This is about what Dottie saw in those bugs, isn’t it?” Bubba opened the beer and took a seat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
I sighed and glanced at the Wadjeti, visible on the shelf of my open safe. “I think so.” I decided to grab a handful of boomers—tiny things, the size of a quarter, that were spelled to emit a flash of light and a deafening sound when broken. They’re useful in any number of situations. I popped a few in each of the front jacket pockets.
“You’re going to need backup.” Bubba’s voice was flat. When I turned to look at him, his expression had hardened, his pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. “And you’ll need a boat to get to that island.”
I really wanted him to take me, but I didn’t want to lie about what we might be facing. Not that I knew much about the details. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to get ugly.”
He smiled and the chipped tooth was proof of his next words. “I can do ugly.”
He probably could. He was definitely a tough ole boy. He stood up, grabbing the beer. “Give me a couple minutes. I need to let Mona know and call Stew.”
12
Stew is Bubba’s brother-in-law. He has the same dark good looks as Bubba’s wife, Mona, but none of her fire. Mona’s ambitious, driven in both her career and her home life. Stew, on the other hand, is a handsome, charming, cad. He has a bail bondsman’s license, but the only time he uses it is when he’s covering for Bubba. Mostly he pays bass in a band, making just enough money to pay for a cheap apartment and his booze. Food he cadges off of the most recent in a successive line of sweet young things who think that his being in a band makes him cool.
He arrived promptly, a sure indication that he was broke. While he half-listened to Bubba, enough to parrot the appropriate answers, the focus of his attention was my T-shirt. Apparently the jacket wasn’t doing as good a job of concealing things as I’d hoped. Terrific.
“You’ve got my cell number. Call me if anything comes up. If you can’t get me, call Mona.” Bubba was repeating himself, but it was probably a good idea. Sometimes you have to use a sledgehammer to drive a point home to Stewie.
“I got it already.” Stew wrenched his gaze away from my boobs long enough to glare at his brother-in-law. “It’s not like it’s the first time and it’s not like it’s rocket science. Give me some credit.”
I went downstairs to write Dottie a note about the wards before I could say anything unfortunate. Bubba followed a few minutes later.
We drove to the PharMart in Bubba’s behemoth of a four-wheel-drive truck. It’s an older model but tricked out with every conceivable luxury, including the requisite chromed mud flaps with a naked woman and a bumper sticker proclaiming him a “PROUD REDNECK.” He calls the truck Baby. His vanity plates say: BADA55. How he got that past the censors at the DMV I’ll never know.
PharMart is one of the bigger pharmacy chains. The stores are all pretty much identical: big tan brick boxes with windows all along the front. Their product selection is good and they’re not terribly overpriced. This particular store
is the one where I usually get my prescriptions filled. It was also the site where Bruno, Matteo, and I had set the trap for Lilith that had gone so terribly wrong.
More important, that was where Dahlmar had given me my sire’s head.
Better than roses, in my opinion.
I felt the power of the PharMart’s wards buzz across my senses as Bubba steered the truck into the parking lot. It didn’t occur to me until we were pulling up next to the Ferrari to wonder how Creede had managed to drive three large men in that tiny two-seater. Had the king ridden in his bodyguard’s lap? Creede was leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette, looking perfectly comfortable and casual. I assumed Dahlmar was in the car, hidden behind the tinted windows. Ivan wasn’t visible, but I was betting he wasn’t in the car. Probably out of sight somewhere, keeping an eye on things.
They had passed test one. The real Dahlmar and Ivan would know about PharMart. Fakes wouldn’t. Of course I’d still spray them all down. In this game, safe was definitely better than sorry.
“So what’s the game plan?” Bubba asked. I’d filled him in on some of what was going on. Not all. I hadn’t had a chance to ask King Dahlmar if I could reveal his identity, so I hadn’t given Bubba any names.
“You stay here. I get out and make sure they’re what and who they’re supposed to be. If they are, we head out for your boat.”
“It’s going to be a little crowded if we’re all going.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I’m hoping that getting out on the water will make it harder for people to use mundane magic to track us.” I unfastened my seat belt and turned to open the truck door.
“Mundane magic?”
I sighed. I probably shouldn’t have worded it that way. “As opposed to siren magic. Sirens are water creatures. The ocean’s their thing.”
“You’re a siren now,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, but I don’t have magic.” I sounded grumpy. Then again, I felt grumpy. Funny, when I was growing up, I’d wanted desperately to have some sort of paranormal talent. I’d failed the tests so miserably that they’d checked to make sure I wasn’t a null. I wasn’t. But back then, I hadn’t been a siren, either.
But so far, other than the illegal psychic manipulation and the ability to drive seagulls insane, I haven’t discovered any magical ability.
It was ironic. All of the kids I went to school with had some sort of talent. I’d wanted one so bad, just so I could fit in. Now that I did have paranormal abilities, I desperately wished I was rid of them. Some people are just never satisfied.
Bubba turned, unfastening his seat belt.
“I thought you were staying here.”
“Groceries.” He pulled out his wallet to check the contents. “More people, more supplies. We’ll need a few things. I won’t be long.”
I couldn’t argue. It was a sensible thing to do. We were going to be out on the boat several hours at least. At least. Bubba swore he knew where the Isle of Serenity was. But the wards around the island had pushed his boat away. He’d tried, but he couldn’t even swim underneath with the poles.
I wasn’t kidding about Bubba being a fisherman. The fish near the sirens’ island stay inside the magic circle. Bubba could see them, but he couldn’t cast to them. It’s enough to drive any boat captain to drink—or to try to swim through the barrier. With his fishing pole in his mouth.
Speaking of drinking, I’d probably have to go inside and stock up on the ever-handy but God-am-I-sick-of-them diet shakes and some baby food. I swear, if the vamp that tried to sire me wasn’t already dead I’d hunt him down and kill him—as painfully as possible.
Get your mind in the game, Celia, I scolded myself. Right now I needed to chat with my client and let Creede know the plan. Then I could do the shopping and move on to the next thing.
I am not a particularly small woman, but there’s a certain knack to getting in and out of a vehicle that big. By the time I’d finished climbing down from Das Truck, Bubba was already inside the PharMart. Creede had crushed out his cigarette and the passenger window of the Ferrari had lowered to reveal Dahlmar’s profile.
I pulled out one of my little squirt guns. “Who wants to go first?” Creede rolled his eyes but extended his hand. I squeezed the gun’s trigger, just enough to lay a couple of drops of holy water onto his palm. The problem with one-shot water guns is that they hold just that . . . one shot. Pull the trigger and you might as well throw the thing away until you refill.
No reaction. Creede was Creede. Actually, I’d known that from the scent and the effect his magic had on my skin. If he noticed that all the hairs on my arms were standing at attention, he didn’t mention it.
The success with Creede didn’t keep me from repeating the process with King Dahlmar. When Ivan showed up, I’d do him, too. In the meantime, just to make sure they were comfy with me, I sprayed my own palm.
“Who was that man?” King Dahlmar snarled. Apparently “we” were still miffed about having to sleep in an office and wait twenty-four hours for a meeting. I was kind of surprised he hadn’t met Bubba during his sleepover, but there you go.
“That’s Bubba. He is a friend and he owns the boat that is going to take me to where we think the Isle of Serenity is.”
“You’ve arranged the meeting? Good.” Either he missed the “me” and the fact that I wasn’t actually sure where I was going or he was ignoring it. I was betting on the latter. “This Bubba—do you vouch for him?”
“I do.”
“I do not like it.” Ivan’s voice shattered the illusion that had made him appear to be a newspaper vending machine. It startled me enough that I let out one of those girly little yelps. Creede snickered; Ivan looked smug. I couldn’t really blame him. I’d only ever seen one other mage do that. A few weeks ago, Bruno had done an impersonation of a rubber tree so he could sit in on a meeting where he wasn’t wanted. It hadn’t been easy for him and he is one hell of a mage. That Ivan could do the same thing raised my estimation of his skill level considerably. His lips stretched into what could only loosely be termed a smile, but he held out his palm for the requisite test. He passed.
“You arranged a meeting with the sirens?” Creede was scornful. That pissed me off. Who the hell did he think he was dealing with? But I bit back the first response that came to mind and answered him politely.
“Supposedly, the queen has been wanting to see me for a while now.” I didn’t mention the fact that they were already pissed in front of the client. That was something better shared privately, when we were doing our planning, if at all.
“How’d they contact you?” he snapped.
I tried not to be too obvious about glaring at him. He was questioning my abilities, my authority, and my judgment. If this was how he thought our partnership was going to work, he was sorely mistaken.
He didn’t wilt at the look, but I hadn’t really expected him to. He’s used to running things, being the big dog. I’m used to being my own woman. If we really were going to make a business relationship work, we needed to iron out the kinks. But, again, not in front of the client.
“They left word for me at Birchwoods.”
“I do not like this,” Ivan repeated. “It could be a setup.”
“I’m with you, big guy,” Creede agreed.
“That’s all right. The three of you won’t be going to the island with me, so even if it is a setup, it doesn’t matter. You’ll stay on the boat with Bubba.”
“And how am I supposed to work my magic from the boat?” Creede asked.
“You won’t be doing any magic until I’ve cleared it with their queen.”
Dahlmar scowled. “I do not wish to proceed in this manner. I will meet the queen.”
Creede stared at me thoughtfully and finally nodded. “Celia’s right. She needs to lay a foundation. It makes sense to let her do the preliminary groundwork. The only way this is going to work is with the queen’s support.”
Well, hallefrickinlujah. Apparently he wasn’t goin
g to argue every decision I made, just the ones he didn’t like. I took a deep breath and tried to look professional. I didn’t feel professional. I was angry. I didn’t need the men questioning my every move. If I’d thought it was sexism, I would’ve been even more pissed, but my gut instinct said that this was just good-old-fashioned paranoia.
Ivan didn’t argue, but I could tell from his expression that he was annoyed.
“Fine.” Dahlmar’s voice was cutting, making it clear that he didn’t like being on the sidelines and hinting that there would be nasty repercussions if things went south.
Ivan still didn’t say a word. He just looked at me, and I knew if this went badly, if anything happened to his king, he would make sure he lived long enough to kill me himself, as slowly and painfully as possible.
Peachy. Just . . . peachy.
Bubba came out of the store, laden with groceries. He loaded them into the truck bed, then strolled over to join us.
I turned to introduce him to everyone. “Bubba, you know John. This is—”
“Robert.” Ivan extended his hand. Okay, secrecy was fine from the bad guys, but for God’s sake . . . Bubba might look like a hick. He sometimes acts like a redneck. But he is well-read and he’s nobody’s fool. He knew from the international newspapers who King Dahlmar was. But Bubba shook Ivan’s hand without a word. “And this”—I gestured toward Dahlmar—“is—”
“Michael.” Dahlmar extended his hand out the open window. “But you may call me Mike.”
Bubba smiled and made nice. When the formalities were finished, he turned to me.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’ve got to get some holy water, to refill the gun I just used, and some liquid food. After that we go to the marina, get on your boat, and go to the island.”
